Chapter Text
I'm tired of you, still tied to me
(it's just the way that you are)
I'm tired of you, too tired to leave
(I just wanna sleep)
"Hard Times" - Ethel Cain (2022)
The first sound wasn’t his alarm. It never was. Alarms were for people who trusted sleep. What woke him was the city itself, loud and relentless, miraculously indifferent to the fact that he existed. Steel against steel. A hammer against something hollow. Then the drawn-out shriek of machinery biting into stone, teeth made of metal.
His body startled awake before his mind agreed to follow—lungs tight, breath short, as if he’d surfaced too fast from some dark water. Panic clung to him the way sweat sometimes does, thin and electric, a second skin you couldn’t peel off. He waited for the rest of it—blue walls, a voice whispering his name, the remembered echo of “Yu, come here” —but nothing came.
Just construction. Just the ordinary violence of everyone else’s life.
Yuuji rubbed at his eyes, the motion half-hearted, as if the sleep still clung too heavy to shake off. His hair stuck in every direction, strands of washed-out pink plastered where condensation had kissed them damp. Above him, the ceiling wore its sickness openly: a damp patch blooming wide across the plaster, slow as rot, patient as anything that knows it will win eventually.
He watched a bead fatten along the edge, tremble under the vibration of drills outside, and then let go. It fell straight onto the center of his forehead. Cold enough to sting.
“Good morning to you too,” he muttered, voice still hoarse from sleep. He forced a grin at the empty room.
He rolled to his side and then sat up, which made his bones argue. It was funny in a not-funny way—how a twenty-one-year-old could feel like a forty-year-old who felt like a sixty-year-old. Sleep debt with interest, that was what it was. The futon beneath him had given up the act years ago, flat as the floor it was supposed to protect him from. But Yuuji didn’t live here for comfort. He lived here because the rent was suspiciously low and because he could turn a lock and know no one on the other side wanted anything from him.
A new round of hammering rattled the window. He put his feet on the floor. It was cool in that way floors sometimes are, like a brief apology. He stared at the jar on the desk before he stood. Coins glinting, copper and silver thrown together in a heap, a tiny moon of bills rolled and rubber-banded buried underneath. His insurance policy. His version of faith. He tapped the glass with his knuckle just once, the way you tap a fish tank even though someone told you in school not to.
The kitchen wasn’t really a kitchen. It had the parts—small fridge that groaned like it was dying, a microwave with buttons that stuck, a sink that reeked faintly no matter how much soap he poured into it. The cupboard offered its usual treasures: instant noodles stacked like bricks, a bag of rice knotted with plastic from the store, a jar of instant coffee that had hardened into something closer to rock than powder.
He set the kettle on. It shivered as it heated, a nervous tremor that rattled through the thin counter. He jabbed his spoon into the jar until a few stubborn clumps broke loose, dropped them into the mug, and pretended the brown shards melted into water instead of floating like debris.
The liquid turned the shade of things that leave marks on teeth. He took a sip too fast, scalded his tongue, and hissed through his teeth.
“Breakfast of champions,” he muttered to himself.
He leaned against the counter, sipping slowly, eyes half-closed. Two, maybe three shifts today. Convenience store until noon—the uniform still waiting by the door, fabric gone stiff from too much detergent and too little air. After that he had the dishwashing shift, back-of-house steam that curled into his throat and stayed there. Then, if his legs still remembered how to turn, delivery runs on his bicycle, cutting through traffic until the city dissolved into a smear of neon. If he managed all of it without folding, rent would survive another month. The landlord’s eyes wouldn’t sharpen at him in the hallway. And the lock would still answer his key.
He set the mug down and wandered into the bathroom, bare feet sticking a little against the floor where the tiles never quite dried. The mirror above the sink caught him off guard the way it always did—like running into someone you’d been trying to avoid. Hair pointing in every direction, eyes smudged with the permanent ink of sleepless nights, mouth caught halfway to a grin that looked more like a wince. He adjusted it. Tried again. Pulled the corners up higher. Still nothing real in it.
The shower sputtered awake, water lukewarm at first. He stood under it, letting the weak stream run down his face, muscles slowly relaxing. For a few minutes, it felt like a small mercy—until the pipes groaned, and the water snapped to cold. He gasped, stumbling back against the tiles.
“Don’t do this to me,” he hissed, teeth chattering. He smacked the handle, twisted it back and forth, but nothing changed. Ice water poured steadily, splashing against his feet, his calves, creeping higher as he hesitated. “Come on. Please—just five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”
The shower ignored him. It always did. He swore again and ducked quickly under the freezing spray, scrubbing at his hair, washing in fast, desperate movements. The water stabbed at his skin, raising goosebumps. By the time he stumbled out, dripping onto the cracked tiles, he was shivering hard enough that his teeth clicked.
He dried with the towel that had learned the shape of him. Whatever softness it once had was long gone; it scraped across his skin like sandpaper pretending to be cloth. He didn’t mind. He pulled on jeans that had thinned at the knees and a hoodie the color of a sky that never fully committed to morning. Socks with a small hole at the heel—he put that one on the left foot because the left shoe’s insole still miraculously had some kindness in it.
He drank the rest of his coffee —cold already— in two gulps, pulling the kind of face people make when they taste something they don’t actually like but insist on enduring anyway.
Keys. Wallet. The convenience-store polo, smoothed flat, into the same backpack he’d dragged through high school. The zipper stuck if you pulled too fast, but he knew the trick—tilt, nudge, coax it shut like everything else in his life. He slid in a spare shirt for later, just in case the day turned ugly, which it usually did.
He was halfway to the door when his eyes snagged on the calendar. It hung there like everything else in the apartment—slightly wrong, crooked in a way that felt personal. The nail was loose, the paper sagged under the kind of weight paper shouldn’t have, as if even time was too heavy to hold straight.
He’d picked it up from the 100-yen store back in January. Not for the months, but for the cover photo—an impossible blue sky you'd only see on postcards, he’d torn off and thrown away after a week, embarrassed by the lie of it. And then kept it because of the squares. He made an X every night before bed. Crossed the day out like scoring a point. He thought of it as evidence. Not proof of anything big, just proof of continued existence. See? Still here. The jar of coins, but for days.
He hadn’t crossed out yesterday yet. The square waited, blank and accusing, as if a missed mark could mean the whole day hadn’t happened. He picked up the red pen that lived on the desk, its cap chewed half through, and pressed hard. One stroke down, one stroke across. The paper tore a little under the pressure, a tiny wound in the page. He did today’s too. That was cheating, technically. He told himself he’d earned it in advance.
Beside the fields of red Xs—fields that made him feel oddly accomplished,—there was a circle. He didn’t have to look to see it; it lived under his skin already. Friday. He’d gone over it more than once, pressing the pen too hard, until the paper thinned and the ink bled through like a wound. He had wanted it to be neat and had made it messy, which, if you were feeling poetic, was about the right metaphor for it.
Next to the circle, a yellow Post-it clung half-peeled to the wall. The number written there had started to fade, ink smudged where his thumb kept brushing it, but he didn’t need to read it. He could close his eyes and still see it. He could turn his head and hear it, the digits strung together like a song you hated but couldn’t stop humming. The prison’s number. He’d copied it down weeks ago, swore he’d call, and then kept putting it off.
Looking at it now made his pulse stutter. The body keeps count whether the brain votes yes or no. Friday wasn’t an appointment. It wasn’t even an obligation or anything you could put a name to. Now he had two days left to gather the courage to press the digit on his phone. Later.
The door never shut the way it should. Some rainy season years back had swollen the frame, and the wood still held the grudge. He pulled it toward him; the first latch caught like always, smug about it. He set his foot against the skirting board, leaned his weight in with a shoulder, and tried again. The second latch answered with a long wooden groan that rattled through his jaw like it wanted to chip his teeth from the inside. On the third shove it surrendered, slamming shut with the kind of hollow thud that made the hallway sound emptier than it already was.
He slid the key into the lock, twisted until it clicked, and let out a breath that turned into a shaky laugh.
Another day. Just another day.
…
The sun hadn’t risen so much as it had dragged itself halfway up the sky, bleached and reluctant, like it was already tired of the city before the city even got moving. Yuuji stepped into it with a backpack dangling from one shoulder, straps bitten thin from years of use. The air already carried dust, kicked up by trucks growling past, and he had to squint against it. He thought about calling it “fresh air” just to see if the lie would sound funny in his head.
The construction site was impossible to avoid. It sprawled across the block like a wound that wouldn’t scab over, cranes creaking in the distance, men in helmets shouting over the clatter of machines. The old men at the entrance noticed him before he could angle his head down and escape. They always did.
“Oi, Yuuji!” one of them barked, voice gravelly from decades of cigarettes and laughter. His name carried on the air like it had weight, like it belonged here more than he did.
Yuuji lifted a hand, forced brightness into it. “Morning, gramps.”
Another worker leaned on his shovel and whistled. “You eatin’, boy? One strong wind, poof—gone. We’ll have to plaster your face on the missing posters.”
The chorus of laughter came too quick, too familiar. They were joking, sure, but he still tugged at his hoodie zipper like it could hide the sharp edges of his collarbone.
“I eat,” he protested, grinning because that was what they expected. "I’m saving my calories for when you guys finally invite me to drink. Can’t show up full, right?”
Another voice teased, with the kind of humor that always cut just a little. “You gettin’ legal any soon, brat?”
Yuuji spun on his heel, brows pulling together in a mock scowl. “Huh? I’m legal.” He jabbed a thumb at his chest, puffing himself up like a kid pretending at bravado. “Sure as hell way farther from retirement than you guys are.”
The men howled, slapping their knees, shoulders bumping as if his indignation was the best thing they’d seen all morning. One of them wiped his eyes with the back of a gloved hand.
“Listen to him,” another chuckled. “Mouth on him’s gonna get him in trouble one day.”
“Already does,” Yuuji shot back, though his grin wavered for half a second. “But hey, someone’s gotta keep you fossils entertained.”
That got another round of laughter. Someone clapped his back as he passed, a heavy, calloused hand that almost staggered him.
And then he wasn’t twenty-one on a cracked sidewalk anymore.
He was twelve.
He was in the narrow hallway of their old apartment, plaster yellowed, carpet flattened under too many shoes. His own socks were gray at the heel. He remembered that detail because he stared down at them hard, as if keeping his eyes low might keep things still.
“Yu,” the voice called. Not angry yet, not gentle either. Just heavy. The kind of voice that decided things before you had a chance to.
Yuuji flinched when the hand pushed him, not hard enough to throw him, just enough to say: you’re small, I’m not.
“Come on,” the voice said again, quicker now. Words thick, urgent, like they had to happen before someone else heard.
Yuuji swallowed hard. His chest felt too tight, breath snagging where it shouldn’t. He glanced sideways toward the kitchen.
His mother was there, framed by the doorway. Back turned, hands planted on the counter. Not chopping, not cooking. Just still. The pan on the stove was empty. Yuuji’s eyes begged her to notice.
A hand curled around the back of Yuuji’s neck, steering him toward the half-closed bedroom door. Fingers too tight, then loosening, then tightening again, as if the grip couldn’t decide how to hold him.
And just as suddenly, it vanished.
The street returned — dust, engines, the laughter of old men still echoing harmlessly from the construction site. Yuuji’s chest rose too fast, his breath scraping cold. Sweat cooled down his spine where the smack had landed. The men didn’t seem to notice anything strange.
“Brat thinks he’s funny,” the shovel leaned forward, pointing with his chin. “Let’s see him lift one of these bags of cement next time, then we’ll know if he’s a man yet.”
“Come on, brat.” the voice said again.
Yuuji’s smile locked tighter, a hook pulling at the corner of his mouth until it hurt. “Yeah, yeah—next time,” he tossed back, quickening his steps before they could hand him the bag.
The men roared again, their voices chasing him down the block. He kept smiling until the noise of the site faded behind him, swallowed by the hum of traffic. His mouth slowly started sliding upside down. Their teasing was harmless, even kind in its own way, but it clung to him like dust. Too close to the truth.
…
The convenience store smelled like it always did: plastic wrap, fryer oil gone stale, air freshener working overtime to cover both. The fluorescent lights buzzed above, unforgiving. Behind the counter stood Atsuya Kazukabe, arms crossed, sharp eyes already narrowing as if Yuuji had walked in late—even though the clock said otherwise.
“You’re five minutes early,” Atsuya said flatly. “What, you think showing up early makes up for working slow?”
“Morning to you too, boss,” Yuuji replied, setting his bag down and slipping behind the counter. He smoothed the uniform over his chest with exaggerated care. “Don’t worry, I’ll be lightning today.”
Atsuya snorted. “Lightning strikes once. You’re more like a leaky faucet. Drip, drip, drip.”
Yuuji laughed, not because it was funny but because Atsuya’s insults were the closest thing to affection he knew how to offer. The man was all sharp edges—creased lines around the mouth, hair streaked with gray he never bothered to dye. His voice carried the weight of someone who’d spent too long dealing with people and decided disappointment was the default.
Yet, halfway through the shift, when Yuuji’s stomach growled loud enough to echo against the fridge doors, Atsuya pretended not to notice. He just shoved a bunch of plastic-wrapped onigiri across the counter.
“Eat. Customers won’t buy from a cashier who looks ready to faint.”
Yuuji blinked, then grinned. “Wow, thanks. Is this what they call a bonus? Careful, boss—you keep this up, people might mistake you for a nice guy.”
“Shut up and eat before I change my mind,” Atsuya muttered, turning away to restock shelves. His ears were a little red.
Hours blurred. Beep, bow, thank you. A child crying because his mother wouldn’t buy him a popsicle. A drunk man arguing with the coin slot of the ATM. The relentless hum of the refrigerator fans, like some giant insect lived in the walls. Time didn’t pass here so much as drip, drip, drip, exactly like Atsuya had said.
Yuuji thought, sometimes, about how this might be his life forever. Maybe he’d keep rotating between convenience stores, kitchens, delivery shifts. Maybe one day his hair would gray too, and he’d scold some other kid for showing up five minutes early.
Atsuya caught him staring into space once and barked, “Shelf three needs restocking. Stop daydreaming.”
“Got it.” Yuuji moved, obedient. His hands found boxes, tore them open, lined up drinks with labels facing front. Muscle memory. His mind wandered anyway. To the red circle on the calendar. To a phone call he hadn’t made yet, words choking his throat before they ever reached air. He shook his head like he could rattle the thoughts loose. A bottle tipped, rolled onto the floor. He bent to catch it and caught sight of his reflection in the fridge glass instead—bent, tired, mouth set in a smile that looked less real than Atsuya’s frown.
A group of college kids stumbled in, still in hoodies stamped with campus logos. Their laughter carried, easy and unguarded, about some girl in their class — how she’d smiled at one of them, how another swore she was out of his league. Dumb bravado, thin jokes, the kind of talk people their age were supposed to have.
Yuuji rings them up with his customer smile, nodding along, but he feels the gap yawning under his feet. He’d never really thought about girls like that. Sure, he’d found them pretty, sometimes so much it made his chest ache — but it never lasted. Those feelings were something he saw the way you see a sunset out the window of a train: there and gone before you can name it, never yours to keep.
Maybe he could have been like them. Hoodie instead of uniform, wallet fat with allowance, trading stories about who looked at who in class.
A version of himself that laughed this loud, argued this pointlessly, believed in things like crushes and dates instead of survival and rent. That didn’t quit after the first semester, that didn’t drown under nightmares, that didn’t leave everything behind.
Then the scanner beeps, plastic bags rustle, and the kids are already gone, laughter trailing like they belong to a different galaxy.
Yuuji catches himself staring at the door too long. Atsuya barks something from the shelves, dragging him back. He mutters “yeah, yeah” under his breath, shoving the thought down.
…
The restaurant kitchen came next. A narrow space thick with steam, where the air smelled of garlic and sweat. The clang of pans and hiss of oil never stopped, and neither did his hands—scrubbing plates, stacking bowls, the water scalding enough to raise welts. The rhythm was mindless, almost merciful. Here he didn’t have to talk, only move. By the second hour his arms ached, fingers wrinkled pale and raw.
“Hey, kid,” one of the cooks called over the noise. “Don’t fall asleep in the sink, alright?”
Yuuji smiled without lifting his head. “Not planning to. I charge extra for naps.”
They laughed, and it was enough to keep him upright until the manager waved him out.
Night fell while he was on his bike. The city’s lights blurred into streaks, headlights and neon smearing across his vision. He wove through traffic, a delivery bag strapped to his back, legs burning with each push of the pedals. The wind against his face felt almost good—cleaner than the air he usually breathed, though it carried the sting of exhaustion too. By the last delivery his muscles shook, but he still forced a smile as he handed over the food, bowing out of habit.
When he finally made it home, he didn’t bother with the light. The apartment greeted him the way it always did: quiet, damp in the corners. He dropped his bag, kicked off his shoes halfway across the entry, and collapsed onto the futon without changing.
One day left.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow I have to call.
The thought pressed itself into him like a bruise impossible to ignore. Not a whisper, not a voice, but a pressure in his skull, swelling behind his eyes, pushing at his temples. His mouth went dry. He tried to breathe around it, shallow and uneven. It didn’t leave.
He pressed his face into the pillow, as if fabric could muffle the inside of his head. The smell of old detergent, of sweat not quite washed out, filled his nose.
For a second he thought about getting up. Take the calendar off the wall, tear it in half, flush the paper down the toilet. Pretend the circle didn’t exist. That nothing ever did. But his body refused to move.
He wanted to tell himself tomorrow was just another day. He wanted to say it out loud, to force the lie into the room so he could pretend it was true. What came instead was something smaller, almost childish, mouthed into the dark: I don’t want to.
It was scary. As if something inside him—his conscience, his will, whatever name people gave that small engine that kept them moving—had finally said it was done. Had finally muttered, enough. The thought didn’t feel loud, didn’t scream at him. It just sat there, steady and undeniable, the way mold creeps in through the corners of a wall until suddenly the whole place smells of rot. And Yuuji didn’t know how long he could keep pretending not to notice. Because what if he woke up tomorrow and the engine didn’t start at all? What if there was nothing left to push forward with, not even the scraps of himself he’d been recycling for years?
He shut his eyes before he could think too much about it. But darkness wasn’t any kinder.
He saw his brother’s face the way it had been the last time, years ago, twisted with something sick, barely recognizable. Heard the sound his mother had made, saw the way his father had turned away. The memory crawled up his throat and left him shivering. He pressed both fists against his chest until his knuckles hurt, as if he could force the pictures back into the past where they belonged.
He couldn’t.
And finally, when he was too tired to fight his own weight; sleep didn’t come easy, but it came anyway.
Yuuji let it take him.