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It had been a bad day. Nobita hadn’t done his homework last night, and Teacher had scolded him for it. It wasn’t really his fault—he had really tried to do it. He sat down at his desk, and he’d even taken his pencils out! But then his mom came in with a fresh plate of dorayakis from the bakery, and the manga he’d bought the other day was just sitting on the table. Nobita just didn’t want to miss out on the fun.
Then he’d sat down at his desk again, picked his pencil up, and tried to make sense of the questions, but he just couldn’t. He remembered staring at the paper for a while, just watching all the words blur into one big block of black. He could make sense of it if he really wanted to, but he didn’t. He knew most of what they were teaching him anyway. There was no point to homework if he knew it all already, right?
But then why didn’t his grades show that?
He knew the material. He knew he knew the material. But he always left the answers blank or marked them wrong. He knew he could do it, but he wasn’t doing it.
What if he was just lying to himself? Maybe he actually couldn’t do it. Maybe everyone was right; maybe he was just an idiot.
He couldn’t even catch a ball properly.
His body ached from where Gian had punched him down just an hour ago. Baseball really wasn’t his forté. He wondered why he still played it. He wondered why Gian and Suneo still tracked him down to ask him—order him—to play with them. Maybe it was just to have someone to blame when things went wrong. Maybe it was just because they knew he wouldn’t refuse, even if he wanted to.
Sometimes, Gian’s punches didn’t hurt as much as the words did. The way Suneo snickered, the way they looked at him—like he was nothing. He didn’t know why he kept hoping things would change. Why he still thought of them as his friends.
But then there was Shizuka. Sweet, kind Shizuka, who always smiled at him, even when he messed up. She never yelled or laughed when he stumbled over his words or tripped over his feet. She made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t completely hopeless. He didn’t want to disappoint her. The thought of her looking at him the way Teacher or his parents sometimes did—disappointed, tired—made his chest ache.
His parents. His mom’s voice echoed in his head, sharp and stern. “Nobita, when will you grow up? When will you stop being so lazy?” His dad’s sighs, heavy and resigned, as though he’d already given up. Nobita knew they loved him, but sometimes it felt like their love came with conditions—like he had to be better, do better, just to deserve it.
He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. His heart raced, and his mind churned in endless loops of guilt and shame. I need to do my work. I really need to do my work. The thought played on repeat, a mantra that never pushed him to action. His homework sat untouched on his desk. It was taunting him, daring him to try and fail again.
Just get up.
Why aren’t you getting up?
The questions swirled, clashing with each other in a cacophony of frustration and self-loathing. He turned over, pulling his blanket up to his chin.
Get the fuck up, Nobita Nobi.
But he didn’t.
His chest felt heavy, like something was sitting on him, making it hard to breathe. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the thoughts, but they only grew louder.
Why can’t you just be normal?
Normal. What even was normal? Knowing when to speak and when to stay silent? Not blurting out the wrong thing at the wrong time? Not annoying people without realizing it? Nobita thought about the times he’d tried to make a joke, only to have it fall flat, or worse, make someone angry. The times he’d been too quiet, and people had walked away, thinking he didn’t care. He wanted to fit in, to make people happy, but it always felt like he was missing something—some invisible rulebook that everyone else had read.
The weight of it all pressed down on him. He thought about the blank pages of his notebook. He thought about Teacher’s disappointed face. He thought about Gian’s fists and Suneo’s mocking laughter. He thought about his parents, about how much he’d let them down. About how much easier it would be for everyone if he just wasn’t here anymore.
Maybe I should just die.
The thought slipped in, quiet and unassuming, but it rooted itself deeply. He opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling again. His room felt unbearably quiet, the kind of silence that amplified the noise in his head. He didn’t want to feel this way anymore. He didn’t want to feel like a failure.
Slowly, he sat up, his movements sluggish and deliberate. His heart thudded in his chest, but his mind felt eerily calm. He stood and made his way to the cupboard Doraemon sleeps in. The cupboard where Doraemon's spare pocket was. He hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the cupboard handle.
Is this what it takes? The question felt surreal, as though he was outside himself, watching his own actions unfold. He thought about how much simpler everything would be. No more disappointed faces. No more falling short.
The cupboard creaked slightly as he pulled it open, revealing Doraemon's soft futon. He wasn’t sure which gadget he would choose—he didn’t even know if any of them could actually do what he wanted. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was the intent. The decision.
He reached in the pocket, fingers brushing against something cold. The gadget he pulled out was small but sharp—a tool he’d seen Doraemon use before to cut through tough materials. It felt heavy in his hand, its cold surface pressing against his palm.
Nobita sank to the floor, sitting against the side of his bed. His breath came in shallow gasps, his hands trembling. He pressed the blade to his wrist, the sharp sting jolting him as blood welled up, bright and surreal against his pale skin. Tears streamed down his face as his mind screamed, I don’t want to feel like this anymore.
The door to his room burst open.
“Nobita!” Doraemon’s voice cracked, high-pitched and frantic. His eyes widened as he took in the scene—the blood smeared on Nobita’s arm, the trembling gadget in his hand.
“No!” Doraemon screamed, rushing forward. He knocked the gadget away and clamped his hands over Nobita’s bleeding arm, his paws shaking as he fumbled to apply pressure. “What are you doing? What—what were you thinking?”
Nobita stared at him, his face pale, his lips quivering. “I—I just… I can’t—” His voice broke as he dissolved into sobs.
“You can’t what?” Doraemon yelled, his own voice breaking under the weight of his emotions. “You can’t leave me like this, Nobita! What is wrong with you?”
Doraemon’s grip on Nobita’s arm tightened as he desperately pulled out a first-aid gadget from his pouch. He activated it, and the bleeding stopped, but the red stains on Nobita’s sleeve remained, a haunting reminder of how close it had been. Doraemon’s paws trembled as he worked, his head shaking in disbelief.
“You—You scared me, Nobita,” Doraemon choked out, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I thought I was going to lose you.”
Nobita’s sobs grew louder. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just… I feel so useless, Doraemon. I mess everything up. Everyone’s better off without me.”
“No,” Doraemon said firmly, his voice thick with emotion. “That’s not true. That’s not true at all.”
Doraemon pulled Nobita into a fierce hug, holding him as though he might vanish at any moment. His whole body trembled as he whispered, “You’re not useless. You’re not a burden. You’re my best friend, Nobita. I can’t imagine my life without you. I don’t want to.”
Nobita clung to Doraemon, his tears soaking into the robot cat’s fur. “I just wanted it to stop,” he admitted through his sobs. “The noise in my head, the pressure, the failure—it’s too much. I don’t know how to fix it.”
Doraemon pulled back to look at him, his own tears shining in his eyes. “You don’t have to fix it alone,” he said, his voice gentle but unwavering. “I’m here. Your parents are here. Shizuka, Gian, Suneo—they all care about you, even if it doesn’t feel that way sometimes. You’re not alone, Nobita. And you never will be.”
“But… but I feel so broken,” Nobita whispered.
“You’re not broken,” Doraemon said. “You’re just… struggling. And that’s okay. Struggling doesn’t mean you’ve failed—it just means you need help. And I’m going to help you, Nobita. No matter what it takes.”
For what felt like hours, they stayed like that, Doraemon holding Nobita as the boy cried out the weight of his pain. When Nobita finally calmed, his breathing steadier, Doraemon gently wiped his tears away with a soft cloth from his pouch.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Doraemon said softly. “And then we’ll figure out what to do next. Together.”
Nobita nodded weakly, his eyes red and swollen but filled with a flicker of something new—hope.