Insignificant Significance

Takumi wakes up slowly, sunlight spilling faintly through the blinds.

He stretches, letting the calm of the morning linger.

The quiet whirling of the fan, continuously circulating air, is the only thing that can be heard.

Out of habit, he picks his phone up and starts scrolling.

He doesn’t search for himself. Or the comments that used to fuel him.

Instead, he scrolls past all types of media, and he continually sees more actors popping in the feed.

Actors that aren’t him. People he never cared to notice before.

Their faces, their performances, and the crowd’s reactions.

He pauses, seeing a behind the scenes clip of one of them laughing on set, another accepting an award he hadn’t remembered.

He doesn’t feel envy. Or irritation.
Just a quiet awareness.

They’re all shining…

…but I…

…don’t need to be the brightest anymore.

It feels…freeing.

He sets the phone down. The sunlight now illuminates a part of his nightstand.

He runs his hand over it, smooth and real.

Clothes laid on the chair in front of him catch his eye. They’re simple, unremarkable, and comforting.

Wearing these felt deliberate, as if he was letting the world fade from his view, if only slightly.

Nobody needs to see it. And that’s enough.

By the time he reaches the set, the day had already begun for the world.

Cameras, lights, and the hum of the crew and their equipment was familiar to Takumi. It’s the sound of work.

Takumi steps into the scene, feeling present.

Like he wanted to be there, not just for other people, but for himself.

Without fail, he hits his marks. One after another, delivering the lines he was given.

“Scene. That’s a wrap!”

Takumi gets a bit of casual praise as he leaves, something that wouldn’t have felt like enough.

But it doesn’t linger. And neither does he.

Everyone seems to be funneling through the main exit, camera flashing and eager paparazzi waiting for any piece of information.

Everyone except Takumi.

He exits through a side door, since it was closer to where he was.

…

Takumi starts walking his way home, taking his time.

Takumi makes eye contact with someone jogging the opposite direction he is.

The jogger gives Takumi a subtle nod after noticing him.

And Takumi nods back.

He continues walking, down a street familiar to him. One he’d driven on many times before, but refused to look at.

He looks into a restaurant, full of people eating and talking. They look like they’re having fun, smiling.

Reflections of cars driving by and people walking behind him continue to come and go.

One reflection doesn’t move. It stands in front of Takumi, and shows no signs of leaving.

Weird… but comforting.

He continues his path home, until another shop catches his eye. The flower boutique he’d stopped in to buy an umbrella.

The bell above the door rings softly as Takumi enters.

The air is cool, carrying the faint scent of soil and petals. Buckets of flowers line the walls, colors muted by the afternoon light sifting through the windows.

“Takumi?”

Yuna notices he walked in, holding a bouquet of flowers.

She blinks once, then smiles. Surprised, and relieved.

“Hey,’” she says.

“Hey,” he replies.

The world feels lighter.

They stand there for a moment, neither rushing to fill the space.

The quiet hum of the shop, the soft music, and the muffled ambience of the busy street.

“I didn’t know you worked here.” Takumi says

“Oh, I don’t. I sometimes come here after my shift is done.” Yuna answers.

“I didn’t know you came to this place,” she adds.

“It was only 1 time, but it’s nicer than I remember.” he replies.

Takumi steps closer to where she’s standing, crouching slightly to look at the same flowers she is.

The flowers are nothing extravagant. Small, white petals with pale green stems.

They have a quiet beauty to them, they don’t scream out to be picked or bloom extravagantly to get attention.

They bloom the way they see fit.

“Which ones are you gonna get?” she asks, curious.

Takumi ponders for a moment, before grabbing the small white ones.

“I think these ones.”
“What about you?” he asks.

Yuna ponders for a moment, before grabbing the same type of flower.

“I think I like these ones too,” she replies. “They have a soft dignity.”

They exchange smiles, and head to the counter.

“Can I see those for a moment?” he asks Yuna.

She hands her flowers over, and Takumi pays for his and hers together.

He hands her the bouquet, and holds on to his own.

“You didn’t have to.” she states, confused by his actions.

“I know,” he replies, putting his wallet away. “I wanted to.”

She hesitates, but accepts them.

Their fingers brush for only a second.

They leave the shop, and Takumi holds the flowers a little awkwardly. He looks down at them, then lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh.

“I’m not sure what to do with these, if I’m being honest,” he admits.

Yuna smiles. “That’s fine. Most people don’t.”

They continue down the street together, seeming calmer than before. The word continues around them, unfazed and unconcerned.

They walk side by side, not talking much. When they reach the corner, Yuna stops.

“There’s a street artist here sometimes,” she says, “He’s pretty good.”

Takumi follows her gaze, and sees a man sitting on a low stool, sketchbook balanced on his knee.

They walk over, and Takumi decides to pay for a portrait.

“I don’t usually draw exactly what I see…but more what I feel.” the artist says, like a disclaimer.

“That’s fine.” Takumi replies.

The artist looks up at Takumi, then back down at the sheet, pencil already moving.

The pencil dances around the sheet, following the rhythm of the artist.

What starts as a clutter of shapes quickly starts to take form, the lines intersecting and intermingling.

Some shapes Takumi thought were redundant were brought in, adding more depth.

Takumi doesn’t recognize himself in the lines forming on the page.

That’s okay.

The drawing isn’t polished.

It isn’t perfect.

It doesn’t look like Takumi Sora, the actor.

It looks like someone standing still.

When the artist hands it to him, Takumi takes the page with both his hands, tucking the flowers under his arm.

“Thanks.” he says, giving a humble nod to the artist.

The artist nods back, Takumi and Yuna continuing to walk on.

“So? What do you think?” she asks.

Takumi examines the drawing some more, looking it up and down.

“I think it’s nice,” he says, smiling.

“It looks like someone standing still.” she adds, surprising Takumi.

“...and that’s okay.” he finishes her sentence.

They smile at each other, and walk to the end of the street.

“I’m this way…” Yuna points, with Takumi living in the opposite direction.

“I can walk you home if you want.” Takumi proposes.

“It’s okay, you’ve got your hands pretty full there.” She points out.

Warm silence extends between them, neither sure what to say next.

“See you tomorrow”
“See you tomorrow”

They say in unison, then head their separate directions.

…

Before Takumi gets home, Hikaru sits in his room listening to music.

He keeps replaying the events that happened at the library, trying to understand.

What happened to my older brother?

Hikaru thinks back to other times when he and Takumi interacted, and all Takumi concerned himself with was the spotlight.

In those days, Takumi never gave Hikaru a second thought.

To Hikaru, Takumi only looked toward the light, and emanated this light everywhere people were watching.

You never looked back once to see what you were missing. You were untouchable, and unreachable.

And Hikaru was left to live in the shadow he cast.

I always thought that one day, you wouldn’t have to look back to see me, but beside you.

In the library, Takumi wasn’t shining. People were watching, and he didn’t care.

Hikaru leaves his room, and slowly walks through the door.

Now I’m running toward something I don’t even know I want.
Now that you’re not driving me forward…
I don’t know what to do.

Hikaru puts his shoes on, slipping out the door in silence

…

A little while later, Takumi arrives home, setting the flowers in a vase on the kitchen table.

He lays the portrait on his bed, looking over every line and stroke.

In his mind, something begins to scribble down. Somewhat of a portrait too, with the first lining being light and frail.

No eyes that can reflect the soul, no mouth that can say what he wants…

At least…not yet.