This is a manga about Kinomiya Aya, a girl with the power to turn invisible. About her journey through self-hatred, repentance, and connection. Most of all, this is a manga about guilt.
Though Aya has a paranatural ability, it’s not about her superpowered exploits. What she does with her ability is important, but not as important as what having it says about her. Instead, the narrative is grounded, focusing on personal drama, relationships, and Aya’s quiet introspection. She’s done things she regrets. She’s not sure if she could have done differently. She’s not sure if she deserves the life she leads.
Guilt hollows her out from the inside, yet she clings to it like a blanket. It lurks beneath the surface as she tries to maintain a normal life. Opposite desires clash within her, as she wants both forgiveness and punishment, privacy and infamy, and solitude and infamy. Every part of her life connects back to guilt, and guilt determines how she’ll try to live. Whether she deserves happiness, or whether guilt provides a backward reason to seek it. The story doesn’t force a perspective on whether her actions were right or wrong. The source of her struggle is not how the world may judge her, but how she judges herself. Her sense of justice is too strong to not apply it to herself.
The other two main characters are written nearly as well as Aya. Kana is a bubbly track team member, who lives next door and wants to make friends based off of that alone. Shiori is a quirky, musical loner, who takes an interest in Aya for the very things she wants to keep secret. Their outward personalities are distinct, and their hopes, desires, and attitudes are well fleshed-out. But it’s their relationships with Aya that reveal just how much they complement and contrast her. Kana’s positivity and extroversion is, from Aya’s perspective, an ideal that she can never reach, and thus a purity she should not sully. She also reflects Aya’s own simple desire to be wanted, and needs Aya to accept her. Yet Aya can’t be honest and open enough to let that happen — that’s where Shiori comes in, providing encouragement and inspiration for Aya to express herself to others. Yet with the cost of sharing the truths she’s afraid of.
Aya’s character arc, her relationships, and the theme of guilt, all add up to a story with a striking emotional core. She’s been through things no one should have to go through, made hard choices with no right answer, and come out of it a more sensitive person. One who, on top of the ordinary problems a high schooler faces, must grapple with her complex, painful relationship with guilt. It is easy to care for her, to relate to her, and to be on the edge of your seat as her journey unfolds. That journey is a poignant one. Just as Aya leads a normal life with her darkness hiding under the surface, much of the story has the tone of slice of life. The depression underneath casts an ever-present shadow. The drama is quiet, but powerful, pushing the characters through extreme emotions, and letting those emotions carry the story. The climax feels less like a fireworks show, and more like a cold winter night.
Both her daily life and the emotional drama are portrayed sincerely and authentically. Aya isn’t just shy, but socially isolated, and the way this causes her to think and act is realistic. So are the circumstances that caused her to be that way. Even more extreme situations, such as abuse, are treated with the same realism, and respect for how serious they are. Rather than milk uncomfortable topics for forced drama and shock value, it builds them properly and lets the drama naturally arise. Some of the most interesting moments come from exploration of complicated ideas that only work because they capture a realistic nuance. There’s a stretch near the end of the story that implicitly focuses on the realization that one made decisions based off of assumptions. That it’s easy to think you understand someone, but judge them only for the role they played in your own life. Rather than explain the theme, it shows it and lets it speak for itself.
The plot structure is simple and executed well. It maintains variety, shifting focus every few chapters, flowing naturally but never spending too much time in the same place. Every scene is relevant and important for exploring the characters or providing emotional contrast. Aya is introspective, but not passive. Her decisions push the story in radical ways. The pace is steady, but not slow. Always moving forward, but never rushing.
The key to that steady pacing is in how it’s drawn. The art is patient. Every action and reaction is shown in step-by-step detail. Instead of compressing events into fewer panels than they need, it gives every moment the space to breathe. The vision is never compromised for lack of pages. This doesn’t slow the pace, but lets the pace of the visuals perfectly sync with the pace of the plot. Dialogue ebbs and flows alongside the paneling, rather than cramming panels full with text. Every beat of the story gets a panel, whether a quiet pause to think, or a split-second reaction of shock. There are long sequences of entirely silent panels, slowly zooming in to build tension, or holding in place to let a sad moment linger.
The amount of space used on a manga page corresponds to importance, and this manga treats every moment as essential. The art and paneling are as thoughtful, patient, and poignant as the story they tell.
Aesthetically, the art is nice. The linework is sharp and clean, and the shading uses lots of hard contrast. Nothing is rough or sloppy. The page layouts are elegant, with balanced symmetry, impactful wide shots, and satisfying black-white balance. The character designs are simple but distinct with their faces drawn with expressive detail instead of exaggerated features. Aya is outwardly stoic, but the delicate touches on her eyes provide a subtle window into what she hides. There’s a moment in the first chapter where her blank, confused reaction to something ordinary speaks volumes of what she’s experienced. There’s a pair of moments where she frantically looks to the side, hoping in panic that the person she sees will do something. The second time, she looks at that same person with calm disdain, no longer expecting them to do a thing.
That moment is one of many conveyed without relying on text. The manga does use lots of narration, as Aya internally monologues her thoughts. But it’s kept from overexplaining the story or overpowering the visual storytelling. Whether closed in on the eyes, or pulled back to a lonely wide shot, the perspectives and framing are consistently used for meaning. It’s used for impactful imagery that tells implicit stories. A young girl hunched on a bench rather than the playground beside her. A boy happily reading while a fight rages behind him. A pair of emotionless eyes, unaffected by the misery they see. An invisible girl photographing the people before her.
The ending could be called inconclusive. It doesn’t show what happens next, and to some readers that won’t be enough. To others, it already showed what mattered most. Aya’s arc completes, and it finishes on a beautiful moment. A moment that’s especially satisfying if you’ve noticed a certain trend in her behavior. What happens after that, you can decide.
Guilt is the primary idea, but the events of the story demonstrate a simpler, truer theme. You can’t make progress if you hide parts of yourself from those who love you, or don’t attempt to understand them. The world may not be as difficult as it seems, if you’re willing to communicate.
