Tokyo Puts on Fake Smiles

SIXTH ACT: Penguins

The Prison of the First Page

For years of friendship with Makoto, I was a prisoner to each of his decisions. If Makoto decided that someone was not right for me, I could only nod and walk behind him, anxiously waiting for him to turn around. I thought that was love, but it was just lies.

I couldn't resist his charms. Thus, I locked myself in a prison made of my own expectations and the craving for approval. But the worst part was that it didn't only happen with Makoto, but with everyone. At some point in my life, I became a puppet.

Notwithstanding, with Kazuhiro, it didn't happen. He didn't cage me; I didn't fall into the protection and love he professed to me. Instead, I was paralyzed, immobilized in the eternal image of a first page. A page that was constantly being rewritten.

Every movement of Kazuhiro became the protagonist of that page. Time, slowed to the maximum, turned me into a witness. But I didn't know who was writing for whom.

☻☻☻

The trip back home was tense; neither of us spoke. We maintained the distance defined by my bag as we sat on the train. I tried to escape into the screen of my phone, scrolling through posts to avoid the memory of just an hour ago.

I needed to forget the fact that, for a moment, the absurd idea of closing my eyes and letting Miyazaki, the roommate I so disliked, kiss me had crossed my mind. I repeated to myself, over and over, like a mantra, that it hadn't been us, that it had been the sand, the water, the night breeze.

It was definitely the beach, the beach memories, I whispered to myself, in sync with the clattering of the train.

Miyazaki, on the other hand, seemed to be absent, but calm, his eyes fixed on the doors. It was he who stopped us, though I didn't understand why.

I didn't care either. I felt relieved and thankful that nothing had happened. I was sure I would have regretted it.

☻☻☻

When I got home, I didn't sleep. In the early hours of the next day, I was still going through all the photos and notes I had from that day. Miyazaki, on the other side of the hallway, across from my room, was asleep.

In every photo, he looked good—any of them could have been a cover; looking at the pond, walking through the aquarium, at the station, combing his hair after getting off the train. He would make a good model, for sure.

"It's best to let Ryuu and Megumi choose," I murmured, moving to the next photo, the one where all you could see was Miyazaki's robust back walking towards the train. I remembered his words.

"He didn't believe in goodbyes," I mused again.

Tired, I laid down on the bed with the camera in my arms. Holding it up, I kept scrolling through the photos.

Seeing that succession of images with Miyazaki made me falter. I heard a click lost in the void.

There was no doubt, the more I looked at him, the more convinced I became that, without a doubt, I was living with a complete stranger, a person I knew nothing about, who lived far, far away, beyond the stretch of my room, the hallway, and his room.

But then, I reached the last photo. In it, with a flushed face and as stiff as a board, I posed next to Miyazaki, who, smiling, rested his head on mine. Behind us, the penguins accompanied us, jumping, looking, walking, sliding, waving.