Prologue - Knowledge of the useless

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Kaede's Diary — September 28, 2225

The girl who wonders:
"Can I play with them?"
and who, after missing her chance, ends up — inevitably — alone.
And who, even when new chances come along, is never really able to seize them.

The girl who, even though she has a few passions, cannot bring herself closer when she hears someone talk about them — perhaps afraid of being seen as strange.

The one who takes part in no extracurricular activities and stays shut inside her house during all her free time; and who, if she had a phone, would probably receive nothing but promotional notifications from some company, and never messages from friends or classmates.

Yes — I don't have a phone.

Normally, something like that would be a big disadvantage in a social context: my peers might think I'm not good enough to be with them because of it — not that they would want me anyway.

I wonder what I would feel if I held one in my hands, with that bright, rigid screen, even though it's made of an extremely fragile material. I bet it would take me forever to understand how it works: for others it would take just a few minutes, but I'm a bit slow with these things.

Fortunately, unless a miracle happens, none of this will ever bother me. In this village no one owns technological devices, and maybe that's for the best: ever since their creation they've been labeled as evil, as the corruption of the youth. I read in a book that they have always been viewed with suspicion, both because people tried to imitate what they saw on them and because it was believed that face-to-face relationships could be replaced by those devices.

But back to my point...

That person who can't even say a simple "Good morning" or a simple "Sorry" if she accidentally bumps into someone.

Someone who, if it were possible, wouldn't even have the courage to ask the bus driver to stop, and would end up on the other side of the planet.

Well... that's me.

Shimizu Kaede, first-year high school student.

P.S. I wouldn't mind ending up in some country full of wonderful buildings and rich in history. The world is full of beauty and I don't know if I'll ever be able to see it. Structures that have stood for centuries, protected by humanity for the sake of their nations — and yet there are those who don't hesitate to deface them. I wonder why one would go that far...

The place I live in is very isolated and will probably never reconnect with that greater whole. All I can do is look at photographs in the many books that still exist. Living in such a remote place, there isn't much available: aside from schoolbooks, there's very little to read. There is a library, but it's very small and hardly anyone ever goes there. And that isn't even a bad thing... after all, that silence and the absence of eyes on me make me feel calmer. If someone were watching me, I'd be afraid: I'd immediately think they were judging me for my appearance, or maybe for what I'm reading.

I'm not attractive at all, so it would make sense for someone to laugh just at the sight of me. Boys want someone who makes them feel good in every way, and I... ah... there's really no need to add anything else, is there? I've never touched makeup in my life and I have no idea what it means to be fashionable; if I could, I'd stay in this pink pajama forever.

As for life — so far I haven't managed to make even a single friend: it feels impossible. How do you talk to a stranger starting from nothing? The only solution I can imagine is picking someone as a target and becoming some kind of stalker to find out what they like. I know it's toxic... but it's the only way I can imagine having at least something to start a conversation with.

People are like that: unpredictable. You never know whether you'll find someone outgoing or someone who wants nothing to do with others. The first might welcome me — though maybe only out of pity; the other might push me away, send me back, and who knows — maybe even start treating me badly. No... that's probably too extreme. Everyone can see I'm weak just by looking at me, but maybe that would only confirm that I'm an ant.

Though that's unfair to ants: they work hard to gather supplies and survive, while we humans kill them without hesitation — out of annoyance, for fun, or for any reason at all. So no, I can't be an ant.

Maybe the best comparison is a cell: a tiny fragment necessary for something bigger to be born — though I'd probably be one of the short-lived ones. Like platelets, which only live about ten days — though they repair wounds, so they're incredibly useful. Every cell matters... so can my uselessness even be represented? In this infinite universe that watches us, is there really nothing that conveys my same level of weakness?

What if I were a signal coming from a very distant planet? That would be nice: it would mean my presence and my choices have no influence at all, because my signal can't reach anything — making me something that exists only because it must. I guess thinking like this makes me strange. Too strange.

I love talking about the universe, about our existence as life, about entities we don't even know ever existed, and all the mysteries surrounding humanity. It's beautiful — every new discovery makes me more curious. Too bad I'm limited to what's written in my books. Who knows — maybe we've even reached Mars.

Wait — a planet! That's what I am! Any body, rocky or gaseous, that isn't Earth. I'm sure they feel useless too compared to the planet of life... ah... why do I keep saying all this nonsense?

I know I should change... but maybe a life as an endlessly introverted and strange person suits me best.

And to think that last year, in middle school, I promised myself I'd manage to make at least one friend. Instead, I failed miserably. I... I can't talk to anyone who isn't part of my family. Every time, my heart starts beating so loud it becomes deafening and makes me unable to hear anything — even the words of the people I want to talk to. No sound... no contact with the world.

I always stay — and stayed — at my desk, quietly hoping someone would talk to me.

Even though, honestly, if it really happened I think I'd have a panic attack. Even if I managed to get something out of my mouth, I'd be terrified of saying something stupid, and just the thought of being judged for it makes me shiver.

It can all be summed up in one trait: eternal insecurity.

School started about a week and a half ago and I already want it to be over.

After all, I have so many adventures to live through books. I spend most of my time reading, all with the goal of living adventures I know I'll never live in real life. Does such a thing as "real life" really exist? What does it even mean? Sometimes I think there's no real reason to live: so many people suffer terribly, yet they cherish life's value so deeply. Is it really worth it? Can a few happy moments truly make up for the corruption born from endless anxiety and worry?

I don't know if I'll ever be able to live the way my family expects me to... I really don't know. Everyone hopes for you to have a bright future; parents' happiness grows from the life of their child. But I'm useless. I'm not important and I never will be. I have no reason to exist, no reason to write these thoughts here: everything happens only because the universe isn't stopping me.

Why does it let me say these things? Why doesn't it stop me? Everything is so wrong... I should...

Every day I can't wait for school to end, to finish my homework and get decent grades, just so I can devote myself to this hobby without worry. It helps me sink into something fantastical, recreate those worlds in my head, and live them as if they were mine. Even though no one can reproduce them the way the author did. Only some can understand the hidden meaning of a book — and there's even the risk that no one ever will. The attempt to transmit exists, but the reception of that anonymous signal doesn't always arrive on the right frequency.

Humanity has left so many fragments, and no one will ever truly be able to gather them all.

But today something changed.

Since I'm not very good at studying, my parents hired a tutor. My grades are average for me, but there are subjects I really can't stand — like drawing. Whenever I try to draw something, horrifying things come out. Not that the tutor was hired for that, of course: he's supposed to help me with math, and I'm truly hopeless at that. I used to like it as a child, but now numbers and letters have mixed together and I can't keep up.

When I saw him, I was surprised. He wasn't old, and at first glance he didn't even seem like an adult; in fact, he told me he's only a few years older than me — nineteen, to be precise.

He asked me some questions about school, but I couldn't answer. Not because I didn't have the words, but because I couldn't get them out: it was impossible to let sounds leave my mouth, and I kept my eyes down the whole time. I barely saw his face during the conversation. Typical, right? Just the usual me...

One thing surprised me: even though I only managed to answer with small monosyllables, he didn't scold me. He didn't tell me to wake up, or to be more active. He didn't repeat how I should change or become stronger.

He just kept talking to me calmly, without expecting anything in return. Words and words all day long. At this point I assume he belongs to the category of outgoing people — actually, he probably belongs there by right, or else this is some kind of intergalactic scandal.

Then... he dropped the topic of school. He said maybe it would be better to get to know each other a little, and that the best way to do that would be to take a walk around the village.

It had been a long time since I went out for a reason other than school. Usually all I know are the walls of my house — especially the walls of my bedroom. Sometimes I go to the library, but only once in a blue moon... which is a strange expression, considering few people live past a hundred years.

He talked and talked, endlessly. At some point we sat on a simple bench in a small playground. The warmth of the sun on our faces blended with the warmth from our bodies. For the first time, even without being the protagonist of anything, I felt good. Just sitting there, doing nothing.

In the background there were the voices of many children. Small, sweet, incredibly cute. I don't even know if I really like them — I don't hate them, but I don't know if I can truly communicate with them. Children are the purest source in the universe: when they're born, they rely entirely on what surrounds them.

Purity... brief but fascinating. Even our planet was once a child, and it could do nothing but observe what was around it. Amazing, right?

That purity had met other purity of equal measure. No one was alone: they were all together. Mine, instead, has never shone. And yet I see myself as a good person; I may have made mistakes, but... I should...

My light has never come close to that of others. Never — not even once. For once I wish the universe would choose for me, bring me the right person, the one who could truly make me happy.

Wait...

Maybe they're already here.

Right here...

Right...