Abnormality in normality.

匚卄卂卩ㄒ乇尺 9:ㄩ几ᗪ乇尺 卩尺乇丂丂ㄩ尺乇.

∙∙·▫▫ᵒᴼᵒ▫ₒₒ▫ᵒᴼⒽⓐⓨⓐⓣⓞ'ⓢ Ⓟ.Ⓞ.Ⓥ.ᴼᵒ▫ₒₒ▫ᵒᴼᵒ▫▫·∙∙

I had been standing for over 45 minutes, leaning against the cool brick wall near the school entrance, my patience wearing thin as I waited for Mitsumi. We always walked into our first class together—it was our little ritual. Yesterday, she had been late and had rushed in, her face flushed and apologetic, explaining something bizarre about her sister "hibernating." Today, it seemed she was running late again. I glanced at the clock and sighed. If I waited any longer, I'd be late myself. Just as I was about to head inside, I heard a familiar voice calling out from behind me.

"Hayato, wait up!" Mitsumi's voice was loud and clear, cutting through the morning chatter. I turned to see Mitsumi dragging her sister Ryoko behind her. Ryoko's headphones were draped around her neck, and she was lost in her own world, savoring a bar of chocolate with a serene expression on her face. She looked utterly unconcerned about the rush. "What took you so long?" I asked, slipping my hands into my pockets, trying to mask my annoyance. Mitsumi shot an exasperated glance at Ryoko. "Ryoko made us stop at the school shop to buy chocolate," she explained with a sigh.

"What's our first class?" Mitsumi asked, attempting to shift her focus from her sister. "Math," I replied. Mitsumi groaned dramatically, throwing her head back. "What! Why do I have to deal with Miss Gilbert first thing in the morning?" "Why is she always so cranky?" she continued, clearly not happy with the start of her day. "Probably because of people like you," Ryoko remarked flatly, her eyes still on her chocolate. Mitsumi shot back without missing a beat, "Says the one who sleeps in every class!"

I watched as the two sisters continued their familiar banter. It was a daily routine for them, a rhythm they seemed to fall into naturally. "By the way, Mitsumi, is Ryoko your older or younger sister?" I asked, genuinely curious. Mitsumi shrugged casually. "I don't know." "Looks like you don't know anything about her," I teased. Mitsumi's smile faded slightly. "It seems so," she admitted, a trace of disappointment in her voice. Turning to Ryoko, I asked, "What's your birthday?" Ryoko paused for a moment, her expression blank. "I don't remember." I frowned. "How can you not remember your own birthday?"

Mitsumi quickly interjected, laughing. "She's obviously lying. She probably doesn't want to tell us because she doesn't want us to figure out she's the youngest of the three of us." Ryoko's eyes narrowed slightly, but her voice remained calm. "Who said so? I'm probably older than you." Mitsumi grinned playfully. "Aww, wanna cry, little one?" Without warning, Ryoko's expression shifted. She gently but firmly placed her hand on Mitsumi's head, lifting her slightly off the ground as if she weighed nothing. "Who exactly are you calling little one?" Ryoko's tone was calm, but there was a sharp edge to her words.

"Come on, Ryoko, let's not kill anyone this early in the morning," I said nervously, trying to lighten the mood. Suddenly, Ryoko's grip softened, and she carefully set Mitsumi back down. Then, in an unexpected gesture, she ruffled Mitsumi's hair gently. "You guys shouldn't beat yourselves up for not knowing anything about me," she said softly. "I barely remember anything about myself." With that, she turned and walked ahead, leaving us standing there. Mitsumi and I exchanged a look, both of us caught off guard by Ryoko's words.

ℝ𝕪𝕠𝕜𝕠'𝕤 ℙ.𝕆.𝕍

Miss Beanpole found me wandering aimlessly on the road, lost and confused after I escaped from the asylum. My memories of that place, and of myself, are hazy at best, like trying to recall a dream that slips away the moment you wake up. All I know is that my name is Ryoko, a fact I gleaned from the name tag sewn into the tattered asylum gown I was wearing. I had been confined in that asylum for two years, though I couldn't remember a single detail about why I was there or what I was running from. Miss Beanpole showed me a news article that confirmed my time in the asylum, but even then, it was like looking at someone else's life. I don't know what I was running from or why I felt so desperate to escape. All I knew was that I had to get out of there, as if something deep within me was pushing me to flee.