I saw him at his most miserable.
The top student everyone at school looked up to was curled up in a street corner, exposed to the bitter wind, wearing nothing but a faded school uniform.
“Would you... like to come to my house?”
I just blurted it out without thinking.
I took him home, gave him a bowl of hot soup, and gave up half my room for him.
Like a wounded hedgehog, he kept everyone's kindness at bay. Until one rainy night, he jolted awake from a nightmare and asked me, trembling, “Could... could I be the one to leave?”
My heart melted in an instant.
Only later did I learn that during the six months I had “taken him in,” he had secretly filled five notebooks with notes for me.
He helped me escape my fate of always coming in last, step by step. All I wanted was to help him find his way home.
