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Kamishiro Rui is twelve years old today.
June 24.
The day passes by without much fanfare. It's another typical Tuesday of keeping his head low, mumbling out answers when the teacher makes him stand for not paying attention in class, forcing himself to eat something during lunch, and coming back home to an empty house.
It's not like Rui thinks the entire world is plotting against him when he finds himself alone on his birthday.
It's just… another day to him.
His classmates aren't being mean to him by not wanting to talk to him. His teachers aren't being mean when they tell him to pay attention to the material being taught that Rui already knows. Other people aren't being mean to him when they pass by his curled up form, laughing and talking to each other. The day isn't being cruel by having clear blue skies and a comfortable temperature. His parents aren't being casually cruel to him when he finds himself greeted by an empty house upon his return.
Rui was the one who pleaded for his parents to not make a big deal out of his birthday anyway.
The memory of his last birthday stings him still. The way he bounced on his heels that day so excited about having people over at his house and then the slowly dawning horror as the clock ticked away that no one but Nene was going to be there when he cut the cake.
And now Rui doesn't even have Nene anymore so what was the point?
He would rather let his birthday be just another day if the only other option was enduring the loud reminder of his incapability to make anyone stay.
Even then, because Rui's parents are kind people, there's a slice of lime cake in the fridge left for him, along with a little note telling him to eat well. His parents know him far too well since the cake is already on a plate instead of a cake box that would easily give away that they got it from the famous cake shop near the station. A valiant effort on their part, and Rui thinks he knows what love tastes like as he puts a spoonful in his mouth.
There's not a single day where Rui does not feel guilty for not being able to be better for his parents. They don't demand anything of him, and he doesn't know if that makes him feel better or worse. He wishes the amount of guilt he has accumulated could fill the gaping void he feels within himself.
Rui sits on the tall stool in his garage and clicks his pen to let his hand fiddle with something, flipping through his notebook.
Today's Japanese assignment is an interesting thing.
Write a letter to your future self, it says.
As an avid reader of science fiction, Rui is fascinated with the concept of time. The way the unceasing nature of it is so mysterious yet so human that writers would come up with ideas to manipulate such a grand, abstract thing.
There was a time when Rui was once excited about what his life would be like in the future. You have a bright future ahead of you, people would tell him, and he believed them with all his heart. That naive child.
Now Rui tries to think of a future and the image he comes up with is the lone back of one single man and his unheard ideas. There truly is nothing to look forward to.
But his assignment is an assignment. Rui uses open-ended questions from classes such as Japanese and English to think. His thoughts spill out on paper through literature and oftentimes they're so unsightly that Rui cannot even bear to look at his own writing. The pen is a tool that helps create a world where Rui is the most honest he has ever been, and he hates that kind of vulnerability. Oftentimes than not he finds himself redoing such assignments from scratch because he will not allow anyone to look at the scene of a boy tearing himself apart for a chance to be seen.
Rui moves his left hand.
He writes.
Dear.
Rui promptly strikes it out.
Dear To the me of the future.
Greetings and salutations. I sincerely hope that this letter reaches you well. Mine is the kind of hope that's torn apart and with holes like the clothes of a world-weary traveller on an especially arduous journey. It's holding on by a string, but for how long, I wonder that myself.
I didn't mean to be so sombre so early on in this letter. Today is my birthday, and I think there's a kind of melancholy that's entirely unique to a person on their birthday. Perhaps that's the reason why I find myself talking about things such as hope and endurance in what's supposed to be a light-hearted letter. Did this letter find you on your birthday as well? If so, then happy birthday. I wish nothing but the best for you. Are you too alone like I am?
What show are you currently practising? A stage version of one of your favourite books maybe? Or an original you wrote yourself but never had the courage to show to the world? This is something we both find ourselves lacking with, isn't it? Courage. I hope you're braver than I am.
How is N
Are we still f
Does she even remember
I hope she's happy.
The stage has been her dream since she was a little kid with uneven pigtails and a missing front tooth. If she has truly and completely given up on her dreams, and if you, selfish, cowardly and spineless, didn't try even once to make her reconsider her decision then I will never forgive you. I will never forgive myself.
If you still haven't told her how much her words meant to you when you were on the verge of bursting into tears at the first rejection you'd ever faced in your life, then I have no hope for you. You are still a spineless coward and I think I'll live my whole life hating you.
Ah, this is the exact reason why I hate writing.
Look at how ugly these emotions are. How unsightly. You've become capable of such great hatred within yourself. Isn't this shameful? Like a pig rolling over in its own filth. A pig is so much less worse than what I currently am.
I can't see beyond my own two arms at this point. I live fearing the monotony of tomorrow. The future is such a distant concept that I cannot even imagine what you look like anymore. The blurry and unpredictable futureー tell me, does the tunnel ever end and do I ever make it out into the light? I'm tired and I'm looking for hope in a person who doesn't even exist yet.
My future is bleak and dull.
Nene stopped singing a few weeks ago because of an incident on the stage. I stopped hearing her voice from the thin walls of my garage. Somehow, that terrifies me more than my own fraying outlook of my future. My cowardly self, I beg of you, help the songbird find her voice again. The silence is far too loud to be natural.
More than anything, I want Nene to be okay.
I'll manage, somehow.
Tell me, will I ever be capable of making people not leave?
Tell me, will I ever make friends?
I do not want to lose my individuality, but I want to have friends at the same time. I have found that I cannot have both at once. My hands are already full with the sense of my own self and yet I want friends without dropping a single part of myself. Tell me, will this ever be possible or am I still a hopeless optimist for wishing?
My mind is so noisy every day, and without anyone to talk to or anyone to listen to me, it gets noisier and noisier until I can't even think properly. Writing allows me to think. Is that bad? Isn't it weird that I can only think if I speak or write my thoughts out to make room for more? Aren't we weird?
I became interested in literature because of Nene. I'm indebted to her. A huge part of what I am and who I am is because of Nene and my ungrateful self has never thanked her even once. Aren't we both selfish and disgusting? Taking and taking and taking from other people without a single regard and then not being able to help them when they're in trouble. I don't think we can sink lower than where we currently are.
I watched that show with Nene and I felt something larger than life resonate in me that day.
This was the answer that the universe gave me, I had thought. Shows would help me communicate better. Are you still deluding yourself into believing that it was the shows that made you happy? Are you still telling yourself that you're happy as long as you can put on a show? As if it wasn't the human connection shows brought that we longed for all along.
On paper, I'm the most honest person there is. This pen in my hand allows me no right to say anything but the truth.
I'm not happy.
I'm not happy, but I'm not sad either. It's a strange feeling of being neither happy nor sad. The emotions I once remembered feeling in my chest like it would burst out into vivid colours if I could breathe it out; I don't think they exist anywhere except my memories anymore. My chest is a cold and empty thing. A hole resides where those emotions used to inflate. I never once imagined that apathy could be so painful.
What about you, future me? Do you still allow time to sweep you in its unfaltering flow? Neither happy nor sad, days just pass through as if you're a living ghost.
Hey, will I ever be happy?
Despite everything, I still believe that the world is not inherently cruel.
I barely feel human these days but I remember what it was like to be young and so, so brightly human. The world is kind and the world is cruel, and that's what humanity is. The capacity to be both cruel and kind.
Despite everything, I still love this world.
There is so much hatred within me but I still have the capacity to love.
Hey, tell me, you haven't given up on this world yet, have you?
Because my parents are kind people, because Nene is kind despite her radio silence, because there was a colony of ants marching in a line on the road when I returned back home, because the sky is always, always there even if it feels like my world is collapsing, because the lady working in the convenience store where I buy ramune from never fails to smile at me and ask about my dayー I will choose to believe in kindness still. Life is exhausting and tiresome, but people are kind, and I will not deny that just because I feel like a hollow of a human.
Do you still feel like hate might be easier than the crippling loneliness of nothing? Hatred is such a strong emotion, but it's emotion nonetheless. We are a pathetic bunch.
I hope we get stronger in the future.
Here's to an entirely illogical and unreasonable hope that still exists within me.
Thank you for reading this letter up until now.
Happy birthday, future me.
I hope there are people who will come when invited to your birthday this time around
The fact that I've basically had a conversation and a half with myself hasn't evaded me.
With hope,
Your younger self.
Rui tears the pages out and redoes his assignment.