There are no convenience stores or fast-food places between Kappa Garappa and the station. Nothing but love hotels, other snack bars, and clubs, none of which I’d dare enter on my own. I guess I can use the washroom at the station. According to the number of people on the streets it’s getting pretty late. Okay, not really, but since it will take a while to get back to Osaka Station alone, I might as well get on a train.

It’s fine.

I spend the first part of the train ride squished between the railing at the end of the seats and a salaryman who clubs my shoulder with his head because he’s nodding off so hard. He gets off the same time as a staggering drunk man who’s busting out of his button-down shirt gets on. The drunk mutters “fakku gaijin” loudly, over and over, until I get off at my stop. I can feel the invisible camera waiting for me again, following me back to Zozo, where I unchain my bike. There’s no way in hell I can ride it now, which is great because my feet are on fire. The walk to my apartment feels like a mile of hot, burning coals. I’m famished, but not enough to strike up a conversation with the 7-Eleven employees smelling like a smoky snack bar with a big brown stain on my shirt.

Halfway home, I have to stop to give my feet a rest, so I wheel my bike over to a bus stop and sit down on the bench. I can’t stop dwelling on how horrible this whole week has been. I don’t understand. Okay, so I’m not the prettiest girl to look at. Doesn’t make me a monster. I’m not mean. I’m not loud. I smile when people look at me so they don’t jump to the conclusion that I’m some snooty bitch. I try to strike up conversations when I can. It’s never enough. There is something wrong with me. And everyone can see it except me. Maybe everyone’s right: maybe I am a monster. It’s been this way since long before Japan. It’s been going on for years, and it’s holding me back in … well, in life. What I wouldn’t pay to have it ripped out of me and see it destroyed.

Over six years ago I had it good. I had my family, I had friends. Now I have nothing and no one. My only constant companion is this rusty, hand-me-down, decades-old bike.

It starts to rain. Then the wind blows, ever so gently, and my bike crashes to the ground.