Hitomi’s body is not particularly impressive. 

He’s not tall, standing at a modest 159cm with poor posture. But his limbs are proportionally long, lending him a kind of quiet elegance.

There’s a hush in the way Hitomi moves. He’s not actively trying to be quiet; his steps are simply cautious by nature, almost instinctive. As if he understands that the weight he carries in his actions is already loud enough. Like the low, ominous hum before an earthquake or the annoying high pitch they use to repel rats. Hitomi moves in a way that reflects he doesn’t want to add more to his presence.

You rarely notice when he enters a room. You just look up, and he’s already there. You blink, and he’s gone.

He’s thin, slim to the point of being bony, even slightly underweight. He’s always been on the skinny side, but lately his relationship with food has been complicated. He no longer feels the same kind of hunger he once did as a child. When he eats, memories seem to catch in his throat, making it hard to swallow. Sometimes, the food comes back up; he hates it when it happens, but he can’t seem to stop it either; it’s out of his control.

When he looks at himself naked in the mirror, he sees a young man carrying a heavy heart, weighed down by bad decisions. But he also sees ribs and collarbones jutting out, his hipbones so visible they make him feel ashamed. He’s made of sharp, violent angles.

“It’s as if I carry knives for bones”.

He hopes that, with time, he can soften up some of those edges and feel better about his image.

He sees his sickly pale skin and the purple and blue veins just beneath the surface. Sometimes he feels foolish, remembering there was a time not so long ago when he pressed a razor blade against it. It felt like a release back then, a way to quiet the darker thoughts in his head. But now, looking back, it just feels senseless.

“That was stupid of me.”

He doesn’t want to do that again. Not after seeing how the smooth, milky skin he once had is now marked and ragged in places where the past left its trace.

His body is scattered with tiny black dots across his chest, arms, and legs. Romantic people call them constellations. Hitomi just worries that one day, one of those dots might grow bigger and become something dangerous. Skin cancer, maybe? He doesn't want to think much about it, but he worries anyway.

Despite everything, he still cares about his health, or rather, he just doesn’t want to suffer from bad health; it’s been enough already.

He has slender fingers, long and elegant. People often compliment them, asking if he plays the piano. Hitomi has never been interested in music, but he does enjoy pressing keys. Especially the ones on his mechanical keyboard. “It’s satisfying,” he’d say to anyone who questions why he spends absurd amounts of money on custom builds.

Up close, Hitomi isn’t the most handsome guy in the world. His face is somewhat round. As a child, people always focused on his cheeks, on how round and pinchable they were. He used to hope they’d disappear as he got older. But here they are, still part of him.

His fangs are slightly crooked, though you wouldn’t notice unless he really laughs. It’s rare; he usually keeps his joy tucked away, smiling softly, laughing quietly. But on the occasions it breaks through, stretching his grin wide, you catch a glimpse.

Hitomi likes his hair. It might be the only part of himself he truly does like, without feeling like a performance or a show he has to put on for others.

It’s soft, kitten-soft, and thick, with a dark, quiet shine. His haircut is boyish, shaped in a perfect circle around his crown, falling gently over his eyebrows. He trims it himself when the bangs grow too long and begin to cover his eyes. It’s a somewhat juvenile style, but on Hitomi, it feels natural, as if some part of him chose to remain modestly frozen in time.

Sometimes he catches himself worrying he’ll lose his hair one day, that he’ll go bald and have nothing left of the one thing he’s always been quietly proud of. He wouldn’t call himself vain. But on the rare days when his hair falls just right, when the light catches it and it feels good to be seen, those are the moments he feels a little more at ease in his own skin. He knows it’s silly, maybe even a little pretentious, but the thought still clings to him.

His pale face is also scattered with gentle moles. One just beneath his eyebrow catches his attention more than the rest; it feels oddly out of place to him, like a quiet imperfection in an otherwise smooth surface. He often finds himself distracted by it, sometimes mistaking it for a stray speck resting on his fringe. He doesn’t really mind the others. They’re just there, just moles, small, harmless marks he’s long since stopped thinking about, but for some reason, others always remember them on his face, as if it was his signature look.

Hitomi’s eyes are strange. They’re dark in a way that even he can’t make out their color; he just sees the void of his pupils staring back at him in the mirror. People have told him there’s a deep brown shine in them when the light hits right, something warm beneath the surface, but with his poor vision and thick glasses, he can’t really see that himself, nor can he tell where the pupil ends and the iris begins. Still, He chooses to believe them. Me hust have dark brown eyes.

After one accident, he wore an eyepatch for several weeks while his left eye recovered. Since then, it’s been a little sensitive to light. Not enough to disrupt his daily life, but just enough to remind him of what happened. Something his body hasn’t quite forgotten, even if his mind tries to move past it.

One day, when Chihara was close to his face (closer than most ever get) he pointed out that Hitomi’s left pupil was noticeably larger than the other. Probably a lingering effect of that event. Hitomi hadn’t realized it. Now, sometimes, he wonders if others notice too, in those brief moments when someone’s gaze lingers just a second too long.

When Hitomi speaks, people's first reaction is usually surprise. You wouldn’t expect his voice to sound the way it does, soft, youthful, almost boyish. He’s soft-spoken, with a slight rasp, like chalk brushing gently against a board. It’s not deep, in fact, it’s a little high, as if his voice never quite finished growing up, still echoing the tone of a teenager.

But it suits him. There’s something quiet and careful in the way he speaks, the words he chooses, and the rhythm he keeps. The gentle cadence in his voice makes people want to listen. It’s comforting, in the way rare things are.

Hitomi’s body isn’t particularly impressive.

He’s short. He’s skinny. He’s pale. He looks and sounds younger than he is. His eyesight is bad, and on top of that, he now carries a forever-injured eye as proof of that one time he almost died.

There’s nothing striking about him.

He’s not impressive.

He’s just him.

And that’s enough.