Aplastic Hearts. [ Hiatus ]

ᯓ‎𝄞 ˎˊ˗

——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——

The year 2002 smells of chalk dust, stale heating oil, and the faint, metallic scent of ozone that precedes a spring storm.

In the back corner of Class 3-B at Kamakura High, the world does not exist in color. For Nishimura Riki, reality is a spectrum of grey that's defined by the varying pressures of a 2B pencil against the tooth of a grainy sketchbook. While the rest of the seniors are a blur of frantic energy buzzing about University entrance exams, swapping burned CDs of Ayumi Hamasaki, or highlighting prep-school brochures. 

Riki sits in a self-imposed exile.

He is seventeen, an age that is supposed to feel like an beginning. Yet, he feels like a ghost haunting the hallways of his own youth.

His desk is a scarred wooden island at the very rear of the room. From here he is a silent observer of the social ecosystem. He doesn't look at faces. Faces are too demanding, too full of expectations. Instead, he draws the architecture of loneliness. He sketches the way the afternoon sun carves jagged, lonely shadows across the linoleum floor. He draws the dust motes dancing in the light of the projector. He draws the frayed edges of a classmate's uniform.

He is invisible, and he prefers it that way.

 To be seen is to be judged, and Riki has spent his life trying to reduce his physical footprint to the weight of a pencil stroke.

Then, there is the girl three rows ahead.

Daiki Miura.

She is the only thing in the room Riki doesn't know how to shade. 

She sits by the window, her silhouette framed by the looming power lines and the distant, sparkling grey of the Sagami Bay. The sun catches her hair in a way that defies graphite. A soft blurring halo that makes his hand stall every time he tries to capture it.

He never draws her face.

 To draw a face is to admit you've looked, and to look is to connect. Riki isn't ready for connection. 

He sketches her shoulder, the sharp line of her collarbone visible beneath her blazer, and the way her fingers mindlessly twist a stray thread. There is a stillness to her that mirrors his own although her's feels different.

 His stillness is a choice but hers feels like a symptom.

The teacher's voice is a low, rhythmic drone. A lecture on the Meiji Restoration that sounds like a radio left on in another room. Riki's eyes drift to the Nikon FM2 sitting in his bag. It's a heavy, mechanical beast, a relic of his father's younger days. He prefers film to the new digital cameras starting to appear in stores. Film requires patience. It requires you to sit with the dark until the image decides to reveal itself.

Clack-clack. Clack-clack.

The sound of the Enoden train passing the school tracks vibrates through the floorboards. It's the heartbeat of the town, a constant reminder that time is moving even when Riki feels stationary.

The bell shrills, a harsh, mechanical sound that shatters the silence.

"Don't forget!" Ms. Aiko, shouts over the scraping of chairs. "Project proposals for city archives are due Monday. Pair up or I'll assign you someone myself."