Between Lives and Identities

Edges of Memory -Prince

I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself. - Franz Kafka

Yuan's Pov

I was just lying on my couch, scrolling through my phone. I wasn't worried about staying up late since I didn't have work tomorrow. Around 9 PM, I heard the main door open and saw someone with messy hair walk in. Fresh from school, probably. I knew right away it wasn't Machiavelli from this morning - it was Prince.

It's pretty easy to tell which one of them is "out" just by looking at how they dress and fix their hair.

Machiavelli always keeps his hair in a neat two-block cut - the kind that makes him look sharp and professional. He likes wearing simple but nice clothes, nothing flashy, just clean and proper.

Prince, on the other hand, was his complete opposite. His hair always looked like it was at war with both gravity and combs - a chaotic mess that made you wonder if he'd ever heard of a hairbrush. While Machiavelli dressed to impress, Prince dressed to express, favoring streetwear that made him look like any other teenager hitting the mall. It was fascinating how one body could house such contrasting styles.

I watched him shuffle in, his backpack hanging off one shoulder, looking every bit the tired student. Sometimes it was hard to believe this was the same person who'd coldly discussed corporate takeovers over chess just this morning. But that was the thing about them - they weren't really the same person at all.

I was about to go back to scrolling through social media when I heard his voice, softer than usual. "Ani-san, can we talk? Something's bothering me." He still called me by the Japanese term for older brother, a habit that always reminded me of our unique bond.

"Of course," I said, putting my phone down. When Prince wanted to talk, it usually meant something important.

"It's about my news entry this week" he explained. Prince had inherited his father's gift for writing - the same talent that had once made his dad a celebrated author. Now Prince was following those footsteps as a writer for his school paper.

"Let me see," I offered, and he handed me his article. Reading through it, I couldn't find any flaws in his writing style. The prose was clean, thoughtful, even beautiful in places. "There's nothing wrong with this. What's the problem?"

He sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. "Our club president keeps rejecting it. They want me to write about the pageant winner instead, but I refuse."

"Why? If she's the highlight of the event..." I started, but he cut me off.

"That's just it - for me, she's not. Yes, she did amazing in the pageant, and she deserves her victory. But the first runner-up..." He paused, and I saw a rare flash of passion in his eyes. "Her answer during the Q&A portion about student mental health - it struck something in me."

"Tell me more," I encouraged, intrigued by his unusual emotional investment.

"She talked about the battles every student faces - not just academic ones, but personal struggles too. Mental health issues that nobody sees." His voice grew quieter. "I may not feel emotions the way others do, but I understand their importance. Every day, I see classmates fighting silent battles, wearing masks just like I do, but for different reasons. Some struggle at home, others with themselves. They suffer alone because nobody talks about it."

I felt my throat tighten. This was what made Prince special - even without fully understanding or feeling empathy the conventional way, he saw truths others missed. While Machiavelli saw people as chess pieces, Prince saw their hidden struggles.