Solitary

~~~🗾~~~

In other times, I would have loved to play hopscotch in the middle of the street. But this time, the situation was just an annoyance, and not only because the objects to dodge were broken glass, metal debris, and small stains of blood.

The streets of Osaka still bore the scars of the Tragic Decade, but beneath the surface chaos, there was a desperate attempt to maintain the facade of normal life.

The stores, though many had windows patched with tape or improvised boards, were open. Not out of hope for commerce, but because routine was the only anchor people had left.

Bakeries baked small batches of bread simply to fill the air with a scent that wasn’t of death. Cafés served watery coffee to silent customers who sat unhurried, holding cups more for a fleeting calm than for any infusion.

Some main streets were kept clear thanks to groups of volunteers who, without uniform or official orders, cleaned just for the need to do something with the life they had left, though without the souls they no longer possessed.

The streetlights still turned on at night, though electricity was unstable. Graffiti covered walls and crumbling buildings, recording what the last weeks had been: 'They hid the truth from you', 'Kill a politician', 'The end is near'.

And despite everything, people walked. With vacant or defiant gazes, with slow and weary steps, but they kept walking down the track, until the checkered flag burned them alive.

Beep. "1,200 yen."

Three blocks from home, a convenience store allowed me to buy four cups of instant ramen, equivalent to two days of food. Surely, Dad wanted more, but maybe I could make him go shopping next time.

I opened my wallet, took out the money, left it on the counter, and took the bag without hurrying.

"You're short 200."

I looked at the coins with the same slowness as the words of the clerk, the store's sole attendant. 1000 yen. He was right.

"Uh..."

I lifted my gaze to see him, and it shocked me to realize he wasn't an old man. He was a boy around my age, with dark, somewhat long, and very unkempt hair. He shared my lack of enthusiasm for grooming, and had the same tired and vacant look in his eyes. He was the embodiment of 'gray' in a person.

"Ah, just take it," he said, no more.

I felt a slight guilt because it had only been a mistake. Similarly, I wanted to offer to take out my wallet again and pay him the correct amount, but I couldn't find the energy.

Neither did he seem to want to take my money back, much less care. Surely, they no longer deducted what was missing from the cash register from his salary, and if they did, he wouldn't care. No one cared, really. Instead of inflating prices, everything became cheaper. People worked out of habit, not for money, which made it lose both economic and moral value.

It literally took the end of the world for people to notice that hoarding exorbitant amounts of money was useless.

I nodded, unable to say thank you, and left. I walked on autopilot home, without stopping to contemplate the clear sky, though without sun or warmth.

Upon arrival, I left everything on the kitchen table and went to my room. MiuMew videos awaited me once again...

"Bathroom", I thought just in time. Because I had to go, and because I also had to shower. I quickly grabbed my clean underwear, my other pajamas, and headed to the bathroom, caught between haste and laziness.

~~~🎵~~~

I had always loved the hot water of the shower. It was my refuge, that instant of peace where the heat ran through my body and reached my soul (if it still resided there). Besides, before studying, I would shower to clear my mind, so my thoughts became perfectly clear to continue reliving the misery into which we had fallen as a society.

"There aren't as many glass shards on the street today," I murmured to the tiles as I soaped my body. 'Looks like the neighborhood brigades are working. Good for them.'

As I rinsed, my mind wandered: "Maybe I should... help them," I thought, but dismissed it. What was the point of cleaning the streets if, in the end...

"It's good to lend a hand to those in need, Aurora."

I sighed as if something had compressed my lungs, and my eyes opened like windows despite the fatigue. Her voice appeared again.

"No..." I tried to convince myself. "She would think differently if she saw how the world is now."

Right?

When I looked down, I saw the one thing I never took off: a delicate metal chain that hung from my neck. The one she had given me for my 15th birthday.

And I doubted. I doubted what she would have truly wanted. I doubted if I was being selfish, if it was worth it, if I was ruining everything... Without reaching a conclusion, my mind clouded, and then I did what she had taught me in those moments of doubt: I closed my eyes, touched my necklace, and vocalized one of the few memories that remained of her.

"Darling girl, don't you fear the storm's roar..."

Soon, the bathroom filled with the softness of that song, intertwined with the sound of water. I felt my chest warm up, evoking unreachable memories.

"The shadows near, or winds that soar... my dear".

I noticed that pronouncing those last words carried a special weight, but in doing so, my chest also ignited with more warmth. My voice sounded harmonious and sweet, though something still prevented me from perceiving it that way.

"Like stars guide, in the... darkest night..."

The weight in my chest became unbearable, slowly forcing me to open my eyes. They felt wet and hot, though I had kept them closed the entire time.

"What?" I barely managed to vocalize.

And when I least understood what was happening, I remembered one of the last times I saw her. Not her, but a painting of her, surrounded by people dressed in black like me.

"Ah. That was it."

Anguish overwhelmed me. With each sob, the heat intensified in my eyes and chest, while the memory of my sun faded away. I could only curl up in a fetal position and let the tears flow.

I felt selfish because, despite the world ending, I would give anything to have her by my side.

Soon, I would be with her, maybe, even if it was just a longing. The fear of loneliness, of silence, of oblivion, suffocated me.

Help me, Mom.

~~~🎼~~~

Upon returning to my room, a heavy smell forced me to open the window immediately.

"Damn, I need to clean up a bit," I murmured, adding another task to my endless list, before letting my body collapse onto the futon and resuming my usual routine.

But the routine was vanishing. I barely saw the TV when, between amazement and curiosity, I exclaimed: 

"What is this?"

Having not paused the video, MiuMew's algorithm had led my empty room through an endless stream of dopamine-inducing videos. But now, instead of cats getting wet, there was a close-up of someone playing a wooden acoustic guitar, classic, with a warm and shiny brown body, reflecting the dim light of the room where it was being recorded. The dark neck contrasted with the metallic frets, and the strings were ready to vibrate with each precise movement of the musician's long fingers. Below the label "Recommended for you," appeared "My Path to the Stars #10," with the "Live" mark beside it.

"Oh. He's playing live for an audience of..." I looked at the number, "...one."

Me.

Before I could think, his fingers strummed the strings and the first chord sounded, awakening that spark in me, leaving my eyes wide open, my lungs breathless, and my soul completely in love.