Day 01 - April 02, 2024
The Day the Sky Changed
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My mouth is dry.
Not dry from thirst—but dry like something dying. As if my tongue has been fossilized. Each swallow scrapes against my throat like sandpaper, brittle and unnatural.
There's a taste, faint but unmistakable—metallic, cold, sharp. Iron. Blood.
But I'm not bleeding. Am I?
The air doesn't feel right either. It's thick, too warm, humid in a way that clings. There's a sweetness hidden in it—rotten, fermented, sickly sweet like spoiled fruit left too long in the sun. My stomach lurches.
The lights above flicker. Or maybe it's my vision that flickers—uncertain, smeared like paint brushed across glass. I blink once, then again. Still distorted. The walls seem to breathe, the floor hums beneath me.
My skin itches.
No—something moves beneath it.
My fingers claw at my arms, nails dragging deep. I dig until flesh lifts. And when I dig deeper… relief. Something under there shifts.
I stumble toward the mirror.
Each step is wrong—joints bending too slow, too sharp, like marionette limbs controlled by trembling hands. I move, but the motion isn't mine.
And the face staring back?
Isn't me.
My skin hangs loose, pale and blotched. One eye twitches violently; the other is so red it looks ruptured. Blood pools in the whites. My mouth opens, and a black thread dangles from my tongue.
Then I vomit.
Not bile. Not food.
Something thick and dark spills from me, splattering the sink with a sickening sound. It's tar-like—oily, with tendrils of red glistening through it. It squirms. It moves.
The scent hits next.
Rotting meat. Rust. Melted plastic. It's not the room.
It's me.
I gag again, body convulsing. My teeth ache. One splits. A chunk rolls beneath my tongue and I spit it into the sludge. It clinks like stone.
My fingernails peel.
Not one. Several. Smoothly. Cleanly. No pain, just exposed, raw skin glistening like newborn flesh.
I can't scream.
Only a wheeze escapes—wet, gurgled, like drowning in syrup.
The mirror shifts.
The reflection blinks… too late.
And then it smiles.
Not my smile. Its smile.
My knees give way. My spine bends too far back. Bones pop. My mouth stretches—wider, wider—until I feel something inside me tear.
This isn't a body anymore.
It's a cage of meat.
And I am trapped inside it.
---
BZZZT. BZZZT. BZZZT.
The alarm buzzes against the silence like a heartbeat on a monitor—steady, insistent. I gasp.
My eyes flutter open.
Golden sunlight bleeds through the blinds. Dust dances in the beam like little ghosts. The air is crisp. Clean.
Was it… a dream?
I place a hand against my chest.
Heartbeat—fast, steady. My lungs expand without resistance. The sheets are wrapped around me, clinging like they did last night. I sit up slowly, the old bedframe groaning beneath me.
I'm alive.
Today is April 1st.
My first day at my dream company.
For a moment, I just sit there in silence. Letting it all soak in.
The room still smells faintly of the moving boxes I unpacked last week—cardboard, tape, unfamiliar wood polish. There's no curtain on the window, no picture on the wall. But it's mine.
Everything aches—knees, back, shoulders. The ache of someone who's made it somewhere new. I rise, barefoot to the floor.
Cold.
But not unpleasant.
I check my phone—no new messages. The clock reads 6:45 AM. I smile anyway. I'm not lonely.
I'm finally here.
Tokyo. The city of light, of dreams, of impossible heights.
I remember when I first fell in love with animation. It wasn't a grand movie or a blockbuster. It was a short clip online—just a bouncing ball, ten seconds long. But it had weight, personality. It moved like it felt. I watched it twenty-six times in a row.
That was all it took.
Back home, nobody understood. "Animation?" they'd ask. "Isn't that just cartoons?" Others suggested safer paths—teaching, nursing. Stability. Security. But those dreams weren't mine.
So I left.
Two bags. One cracked tablet. And a notebook filled with pencil sketches of things no one else cared about.
My parents didn't stop me. My mother cried quietly. My father placed a hand on my shoulder and said nothing.
That silence still echoes.
The breakfast I make is plain. Toast. Powdered coffee. It tastes hollow. Not like home—where breakfast smelled like miso soup and grilled fish, where love soaked into every rice grain. But this too, is part of the price.
Dreams are not free.
By 7:30, I'm dressed—button-down shirt still carrying the faint scent of its previous owner. Slacks ironed three times. Hair combed awkwardly with my fingers.
I catch my reflection in the mirror.
Tired eyes. Pale skin.
But there's a smile—small, uncertain, but real.
The face of someone who's finally stepped forward.
Outside, the city devours silence. Sirens. Voices. Shuffling feet. Machines grinding against concrete. I walk among it—another body in the crowd. No one meets my eyes. No one waves.
And yet… I smile.
Because this is the world I chose.
And I will make it mine.
---
The company building rises before me like a temple of ambition. Glass gleaming, polished marble steps, spotless windows reflecting a sky that feels wider than back home.
My dream company.
Digital Pulse Animation.
The place I've imagined in every sketch, every half-asleep night grinding for a portfolio that might never get seen. Now, its doors part as I step through.
I'm greeted. Shown around. Names blur—faces too. Everyone is polite, polished, professional. There's an air of elegance even in the silence.
I'm shown my desk—minimal, pristine. My name is already printed on a small plaque.
I sit down.
My hands shake just slightly.
The software loads.
And suddenly, I feel like a fraud. These interfaces, these tools—they're advanced, overwhelming. Nothing like what I learned. My fingers hesitate. I don't want to make a mistake. Not on the first day. Not when everything is finally real.
And then—
A voice, soft and clear:
"Need help?"
I turn.
She stands behind me like a ray of spring sunlight—gentle, warm, and quiet in all the right ways. Long chestnut hair. A cream blouse and navy skirt. Modest, neat, radiant.
Fujimoto Airi.
She kneels slightly, leaning in. Her scent is faint—cherry blossom perfume, understated. Her fingers point toward the screen. She speaks with confidence, kindness.
Her presence melts my anxiety like snow under the sun.
"Th-thank you," I stutter.
She smiles.
And I swear—I forget how to breathe.
She helps me navigate shortcuts, explains rendering methods, her words easy to follow, her tone never condescending.
For the first time today, I relax.
She leaves with a quiet, "You'll get the hang of it, Haruki-kun."
And just like that—
I fall.
Not dramatically. Not like fireworks or thunderclaps.
But gently.
Like petals on a breeze.
---
Lunchtime
Or so the clock says.
But no one moves.
No rustling chairs. No idle chatter. Just fingers flying over keys. Faces expressionless. Mechanical. Robotic.
Like lunch doesn't exist.
I glance at my screen. My stomach twists, not just from hunger—but unease.
Is this normal?
Should I keep working too?
Back home, lunch was sacred. An hour of laughter and bento boxes. Here… silence devours everything.
I tell myself it's fine.
I'm new. I need to prove myself. One missed meal won't kill me.
But my head swims. My fingers lose their rhythm. My eyes blur.
And then—
"Here."
A voice like a breeze through an open window.
She's back.
Fujimoto-san.
She holds out a protein bar, silver wrapper crinkling under the light.
"You'll collapse at this rate," she says with a knowing smile. "Don't worry, it's just from the vending machine. But something's better than nothing."
She noticed.
In a room full of people ignoring me—she noticed.
I take it, hands shaking.
"T-thank you…"
She laughs. Not mockingly. Kindly. Like it's okay to be the awkward one.
"Hey. Earth to Haruki-kun?"
My heart stutters.
For the second time that day, I forget how to breathe.
Not just because she's beautiful. But because she saw me.
Not the rookie. Not the background.
Me.
---
EVENING — FIRST GLASS OF BEER
Work had ended.
To my surprise, the boss—so intimidating behind his desk—turned out to be remarkably approachable outside the office. He invited the team out for drinks at a local izakaya, and no one dared to refuse.
The place buzzed with energy. Wooden tables packed tightly together, paper lanterns casting a warm glow overhead, the smoky aroma of grilled skewers hanging thick in the air.
Beer mugs clinked. Laughter erupted in waves. Someone shouted kanpai! for the third time in ten minutes.
And yet—
My eyes kept drifting toward her.
Fujimoto Airi.
She sat across the table, a gentle smile playing at her lips as she laughed at something a colleague said. Her eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed—naturally, without effort. She raised her glass with quiet grace, the amber light catching the curve of her cheek.
Even in that crowded, chaotic room, she stood out.
Not because she tried to. But because she didn't.
I wanted to talk to her again. To thank her properly. To ask her something—anything.
But I didn't.
My nerves got the better of me. I kept my mouth shut, too afraid of saying something stupid. Too afraid I'd ruin whatever fragile thread of connection had started between us.
Still… when she looked up and caught my gaze—
And smiled—
My heart jolted.
It wasn't a big smile. Just a soft, fleeting curve of the lips. But it lingered. It stayed with me even after the night ended.
---
Back at my apartment, the city lights blinked like artificial stars beyond the windowpane.
I lay on my futon, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Sleep refused to come.
My head was buzzing—maybe from the beer, maybe from everything else.
All I could think about was her.
Fujimoto Airi.
The woman who offered me a protein bar when I had nothing to say. The one who made the sterile office feel just a little bit warmer.
The woman who, on my very first day—
Taught me what it felt like to fall in love.