He falls in love with tiny details—arching lines, bold strokes, and light shading.
His hands are always itching to create new ideas and innovations. There's a thirst, a hunger, to show the world that in what he does, he excels. His notebooks are scribbled with whimsical landscapes, sketches of the flora that catches his eye, and sometimes, if he feels adventurous enough, he draws people. But it's his drawings of towering skyscrapers and booming cities, his plans for the future, which capture his—and in the future—many others—attention.
He has big plans for the future—plans that could one day land him record deals and ensure a life of wealth and prosperity. It's all there, just waiting to be unleashed from his fingertips and to be put onto paper. His dreams are quite similar to the millions of young lives just barely living and surviving in Tokyo, but in his own mind, he is special. He'll make his dreams come into fruition.
For now, though, he's reading his notes in preparation for a test.
Hastily scribbled, his notes are clearly the by products of an afternoon filled with hazy daydreams and half-forgotten thoughts. Later on, his friends and family would scold him for his lack of effort, but for now, he just reads. As his eyes skim over his chicken scratch, the train stops for a few seconds.
Another stop for another batch of passengers.
It's a stop like any other. Without looking up from his notes, he could tell that there are far more people boarding than leaving. Internally, he groans, already bemoaning the cramped space.
The dying golden light of the afternoon barely provides any illumination to clearly read, but he tries his hardest to absorb that day's lesson. As the new batch of passengers squeeze into the already tight space, he feels a presence at his side. He pays it no mind. Many strangers have brushed past him prior to this experience, but it meant nothing in the long run.
The presence at his side speaks. To him.
Normally, there would have been an apology or something akin to that sentiment, but there's something…heartfelt in what the girl beside him had uttered. Having been jostled from his rapidly diminishing concentration, he can only draw up a slightly confused, slightly dismissive expression and a negative response.
Despite the dying sun, he sees her in full detail.
He's slightly taller than her. Her hair is done up in a cute bun, a red ribbon of some sort twisted within her dark brown locks. An unfamiliar uniform is her attire. It's all generic, nondescript.
Meaningless.
She's just another passenger in this long line of scheduled stops.
Before he just writes her off as a clueless girl, he sees something in her eyes. She knows him. Conviction and determination burns bright in her golden brown eyes. For a second, he feels drawn to her—it's a desire that is more confusing and fleeting than it is a thought that he seriously considers. However, as he does not reciprocate the same feelings that she has at that moment, her face falters.
He takes her in again. Perhaps it's the knowledge that another stop is coming up and that he will never see her again, but he takes in the soft features of her face, the dark brown of her eyes, how her hair is tousled from the short run inside. He's captivated by all the tiny details—details that would look breathtaking on paper, but in real life, oh gods—but now she looks crestfallen, the golden light quickly dissipating from her eyes.
Suddenly, the world seems to be put on fast forward. The train slows to a stop and immediately, passengers start striding towards the open doors. At the corner of his eyes, he notices that the girl hesitates, makes a quick decision, and finally heads toward the doors. Resignation weighs down her shoulders and suddenly, his mind supplies him with a thought and a succeeding decision.
Inexplicably, time slows down.
In a move that is brash and reckless, he moves away from his spot and calls out.
He's not eloquent or well spoken, but he grabs her attention.
For some odd reason, the light returns to her eyes. However, the doors are closing and more people are coming out—the physical barriers are meaningless, but it's separation, nonetheless.
In another reckless action, he asks for her name.
It's stupid. He doesn't know what he's doing. In fact, after the way he had acted towards her, he's not even sure if she'll even tell him her name.
He doesn't know her at all and it's not like he'll ever see her again. Judging from her dialect and her uniform, she's not from Tokyo.
The chances are slim.
But he calls out.
And she answers.
Her voice barely carries over the din, but he takes in her name.
And then she does the unthinkable.
In a swift motion, she takes off her ribbon and throws the cord towards him. It means nothing to him—accessories were never his thing—yet, he grabs it from the air before it could touch the floor. As soon as his fingers grabbed the slightly frayed edges, the doors close.
As he fingers the handmade ornament, her name—what was it again?—fades from his mind.
Later on, he'll fall in love with the bright colors and the overarching lines of a falling comet just seconds away from hitting the earth. It's bright and earth shattering—in more ways than one. As he pushes toward the window, he gasps in delight and his fingers ache to get his sketchbook to document the scene.
He doesn't.
He just watches the comet streak across the sky and towards the other end of the earth.
And, if for a split second, he finds his gaze straying towards a ribbon that he had placed on his desk, he doesn't think anything of it.
Life passes on by for three uneventful years.
Until…he dreams, forgets, and dreams once more.