Did She Get Mugged?

The air in Cancun was thick, humid, and smelled like sun-baked concrete and distant ocean. I, Shiraishi Mamoru, was supposed to be enjoying the most epic school holiday ever—two weeks in Mexico with my family. Instead, I was mainly sweating and trying to avoid being in any of my dad's incessant "family trip vlogs."

"Mamoru-kun! Look at this little guy! Say hello to the camera, sweetie!"

That was Dad, of course, perpetually armed with his phone, filming his disastrous, low-view-count YouTube travel vlog. He was currently trying to make my little sister pose next to a plastic flamingo taller than she was.

Ugh. If there was one thing I hated more than my own reflection, it was being a prop in Dad’s vacation footage. I’m fourteen, not a Muppet. I needed to escape before I became the next star of "Shiraishi Family Fun Time: Day 4, Sunscreen Calamity!"

I ditched them near the hotel souvenir shop. They were distracted by a set of tiny maracas that sounded like dried beans dying a slow, painful death. This was my chance.

I found a quiet spot near a small, decorative fountain—a perfect backdrop, I thought. I pulled out my phone. My camera roll was usually just screenshots of game stats and a handful of genuinely good sunset shots. Selfies were rare, reserved for moments when I felt the background was so epic it justified my presence in the foreground. Today, the subject was a small, ancient-looking stone carving mounted on the wall. It had a kind of quiet dignity.

I lifted the phone, angled it carefully—I hate the double-chin angle—and used the classic ‘looking-like-I-wasn’t-looking’ expression.

Click.

I instantly pulled the phone down to review the shot. The carving looked sharp, the lighting was decent, and my hair was behaving. Perfect.

Then I zoomed in on the background to check the focus.

And I froze. My stomach executed a perfect, sick-making flip.

Tucked between a palm frond and a bright yellow wall, barely within the frame, was a woman. She was unmistakably Japanese. Not a tourist wearing a 'Kiss Me I'm Local' shirt, but someone who looked like they'd just stepped off a Narita express train and straight into a nightmare.

She was young, late twenties maybe, but her face was obscured by a dark, messy veil of hair. I could only see the lower half of her face, but that was enough. Tears. Huge, painful tracks of them, visible even in the harsh midday light. Her clothes—a simple, light-colored dress—were slightly ripped and soiled. It looked like something out of a low-budget zombie movie, except she was just standing there, radiating a crippling wave of grief.

My first thought was, Oh, man, a tourist got mugged, or maybe she’s on a really depressing vacation. My second, more immediate, thought was: Is my phone possessed?

I zoomed in more. She was facing the camera, or at least, facing the direction I had taken the picture. Her eyes were hidden, but that was definitely a woman weeping her heart out.

My second thought was panic. I quickly swiped to delete the image, my thumb moving like a maniac. As I did, I noticed something that made the panic crystallize into a cold spike of fear: She was facing the camera. Not the fountain, not the palm tree, but directly toward the lens.

I immediately took another picture of the wall. Nothing. Just an empty, sunny corner.

"Maybe it was just a really sad tourist," I rationalized, stuffing my phone back into my pocket. "Lost her passport. Dropped her artisanal taco. Whatever. She's grieving, and I just took a picture of it. That's a new level of social awkwardness."

I didn't tell my family. Dad would have made a huge deal, probably a whole episode called "Grief in Paradise: A Cultural Exchange." Mom would have insisted on lending her my extra sun hat. I decided the woman deserved respect, even if I was pretty sure she was a ghost or the result of a cursed phone update.

The rest of the trip was uneventful. More sweating, more ancient ruins, more of Dad’s terrible voiceovers—"And here, Mamoru-kun, we see the ancient civilization's equivalent of a convenience store! Fascinating!"

Finally, we were back in Japan. Haneda Airport felt like a crisp, cool blast of relief after the humid chaos of Mexico. While my family was waiting for the luggage to appear on the carousel, I pulled out my phone. I felt a weird impulse. A celebration selfie: I survived my family vacation.

I took the shot against the backdrop of the sleek, modern airport floor.

Click.

And there she was. The exact same woman.

This time, the image was so much clearer. She was maybe ten feet away, leaning against a silver pillar. Her hair was still a mess, her clothes still ripped, and the tears were still there, glistening under the fluorescent airport lights. I could feel the residual Mexican humidity clinging to her, or maybe that was just my imagination.

I dropped my phone. It clattered on the polished tile.

"Mamoru, what was that?" Mom asked, turning around.

"Nothing, just dropped it!" I snatched the phone up, my heart hammering against my ribs like a badly mixed drum track. Bewilderment quickly escalated to pure, cold fear.

How? She was in Mexico. I was in Japan. Did she take the same flight? Did she follow us? And why does she look like she just crawled out of a horror movie set? I scrolled to the picture. She was undeniable.

I showed it to my sister. "Who's that?"

She squinted. "Who? Just you, dork. Why do you look so stressed?"

I then showed it to my mom. "The woman right here, Mom. See it? She's crying."

Mom adjusted her glasses. "Oh, the luggage carousel reflection is weird. Did you get a good shot of the luggage tag?"

They saw nothing. Only me. It was like I had my own exclusive, terrifying augmented reality filter.

Over the next few days, I became obsessed. I took random selfies—at my desk, in front of the TV, even one in the bathroom mirror (a definite low point). Every third picture, maybe every second, she was there. A weeping, silent spectator, her image burned onto my screen and, increasingly, into my mind. I was starting to think maybe my family was right. Maybe I was hallucinating. Or worse, maybe I was finally losing it.

I was walking home after school, the backpack weighing a ton, but the actual weight in my chest felt far heavier. I was mentally running on fumes, like a car fueled purely by anxiety. My thought process was just a loop of, "Why me? Why the bloody dress? Why can't I just have a normal life filled with normal teenage angst?"

"Shiraishi-kun!"

I flinched, nearly vaulting over a potted plant.

It was Ishikawa Ueno, walking toward me with that characteristic spring in her step. Ueno was a rare breed: genuinely cheerful, not in an annoying way, but in a stable, golden retriever kind of way.

"Are you okay?" she asked, immediately zeroing in on my distress. "You look like you're about to write a very emotional letter to your game company about a broken patch."

"I'm fine, Ishikawa. Just thinking." I tried to dismiss her, pulling my shoulders up to my ears in a defensive posture. "I don't need help."

"Well, you look like you need an exorcist and a large soda," she countered, falling into step beside me. "I'm walking this way anyway. We can talk about how pointless the quadratic equation is. Distraction is key."

She was relentless, but her persistence wasn't irritating; it was… solid. Like a tiny, extremely cheerful anchor. I resigned myself to it. "Fine. But I’m not talking about school."

She didn't push. She just started talking about random things: a stray cat she saw, a ridiculously expensive limited-edition candy bar. It was all so mundane, so wonderfully, beautifully normal. And slowly, subtly, the tight knot of fear in my stomach began to loosen. It was the first time in days I hadn't instinctively felt the need to check my phone for the crying specter.

We reached the station, the fluorescent lights humming brightly above us.

"Well, that's my stop," Ueno said, stopping. "Don't forget to eat something, Shiraishi-kun. Your pale complexion is disturbing my aesthetic."

I felt a genuine, albeit faint, smile twitch at the corner of my mouth. "Thanks, Ishikawa-san."

She just grinned and waved. I watched her walk off, and for a moment, I felt... safe. I pulled out my phone one last time, just to check. Empty. Just me and a reflection of a brightly lit station.

Maybe I am getting better.