He remained stagnant for a while after coming to his senses, feeling a myriad of complacency-like emotions: It was beautiful, — it was a scary notion, — so why am I crying? — one that he failed to comprehend. There's no use contemplating over things that's written off, past or unwanted future; it may throw you off the present a little, but if, perhaps — for once — we didn't stop to think about the past, and keep moving on?

We keep asking ourselves what to do and not to do, we delve into possibilities what couldn't and could've; we bring ourselves to believe in fallen leaves of last summer or the bygone past, adorning and scattering the regrets once was all over again as unhinged as the same clouds we see that day — we believed, we kept on persisting, we even tried praying as a result of play-pretending.

The questions kept coming:

If you only focus on moments and series of life you can't change, and the possibilities behind the gate that will never be opened again — life begins to fracture to the point the fantasy world you think you could've been living in, becomes a broken version of the world you're in.

What if, it posits, we start making the most of the world we find ourselves in and not ask regretful things?

What if . . . we stopped asking “what if?”

He slapped himself on both sides of his cheeks at the same time, as an act to bring himself together. He shook it off and finally got out of the bed, from however long it took for him to do such — maybe he was just given in to the moment's peace, can't expect someone to live in a war-torn environment to instantly adjust to absence of gunshots and blood to dive to tranquility.

No time to think, no time to plan. He stood to take a deep breath: it felt like he took an unusually good night's slumber, even though he's quite the sleep-deprived person. “First, let's try ascertaining my whereabouts,” shoved straight to the analytics, and raised an eyebrow to every little detail in his surroundings, “I should be wary of this quiet space,” Is it a simulation? Am I thinking too deep into this?

Perhaps. He slowly opened the door that laid upfront, making sure through the small creak that no repercussion he'd ever thought of could slip past. To his, well, obvious surprise: it was just a normal corridor that separates one room with the other. He looked behind, seeing a sign on the doorfront that said, “Haru Suzuki.” What a common and bland name, but then that must mean this room of his is someone else's and he's occupying it for the time being.

Regardless of intuition, he let down his guard to sigh . . . It was around that time, precisely even, that he notices someone from below yelling out, “Haru, your sister is calling you from Ameeerica!” Surely it was someone else, right? — then it hit him: There's no way.. he thought, this can't be, right? I gotta confirm myself I guess . . .

“y-yeah..?” It was low, but his response to it wasn't clever nor stupid — it was based on chance. He's ready to be ridiculed any given time now, just waiting for the split-second to be assured that this ‘Haru’ isn't him. Maybe he's hoping for it to happen, but oh well. 

To his avail: “What? Already asleep? Too bad, your sister is on the phone.” Haru got down the flight of stairs, to see a female whose appearance seemed to imitate a graceful mother in the kitchen; with a blatant and striking personality insinuated from her clothing, and a brown apron at that. It was maybe Haru's mom, his mom, at least for now.

“Oh, alright.” He remained calm, but his expression is just screaming to know whatever's going on this instant. Confused, disoriented, and unnerved again — he picked up the phone and began talking, “Hey, sis, long time no see..??”

Not only did he sound nervous talking to his own sister, he was bad at being someone else. “Long time? You just saw me off at the airport yesterday, did you hit yourself on the head or something?” Shit. He messed up.

“Oh, ahah.. ha, yeah!” His mind was wandering through all sorts of things, being at loss for words. “I probably woke up on the wrong side of the bed, sorry.”

“You wake up on the wrong side of the bed all the time.”

“Then I probably hit my head hard, this time.”

“Fair enough.” She let out what sounded like a small sigh through the phone, “Just wanted to let you know,” her voice got lower, exhibiting hints of concerns and worries for something, someone. “I forgot to ask you this, but can you please do me a favor, truly this time?”

“Mhm.” He nodded, then regretted it — what was I nodding to? His mom looked his way grinning. She's probably thinking I'm into my sister or something like it came from those weird mangas and light novels . . . “What is it?”

“Through my work as a teacher before deciding to further my studies abroad, there was this one particular student I liked and took care of a lot.”

“Oho, is it a boy?” He smug-faced, leaning on the wall and immersing to the conversation. “I'm listening.”

“No it's not, dumbass. She's going through certain conditions that made her immobile, and she's always the top and most hardworking student in both class and school. Her disability didn't stop her, it's admirable.”

“Oh.” It reminded him of Hana. She didn't have the strength to walk, and it broke him so much thinking about it, so he gazed off and tucked the phone closer to his ear. “So, what is it that you want me to do?”

“Her classmates envy her. A lot of them do, so the schoolgirls outside her friend group pulled tricks upon tricks, more and more, each time gradually becoming worse and worse. She didn't tell the teachers, even me, she didn't want to make anyone worry. She brushed it off saying it was 'nothing' or it didn't impact her as much as you'd think. Bullying is a big issue, there's no case-to-case basis where your excuse is justified at all regardless if it's reasonable or not: the bruises tell a different tale than the words she speaks.”

“That's . . . unspeakably cruel.” He clenched his teeth at the thought of it, but he can't play nice-guy all the time: he's a bystander through and through his entire school life. No remarkable or eventful everyday life, no loneliness deserving of attention; the most casual person, and unsurprisingly, he accepted that — there's nothing much he could do about it other than being grateful.

“The hard part to listen to: she got into an accident that involved her eyesight. I don't want to dish out the details too much, otherwise it'd be too graphic for your taste to handle, but the classmates took it too far and she's currently in the hospital. I visited her a lot, and brought her many things she asked me to, but unfortunately those days didn't last long. I can't tell you everything since I am supposed to be working right now — 'in the toilet lol' — but do you understand?”

“I can guess where this is going next..” He gulped, feeling as-if something is clutching his neck right on the very edge of his throat. Not that I mind, really.

“Yep. Go tend to my love child for me, will you? She's just a year older than you, so don't worry about it being awkward.”

“Tending? Like what exactly? Oh, almighty sister, bestow me the juicy details of how I am supposed to not feel embarrassed or awkward with a girl!” Deep silence followed. “Or not..”

She cackled. “What do you mean? You have a lot of friends at school, you're being weird and eerie today.”

“Shut up.” In his defense, he shot it down, and insisted on focusing on the matter at hand. “Do I just visit her everyday after school and spend a bit of my time with her?”

“Yes.” She replied. “I left a lot of books in my room for her, so consider bringing two to three of those a day to her, it'll definitely appease her thirst. And don't worry about it being far away, the hospital is quite close to your school; it'll be easy to stop by visiting hours, yes?”

“Three books?? She a bookworm? Well, she's the top of her class afterall, that's a no-brainer . . .”

“I'll send you the details of where it is, and what you should do through text later. Also, didn't you have a plan to go somewhere tomorrow that evening?”

“Oh, yeah, that. Of course, I remember.”

He didn't really know what to feel about that. He didn't remember ever doing any of these. He's confused, and struggling hard to comprehend, to apprehend, and maybe even understand with the gist of it all; everything pans out with a bigger picture, but it's no hurt to get the pieces, one by one, bit by bit — regardless of how much effort it takes, of how much time it takes: don't let it ever get lost. Anyone would feel regret and resentment, at least that's what his mind usually ponders. It's always been constant of what he thinks; it's a silent self-portrait of himself and reflecting of how he's himself.

God, I wish there's somebody who could understand . . .

He wished. And soon time went by quickly, like a flicker, as-if it was slipping away from him; every ounce, every moment, and bead of sweat he mustered from his body — it felt precious. Too precious he couldn't get enough sleep that night, so he stared. So he contemplated. So he began thinking, and gazing off at the ceiling which once was a sight to behold — I hear them, he closes his eyes at last, mourning over losses and echoing pain.

He, ofcourse, didn't get the rest his body desperately needed: all for the reason unbeknownst to everyone here, in this town, this world, except himself; which are the habits of having to take turns watching and protecting his comrades. Perhaps he never got adjusted to the feeling of being in a room like this . . . all alone.

I've never felt so lonely in my slumber since.

Upon waking up from a short nap of around maybe three or so hours of sleep, he didn't feel refreshed at all in the slightest, but maybe that sort of feeling . . . is nothing new to him at all, as chaos ensues all the time during his wake and sleep before in his previous endeavors.

It didn't feel long before the motionless and tired body of his began moving and standing up away from the bed, walking slowly and half-asleep through the corridor and getting ready. It was Sunday so he didn't need to carry the burden of thinking about how bad school would be, since he hasn't been in such an environment for so long he can't even begin to fathom such recollections.

He tidied himself up, and right before putting his clothes on, “Oh, right. People usually shower before getting dressed before the war breaks out, huh.” He mumbled to himself, looking point-blank at the mirror and seeing the so-called 'Haru' who, well, could also be him in this particular context. “Damn do I look lame.” He lamented his dirty clothing from back then, at the very least, it was quite a spectacle — maybe since it looked cool to him, and Hana always cleaned it, taking good care of it.

“Maybe I should really shower . . .”

He, truly, truly smelled bad.

And he subsequently took his sweet, sweet time tying his shoes. Haru really hasn't got the chance to do such a thing when they all use crocs or slippers. How the heck did you do this thing again? He struggled in desperation, sweating profusely in his recklessness. He clenched his teeth, before a mother figure came into sight and tied it up easy-peasy right in front of him.

“You forgot how to tie your shoes? I swear you get weirder and weirder by the day..”

“Oh, yeah, sorry . . . and thanks.”

She pulled and tied the last string before exclaiming, “andd, there!” She beamed and smiled softly. “But, you're my little prince.” It wasn't obvious, but he noticed how her face was red, even if faintly. It's an endearing feeling of family bonding, one that's inseparable, even if one wakes up to be a different person that morning.

“Well,” he stammered, “I guess.. I'll be heading off, now..” Mumbling quietly and soft-spoken, perhaps he was being a bit too blunt on his reaction; but it was a welcoming one. “I don't want to keep the person who big sis wants me to meet waiting long.”

“Mhm. Safe travels.”

“I love you too, mom.”

“Pfft,” she giggled, “I didn't even say it, but I love you also, son.”

He navigated his ways, and through the path he's taken it's pretty much justified that . . . he's lost. Or so he really thought before feeling emancipated from a deep and dangerous puzzly maze upon adapting and furthering his understanding on using the map and the terrains of the town. It really felt like he's back to being a kid, and an exciting feeling at that too.

Not too soon, he arrived upfront at the hospital that was marked on the map by his sister — at least what he could get from the details she left him with, sure.

He was more skeptical than anxious really, but maybe that was called off too early; he took a step into the building that stood still, and put his thumb on his chin while walking through the crowd to think as he's looking around. A hospital? It surprisingly doesn't seem that crowded as I've expected it to be, especially on weekends. Without another second's thought, he asked for the specific room number given by sissy, and since it was visiting hours — obviously he's permitted to get in.

Deep concern has always been embedded into his expression, it struck people the hard and long, narrow way sometimes, and it's usually an act to appease his guilt-ridden anxiety. He thinks too much, he plans too much, he contemplates, he yearns, he cries, he pry, he's overall inert. But the moment he knocked, “A visitor? Come on in.” The solemn and low voice of a girl replied, and it cleared him out of all doubts after he opened to see a beautiful scenery of her. 

He stumbled upon a beautiful woman.

A lady, whom's hair scalp shown by the breezing winds—lithesome, yet much so a big mess of hair drawn away and in by the small gusts of air from the nearby window; it was smooth, it's almost captivating, added to that with that sylph-like slender body of hers.

Not like it matters in the grand scheme of things, but it's worth the remark from one that seemed to be so out-of-touch with reality just because. Even for one moment, he thought.

I mistaken her for Hana.

“H-hey,” He stuttered, at a loss for words. He knew it was a woman, but why is it that she resembled Hana so much? Maybe he's starting to hallucinate, maybe he should try harder to cope and move on from the situation, but what was in front of him was a blondie with long hair that's tied in a fashionable and cute updo hairstyle. She wore adorable round glasses too. “I'm the younger brother of a teacher that used to teach at your school.”

“She was, very fond of you even after deciding to leave Japan for her studies. I'm here to deliver books she wanted to give you.”

It's almost, almost as-if she wasn't really there. Is it really just something of a byproduct of his mental state? Like, hallucinating — and hearing things I shouldn't? . . . perhaps that feeling of sadness that stays behind as a permanent scar from a traumatic past? He can't tell.

Everything's going too fast.

It goes, and goes, in many ways — way too quickly.

Hana just died, to him it's only been 2 days. Anyone can't really move on with just that short amount of timespan, especially when it feels like a trainwreck, and he doesn't know how to take it all in; the process is slow, and his conscience can't keep up. So he gazed, and became silent. It's a melody with no notes playing it.

It just hit him how hard it was, not given time for grieving's sakes and being able to absorb her passing so recently that he began to act so irrational; getting ticked off and sensitive over anything minor or major of a detail about her, even some stuff he just thought up in spite of no correlation to her whatsoever.

Why am I looking at her so hard, so much? I'll be leaving soon anyways, so perhaps I could consider doing--

“Oh, thank you. I've always been a fan of Amadeus Mozart's compositions and Albert Einstein's theory of relativity.” She nodded in silence, smiling visibly bright in the deep array of sunlight through the small gap from the window beside.

“Hey, do you know?” She looked down on one of the three books he handed her and opened them, actively skimming through the pages to find just what she was looking for.

“If there wasn't a main competitor for Einstein, the absolutely brilliant mathematician David Hilbert, whose own stature might even infatuate most students of algebra and numbers alike — he probably wouldn't be seen as the great man he is himself now.” She closed the book firmly before tilting her eyes to meet his gaze. 

“Why is that so?”

“Well, it's obvious: if there wasn't a competitor of such height and ranking recognizing Einstein as an admirable and intelligent person, if not for the theory of relativity, who would really see his potential? Hilbert had stolen the theory after reading one of his papers, and some of Dr. Hilbert's supporters quietly suggested years later that it had actually been Einstein who committed plagiarism, when that wasn't the case.” She stared blankly at him.

“But after all, it was still David who realized Einstein's talent when none did. Regardless of his resentment and jealousy towards Einstein, I think it's a sweet note to touch up on, no?” Her head tilted, dropping from the eye-contact-made gaze slightly.

“. . . Err,” he scratched his cheek, admiring her ability to articulate herself and regurgitating non-everyday history or knowledge of that sort; he wasn't quite sure whether to be in awe and only nod in anticipation of something good to happen despite his confusion, or to continue off her foundation and give what he thinks — the latter, was what he's most afraid of telling, but his desire for engagement was at peak.

She resembles a certain person, after all. 

“to me personally, life is about how we communicate: by crafting an external, visceral, and sensory experience used off by the many virtualizations, languages, and abstractions of the nonverbal expressions; our attempts to understand each other more than words could say. It twists the conventional idea of language through synesthetic use of . . . sound.”

“Your point?” She raised an eyebrow, insinuating her curiosity to get to the main point and reason for such fine speech. To him, it was rather pleasant.

“. . . which is why people lack the audacity to empathize; all the while in pursuit of others' care and empathy themselves — we rely too much on words. It's easy to tell and talk as-if that's 'communicating,' but David didn't think much about what Einstein feels, what he thinks, and so on — so he stole his ideas, his creations. He wanted all the fame and glory. 

Honesty isn't just virtue, it's a language by itself too, same like art — you use all your senses, whether be eyes or ears or nose or touch . . . You can communicate that way. Sounds coming out as words play a huge role in it all, but being open-minded and weaving your sentences in such demeanor makes it all the more transparent and, interestingly, fun.

I don't know the history at all, but based on what you've said: isn't it sad? Instead of stealing it, why didn't he help him advance? Because all that drivel about conveyance and disclosure of your interpersonal feelings I've said, all the good things that would have resulted, all the bad things he would've avoided if he just channeled his anger and frustration in words . . .

all that he needed to do

— was learn to listen.”

“Fascinating,” she smiled. 

she smiled, he thought, that's the biggest one yet — although I've just met her.