Day 02 – April 02, 2024
Hangover, Sakura, and a Smile That Stuck
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The alarm buzzed again—shrill, merciless.
It tore through the morning silence like a blade through still water, its vibration drilling straight into my skull. I swore it was trying to kill me.
I groaned, blindly reaching for the clock and silencing it with a smack that echoed in my shoebox of an apartment. Another day. Another chance at proving I deserved this life I fought for. Or begged the universe for, really.
And somehow… got.
The moment I cracked my eyes open, I regretted it. Light stabbed through the room and into my brain. My head throbbed like a war drum. Every heartbeat pounded against my skull like it was trying to escape. My mouth tasted like regret—beer, smoke, maybe a bad joke or two I'd rather not remember.
Last night was a blur. A beautiful, chaotic blur. It had been my first day at work. A dream come true. I should've gone straight home, rested, prepped for day two.
But I didn't. Because of her.
Fujimoto Airi.
Just the name made something flutter in my chest. I remembered her laughter—subtle, elegant, warm. Like wind chimes on a quiet spring evening. I remembered how the city lights hit her eyes, turning their soft brown into liquid amber. Unreadable, but comforting. Like she held stories she didn't know how to tell. Like she was both the question and the answer.
And she looked at me.
Really looked. As if I wasn't just some awkward rookie. As if I mattered.
Was that what love felt like? Or was it just the hangover talking?
I didn't know. I'd never felt this before—never had time for it. But it stuck. That image of her. That feeling. It clung to me even as the pounding in my head told me to move, to shower, to do something.
Instead, I lay there like a fool, smiling like a teenager after his first kiss.
Until I saw the time.
"...Shit."
I shot out of bed like I'd been electrocuted, wobbling on my feet. My world tilted before snapping back into place. I scrambled into yesterday's crumpled work clothes, stumbled past my sink-that-snored, and opened the fridge.
Empty.
Of course.
Not even a stale slice of bread. My wallet had probably filed for bankruptcy too.
I was halfway to accepting starvation when I saw it—that football.
There, on the tiny kitchen table, scuffed and worn, soaking in a beam of sunlight like it belonged in a museum. A ghost from another life.
I froze. Reached out. Touched it.
And the years folded in on themselves.
Back then, I was a storm in cleats. The field was my kingdom. The crowd, my orchestra. I moved like I was born for it—quick, sharp, unstoppable. "Prodigy," they called me. "Natural talent." They said I'd go far.
But I didn't.
Because the thing I loved wasn't the roar of the crowd—it was the scratch of pencil on paper. It was imagining new worlds while everyone else watched me run. I turned down offers, walked away from a future people expected me to chase.
I chose mine instead.
And yet… the past has a habit of showing up uninvited.
Just like now.
My phone buzzed.
Fujimoto Airi:
Good morning! How's the hangover, rookie? Don't be late today! (＾▽＾)／
My heart did a full backflip.
I stared at the message, blinking in disbelief. I had her number? Did I… ask for it? Did she give it willingly? Was this real?
My face went hot.
I typed a reply so fast I didn't even read it. Too scared to ruin the moment with overthinking. Too wired to care.
And then I saw the time.
"SHIT!"
I bolted out the door with my bag in one hand and a prayer in the other.
---
Station Chaos
The city hit me like cold water—fast, loud, unrelenting. The streets buzzed with life: old vendors setting up shop, delivery bikes weaving through traffic, the rhythm of feet and horns and forgotten dreams echoing down every alley.
I ran.
Dodged.
Almost died tripping over a cat.
And then, as if the world wanted to throw in some existential spice, I glimpsed something.
A man, in an alley, coughing violently into his hand.
Blood.
But when I stopped and looked again—he was gone.
No trace. No sound. Nothing.
Weird.
Still, I didn't have time to chase ghosts. The train was leaving, and I couldn't afford to lose this job over a hangover and hallucinations.
I made it onto the train just as the doors closed behind me with a hiss. Victory.
Panting, I leaned against the door and closed my eyes, trying to slow my breathing.
Maybe today wouldn't be a complete disaster.
And then it hit me.
No, not the doors.
My stomach.
A sharp, twisting ache. The kind that warned of digestive rebellion.
"...Oh no."
I hadn't eaten. Not a crumb.
And now my stomach was threatening to report me to HR.
---
Office Battlefield
By the time I reached the office, I was somewhere between human and ghost. But I clocked in. Just in time.
A win… sort of.
The moment I walked in, I felt eyes on me. Smiles. Chuckles. Teasing glances.
They remembered last night.
I didn't. At least, not all of it. Shadows of laughter. Fragments of dancing. Something about karaoke and a chair that broke under mysterious circumstances.
I stumbled to my desk, clinging to my pride and my empty stomach. My hands shook. My body screamed. I was moments from collapse.
And then…
A tap on my shoulder.
Gentle.
Familiar.
I didn't need to turn to know who it was.
The room fell quiet. Not literally—but that's how it felt. Like the world dimmed, and the spotlight found only her.
Fujimoto Airi.
She stood there, smiling like spring personified. Light danced in her hair. Her presence melted away everything—my hunger, my shame, my panic. The world was noise. She was music.
"Hey," she said. "Earth to Haruki-kun."
I blinked.
"Uh—I—good morning!"
Smooth.
She laughed, soft and sincere. "You made it. Impressive. I was half-expecting a call saying you'd overslept."
I scratched my neck, sheepish. "Almost did. Skipped breakfast to be on time."
She nodded, like she already knew.
"I figured as much," she said, and held something out.
A paper bag.
I froze.
"…For me?"
"Yep. Thought you'd forget. You kinda have that vibe."
I took it like it was sacred. Our fingers brushed, just barely—but that brief touch lit up my entire nervous system.
Warm. Real.
"Th-thank you."
She shrugged, like it was no big deal.
But to me?
It was everything.
People said she was kind to everyone. That this was just who she was.
But my heart…
It didn't care.
Because in that moment, she wasn't being kind to everyone.
She was being kind to me.
And for a guy like me—scrambling to stay afloat, pretending I wasn't falling harder with each passing moment—that kindness felt like sunlight breaking through a storm.
I clutched the bag close, willing myself not to read too much into it.
But some part of me already had.
And maybe…
Just maybe…
I didn't want to climb back out.