Prologue

People think I chose this life.

The quiet.

The distance.

The way I never talk unless someone speaks first.

I could've changed perceptions, I could've changed my image.

But that isn't my luxury. I would've spent that effort looking for something to do in order to survive another day.

Socially inept? Wallflower? I never cared. I just stayed that way.

At least I stayed.

Because my parents never did.

When I was eleven, they packed their things in the dead of night and left. Wordless. Letterless. I just woke up chasing their shadows and the stillness they left behind.

The slum of a studio apartment they gifted became my self-imposed prison. It became a box full of leftover air. Their names faded from the mail slot within weeks. Like they’d never lived there at all.

At first, I waited. Thought maybe they just went on a vacation outside of the country and they'll come back. Well, they did.

In the form of debts and problems they left behind.

My young mind had no idea how to repay those intimidating towers hounding behind my door each day, so every single piece of furniture and belongings in the house was towed away on a whim, fairly or unfairly.

Unreturned favors twists the concept of age and youth. A child becomes a functional adult in their eyes when it's money on the line.

No innocence, no considerations, just desire to get their luxuries.

I sold what I could, skipped what I had to, and learned how to survive on three ingredients and a battered gas stove.

They said that luck sides on people at the lowest, so I bet that's true. I was selected on the government self-supporting program at the time I stepped on high school, and the reward? A small mitarashi dango empire managed by a second-year highschooler in a public park.

It’s not much, but I'm thankful that it's mine. I nearly got rejected even, because of that female personnel, no offense. She said that I look ‘too good for a guy that went through hell’ and thought I was staging everything. It was a pity wrapped in a compliment.

That's thanks to my father's genes that gifted me this crimson hair, and to my mother that gave me these constantly tired hazel eyes.

Of course, who the hell this young could struggle on the streets to live another day? That's what my regulars always whispered at their approach. I just shut them up with a greeting sweeter than the soy glaze I offered them.

There’s comfort in repetition. Three dango per stick. Turn, baste, turn again. Serve warm. I’ve done this enough that my hands move without needing me.

Aside from regulars were the kind old ladies who ask if I’ve eaten. Then, there's some office workers who don't take their change after buying. They know. Or at least, they assume. People always do.

But they never ask.

Which is fine. I’ve learned that distance is safer.

But there was one person who never buys anything at all. She's no regular customer, yet I still can’t help but notice her.

She doesn’t even look this way—doesn’t glance at the stall, doesn’t acknowledge the smell of grilled dango filling the park air.

She just sits at the same rotten bench 10 meters across my stall that no-one uses anymore.

Always at the same time. She arrives at exactly 4:30 PM, just as I had arranged the stall, then leaves at 8:00 PM, just as I was cleaning up for closing.

Every single day.

Her name is Kousaka Akari, a classmate of mine at Shonan High School.

She has long golden hair that always catches the sun just before it sets. Blue eyes that glare at the world like it picked the wrong fight.

She's the kind of girl my other classmates whisper about, but never approach unless they want a scene. Sharp, prideful, brash, icy, delinquent—I had enough of everyday dose not to forget. Yet I don't care. My experiences itself made me understand.

She doesn’t move much from her position based on my daily observation. She just leans forward with a sketchpad balanced on her knees, a charcoal pencil dancing across the page constantly like it’s the only thing that mattered in her own pocketed world.

I don’t know her beyond the surface.

I don’t think I want to.

I’m not someone worth noticing either.

Still, I watch from the frames of my small empire every afternoon and night.

For days.

Weeks.

Months.

Ever since the second semester started.

We’re close enough to touch—but we exist on opposite ends of a quiet, invisible barrier. It’s comfortable, in a strange way. Like we're two stray cats who’ve gotten used to seeing each other in the alley, but never get any closer.

That’s how it’s always been.

That’s how I thought it would stay.

Not until that afternoon.

Not until the sky broke.

Until the first autumn rain arrived.

And the golden flower wilted, and I was forced to cross that long drawn line.