Day 2 - April 02, 2024
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Bzzzz.
That damned alarm clock buzzed again like it had a personal grudge. Its shrill vibration sliced through the room's silence, bouncing off the cheap white walls and drilling into my skull like an electric needle. Another day. Another chance to stumble forward. Another chapter in this new life I begged the universe for… and somehow got.
I groaned.
My eyes cracked open just enough to let in a sliver of light, only to regret it instantly. My head was pounding. A dull, rhythmic throb pulsed at my temples, like someone was slowly inflating a balloon inside my skull. The taste in my mouth was bitter—beer, smoke, and regret blended into something toxic. My tongue felt like sandpaper. Ugh.
Last night had been wild. Fun, yeah… too fun. A blur of noise, laughter, and alcohol. The kind of night that leaves glowing embers in your memory. It was my first day on the job—the job I've dreamed of since I was a kid—and somehow, it ended in drinks with strangers that didn't feel like strangers. Especially her.
Fujimoto Airi.
Just thinking her name did something weird to my chest. My heart gave a twitch, as if someone had tugged a thread deep inside. I remembered her laughing under the streetlight, her voice soft but clear, like wind chimes during a quiet evening. And her eyes… they weren't just brown. They had that honey glaze when the light hit them just right. Warm, yet unreadable. Like she'd seen too much and said too little.
And she looked at me.
Really looked at me, like I wasn't just a new recruit. Like I mattered.
Huh. Was that what love feels like? Or maybe it's just a crush. Infatuation? Admiration? A drunken delusion? Hell if I knew. I've never felt this. Never had time for it. All I knew is it kept me awake last night, staring at the ceiling like a lunatic with a grin frozen on my face.
But now? The only thing I was feeling was the slow realization that I was late.
I shot up from bed with the grace of a falling log. The room spun once, twice, before settling back into its usual claustrophobic arrangement. My apartment—if you could even call it that—was small enough that one sneeze might blow the door off its hinges. A bed, a narrow desk, a cracked mirror, and a kitchen sink that made gurgling sounds in its sleep. But it was mine. My first space alone. My sanctuary and prison, both.
I shuffled toward the tiny dresser and threw on my work clothes, still crumpled from yesterday. I cursed under my breath when I opened the fridge—empty, like my bank account. Not even a stale slice of bread. Guess I'd have to grab something on the way.
That's when I saw it.
The football.
It sat there on the table like some forgotten relic, catching the morning light with its scuffed leather and fading laces. I blinked, half-convinced it was a hallucination. But no… it was real. That same ball. The one from back then.
I reached out and touched it. Cold. Worn.
And just like that, I was yanked back.
High school. The roar of the crowd, the taste of sweat and blood and adrenaline. I was a god on the field. Fast. Unstoppable. A phantom weaving through defenders like wind through leaves. They called me a prodigy. A genius. A star.
But none of it mattered.
Because what I really wanted—what I really loved—was drawing. Quiet mornings with a pencil in hand, bringing imagined worlds to life. I turned down scholarships, trophies, everything. People called me stupid. Wasteful. But I didn't care.
It was never their life to live.
That ball was the last piece of that past I tried so hard to bury. And yet… it still found its way back to me.
My phone buzzed.
I flinched, snapping back to the present.
A message.
Fujimoto Airi:
Good morning! How's your first day hangover, rookie? Don't be late today!
(＾▽＾)／*
I stared at the screen, heart skipping a beat. Her contact name glowed against the cracked glass, and for a second, the pain in my head melted away.
Did I… really ask for her number? I couldn't remember. Maybe it was the alcohol. Or maybe some forgotten part of me reached out when I wasn't looking.
My face burned.
She remembered me.
I grinned like an idiot and typed a quick reply I couldn't even read twice—too scared I'd ruin the moment.
A glance at the time made me choke on my own breath.
I was going to miss the train.
"Shitshitshit!"
I grabbed my bag and bolted for the door, nearly tripping over yesterday's pants still lying on the floor. My lungs already burned, but my legs kicked into gear the moment I hit the stairs.
Years of football weren't for nothing, after all.
The city hit me like a slap. Cold morning air, sharp and unforgiving. The noise—honks, footsteps, distant chatter—blended into a chaotic rhythm only the truly desperate could dance to. I was one of them. Sprinting past old vendors setting up stalls, past neon signs flickering out after a long night, past a man coughing blood into his palm in the alley—wait.
I stopped.
Just for a breath. Just to look.
But he was gone. Or maybe he was never there.
The air felt heavier now. Like something had shifted just out of view.
I shook it off and kept running.
Today wasn't going to wait. And neither was she.
_______
TRAIN STATION
I made it.
Just in time. The doors slid shut behind me with a mechanical hiss, the train pulling away from the platform like the final curtain being drawn on the first act of a clumsy morning. I stood there, panting, hunched, drenched in the effort of the morning sprint. My heart pounded like it was still racing ahead of me, trying to win a race I had barely finished. But I made it. Barely.
Outside the window, the city sped by in a blur. Buildings, people, lights, all blending into a haze of motion. I rested my head against the cool glass, a soft sigh escaping my lips. Maybe today won't turn out so bad after all. Maybe I could still turn it around. Maybe luck hadn't completely abandoned me.
But then it hit me. Not the train. Not bad news. Something worse.
A sharp, twisting pain bloomed in my stomach like a thorny vine, spreading fast, making it hard to breathe. Right. I forgot.
I forgot to eat.
A wave of regret washed over me, bitter as the aftertaste of last night's alcohol. What a stupid, stupid mistake. My brain scrambled through the fog of the morning, piecing together each missed opportunity: the empty kitchen, the skipped corner shop, the growling protests of a neglected stomach. There was no turning back now. If I left to grab something, even a piece of stale bread, I'd be late. On my second day. That would be suicide.
So I pressed forward, dragging myself into the building like a soldier returning from the frontlines. Each step echoed down the sleek hallways like a funeral march. But I made it.
Clocked in.
Just in time.
Perfect, I thought. A perfect save. Nothing could possibly go wrong now.
Except for the fact that I was dying on the inside. My stomach was staging a protest, a rebellion, screaming out for justice or at least a few bites of rice. I clutched it gently, trying not to double over as I made my way to my workstation. Sacrifice, right? The price of success. That's what they always say. Earn respect first, eat later.
The office greeted me like a returning hero, or maybe more like the main character from a wild party. Everyone said hello with the kind of amused energy that suggested they knew something I didn't. Something from last night. Something that involved me. I couldn't recall anything specific, just shadows of memories, half-laughed jokes, glasses raised under the bar lights. Did I do something? Say something? My memory was a puzzle with missing pieces.
But for now, the mystery would have to wait. The real enemy was hunger. I could feel my body running on fumes, my hands slightly trembling as I reached for the back of my chair.
And then—
A tap on the shoulder. Light, familiar.
Even before I turned around, I knew.
That scent. That warmth.
Time slowed again. The buzzing office faded into nothing. No keyboards. No ringing phones. Just silence. Just spring. Just the soundless flutter of sakura petals dancing around my vision, though no such trees existed here.
I turned.
She stood there. That smile. That light in her eyes. That calm, bright presence that seemed to push away all the heaviness in the world. Fujimoto Airi.
The sight of her was a shock to my system more effective than any morning coffee. My knees almost gave out. My breath caught somewhere between disbelief and admiration. I wasn't even sure if my heart was still beating or if it had simply chosen to stop and dedicate itself to this moment forever.
She tilted her head and grinned.
"Hey, earth to Haruki-kun," she said, voice playful, teasing, light as air.
I blinked. Twice. Maybe three times.
Words formed and dissolved in my mouth like sugar on my tongue. I wanted to say something smart. Cool. Anything but what actually came out.
"Ah, um, hi, I—uh—good morning!"
Nailed it.
She chuckled, the sound wrapping around me like a warm blanket. "I guess you somehow made it on time, rookie."
My mouth moved again. Maybe in apology. Maybe in defense. But before I could dig myself a deeper grave, she added, "Skipped breakfast just to make it, right?"
I stared at her, stunned. How did she know? Was it that obvious? Did I look that pathetic?
I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to laugh it off. "Heh, yeah, I, uh... thought reputation was more important than rice this morning."
She held something out. A small paper bag.
"Well, here. I brought this."
My eyes widened. My stomach roared. My soul nearly left my body.
"W-wait, for me? You didn't have to go through all that trouble, really..."
She smiled, soft and kind. "Don't worry about it. I figured you'd mess up your morning somehow. You kind of have that vibe."
I took the bag slowly, as if it might vanish. My fingers brushed hers for a second, and that single second felt like an eternity preserved in glass.
Warm. Soft.
Real.
"T-thank you," I said. Too quiet. Too shaken.
She shrugged, like it was no big deal. But to me, it was everything. To me, in that moment, it was the kind of act that rewrote chapters of lonely mornings and self-doubt. She saw me. Not just as a co-worker. Not as a rookie. As a person.
The others said she was kind. That she cared about everyone. That it was just how she was.
But why did it feel like this was just for me?
No. No, stop. Don't spiral. Don't overthink.
It's just the second day. She's just being nice. Don't mistake warmth for affection. Don't let your stupid heart race ahead of the truth.
But even as I told myself those things, I knew the truth.
That my heart had already fallen.
And it wasn't planning on getting back up.