I went to Japan with my mother when my parents were divorced. Like a transplanted cherry blossom, I clumsily took root in the hustle and bustle of Tokyo.
On the first day when I transferred to Youth School, my unripe anxiety was wrapped in my uniform. The young man by the window in the back row of the classroom, with his chestnut hair soaked in the honey-colored morning light, looked down as silent as the weeping cherry blossoms at Sensoji Temple. At the moment when my heartbeat was out of order, he became a pebble breaking through the calm lake.
