When I was five years of age, my kindergarten teacher went on maternity leave for a few weeks; in her place was a younger, more positive substitution. I didn't remember what the substitute teacher looked like, not that I can recall much of that particular year, it was probably as uneventful as the lives of other five year olds.

She was probably a fun teacher, compared to the previous one that is. Quite creative in her means to distract children before they burst into tears. One time she sat next to me, quietly listening to my babble of what I had drawn; it was a princess and a dragon. After I finished weaving a completely convoluted tale about some badly drawn figures, she looked at me with an odd expression. It wasn't exactly sad nor was it happy; my young, childish mind didn't have the vocabulary to describe the emotion. She smiled a second later, wiping off the unknown emotion from her face.

If I had one word to describe it now, it would be: melancholy.

As I grew older I learnt more words. 'Chores', 'loneliness', 'a mother's love', 'dislike', and many more. I was at the top of my class; my parents encouraged me to do even better. Study hard, go to university, get a high-paying job, marry, have children etc. It could have been worse, they could have forced me to become a lawyer or worse, a doctor.

As for my brother, well, he just told me not to date 'a psycho killer'. Such a loving brother.

My friends considered me to be a dull person, I would agree with them. I have such little interest outside school related things that I might as well be labelled as those unsightly 'otaku'. Though I certainly have more self-respect for myself than they do.

The only subject I failed was English; it was the first subject I've ever failed. It was compulsory in university; I couldn't escape it, the reasoning for the subject being mandatory? It's because we live in an 'English world', that's ridiculous; I have no interest in moving to another country, all my needs are already settled in Japan. I have no interest in the other countries.

But it's still a subject so I'll learn it, as reluctant as I may be.

My parent's relationship is rather…peculiar, as you can say. They do not hate each other nor do they love each other. If I have to describe the feelings they have for each other, I would say it's not extremely negative nor is it extremely positive. At best they tolerate each other; at worst they hold a deep seeded hate for one another. My mother did mention that my father isn't the end of her red thread, I was more surprised that she believed in such myths rather than the fact she doesn't love my father.

I once asked my brother what he thought of our parents.

"The people who brought us into the world." He simply said. "How about you?"

"Same." I mumbled out as I did my homework.

Again, I wasn't surprised that he felt like that. I probably knew he had a similar opinion as me, we are siblings after all. I wondered why we are so emotionally detached towards our parents.

When I was in middle school, I had a crush on a boy. He was a tall, somewhat average looking guy that I occasionally see around school. I didn't know him, he didn't know me; we were just two people in the same school. But I knew he did like reading, I always saw him carrying around a book. To feel closer to him I decided to start reading as well.

Apparently he liked English literature, I didn't know they were of English origin, in my defence; he carried the Japanese translated version. I tried reading them, it didn't work out. One of the books, Brave New World, was disgusting and boring. I could barely make it through the whole book and when I did, it made no sense to me. It was stupid.

Maybe that was when I fell out of like for him.

One time I went out with my friends for a study session, it took us a long time for us to find a library with enough space to accommodate us. I went to get a history book for referencing and as I prowl through the aisles, I came upon a rather disgusting sight. In a dark corner was two men exchanging saliva, poorly hidden behind some bookshelves. I took one look at them and walked away, feeling sick through my bones.

I didn't mention the incident to anyone.

My first boyfriend wasn't what other girls would find interesting. He was tall and, again, average looking. I confessed to him, we started going out. Broke up a few months later. I thought having a boyfriend would change my life, make more colourful, happy so to say. It didn't.

He probably went out with me out of boredom, not that my reasons were any more honourable. I just wanted to try to see what it was like. It wasn't that interesting. Would have it been any different if I had pick anyone else? No. They still would have broken up with me once they realised my feelings were not there. The only difference would be how hurt they would've been. We parted on mutual separation and were still the same people before and after our relationship.

"Am I likable?" I once asked my brother.

He squint his eyes and took a minute to answer. "Not really."

"Why?"

"There's not much to like, you're pretty boring."

"Hmm…"

You know when I compared myself from then to now, I find myself to be disappointed. Such a happy child got dulled by the act of growing up. Where did that little child gone? She was 'stolen away by a fearsome dragon, locked away in a tall tower'; such a reason is far less depressing than reality. At least in that story, a prince on a noble steed will rescue the child after so many years so they can have their happy ending. Reality has no happy ending nor do I expect one for someone like me.

Now I understand why she gaze upon the child me with such melancholy, she too was disappointed and regretful. I wonder why she decided to pain herself further by becoming a teacher for children. Maybe she hoped that by that way, she'll regain the same important thing she discarded a long time ago.

I wonder if I would ever get it back.

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