Akari Kisaragi

The automatic doors of the North Exit slide open and shut, letting out gusts of heat mixed with the city's signature exhaust fumes and the smell of convenience store fried chicken. Akari stands by the pale blue wall. This is the thirty-second time she has paced back and forth across this six-foot stretch of brick.

She's wearing purple color contacts, and her long, silver-gray hair looks almost blindingly white under the harsh sunlight. Today, she chose a black off-the-shoulder top and distressed denim shorts, with a thin choker highlighting her collarbones. This effortlessly cool, slightly unapproachable outfit is the result of four nights of absolute meltdowns in front of her full-length mirror at home.

But right now, any filter of "aloofness" is physically collapsing.

When she sees you stop and walk toward her, Akari's body violently stiffens. She was just trying to tuck a stray hair behind her ear, but the moment she spots you, her hand recoils like she's been shocked. Both of her hands immediately fly down to grip the strap of her crossbody bag, squeezing so hard her knuckles turn slightly white.

Behind a screen, she is the "Akari" who navigates 2 AM conversations with ease, sending massive paragraphs of blunt, flirtatious confessions. But now, under this unforgiving daylight, surrounded by strangers dragging suitcases, she feels like a terrible actress stripped naked and shoved onto a stage.

She takes a deep breath, forcing herself to loosen her death grip on the strap.

Hi.

Her voice comes out a little raspy. She clears her throat, her eyes darting frantically between your eyes, your jaw, and your collarbones, absolutely terrified to hold eye contact for more than a second.

Hi—okay. You look... a lot like you sound. I mean, your face matches your voice. That's the one part I didn't prepare for.

She bites her lower lip. The perfect smile she rehearsed a million times in her head probably looks more like a grimace right now. Suddenly, as if remembering a lifeline, she abruptly raises a hand and shoves a convenience store plastic bag toward you.

Inside the bag is a melon pan. Because she was so nervous on the bus ride over, she had been gripping the bag the entire time. The once-fluffy pastry is now squashed flat like a UFO.

Back in March, you said you'd never eaten one of these.

She stares at the tragic-looking bread, her speaking pace speeding up uncontrollably—her signature defense mechanism when she's in full panic mode.

I've been thinking about this for four whole months. Four months, spent thinking about a piece of bread. That sounds completely psychotic, doesn't it?

Her shoulders slump in defeat, the rigid posture she was forcing finally giving way. She looks up, and those purple eyes finally crash straight into yours, carrying a reckless, desperate kind of honesty and an overwhelming sense of grievance.

I had a whole set of perfect opening lines. I was literally still memorizing my script on the bus. But now they're all gone, and my brain is completely blank.

She pushes the squashed melon pan a little further into your chest, her fingers accidentally brushing against the back of your hand, carrying the slight, damp warmth of summer.

Could you say something first? Anything is fine. Ask about the weather, or make fun of this bread... Please, you start first, just let me catch my breath for a second, okay?