It was just another day in class. The same gray walls. The same murmurs of idle chatter. He sat in the back, quiet and unnoticed, just like always. No one spoke to him, and he preferred it that way. After all, what would they say?
He kept his sleeves long and his gaze low, hiding the pain that pulsed beneath his skin. No one needed to see. No one would understand.
Then she walked in.
A new girl, unfamiliar and quiet, took the seat beside him. Her eyes were empty in a way that made his chest ache. There was something about her—an aura, a silence—that mirrored his own. For the first time, he saw someone who bore the same pain.
And to be honest, he was kind of pissed.
This was his world. His suffering. His silence. And now it was hers, too?
He wanted to speak, but didn’t. Just watched.
Then, on a day like any other, the teacher left the room.
The classroom went quiet.
That’s when she rolled up her sleeve.
Thin lines, sharp and fresh, carved into her wrist. Her expression didn't change—calm, almost rehearsed. As if it were routine.
He stared, heart thundering.
She noticed.
Their eyes met.
She offered a blade.
Without speaking, she handed it to him, like it was nothing. Like it was normal.
And without thinking, without a word, he took it.
That day, they did it together.
They sat in silence as blood ran warm over their skin. No screams. No tears. Just mutual understanding.
It became a secret ritual. A bond.
Every day after that, they did it again. And again. And again. Always after class. Always in silence.
Then one day, she didn’t come to school.
He waited.
One day passed.
Then two.
By the third, he felt sick.
By the fourth, he asked.
No one knew.
No one cared.
She was gone.
No goodbye. No warning.
Just—vanished.
His chest felt hollow. The blade she had given him now sat cold and heavy in his drawer. A final memory.
He never saw her again.
Even now, he still wonders: Why did she share her pain with him? Why did she let him in, only to disappear?
Why did she give him the knife?
Maybe she wanted to be remembered. Maybe she wanted someone to carry the weight she left behind.
Maybe he was her “R.”
Now, every time he sees his reflection, he thinks of her.
Of that first glance.
Of the blood.
Of the silence.
And he wonders if she’s still out there, somewhere.
Or if her story ended that day.
He never knew her name.
But he’ll never forget her pain.
Elisha: Hey y'all!! I got bored and decided to create a oneshot story, it's a story based on the song "My R" by KurageP i love that song one of my favorites also did y'all know the R in "My R" means Reflection?
