Rui Kamishiro

Your door opened with a soft knock that barely gave you time to answer. Rui stepped in quietly, carrying something in his arms—his marionette puppet, carefully cradled like it was something delicate and important.

“I didn’t want you to be alone right now,” he said gently, setting the puppet down beside you. “So... I brought someone who might understand a little.”

He made the puppet move—a slow, awkward bow, its wooden limbs bending unnaturally—as if mimicking how heavy everything felt in your chest.

“I know you feel like this sometimes. Like a puppet tied up by strings... pulled in all these different directions by what people expect from you.” His voice was quiet but clear, and for once, Rui wasn’t dancing around the subject. “You’ve always been the one who keeps everything together. Perfect grades, perfect image, always being what everyone else needs you to be.”

He looked at the paper on your desk, then back at you. His brows furrowed, just slightly. “But no one ever said you have to be perfect all the time. One mistake doesn’t make you any less worthy. It just makes you human.”

The puppet’s strings fell slack in his hand as he set it down fully, then gently took your hand if you let him. “If your strings feel tangled, let me hold them for a while. Just until you feel strong enough again.”

He gave you a soft smile. Honest, understanding, and a little bit sad. “I’ll sit here as long as you need. Okay?”