Attitude Unbecoming the Individual [Part I]
As the sun rose and set, the days flew by like a blur.
The festive season was upon us, yet it brought no joy to my soul. The celebrations felt mediocre, the cheer forced and hollow, as if the world were play-acting at happiness.
By the dawn of the new year, my mother had made plans to venture out into the city with her friends. I, on the other hand, with a heavy heart, resigned myself to a lonely day, forgoing the prospect of the hustle and bustle.
I decided to abandon my principles and indulge in the frivolity of staying in seclusion, barricaded within my four walls, feigning a cold. A cold that was supposed to last for what, a week? That's bullshit; if that were the case, I'd have been pronounced dead by now.
But, no matter. Honestly, I think it was the right call.
Now, these past few days, ignoring my supposed viral infection, have been nothing short of a trial. Adapting to the rhythms of family life and the cultural nuances of this household—and this country—has proven to be a uniquely torturous endeavor.
My diet has shifted abruptly; I now consume rice almost daily, often in the form of bowls accompanied by a variety of side dishes. I'm not complaining—the rice is delicious—but it's certainly a stark change from my previous eating habits.
In addition, my mother has introduced a new nightly ritual: She now insists that I take a bath before going to bed. It seems that one day she noticed my lack of body sanitation and, without hesitation, referred to me as "
The hygiene standards here are exceptionally high—I suppose—and I'm being compelled to bathe at least twice a day. Am I really that nasty?
To minimize my discomfort, I've opted for morning showers and occasional nighttime ones; and I pray that my mother doesn't pester me further.
By the same token, the "bathroom" itself is tiny, as it's limited to the space of the bathtub and shower—divided by a glass partition resembling a curtain—the washing machine, and a leveled surface housing a mirror and provisions for essentials like towels, soaps, toothbrushes, and other cosmetics.
What's more, the toilet and sink aren't in it but in a separate room.
On the other hand, the layout of this house lacks a basement, an attic, or even a pantry for our provisions, not to mention a garage. It's small on the outside; cramped on the inside.
And, speaking of adjustments, moving on to my room, the space is equipped with an air conditioner and a heater…Yes, like what?!
Initially, this came as a surprise to me, and I couldn't help but enthusiastically inform my mother, only to be met with a look that seemed to say, "We've always had one."
I must admit, I was a bit perplexed by the remote control at first, but I quickly figured it out. I didn't need to fiddle much—the temperature settings were quite comfortable, and the airflow was already directed perfectly toward my bed.
On a broader scale, the tremors and earthquakes over these past two weeks have been more frequent than floods and typhoons in Florida: I've felt them about three times now.
Moreover, since it's winter, the rains and cyclones have also been the cause of several breaking emergency calls, so heading out at night—or even during the day—involves carrying an umbrella with you.
And the snow is thick, at least two layers deeper than what you'd find in New York. The climate is similar to the Lower Peninsula of northern Michigan—not where I lived by the way—, or just to speak: Canada.
However, adding a tangential note unrelated to the current circumstances, throughout my time sheltered at home, I took the opportunity to memorize both my phone number and that of my biological mother.
I jotted them down in a small notebook that was discreetly hidden beneath Takumi's mattress. The notebook, however, held significant importance, as it appeared to be his diary—though we'll set this detail aside for a bit.
My attempt to reach out to myself, a futile endeavor, yielded no response. Similarly, my efforts to contact my mom, this time with a sliver of expectation, proved equally fruitless.
Persistently, I dialed both numbers: a day-to-day exhausting regime like an irritating telemarketer chasing overdue monthly payments—except, in reality, it was me from the other side of the world, desperately trying to establish a connection.
Unfortunately, the calls went unanswered, seemingly ignored.
Just as I tried to contact my own number, I also attempted to find the profiles or accounts of my friends on the triumvirate of social media monarchs: Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.
Despite double-checking, it seemed I had either entered something incorrectly or, quite possibly, had become functionally illiterate. To my dismay, my efforts were in vain, as none of their accounts appeared to exist.
As a result, a prolonged state of despondency seeped into my days and, one might argue, contributed significantly to my reluctance to engage in social activities—that is, to venture outside.
It echoes the sentiments of any young person who declares themselves unwilling to commit to stepping out, whether driven by lethargy or a more somber underlying condition; in my case, it was the latter: a disheartening depression.
In any case, who cares?
Behold, atop all that has been said, the dawn of a new year adorned the skies, and today was Monday, January 8th. How is it possible that time has flown by so quickly?
At this moment, the clock strikes half-past five, and its resonant chime jolts me awake. First things first—who the fuck set this alarm for such an ungodly hour, the military?
With great effort and rheum still clinging to my eyes, I dragged myself out of bed, showered, and donned the academy's attire. The school uniform, to be precise.
For the lower half, I adorned myself with navy-blue trousers, tailored with a straight cut for maximum comfort, paired with socks of the same hue.
For the upper half, I enveloped my torso in a long-sleeved, high-collared white shirt, a navy-blue blazer ornamented with—I assume—the school's emblem on the breast pocket, a subtly patterned reddish tie, and an indigo-blue scarf.
Now, standing at the threshold of my house, I slipped on a pair of casual shoes. I turned around, my gaze meeting my mother's. Dressed in a coat, her hair slightly disheveled, she handed me an egg and avocado sandwich wrapped in small zip-top plastic bag.
«You have everything, right? You're not forgetting something, are you?» She pronounced fairly drowsy.
«No,» I replied. «This time, I'm sure.»
«Well, I won't ask what are you carring but... I'll say this: stay sharp when you arrive. You've been rehearsing all sorts of things—so much so that even I started wondering what their purposes were. If you're planning to put them to use today, then make sure you do it properly, alright?»
«...Yes, mom.»
With that said, I bid her farewell with the traditional, quintessential phrase:
«
Pause for a moment—how, exactly, did I come to know this deeply ingrained, cloisteredly Japanese expression? The possible answers are as follows:
A) I'm a greasy weeb who understands this phrase all too well despite its lack of a direct English translation—I'm unsure if that amuses or mortifies me, perhaps even in equal measure;
B) I recognized its stylistic linguistic nuance, therefore, incorporating it into my speech whenever the situational opportunity called for it, like a connoisseur of cultural idiosyncrasies;
C) It was a gut feeling—an instinctual pull, not unlike the moment I picked up that magazine.
And now, cue the drumrooooooll: the correct answer is both B and C!
While I may be naturally indifferent to most things, even I could recognize that, for a position of this caliber, it would be wise to at least adapt to the bare minimum of this nation's customs.
Consequently, over the span of these two weeks, I've been engaging in relentless conversations with my Takumi's mom, absorbing bits and pieces of what's considered appropriate and what isn't.
And at some point, whether through sheer observation or subconscious assimilation, I started noticing patterns—recurring motifs within the rigid dictates of its etiquette. Situations like the one I just expressed, and plenty more beyond that.
In response, she returned with tenderness:
«
«...»
«I know your attitude has changed, but your nature hasn't,» she continued. «With the various events you've had lately, I'm afraid something's going to happen when you go back to class. I don't want you to have a panic attack in the middle of your sessions, or for something to stress you out enough to make you isolate yourself. You're very sensitive right now, dear. It will be obvious just by looking at you. So, promise me that everything will be okay, from now on.»
In the meantime of her speech, she gently took my hand, offering a great sympathy that soothed whatever tension I could have felt.
If this were a company, it would be a more efficient, commonplace, and reasonably priced business than several sessions with manipulative, egotistical psychologists.
I merely nodded, my voice steady but futile as I claimed: «I promise.»
She saw right through me.
It's true—I'm a little anxious about attending class, but that unease isn't excitement. Even so, as if I could ever forget, my presence in every moment is crucial, and navigating social interactions is just equally essential: smiling is a mood-enhancing projector.
«Also, one final thing.»
«What is it?»
She grabbed my spine and erected it to demand: «Straighten your back, jeez. You've gotten into that habit, and I don't like it at all. Is that clear?»
Ugh, that too. «It's okay.»
I pushed open the door, and immediately, a gust of crisp morning air brushed against my face. With that silent greeting from the world outside, I stepped forward, setting off with measured determination toward my first checkpoint of the day.
For those who thinks all the time: "I ain't reading allat", skip these inner-monologues, since it's the clarification of my own accustoming in this region of the world.
From my house to the nearest train station called Ikejiri-Ōhashi, the walk takes approximately thirty minutes at a normal pace. If I pick up the speed, I could cut it down to twenty, but there's no rush; I don't want to sweat—especially when time is on my side. I'm heading out undeniably early.
However, I believe I forgot to mention something rather significant: most of these streets are pedestrian-only. And, with every fiber of my patriotic heart, I must say—it irritates me to no end. Just thinking about it makes me feel suffocated.
Navigating the uneven cobblestone paths of my neighborhood, I continued along the Meguro River. A few turns later—after rounding the corner and walking two blocks—I arrived at a small, unassuming rectangular structure: It was the southern entrance of the subway station, the one I needed to take.
Descending the staircase, I merged into the unending flow of commuters, seamlessly slotting into the rhythm of people moving up and down with almost mechanical precision.
Reaching into my back pocket, I retrieved my IC card and advanced toward the gate. As I tapped it against the glowing blue reader, the small automated doors slid open without hesitation, granting me passage.
I jogged for a brief moment—these fuckers, after all, only allow a short window between scanning in and making your way through for transfers. And in a place like this, hesitation is unwelcome. Move too slowly, and you'll earn a silent but pointed glare from the crowd behind.
For the uninitiated, IC Cards are these sleek, rechargeable marvels of modern convenience—tiny rectangles of plastic that grant you access to public transportation, vending machines, and even the occasional convenience store—requiring simply a quick tap on a reader and that's it. Simple.
This particular card, it seems, belongs to me. My mother, ever the diligent caretaker, helped me locate it—or, more accurately, she helped me find my wallet, which had somehow managed to hide of my carelessness.
It's a Suica card, with a cheerful visage of a penguin mascot; though its charm was somewhat diminished by the fact that it was completely valueless. So, naturally, my mother took it upon herself to recharge it at one of those ubiquitous machines strategically scattered throughout the station.
The maximum balance you can load onto one of these cards is 20,000 yen—a that was the figure that appeared in bold on the screen when I checked the balance. That woman has no sense of restraint.
Shaking off my thoughts, I was greeted by the low hum of an approaching train, its metallic resonance echoing in the thick of the tunnels like a distant thunderclap.
Through the windows, I caught glimpses of passengers from Shibuya, their forms blurred at first but gradually sharpening into focus as the train came to a halt. The scene was overwhelming in distress, to say the least.
But amidst the screech of brakes and the murmur of the crowd, another sound caught my attention—a familiar, mechanical whir. Was that a camera?
I turned to my right, my curiosity piqued, and sure enough, there they were: three young individuals armed with professional-grade cameras, their lenses pointed dangerously close to the tracks.
One of them was even lying flat on their stomach, as though capturing the perfect shot required sacrificing all dignity. They snapped away with a fervor that bordered on mania, their fingers working in a frantic rhythm.
What are these guys' problem? Needless to say, the incessant clicking and whirring grated on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard when I was in middle-school.
Thankfully, a security guard arrived to intervene. He approached the trio with measured steps as he instructed them to step back.
Why go to such lengths? I wondered. If they were so desperate to capture the perfect shot, surely there were better locations than this. The harsh fluorescent lighting of the underground station did them no favors; even the pale, wintry sunlight filtering of a skylight would have been a better choice.
Artificial light, ultimately, lacks the subtlety and warmth of the real thing—or so I've come to believ.....Ouch, oh! What?
Without realizing it, I was the only blockhead who paid any attention to the spectacle.
Those around me seemed utterly unfazed, boarding the train as soon as the doors slid open. It wasn't until some asshole shoved my shoulder in their haste that I snapped out of my mind—shit!
Was this some kind of strategy concocted by a villain not yet registered in my mental database, designed to make me late on my first day as Nakamura Takumi? More importantly, why am I even entertaining such a childish, fantastical notion right now? Stop being an idiot.
The avalanche of passengers forced me to act quickly; hence, I managed to slip between the crowd and, miraculously, secured a seat near one of the doors.
As for how I pulled off this minor feat, I must admit I have no idea; it was a stroke of luck, so don't ask. At the very least, I'm grateful for the chance to rest, even if only for a few moments before my stop. Ha-ha, take that, imaginary villain!
Discreetly, I observed whether one or another young fella was wearing the same uniform as me; but among the bodies colliding with each other, within the turmoil I couldn't see a single person, only nondescript businessmen and ordinary commuters. In a way, it was a small consolation.
The train began its smooth glide through the tunnels, and a voice over the intercom announced the next destination. Meanwhile, I indulged in my small snack I'd brought along.
Unwrapping it carefully, I savored each bite, the flavors a brief but welcome distraction from the monotony of the journey.
On the other hand, I became acutely aware that my actions might be considered impolite—a fact underscored by the occasional sideways glances I'm receiving. It was, at the very least, disconcerting.
Though, I couldn't bring myself to care much. "Fuck is yall staring at, huh?" I wanted to exclaimed. "Have you never seen someone eat before? Or did yall skip breakfast and now you're jealous?"
Common sense dictated that this was, indeed, a breach of social etiquette; and so, I mentally filed it away in my ever-growing notebook of societal rules. From now on, I resolved: I wouldn't eat on public transportation.
Still, I had to finish my snack, so I hurriedly devoured the rest of my sandwich. Hunger, after all, waits for no one.
As I stepped off the train, I tucked the wrapper and made my way into Sange-jaya Station, which felt less like a transit hub and more like a bustling commercial center. Fortunately, I had memorized the directions beforehand; after all, preparation is key.
Tokyo Metro, in all its sprawling enormity, is a labyrinth of people and places, and getting lost here is as easy as breathing.
I approached the ticket gates once more, tapped my card, and watched as the fare was deducted. Short, local trips usually cost between 100 to 200 yen, leaving my balance at a comfortable 19,780 yen.
Exiting the station through the North A entrance, I was greeted by my second checkpoint of the day. I took in the lively streets of this district, the roads humming with activity and storefronts lining the roundabout ahead.
Pulling my phone, I quickly opened a map to guide me to my destinat—"810 meters on foot."
God damn it, what a drag! I forgot how much I need to walk, and this is supposedly the shortest route; but I had no other choice. So, with a resigned sigh, I pressed on.
As I stepped, the crisp winter breeze swept through the awnings of the shops, their signs swaying gently as one by one, they opened their doors to greet the day.
The boulevard stretched before me like an illustration plucked from the pages of a storybook, a vibrant tapestry of life in a new city: restaurants, beauty salons, boutiques, chain stores, towering buildings, hotels, and a sprawling commercial complex—all nestled side by side along a single thoroughfare.
Rather than sticking to the main street, I opted for a shortcut across a neighborhood of tightly packed houses, their narrow paths winding like wires between the urban landscape.
The Japanese, it seemed, made the most of every available space; despite the limitations, they'd transformed even the smallest corners into cozy, inviting resident.
After humming a song, I soon found myself standing in the sight of a police station; I crossed the sidewalk, continued for another block, and finally, my steps led me to my endpoint: Seiritsu High School.
A few key observations stood out: the trip here took approximately 45 minutes, and I could only assume the return journey would be the same. And, as expected, the results aligned perfectly—though, of course, I'm the only one who knows that.
And so, this route would become my unshakable daily ritual, the path I'd tread every single school day. I couldn't help but want to shout it again: What a bummer, for heaven's sake!
You may be asking, how do I know this specified, efficient course of direction?
In advance, I'd thought—before the celebrations marking the increment of a digit in the Gregorian calendar—that it might be prudent to embark on a journey through the city, despite my corresponding despondency, encompassing particularly the district of Setagaya, a special ward within the metropolis of Tokyo.
Setagaya, from what I could gather, is renowned for its thriving residential areas, verdant parks, and tranquil streets, making it an idyllic paradise where people like me can dedicate themselves to a life of serenity: and that's where my school is located.
Yet, it would be a mischaracterization to label my excursion as anything resembling tourism—despite that, obviously, I'm visiting a new country.
In reality, I just wandered the streets, committing to memory certain landmarks and locales that might grant me a deeper understanding of the city, while also furnishing me with relatable anecdotes to share.
What, precisely, am I attempting to convey? Allow me to dissect the two points I just mentioned.
The first point was understanding the layout, and I mean to put it plainly: I sought to familiarize myself with the structural fabric of my new home.
This consisted of brief strolls through bustling streets and those alleys with a marvelous sense of cleanliness. I phrase it this way because Japan has these passages—not overly narrow—where pedestrians, cyclists, and the occasional compact car coexist.
Still, despite the constant flow of activity, the sidewalks remain impeccably clean, devoid of even a speck of litter. Isn't that astonishing? I think so.
And the second point is to share relatable experiences with other youths. What does this mean you might ask?
Allow me to paint a picture of this particular phase of our species: this is the stage where humans are at their prime for socialization—where the act of bonding and affixing with others reaches its climax.
Youth is the phase of constructing the foundations of adulthood, determining how well one can fit into a society that molds individuals into a reasonably perfect, one-size-fits-all framework.
The objective is to avoid being labeled as "weird" or "socially awkward"; it's about integrating seamlessly into the dominant culture and becoming a productive member of a conformist, rapidly evolving society.
And this aspect of socialization is what produces what we call well-adapted individuals—people whose behaviors are intelligible to others within their age group.
"Hey, do you like desserts? Let's go to
From my perspective, I'm fundamentally fine, but the mere thought of actively engaging with others who knows me but I don't fills me with a sense of dread. Nonetheless, I've prepared myself for such dialogues—ready, but reluctantly.
Fortunately, despite having spent the lion's share of my life in relative solitude, I've never been plagued by severe psychological issues—just the occasional ebb and flow of emotions.
Anyway, that journey was nothing more than a series of visits spread over three days.
On the first, I explored the vicinity of my residence: located in the city of Meguro. I visited a handful of establishments—coffe shops, dinning rooms, shrines, parks, etc.—that had garnered recognition on Google Maps; I didn't enter any of them, merely observed them up close before dipping.
The last two I'd spent it on Seiritsu High School; nestled in the neighboring district of Sangenjaya, situated amidst a tranquil stretch adjacent to a park named Maruyama and a fire station in the corner.
Now then, is the institution truly as big as it seems? I took a moment to scour the internet for images, and yeah—it's not. Not quite on the scale of public universities, but its size is significantly larger than most other schools.
According to some local forums, its total area spans a staggering 40,000 square meters. Moreover, as detailed on the institution's official website—the first link in my Google search—this expanse encompasses not only the main school building but also several auxiliary structures.
Among these was an elementary school across the street, which was acquired alongside the main campus during its construction and inauguration in 1971. This annex now serves solely as a gymnasium and archery range: Kyudo. There's no more information about it.
Furthermore, in an effort to enhance its overall aesthetic and soften the impact of the bustling urban environment, the campus has been thoughtfully adorned with various green spaces.
Walking through these areas feels almost like strolling through the Hanging Gardens of Babylon—or so claims one user. And, based on my own experience, I'd say that's not too far off.
Returning to the present, I decided to momentarily distract myself by recounting what initially caught my attention the first time I laid eyes on this place: its structure.
The main building boasts a decidedly contemporary design, characterized by clean lines and expansive windows, its rectangular frame rising several stories high to accommodate classrooms. Yet, it's the fusion of concrete and brick in its façade that lends it an air of elegance and sophistication—a subtle nod to modernity without sacrificing timeless charm.
Inside, there's suppose to be a separate wing known as the Cultural Pavilion; it's like a veritable plaza housing an auditorium, art studios, a music room, and the student coliseum complete with a gymnasium.
It's a space that feels almost too grand for a high school, as though it were designed to inspire awe rather than merely serve a practical purpose.
At the entrance, towering steel gates stand guard, flanked by a beautifully carved stone arch—yes, and pardon my language—a fucking gorgeous looking ass stone arch, etched with the school's name and motto: "
Ascending a gentle ramp and passing the gates, I was greeted by a pathway stretching before me, paved with smooth cobblestones that exude an almost timeless charm.
Softly glowing lampposts lined the walkway, spaced with such precision that they cast a warm, inviting glow over the entire area—even under the dull, overcast sky.
It's clear that the school's reputation precedes it.
Delving into its name, "Seiritsu" combines "
Similarly, it conveys the idea of a distinguished institution with high academic standards for its students. Impressive, isn't it? I stumbled upon this tidbit on a forum about the school, where it was even rumored that its construction was intended to rival other elite institutions like the ASIJ.
And, speaking of students, a vibrant tapestry of youth unfolded before my eyes as countless bodies filled the entrance of our academy.
Each group carried an aura of anticipation and camaraderie, their interactions weaving together like a kaleidoscope of adolescence's unyielding spirit. It was a scene both mesmerizing and overwhelming—a living mosaic of energy and ambition
From a distance, clusters of diligent scholars marched with purposeful strides, their faces etched with determination. However, alongside them, a boisterous clique of friends emerged, their laughter ringing through the air like a cheerful melody. They were adorned in eclectic outfits, each piece a statement of individuality—or perhaps rebellion.
Who would have thought such characters existed here? So, what was the true measure of this place: systematic conformity or unbridled freedom?
And yet, amidst this oceangoing adulation of faces and voices, I was grappling with a question I hadn't dared to fully ponder until now—one that left me feeling strangely out of place, and was sickening me until now...
How, and why, am I even here?
By now, I should have already dissected the very fabric of this existence, picking apart the fates of those who inhabit this world I find so enigmatic. Sure, I've concluded that I'm living in another country—but what if it's more than that?
What if I'm trapped in some twisted version of The Truman Show, like an unwitting participant in a grand orchestration I never signed up for? It's a possibility, but one that feels increasingly absurd the more I think about it.
The overwhelming authenticity of every interaction, every step I take, defies the boundaries of imagination. There's a vividness to it all that feels too real to be fabricated.
Maybe, as implausible as it sounds, these characters—no, these people—are genuinely real. Flesh-and-blood entities with their own lives, their own stories, their own goddamn problems.
And then there's the internet. Right, the internet. I've spent hours scrolling through my phone, half out of curiosity and half out of some desperate need to ground myself. But instead of clarity, I found a rabbit hole that left me more disoriented than before.
Social media was buzzing with the same old long-windedly, non-sensational news:
Tittle-tattles about musicians I've listened to for years; celebrities I easily recognized posting their perfectly curated lives on Instagram; content creators I grew up with churning out the same uninspired videos; TV shows my old classmates used to gush about were announcing new seasons; and headlines from my old reality were mirrored here with the same reliable sources.
Nothing changed. Nothing. In this world, everything is eerily, unsettlingly the same. What-the-hell.
It's as if the cosmos I once knew has been seamlessly transplanted into this bewildering existence, like someone "Ctrl+C, Ctrl+V" my old life into a different file without bothering to edit the details.
But you know what?
As the tide of students continued to swell around me, I said, "Fuck it!" to this existential mess and took that first step toward the institution—back straight, body balanced, like some kind of tragic hero stepping into the spotlight.
It was a symbolic gesture, I suppose, my initiation into this godforsaken slice of the world.
If my destiny is to be surrounded by charming chicks, why should I even worry about it? I've always said: there's no need to fear the mundane when destiny comes calling with the allure of beauty!
Hmph. Still, I should probably calm down a bit. Despite my bravado and conceit, my pinky finger betrayed me with a slight tremble.
The thoughts swirling in my mind threaten to cloud my judgment, which could lead to mistakes in matters of the heart.
And by "matters of the heart," I don't mean the intricate realm of romantic entanglements—no, I'm talking about my actual, physical heart. It's a peculiar notion, really, because I'm not even sure if I'm capable of truly experiencing love.
«Hey,
A melodious voice, unmistakably feminine, cut through the air and reached my ears. It somehow managed to stir something within me: the word "tranquility" in my vocabulary I'd been clinging to all my life.
Driven by curiosity, I instinctively turned, scanning for the source of the voice.
Ah, there she was—a young woman gliding toward me with an effortless grace that felt almost theatrical.
Now, hear me out: I'm not someone who's easily swayed by appearances; but even I have to admit: she's very pretty.
Her most striking feature, at least to me, is her lustrous black hair, cascading down to her waist in silken waves. Her high, perfectly arched eyebrows add a touch of intensity to her gaze, while her slender nose and softly curved lips exude a subtle sensuality.
It's the kind of beauty that feels almost unfair.
She was wearing the same blazer as me, but beneath it, she had on a white blouse paired with a ruby-red ribbon. And, since it was early January, the relentless grip of winter still clung to the air, and wrapped delicately around her slender neck was a muted indigo scarf.
Hey, we're lowkey matching!
My eyes continued to wander, almost against my will, as I took in the rest of her outfit: a navy-blue pleated skirt that fell just above her knees, ordinary sneakers, and matching navy socks. It was the standard girls' uniform, no doubt, but on her, it seemed to transcend the boundaries of mere conformity.
As she approached, I couldn't tell if it was some kind of captivating charm in her every expression—whether it was a sly smile or a contemplative gaze—but she draw near incredibly friendly-looking, as if we'd known each other for years.
«
«
«Hmm…?»
A flicker of perplexity danced in her eyes, though I'd dare say it was closer to genuine surprise. She tilted her head, one eyebrow arching gracefully.
«What's wrong?» I asked, trying to mask my discomfort.
Her lips curved into a serene smile as she replied: «It's nothing, probably just my imagination. But I do want to ask—why are you just standing here, frozen?»
«Ah, right,» I said, beginning to footslog robotically. Then, I added, «Uhm...
«Sure...»
I'd categorize this first encounter as a mishap—a fortuitous incident, if you will. I knew something like this would happen, but I couldn't stop myself from fumbling. Something inside me already whispered that this was a strange way for us to meet for the first time. Pure coincidence, nothing more.
This world, I felt, would be an agent of transformation, its touch molding me into something unrecognizable.
And so, we continued our walk toward the building's doorway, a silent chord hanging between us. The silence was deafening, mostly because I had no idea what to say. Who the hell is this girl, anyway?