The world is just like a progammed thing for me, and I see myself as a java programmer, dedicated to preventing any disruption in its precise operation.
My day is usually at 7:15 AM. Not a second earlier or later. That single minute of variation introduces instability into my carefully structured routine, a minor disruption with the potential to just ruin my entire afternoon. When the alarm on my phone - a generic, unobtrusive digital tone - activates, I'm already awake. My awakening is less of like a gradually happening thing, it's just like an instantaneous thing happened.
I remain in bed for exactly thirty seconds, my stare fixed on the ceiling of my apartment. It's nothing but a stretch of white, subtly textured with what construction workers refer to as a "popcorn" finish. From my particular vantage point, I've counted 4,281 of these tiny protrusions. It's an entirely useless piece of information, but data provides a sense of re-assurance. Light from the morning sun is bleeding through the thin, charcoal-grey curtains, creating elongated, geometric shadows that stretch across the wooden floorboards.
I sat up, the bed springs emitting a soft, predictable creak. The room's temperature was set at 18°C - the ideal temperature for both my thinking performance and my peaceful sleep. I reached for my glasses on the nightstand, careful to touch only the frames to avoid touching the lenses. Otherwise, they will be marked with my fingerprints. I placed them over my nose, and my vision sharpened from a hazy watercolor to a crisp, high-definition grid.
By 7:25 AM, I was in the kitchen. My breakfast is always the same: two slices of white bread, toasted for precisely three minutes to achieve a precise golden-tan shade (Hex code #D2B48C), accompanied by a cup of green tea. I appreciate the tea's bitterness; it provides a necessary sense of grounding, a reminder that the world isn't designed for simple pleasure but rather complex navigation. I consumed my meal with methodical precision, wiping the plate clean of crumbs with a damp cloth immediately upon finishing.
As I changed into my Kyoto Prefectural High School uniform, I paused to examine my reflection. My light brown hair was cut to a length that needed no maintenance at all. I have a slender, somewhat underweight physique, a consequence of occasionally overlooking meals when engrossed in a particularly engaging physics problem. My eyes - a deep grey-brown, almost black in the dim light - returned my gaze with the same impassive expression as a calculator screen.
"All parameters are nominal," I murmured to the empty room. The sound of my own voice served as a crucial self-assessment, verifying that my vocal cords were functioning correctly before I faced the day's social interactions.
I exited my apartment at 7:35 AM. The building's hallway carried a faint scent of floor wax mingled with the aroma of a neighbor's cooking - grilled mackerel and fermented soybeans. I chose the stairs over the elevator, preferring the reliable mechanics of my own legs to the elevator's unpredictable wait times. Each step produced a steady thud-thud-thud, a rhythm I could easily track. One hundred and twelve steps to the ground floor.
Outside, Kyoto was stirring to life. The city is a marvel of grid-based urban planning, a vestige of the Heian-kyo era. It's sensible. It's logical. I began walking toward the Sagano Line station, maintaining a consistent pace of 1.4text{ m/s}. I observed the commuters: office workers with loosened ties, elderly women carrying fabric bags to the market, and other students, their voices creating a chaotic, overlapping soundscape that I did my best to filter out.
At 7:42 AM, the silver train pulled into the station. The familiar hiss of the pneumatic brakes was a welcome signal, indicating the start of the next stage in my daily routine. I boarded the second carriage, which conveniently aligns with the exit staircase at my destination. I took my usual standing position by the door. Sitting introduces too many uncontrolled elements - unwanted conversations, proximity to strangers, the social obligation of offering a seat. Standing offers autonomy.
I watched the city rush past. The Kamogawa River came into view between buildings. It was late March. The water level was high due to snowmelt from the mountains, a swirling grey-blue mass that seemed to struggle against the stone barriers. Most passengers were admiring the trees, murmuring about the arrival of "Sakura season." My attention was focused on the water's surface tension, calculating the approximate flow rate based on the movement of a stray piece of driftwood.
"It's merely a seasonal change," I thought, adjusting my bag strap - raising it precisely two centimeters to better distribute the weight of my textbooks. "The trees aren't 'awakening.' They're responding to a thermal stimulus. There's no magic involved."
[The Variable in Desk 14]
The classroom of Class 2-B buzzed with the unbridled energy of adolescence.
I arrived at 8:05 AM. The room was filled with the smells of ozone from the heaters, lingering chalk dust, and a faint, sweet hint of someone's strawberry milk. I navigated through the "Noise" - the clusters of boys discussing recent J-League scores and the girls chattering about a newly opened cafe in Arashiyama. I kept my gaze directed downwards, focusing on the floor tiles.
I settled into my desk. Third row, next to the window. For me, it's simply the seat that offers the most natural light and the fewest potential distractions. I began my pre-class routine.
* Place the bag on the hook (Left side).
* Retrieve the pencil case.
* Align the notebook with the edge of the desk.
I was in the midst of step three when the general "Noise" shifted into a "Signal."
The seat beside mine - Desk 14 - had been unoccupied for fourteen school days. Today, a bag was hanging from its hook. It was a soft, camel-colored leather bag adorned with a small, hand-knitted charm of a white rabbit dangling from the zipper. The rabbit had slightly uneven ears, one being noticeably longer than the other. An imperfection. An anomaly.
"Yo, Haruki! You're staring at the empty seat like it's a crime scene," a loud voice called out.
It was Riku Nakamura. My "Best Friend," according to societal norms. He leaned against the desk in front of mine, his athletic build practically vibrating with excessive morning energy. His tie was askew, and his hair looked as if he had lost a fight with a tornado.
"It's not empty," I replied, gesturing towards the rabbit charm. "Odds are about 98% that we've got a new student joining the class."
"98%? Seriously, enough with the numbers," Riku chuckled, slapping my shoulder in a friendly, forceful way that almost sent my glasses flying. "It's a transfer student. A girl. Saw her hanging around the office earlier. Total 'Main Character' vibes, Haruki. She was smiling at a potted plant in the hallway. Who even does that?"
"Someone experiencing a normal physiological response to chlorophyll, perhaps?" I suggested, adjusting my glasses.
Riku groaned. "You're such a robot. Anyway, Miyuki's in a foul mood because the archery club's budget got cut. You might want to avoid the word 'arrows' today if you value your head."
He wandered off to pester Miyuki Aizawa, who was sitting a few rows ahead, looking like she wanted to punch the blackboard into splinters. I turned back to my notebook, opening my Physics textbook to page 142 - Fluid Dynamics. I tried to start reading, but for the first time in three years, the words just weren't grabbing me. My brain felt like it was missing a gear.
Then, the scent arrived before she did.
It wasn't the cloying, artificial perfume that most girls wore. This was something lighter - like sun-warmed paper, or the way the air smells right after a rain. It was a noticeably "natural" scent, which made it even more distracting because it didn't have a clear chemical profile I could easily pin down.
That's when the chair moved.
I didn't look up. I kept my eyes glued to the diagram of a Venturi tube. But in the corner of my eye, I caught sight of her.
She sat down. She wasn't stiff and awkward like me. She moved with a natural grace, like she was totally comfortable in her own skin - a concept I couldn't even begin to understand. She placed a leather-bound sketchbook on the desk. It looked well-used, the edges of the pages slightly frayed, and filled with colored ribbons as bookmarks.
"Hello," she said.
Her voice was right in the middle - not too high, not too low. It wasn't the loud, attention-seeking voice of a transfer student trying to make an entrance. It was a quiet, personal greeting, meant only for the guy sitting a foot away.
I waited a solid two seconds before turning to look at her.
She was already looking at me. Her hair was a light, warm brown, somewhere between straight and wavy. A single strand was tucked neatly behind her left ear. Her eyes - amber-hazel in color - were wide and clear. She wasn't just looking; she was carefully observing, as if she was trying to sketch the thoughts in my head.
"Hello," I replied. My voice sounded unnatural and stilted, even to me, a stark contrast to her almost musical tone.
"I'm Koharu Aoyama," she said. She smiled, and it transformed her entire face. It wasn't just her mouth; her eyes crinkled at the corners, and her shoulders seemed to visibly relax. "I heard this is the seat for people who like to watch the world go by. Is that true for you?"
"I am Haruki Sato," I said. "And assigned seating is based on alphabetical order. Personal preference rarely factors into classroom management."
Koharu tilted her head slightly. "Management? Is that how you see the classroom? As something to manage?"
"Isn't that what it is? We're here to exchange our time for information in a structured setting."
She laughed softly. It was a sound like water running over smooth stones. "Maybe. But I think it's more like a gallery. Everyone here is a different kind of painting. Some are loud and bright like neon, and some..." she leaned in just a bit, and I could see the tiny golden flecks in her eyes, "some are drawn in very careful, very fine lines of grey."
I felt a strange little flutter in my chest - a tiny glitch in my heart rate. I adjusted my bag strap, a nervous habit that always surfaced when a conversation veered off course. "Grey is the most versatile color. It goes with everything, doesn't clash. It's the color of efficiency."
"It also hides in the shadows," she whispered.
She didn't wait for me to respond. She simply opened her sketchbook and started to draw with her left hand. I watched her pencil move across the page. She wasn't using a ruler, and yet her hand remained steady. Her lines were technically "imperfect", but they had a confidence that my perfectly straight lines always lacked.
[The Friction of the Project]
The classroom's sliding door groaned open, a sound that usually signaled the thing I looked forward to most: peace and quiet.
Mr. Shibata walked in. He was the spitting image of "Winter" - tall, gaunt, with skin that looked like it hadn't seen sunlight since dial-up internet was a thing. His thin, rectangular glasses were perched precariously low on his nose, like one good sneeze would send them shattering on the floor. He smelled of strong black coffee and old paper.
He completely skipped the greeting, the smile. He just walked straight to the podium and slammed a stack of papers down with a heavy thud that echoed through the room.
"Turn to page 210," he rasped.
The room shifted as forty students reached for their textbooks. The sound of rustling paper filled the air, like a swarm of locusts descending.
"Before we start the lesson," Shibata continued, his eyes scanning the room like a hawk searching for a mouse, "we need to discuss your term project. This isn't optional. It counts for 30% of your final grade. If you fail this, you'll be spending your summer in this room, staring at my face instead of being at the beach. I think that's enough motivation."
Riku leaned back in his chair, whispering in a loud voice, "I'd honestly rather risk it with a shark."
Miyuki Aizawa, sitting next to him, kicked his chair leg. "Shut up, Riku. I'm not failing this because you're goofing off."
Shibata ignored them both. "The theme is 'A Cultural Portrait of Kyoto.' You'll be working in pairs. Choose a facet of this city - its history, its people, its hidden spots - and document it. Not just a report, but as a story. I want to see your perspective, not just what Wikipedia tells me."
I felt a surge of mild relief. I'd partner with Riku. I would do the research; he would provide the "energy," and we'd pull off a solid A-minus. It was a tried and true formula.
"However," Shibata added, and my relief evaporated immediately. I'd already picked the partners. For the past six months, I'd been watching you all interact. Most of you gravitate towards people who mirror your own weaknesses. You stick to what's comfortable, your 'Winter' zones. So, for this project, I'm pairing you based on Contrasting Friction."
He lifted the list.
"Nakamura and Aizawa."
"What!?" Riku and Miyuki blurted out at the same time.
"Opposites," Shibata stated, his voice flat. "Riku needs structure. Aizawa-san needs to understand that not everything can be solved with brute force. Next."
"Takahashi and Fujimoto."
Airi, usually the top student, bit her lip. She glanced over at Mei Fujimoto, who seemed to be trying to become one with her desk. Airi was all about ambition; Mei was all about avoiding attention.
I waited for my name, expecting to be paired with someone like Airi - someone who spoke my language of grades and deadlines.
"Sato."
I looked up, surprised.
"And Aoyama."
The room seemed to fall silent. I could feel forty pairs of eyes on us. The "Robot" and the "New Girl." The "Grey Line" and the "Main Character."
Slowly, I turned my head to the left.
Koharu was already looking at me. She didn't seem angry or stressed. She looked... almost expectant. She reached up and tucked her pencil behind her ear - a gesture that made it seem like she was bracing herself for something big.
"Well, Sato-kun," she said softly, her voice cutting through the buzzing in my ears. "Looks like things just got a little more complicated for you."
[The Rooftop Observation]
The lunch bell rang, but for the first time ever, I didn't immediately reach for my lunch. I stayed put, staring at the blackboard where Mr. Shibata had scrawled "AUTHENTICITY" in huge, uneven letters.
"You're thinking too much," Koharu said. She was already packing her bag - or rather, tossing things into it with a carelessness that made my eye twitch.
"I am 'thinking' about it," I corrected. "And this project presents a significant problem. We have no shared creative background."
"Come on," she said, standing up. "Let's go where? To the roof. You can see the whole city from up there. It's a good place to start."
I followed her, not because I wanted to, but because I couldn't come up with a logical reason not to. The stairwell to the roof was a kind of transition zone. As we climbed, the noise from the hallway faded, replaced by the echo of our footsteps on the concrete stairs.
Clang.
The steel door creaked open, revealing a huge, grey space. The air up here carried the scent of the Kitayama mountains - cold, cedar-tinged, and free of the classroom's stale air.
"Look," Koharu said, heading straight for the fence.
I stayed back, about five paces, calculating the wind resistance. "The wind speed is approximately 5 m/s."
"Haruki-kun," she said, interrupting me without turning around. "You're using numbers to put up a wall between yourself and the view. Come here."
I walked over to stand beside her, keeping the required thirty centimeters of space between us. From here, Kyoto looked like a sprawling, living thing.
"It's a grid," I said. "Everything has its place."
"Does it?" Koharu pointed to a tiny shrine tucked between some vending machines in a narrow alleyway far below. "Look at that. It doesn't fit the grid. That's what I want our project to be about. The things that don't fit."
"The stories are always in the outliers," she continued, turning to face me. The wind caught her hair, blowing it across her face. "Tell me, if you weren't a 'robot,' what would you be looking at right now?"
I paused, considering. I wanted to say the structural integrity of the fence. But instead, my eyes went to her thumb, which had a small smudge of graphite on it.
"I'd be looking at the sky," I admitted quietly. "It's the only thing here that doesn't have a border."
Koharu's eyes softened. "I like that. The sky has no borders. My father moves us every two years. I've spent my life trying to fit into different grids. But the sky is always the same."
We spent the rest of lunch eating in a strange, uneasy truce. I took out my Tamago Sando and unwrapped the plastic with precise, almost surgical movements. Koharu watched me, then pulled out a small container of Strawberry Daifuku.
"Here," she said, offering me one.
"I don't eat unscheduled snacks."
"It's a peace offering," she countered.
I took it. The mochi was soft, coated in a fine white powder. I took a bite. The strawberry was tart, a burst of sharp flavour that disrupted the gentle sweetness of the rice cake. It was... unexpected.
[The Indigo River]
After school, my usual "Algorithm" completely broke down. Instead of heading straight to the station, I found myself walking towards the Kamogawa River.
The walk took twenty-four minutes because Koharu kept stopping to look at things - a mossy wall, a stray cat, the colour of a vending machine.
"Twenty-four minutes, Koharu-san," I pointed out when we finally reached the grassy banks.
"But we saw the indigo," she said, sitting down on the slope.
I sat down beside her, maintaining the safe distance. I took out my notebook to record data.
"Look at the water, Haruki," she said softly. "Don't analyze it. Just look."
I made myself stop calculating the flow rate and focused on the surface of the river. It was a shifting blend of silver and dark blue, with flashes of pale gold where the sun touched the ripples.
"It's... indigo," I admitted.
"See?" she smiled. "Robots don't see indigo. They see hex codes. I'm going to make you a promise. By the time this project is over, I'm going to find a colour that even you can't ignore."
[The Evening Reset]
I got back to my apartment at 6:45 PM.
The room was exactly as I had left it: clinical, empty, and at a steady 18°c. I went through my usual evening routine: change clothes, cook dinner (grilled salmon and miso soup), review notes.
But as I sat at my table, I opened my notebook. I had meant to review physics, but instead, I saw her name: Koharu Aoyama. Next to it was a faint smudge of white powder from the Strawberry Daifuku she'd given me.
I touched the smudge. A leftover from a disruption.
I looked at my reflection in the window. My heart rate was 72 beats per minute. A bit higher than my usual 65.
"Just a minor blip," I murmured, trying to sound casual.
But deep down, I knew I wasn't being honest. When I shut my eyes, the sterile grey of the ceiling vanished. Instead, I saw eyes the color of amber and hazel, bright and creased at the edges from laughter under a sunlit sky.
The heart monitor continued its rhythmic beeping, but it felt like the clock had wound down. Spring was on its way - not just on the calendar, but also in the seat beside me. And for the first time in sixteen years, a wave of fear washed over me at the realization that I might actually welcome the change.