Tokyo Puts on Fake Smiles

TWENTY EIGHT ACT: Immutable Course

First Law of Thermodynamics

What would it feel like to be loved in return? In their case, Nanako and Kazuhiro were visibly happy. It must have felt like a dream come true; I was sure that every time their eyes met, an orchestra would play.

Seeing them happy made you feel happy. It should make you feel happy.

But behind the set, I discovered that the glass bottles weren't props. The knives were sharp, the pit was real.

Nanako drowned, screaming for help. In another room, Kazuhiro played with a pendulum. No one saw, no one noticed, or no one wanted to say anything.

☻☻☻

Soon, my routine stabilized again. Kazuhiro kept his promise, and we kept greeting each other in the mornings. From Shibuya to Shinagawa, stopping by the tower, eating at restaurants before heading back to the studio, we got our dynamic back. And at night, Kazuhiro returned for dinner. I recognized the lavender-scented perfume from Nanako on his jacket, but I ignored it.

Everything had returned more or less to normal until, one day, we saw them: white Christmas lights, suspended in the air.

"It seems we've reached that time of year," I commented, rubbing my hands together to fend off the cold.

"It does seem that way," Kazuhiro agreed, walking beside me.

We were just a few days away from the start of a freezing December. In the treetops, men in yellow vests stood on a truck ladder, untangling strings of lights and securing them to the branches. Meanwhile, shop and bar owners brought out their decorations: banners on their store signs, tinsel, and snowman stickers in the windows.

"What do you think about heading off?" he asked me.

"Sure," I nodded.

Together, side by side, we began walking through the streets of Shibuya, while, as usual, I adjusted the camera lens under Kazuhiro's steady and intrusive gaze.

"Yesterday, we talked about your vocal training," I cleared my throat, "we left off with your father being the one who taught you, right?"

"Yeah, though he didn't try too hard," he chuckled softly, turning his gaze forward, "our styles never quite meshed, and over time, I had to learn to change my texture, range, and articulation by copying what I heard from my favorite bands. I guess that's why I don't have the most polished vocal technique."

"Was it difficult?"

"I saw it more as a game," he glanced at me sideways, "is there anything else you'd like to know?"

"No, I think we can continue that another day," I turned the lens one last time before giving him a sidelong look, "today, I'd like to focus on your studies."

"That's an interesting shift," he scratched his neck, clearly uncomfortable, "honestly, it's a bit embarrassing."

Stunned, I stopped. "Embarrassing? You?"

He stopped too. "I'm human, you know that, right?"

I chose not to answer. "Whatever it is that embarrasses him, it can't be worse than mine," I told myself, lowering my head, and remembering the tortuous, bumpy road that was my experience with the education system.

My grades were never good. Both in elementary and high school, they got worse with each passing year. But no one was ever surprised. Obsessed with my goal of becoming a rock star, I always said I wouldn't need an education. It was thanks to Makoto and his private lessons that I finally managed to get accepted into prep school.