Sei Ni Mezameru Shojo -otokotachi To Hito Natsu... -

That night, I drew myself—naked, not sexually, but anatomically, like a Da Vinci sketch. I labeled every part: collarbone, sternum, iliac crest, longing . I hid the drawing under my futon. It's still there, in my parents' house, waiting to be found.

And I am still learning how to fly.

We kissed behind the omikoshi (portable shrine) when the drums were loud enough to hide the sound of my heart tearing open. His mouth tasted of shōchū and salt. My hands fisted in his t-shirt. For five seconds, I understood everything—desire, risk, the beautiful stupidity of being young and temporary. Sei ni Mezameru Shojo -Otokotachi to Hito Natsu...

When he wiped it off with his thumb, I felt it—that infamous doki doki they write songs about. But it wasn't sweet. It was raw, like pulling a Band-Aid off too fast. I realized, with a jolt that cracked my sternum, that I wanted him to keep touching me. That I wanted to touch him back. That my body had become a traitor, whispering suggestions my tongue couldn't form. That night, I drew myself—naked, not sexually, but

We never kissed. But that night, I learned to bleed—not from a cut, but from the arrival of my first muragari (menstruation). My mother handed me a cloth pad and a cup of shōga-yu (ginger tea). "You're a woman now," she said, her voice flat as old tea. It's still there, in my parents' house, waiting to be found

Mr. Tachibana was our kōkō (high school) art teacher—thirty-two, divorced, with hands that smelled of turpentine and kindness. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and never raised his voice. In a town of shouting men, his quiet was an ocean.

"I'm awake," I replied.