1- Osaka Static

Osaka was as noisy as ever, and Minori didn’t like it.

Like who’d make so much noise outside at this hour, when the sky was as black as a tuxedo, and the city was brighter than her future? Someone with a social life, perhaps?

When she was in Nakazaki-cho a few years ago, all she could remember were the artistic, nostalgic sights her late mother had shown her. A giddy smile always crossed her face, but not now, since the only thing she could smell now from the comfort of her balcony was the scent of freshly cooked food from the vendors, being overwhelmed by the odour of cigarette smoke that earned a reflexive click of her tongue, and the girl shutting the windows.

“Ugh…” she groaned, scratching her messy, raven hair, “All I want is some fresh air!”

She stormed back into the washitsu, the thump of her footsteps mimicking the thumping from the floor above. She rolled her eyes.

“For real now? These guys do it every day… At this rate, not even biology can save his sack.” She walked to the open kitchen, a small room with a stove, some shelves, and racks for utensils. Her eyes were trained on the instant ramen, but she sighed, “Should I cook tonight…?” Minori looked at the time, 2 AM— too late for anything, really. Grabbing a cup of ramen from the stack, she slumped back onto the couch, her eyes falling to the large suitcase in the middle of the empty hallway. Signs of furniture being were as prominent as her stress marks. She sighed, curling onto the couch like a cat and practically purring.

She slurped up the ramen lying down, not caring about the broth dripping down her chin. There were no blankets, no tissues, no plates, nothing. She looked at the suitcase again; in her head, it looked like a judge who was well… judging her.

Her droopy eyes, her messy, white hair; she could even flirt with the suitcases and could’ve expected a response if she’d at least tried to look after herself. But in a ward like Nishinari-ku, where a woman can walk out wearing a bunny girl outfit, whip in hand, and not be questioned, because the Tobita Shinchi exists—they’d only be surprised that the woman wasn’t naked.

A girl with messed-up hair was tame.

Besides, with most of her stuff gone temporarily, she had to make do with what was—

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she glared at the ceiling, “Stop moaning! I get it, it feels good, alright?! Now go the hell to sleep!”

The sounds stopped, the silence came, and she sighed. “I should get paid for this shit…” she said under her breath. She leaned back, taking in what was left of the house: a few of her canvases, empty, and her drawing tablet. The suitcase stared back at her; at least the clothes can stay warm inside it. She didn’t even have her bedsheets, or better, someone, to hug her to sleep. Not like she cared. Isn’t wanting to be held affectionately and to feel safe a person’s basic need? Maslow would say yes, and I am sure it crossed every girl’s mind during a “I wish I had a boyfriend” phase. But not her.

Here was a self-proclaimed, enigmatic artist, single as a pringle and definitely not ready to mingle.

Too much drama, and she wanted to cling to reality; it’s quieter, she always said, and who knows how true that is?

Even as she got up and closed up her suitcase after doing one last check of her belongings, she could hear the couple getting at it again, trying her best not to gag at it.

Failed.

The only selling point of Bunkamura was that it was a cultural and artistic hub. More paintings and sculptures than moaning couples and late-night drunkards, just the way she liked it.

“People are a drag to deal with. I am fine on my own,” a motto, or was it?

“What if Shibuya was worse when it comes to neighbours?” She shivered at the reminder of a particular individual, a guy who woke up at two in the morning every day to play the violin. Minori loved the violin, just…not at two in the morning. Besides, the guy was a beginner whose playing got worse every time she heard it, or maybe that was her annoyance showing.

She groaned at the thought. The nasty glare, which earned her the title “Ice Queen”, a stupid nickname from middle school, seemed to be a part of her eternal ethereal resting face, which happened to function like a scarecrow. Honestly, with how much she looked like a dead cat, she would qualify as a genderbent Lord of the Flies, or Lady of the Flies, in this case. But her height makes her look more like a homeless hobbit or a stressed animator from an animation studio that can’t be named. The last bit made her question if the white hair wa truly the gift of heredity or her stress showing.

She didn’t care.

She had to sleep; she had to take the Yamanote Line, and she had to do it at five in the morning, on a goddamn Sunday, unless she wouldn’t mind living in the streets, that is. Considering how attached to home she was, she wouldn’t have minded if it weren’t for the safety hazards. And besides, the Tokyo University of the Arts asked for her. She had to go. Sure, the thought of mingling with teens her age irritated her, but no pain, no gain, huh? The payoff would be attending one hell of a university, one of the best of its kind.

But first, she had to sleep. So she inhaled the rest of the ramen in the cup, tossing it into the trash can with an accuracy that even Michael Jordan would grimace at, and sighed, snuggling into the couch (God, this girl really loved sighing). It was two in the morning, she’d only get less than three hours of sleep, but sleeping on the train was an option, wasn’t it?

Her lips curled slightly upward as she closed her eyes.

“Good night—”

And then the violins begin crying.