He’s calling his girlfriend and she wants a new plastic face. People need to believe they’re better than others in some way, no matter how trivial, to keep going; myself included. But I have to be in this conversation, nominally, because we share the same blood, however distant. At least, that’s what my mother insists. The other relative—a cousin, I think—sits right next to him and scrolls through her phone as dinner is laid out before her. She speaks TikTok Japanese: the verbal equivalent of diarrhea. The father of the two asks too many questions about the future, so I lie to entertain myself. It’s what you have to do with people like him.

“You got a girlfriend, Haru?” he asks with a slappable smirk.

“No, but I do sleep around quite a bit. A new girl every time,” I say with an inscrutable expression.

“You’ve reached that age huh? Don’t overdo it!” he says with a chuckle. “Make any new friends? New opportunities? Yeah, what’s new with you? How about the new—”

And he goes on like this for quite some time, so I let go. He’s stupid, I think, but I’m unsure whether that’s true or if I believe it simply because I want an exit: an excuse to disengage. It’s rude, and it’s something I look for in almost every conversation, so, naturally, I doubt my judgments.

In any case, I eat enough to last until midnight and retreat from the scene, back into the room I’ve decided to occupy for the rest of my time at home. I shut the door behind me and read until the sky turns dark—or rather, until the noise downstairs fades and people return to their dreams, where I don’t have to exert myself.

Eventually, I descend into the dining room, swallowed by the dark. I’m hungry, yet I can’t help but stand in the midst of everything, sinking into the ground as each beat of my heart pulls me down. In the overwhelming silence, I hear nothing but the stern ticking of my watch—a pinnacle of mechanical precision: 3.5 Hz, give or take a couple seconds per day. Consistency at its finest. The moment is beautiful, and I recognize this, so my heart softens, and suddenly it’s a warm spring night when it’s not too humid—after a bath, standing on the balcony, ice cream in one hand as the fragrant air lifts my hair, twinkling city lights far away; a perfect equilibrium.

But I make my way to the fridge and swallow enough food to eventually excrete. The hour calls me to bed so I return and pass the time that way.

In the morning—early, to avoid people—I decide to take a walk. As I exit the house, my mother, who woke at the sound of my footsteps, calls out to me: come back by ten, we’re visiting Shunji’s family. I have no intention of coming back by that time. I don’t like lying, though I’ve learned to let go and give people what they want (it’s a drag otherwise), so I tell her I’ll be back.

The old people who belong to the park always feed the cats. The cats know that they’re coming at this time, so they congregate in the park and leave once they’re full. The most apathetic cats always win at everything. After feeding them, the old people stretch to the radio as I watch from afar. Their movements are languid, calculated, and silent, like parts of some larger machine. They might be working toward something, a collective movement to achieve a common goal, but I find this implausible, so I dismiss the idea. I figure they’re just passing time outside the grave, like the wavering shadows they are. I wonder if they know each other from decades past, but they’re probably all new. God knows how many iterations of people they’ve spent. I don’t like thinking, so I leave the scene.

I walk toward my old high school through cracked streets and encounter an old acquaintance. I last saw her at graduation, said goodbye, well aware I’d never see her again. She’s done something to her face and hair—even her clothes. It’s unfamiliar and unwelcoming, but people probably call her prettier than before, or so I assume. Her features are placed in roughly the right places; they’re proportional. I observe that she is prettier, though I feel nothing. Her adorned nails seem longer than before, and she smells sweet.

She’s eager upon meeting me, so I try to keep apace, even though my cheeks hurt. She asks me where I’m headed, so I tell her. Unfortunately, she decides to come along, as diplomacy doesn’t permit telling someone to get lost. As we walk, she’s complaining about something, and I feed passive replies—the expressive equivalent of a grunt. We eventually reach the campus, roaming about the school garden by the music building, and I’m thrown helplessly into forced nostalgia.

Back when Shunji and I walked through the gardens at night, we caressed the velvetleaf plants—leaves softer than cashmere. We’d walk along the stone paths lit by solar lamps for as long as we pleased (Shunji’s parents came home only in the morning). Dangerous things happened when he was alone, and unlike me, he was strong enough to say he was scared. I never told him, but he knew that I loved him more than anything, and he loved me too. So when he left for college—left for everything else—his presence began to fade; people like him are terrible at keeping in touch. It’s childish, but I can’t describe how much hurt I felt—how worthless and discarded.

Someone is playing the piano in the music building. I know it’s the same piano, but I can’t help hearing something different, so I’m depressed, as if that would coax the person to stop. I’ve never felt dejected by anything with such intensity.

The girl drivels on, and I respond with agreeable politeness. I’m disappointed, yet I’m the same. I yield to the despicable reminder of passing time, tearing people away with indifference as they desperately cling on in an attempt to convince me of their value. I’m too childish to see it. I’m merely a clump of instincts working to satisfy my own conscience. I’m afraid I seek nothing but the awareness of my virtue, rather than the embodiment of it, and if I fall into some lapse in sanity, I wouldn’t be strong or smart enough to observe my depravity. Guilt and regret are my only motivators. I’m a vile being.

See—I need somebody to slap me out of it with all their might. I need somebody to tell me: Look at me! Right now! I’m in front of you! Love me as I am! Love me with everything you have! Love me until you’ve become nothing but scraps, crawling on the ground with your teeth in the mud! Love me even if I slash you to bits and spit on your bloody face! Love me despite my rotten mess and give me a chance to ruin our lives! Love me through your tears, through betrayal, through derision! I want you more than anything and you’re all I’ve ever wanted!

Believe in me!

But, we can never demand such things, so we’re walking through the garden, and they’ve removed the velvetleaf plants; replaced them with chrysanths. The stone paths have been removed and replaced with concrete. In place of Shunji, walking by my side is this girl, now telling me that she likes poetry, or what she believes to be poetry. One day, after I’ve let go of everything, I’d probably marry someone like this, I think. Not that I’m attracted to people like her, but I’d be happy enough: consolation life. And I could fall in love if I let myself. I’d comfort her in her pains and relieve her of some burdens within a fortress of ignorance.

We exit the gardens, out of the gates of the school, and each go our separate ways. And as I walk past Shunji’s house, I see white hydrangeas by the doorstep. He never liked hydrangeas. I guess they didn’t bother asking his mother, assuming she even knew. I hear sirens wail in the distance; someone wants to leave.

When I return, the relative with the ephemeral girlfriend tells me Happy birthday. Shunji’s death anniversary falls on the day I grow older and I feel I’ve done nothing to deserve such punishment.

Last modified on 2025-11-23