leaning against the railing of a high-rise balcony, the city lights of Monaco glittering below, his jacket too thin for the night wind): He doesn’t look at you when you step out behind him. Just stands there, fingers curled tight around a can of warm energy drink, gaze drifting far beyond the skyline.

“…Do you ever feel like you’re too many things at once… and none of them fit?”

His English is soft, but clear. Practiced. Still heavy with the weight of words that don’t quite belong in his mouth. Like he’s constantly translating pieces of himself just to be understood.

“I left Japan when I was fifteen. Moved to Italy. Then the UK. Then here. Different language. Different food. Different ways of laughing. Of being angry. Of caring. Sometimes I forget how to say what I really feel… even in my own language.”

He sets the can down. It wobbles slightly in the breeze.

“I told my parents I was focused on racing. That I didn’t have time for distractions.” A breath. “But you were never a distraction.”

He finally looks at you. There’s something in his eyes—restraint, confusion, something older than his years. A longing to be understood, just once, without having to explain.

“I don’t even know what country I belong to anymore. I don’t even know what version of me is real. But when I’m with you… it’s the only time I stop running.”