Catalysts

I believed I met her almost a year ago, but technically speaking, it had started many years prior and snowballed.

Depression was a sunken sorrow from the normalcy of one's life. The accident when I was ten years old caused me to forget the normalcy of the life I once had, so my sunken state was standard for me. In other words, I didn't feel depressed, but my opinion didn't matter, apparently I checked off a criteria. 

Upon waking up from the coma, everyone believed I was okay, without pain and side effects. That was true for my physical health, but not mental. My mental and emotional states were wayward for a year, and the caregivers knew something was wrong. They took me to a therapist to figure out what the problem was, and I was diagnosed then and there.

From the rest of middle school to halfway into high school, I went to therapy, took antidepressants, and lived my own life alone. Adults I didn't know replaced my parents, and kids I never bothered connecting to acted like siblings. I hadn't known appreciation, I hadn't known the value of others.

The beginning of my second-year of high school saw my orphanage becoming financially poor and unhygienic, which led to it shutting down. Another orphanage on the other side of Sapporo took in all the kids during the summer break, that was when I discovered the aforementioned pie shop. For the first few months, I didn't really interact with any of the other orphans. Then, in late autumn, came my 16th birthday; a catalyst.

The new orphanage held parties for children on their birthday. I never celebrated a birthday since the accident, and would have liked to continue life that way, but the orphanage hosted one anyway. However, it was different from most orphans' parties, because I wasn't the sole celebrity.

That was when I met her, because she had the same birthday as me. She already lived at the orphanage by the time I arrived, but that was the first time we talked to each other. I had learned her name when we sat on the same side of the dining table with a cake in front of us.

I mumbled, "H-Happy birthday, um…?"

She spoke as if we were in a library. "M-My name is…Ri-Ringomori…Yoru."
She stared at her lap, I noticed she was trembling.

I figured she reserved herself, like I was, so I didn't feel the need to pursue the conversation any further. But then she surprised me.

"Happy…birthday…to you too…Ch–– um, Vieira-kun."
She lifted her eyes without moving her head, they fixated on the cake.

I tilted my head upon hearing my name, but I never asked any follow up questions. We never spoke to each other for the rest of that day, so I concluded that our interaction was nothing special, and it must have been the same for her too.

We lived in the same building and were in the same age group of orphans, but we went to different schools and never spoke to each other unless we had to – which wasn't often. There was the occasional pass by in the hallways and slight glance at the dinner table, but she was like anyone else to me; nothing.

The orphanage had an activity called "peer outings," as a way to get the orphans to experience fun and connect with each other so they didn't let the dire reality of no familial love get to them. I never took part, simply because I preferred solitary enjoyment, but that moderately changed during the spring.

When the sakura trees were blooming their cherry blossoms, I saw Ringomori seated at a table in the pie shop; another catalyst. I didn't visit the shop daily, but I went multiple times a week, and started noticing she was always there. We never sat together, but I did glance at her more often.

From my observations, I thought of her as awkward and unapproachable like myself, and I deduced that she would never make conversation. But once again, she surprised me.

"M-May I…sit here?" she asked, despite there being plenty of other seats available.

I said yes, and she took a seat. We didn't speak, but indulged in our food while I played my rhythm game, and she read manga.

During spring break, a few unlucky orphans moved out for university and I was assigned a new cleanup position as a replacement. I chose to work in the kitchen; preparing the table for meals. It so happened the girl assisted in cooking, so our positions intersected.

I went around taking drink orders from the orphans. Mostly everyone replied with water or tea, but not her.

She approached me and said, "I-I'll have…apple juice."

Another kitchen helper asked for an ingredient, to which she replied with, "I will look in the cabinet."

Between the pie shop and kitchen duty, it was only natural that the two of us periodically interacted. Like a cat to a new owner, it took me a while before I got accustomed to her approaching me, though I never knew nor asked why it was me specifically. I kept the conclusion that there was nothing special about it.

The orphanage didn't like my lack of participation in the peer outings, especially since they knew I was diagnosed, and I had been told that Ringomori was the same. We were the only two orphans dealing with the burden of dysfunctional mental fatigue.

To solve the problem and force us to participate, the orphanage made the outings mandatory, or else a not-so-severe punishment awaited us. I could have still dodged the outings, but causing trouble for the caregivers, potential adoption families, and my fellow orphans was a greater punishment.

Younger kids had to be in larger groups with chaperones, but high school students needed a minimum of two and were trusted to take care of their own. In the prefecture of Hokkaido, hiking up the mountains surrounding the cities was a relaxing and fun hobby – or so I have heard.

Many coincidental points since I unfortunately reawakened into this world contributed to me meeting up with Ringomori outside the pie shop on the Thursday morning of our peer outing, albeit late. A catalyst comes in many different forms.