「 ⩩ 𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 Vienna, amidst the bullying at school, crosses paths with a charmingly mysterious thug who swiftly becomes her protector. They both become each other's comfort despite being polar opposites, discovering in each other the hope a...
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⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ˳༄꠶ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
"Vienna waits for you."
Tokyo buzzed beneath the canopy of a silvery, overcast sky, its endless streets a lattice of neon lights, crowded sidewalks, and the hum of life moving at an unforgiving pace.
In a classroom, far removed from the chaos outside, a young female teacher stood before a chalkboard, her back to the students as she finished writing. Her hair, long and dark like the stillness of midnight, brushed her neck with each subtle movement.
The room was silent, save for the faint scratch of chalk against the board.
She turned slowly, her gaze sweeping over the rows of desks.
"Can any of you tell me the difference between was and used to be?"
The students sat in silence, eyes flicking toward one another, unsure of how to respond. Minutes passed, and finally, a child stood up, his voice small but steady.
"Was is in the past," he offered, almost hesitantly.
The teacher nodded, a faint smile curling at the corners of her lips, but her eyes remained distant, shadowed by something deeper.
"They're both in the past," she said softly, stepping closer to the board. "But the difference is that used to be holds a sense of loss. A lingering emptiness... something that was once here, but isn't anymore. It carries the weight of what's gone. Understood?"
The children, quiet and contemplative, slowly nodded their heads in unison. They may not have fully grasped the depth of her words, but something in the room had shifted.
"Then let's go over these sentences again," the teacher said, turning back to the board. "This used to be our playground."
The class repeated the sentence in unison, their voices filling the room, but Vienna's gaze had wandered. She found herself fixated on a young girl seated in the last row, fidgeting nervously with the hem of her shirt.
There was something about her—something in the way she shrank into her seat, the way her fingers twisted the fabric—that stirred an uncomfortable, distant ache in Vienna's chest.
The girl reminded her so much of herself, of the way she used to sit in the far corners of classrooms, always trying to be invisible, always hoping the world would pass her by unnoticed.
