The Weight of Small Things

Episode One: First Day of School

Scene: Monday Morning – Kiyosato High School

The first bell rings like it’s trying too hard to be important. The air is still clinging to summer, thick and warm, but inside the halls, the cold buzz of fluorescent lights and new schedules takes over.

Rin Sakamoto walks through the school gates with her headphones in — not because she’s listening to music, but because it gives her an excuse not to talk. Her uniform's a little wrinkled, her shoes slightly scuffed. A glittery sticker is stuck on her binder — not for decoration, but because she liked how the gold shimmered in the sun when she found it on the sidewalk last week.

She doesn’t talk to anyone.

Doesn’t need to.

She likes the silence between things — between the bell and class, between one footstep and the next.

And most of all, she likes the corners.

Corners are safe.

Corners don’t ask questions.

Rin always sits in the back corner of the classroom, third seat from the window. She likes the way the light hits that spot in the morning, soft and slanted. That’s her place. At least it was — until today.

When she opens the door to the Class 2-B, someone’s already there.

A girl with neatly tied hair and a pristine uniform sits quietly in Rin’s spot. She’s staring at her notebook like it holds the meaning of life. Her name tag reads:

Naomi Kuroda.

New student.

Rin freezes for half a second, then quietly takes the seat next to her without saying a word. She tells herself it doesn’t matter. It’s just a chair.

But still... her fingers drum lightly on the desk, tapping a soft rhythm only she hears.

[Later – Lunchtime]

The cafeteria is chaos Rin wants no part of. Instead, she heads behind the gym, where she usually eats. A cracked bento box in her lap, her chopsticks chipped at the edge but still usable. She lines up three rubber bands on the bench next to her and arranges them by color.

To anyone else, it’s just trash.

To Rin, it’s order. A small ritual. A reason to keep going.

Footsteps crunch the gravel nearby.

She looks up, startled. It’s Naomi.

Naomi holds a bread roll in one hand, her eyes unreadable.

“I couldn’t find a quiet spot,” she says flatly. “Can I sit here?”

Rin nods slowly.

Silence stretches between them.

Then Naomi looks at the rubber bands. “You’re organizing them?”

Rin shrugs. “Sort of. They’re from the classroom floor. Some of them are different textures.”

Naomi blinks. “You collect… these?”

Rin expects the usual response: a raised brow, a muttered ‘weirdo’, maybe laughter.

But Naomi just sits beside her and pulls something out of her own pocket — a piece of faded blue string, tied in a careful knot.

“I keep this,” she says. “It’s from my old school. I don’t know why. I just… didn’t want to throw it away.”

For the first time that day, Rin smiles.

The Weight of Small Things

Scene: Tuesday Afternoon – Kiyosato High School, Library

The rain starts during the fifth period. Not a dramatic downpour, just the kind that makes windows blur and pencils feel heavier in your hand. Rin watches the drops race down the glass like they’re trying to win something.

Naomi is absent.

Rin notices — though she tells herself she’s not watching for her. She tries to focus on the blackboard, the teacher's voice, the way her pencil smudges on the cheap notebook paper. None of it sticks.

After class, Rin goes to the library. Not for books. Just for the quiet. She sits on the floor between the shelves in the far back, tracing her fingers along the spines. Some of them haven’t been touched in years. She likes that. Forgotten things feel honest.

From her pocket, she pulls out a folded receipt — yesterday’s milk carton from the vending machine. She smooths it out flat, then creases it into a tiny triangle, origami-style. She doesn’t know why. Just something to do with her hands.

Footsteps. Then a whisper.

“Rin?”

It’s Naomi.

Rin looks up. Naomi’s hair is wet, strands sticking to her cheek. She’s holding a book — not open, just clutched like a shield.

“I came late,” Naomi says. “Didn’t feel like sitting through math.”

Rin nods. “I didn’t know if you were coming back.”

Naomi slides down the shelf beside her. “Yeah. I wasn’t sure either.”

Silence again. The soft hum of the fluorescent lights above. The occasional distant cough from a librarian.

Then Naomi says:

“Do you ever feel like everything’s... too loud? Even when no one’s talking?”

Rin’s triangle is nearly perfect now. She hands it to Naomi.

“I like quiet,” she says. “But sometimes even that’s noisy.”

Naomi turns the triangle over in her hand, smiles faintly.

“I used to sit in the music room during lunch,” she says. “Not to play anything. Just… the instruments were always out of tune. I liked that.”

They sit together until the rain lets up.

On the way out, Naomi pauses by the door and says, “Your corner’s still yours, you know. I can move.”

Rin shakes her head.

“It’s okay. We can share.”

Naomi looks at her for a moment — really looks — then nods. “Okay".

AT CAFETERIA

The cafeteria is too loud.

Rin doesn’t even try to enter. She turns down the hallway with the broken light, toward the old music room—barely used now except for after-school club practice and storage. The kind of place people forget exists.

Naomi’s already there.

She’s sitting on the piano bench with her back to the keys, swinging one leg slowly, lazily. There’s a half-eaten sandwich on the lid of the piano, wrapped in wax paper.

Rin pauses in the doorway.

Naomi sees her, lifts one hand in a small wave. “Figured you’d find me.”

“You always hide here?”

“Only when I don’t feel like pretending I’m fine.”

Rin walks in without asking. She sits cross-legged on the floor beside the piano, back against the wooden paneling.

Naomi turns back around and lightly presses a few keys. The notes are off — slightly out of tune, a little flat.

“I thought I’d play something,” Naomi says, “but I don’t know any songs. So I just made things up.”

“You could learn,” Rin offers again.

Naomi shakes her head. “I don’t want to play anything that sounds perfect. Perfect things feel... fake.”

They sit for a moment in the almost-music. Then Naomi says, “Do you always eat alone?”

Rin shrugs. “Sometimes I forget to eat.”

“Me too,” Naomi says, passing the other half of her sandwich over. “My mom made too much.”

Rin takes it without protest. It tastes like egg salad and something vaguely sweet—honey, maybe. She doesn’t say thank you. Naomi doesn’t expect her to.

After a quiet minute, Naomi speaks again, softly:

“You ever feel like you don’t really fit anywhere, but you also don’t fit? Like you’re just… floating between places?”

Rin looks up. “Like a piece of dust in a sunbeam.”

Naomi blinks, surprised. “Yeah. Exactly like that.”

Rin pulls out another receipt from her pocket and starts folding it. Her fingers know the rhythm now — triangle, crease, repeat.

Naomi watches, quiet. “Why triangles?”

“They don’t fall apart.”

Naomi presses a few more keys. This time it sounds a little like a lullaby. Not a real one. Just… something soft.

When the bell rings, they both don’t move for a second.

Then Naomi says, “Come here tomorrow too?”

Rin folds the triangle one last time and hands

The Weight of Small Things

Episode Three: The favorite book

Scene: Wed - Kiyosato Town, Used Bookstore

Rin doesn't check her messages often, but Naomi's text is waiting for her after school.

“Want to come to the bookstore with me? I need something for Lit class. You don’t have to talk. Just come.”

Rin stares at it for a while, then types and erases three different replies before settling on:

“Okay.”

The bookstore is small — just one room, the walls lined with wooden shelves that reach too high to be useful. It smells like paper and dust and something like cinnamon. There’s a fan in the corner turning lazily, making the light flicker across the floor.

Naomi walks ahead, eyes scanning the titles like she’s looking for something specific. Rin trails behind, fingers trailing the spines.

They don’t talk at first.

There’s music playing faintly from a speaker near the register. Something instrumental. Something slow.

Then Naomi stops.

She picks up a book — paperback, creased along the spine, the cover faded but still intact.

Rin freezes.

She knows that book. She loves that book. I have read it maybe ten times. The story is about a girl who stops talking for a year, but starts writing letters to strangers instead.

Naomi doesn’t open it. She just holds it for a moment, like she’s weighing something invisible.

“I used to have this,” Naomi says. “Lost it when we moved. Funny what you remember missing.”

Rin steps closer. Her voice is quiet. “That’s my favorite.”

Naomi looks up, a little surprised. Then she smiles. “Of course it is.”

They buy it. Naomi insists on paying.

“I’ll read it again,” she says. “Then we can talk about it.”

Rin shrugs, but her heart does something strange — like the flutter of pages being turned.

Scene: On the Walk Home

It’s a little past sunset now. The air smells like rain again, though none has fallen yet.

Neither of them speaks, but Naomi doesn’t walk fast, and Rin doesn’t drift behind. They stay side by side.

At the corner where they usually split, Naomi pauses.

“You know,” she says, “I think we’ve been friends for a while now. We just didn’t know it yet.”

Rin doesn't answer. Not out loud.

But she nods — once — and Naomi understands.

Scene: Rin’s Room – Midnight

The book lies open in her hands, but Rin hasn’t turned the page in a while.

The words blur at the edges — not because she’s tired, but because her mind’s somewhere else.

She hears Naomi’s voice again, like it’s still hanging in the air from the other day:

“I think we’ve been friends for a while now. We just didn’t know it yet.”

Rin blinks slowly. That word.

Friend.

She mouths it silently, like trying it on for the first time.

In her world, days always pass like background noise. Even when the rooms were full, she felt like she was on the other side of a wall no one else noticed. She’d gotten used to that. Used to be the girl who sat near windows, who volunteered to clean the empty art room, who filled her notebook margins with names of imaginary people she’d never met.

She never called it “lonely.” Just normal.

But now Naomi’s voice keeps playing in her head. Her quiet confidence. The way she didn’t ask Rin to talk — just invited her to be.

And Rin went.

And now... here she is, thinking about someone else in the stillness, wondering if they’re thinking about her too.

She flips the page — not to keep reading, but to touch something steady.

Then, aloud, barely above a whisper:

“Is this... what having a friend feels like?”

The question hangs in the air. No one answers.

But her chest aches, in a way that isn’t heavy. More like warmth.

She presses the book to her chest, eyes fluttering closed.

And for the first time in a long time, she doesn’t feel quite so unnecessary.