call me when you're sober

sober now

The cold breeze of Tokyo always hits different. The crispy chill of air hit your exposed nape, your ears sporting a bright crimson red from being exposed—your hair tied up in a bun from the almost 13-hour flight.

It's been three years since your feet landed in Tokyo. Your initial plan of working in France extended as mini-projects came after one another. Feeling extremely homesick, you decided to fly back, dropping everything once you finished up your final project.

You never intended to stay overseas for that long, your studio flat only had the basics—a couch, bed, T.V, fridge, and a work corner with your work essentials. Not that you need much, three years went by instantly as you drowned yourself in work, forgetting Osamu who had popped in your head every now and then and feeling your heart swirl with a funny feeling, but you were quick to shrug them off.

It's been three long years since you spoke to Osamu, the last time you had ignored his desperate cries for you. It broke your heart in all seriousness, but it had been broken from the beginning, the moment you fell in love with a selfish and drunk man—who you knew would've never put you first.

Days had passed, barely getting any rest as work commenced right away. Being an independent agent had made you more flexible, working on your own terms as long as you meet the client deadlines.

You finally found an office, somewhere in a quiet back street just outside the bustling Akihabara. Unpacking and setting up has taken you few good days now as you are basically doing everything yourself.

Longing for replenishment, you put your overly thick puffer jacket that ran past your shin, your brown Ugg boots easily slid on your feet—making sure you had your phone, wallet, keys and AirPods.

Once again you browse the less busy Akihabara, looking for another restaurant or food stall to try. It was only 11, so the rush wasn't there yet. You noticed the stall that always had a long line whenever you walked past it. Your feet lazily dragging you, as your eyes making out the neon sign that says 'onigiri'. Not even having to think about it, you approached the stall, your eyes focusing on the menu, ignoring the seemingly familiar grey hair that stood on the other side, an apron on his front, tainted with stains, showing his yet another day's hard work.

The tall male on the other side stood still, his eyes fixated on your clumsy appearance—hair in a messy bun, puffer jacket that covered your uncoordinated sweats underneath, your cheeks bared in cold, blushing in blood red, your tiny hands that somehow managed to carry your keys, phone, wallet and AirPods all at once and the ultimate touch, the Ugg boots.

The tall male hadn't had a chance to greet you as he usually does with other customers, lips tight as he choked on his words. He had so much to say to you—running scenarios in his head as he'd imagine what he'd do in case he'd have a chanceful encounter with you, but his words stuck on his throat, unable to come out.

He still remembered the last time you came, the note you wrote that said 'It was good knowing you' stuck on his wallet, behind a sneaky photo he took of you after you had a mere nap on his bed before leaving in the middle of the night.