[I Feel by The Sundays]

You were tired of everyone, hoping whenever someone spoke to you they’d go so long they’d leave you alone. You envied those who were able to live their lives so regularly each day without fail. When was your turn? Your life was not unusual for somebody about your age, yet you were growing undeniably sick and exhausted of the repetition for everyday you lived. For years, this was the normality of your thoughts.

Each morning you came into the café you’d begun working at beneath an agency, the elder lady who owned the place would always ask you, ‘How have you felt?’ And to that, you’d always reply, “I feel fine.” The only times of contentment you had were when you slept. Despite the praise from others of your achievements, there was a sense of longing for something fresh, that something you had never received, and therefore, awoke from bed each morning with dread.

Sometimes, you wished to tell others, “Just give me a love and hate on my both my hands,” just to show them what you’re made of, but you knew you’d be wasting your breath saying that.

Of your tellings of your tirelessness for life, you were beginning to lose the words. However, days ago, a member of the agency above, a young man, had brought a peculiar sense of change into your days with his bothersome mannerisms such as his endless flirting, his humor, and his orders of coffee which he barely drank and always left at the table for you to clean.

This morning, when you stepped into the café, the owner of the café asked you again how you felt that morning.

“I feel tired,” is how you replied this time. “Well, well, don’t be like that,” she said. That same morning, the mystery of a man entered the café. Through your boss, you caught his name. And so, as you served him his coffee, you added his name.

“You’ve discovered my real name, I see? Well, you’re certainly no fun at all anymore. How will I be able to enjoy my mornings now?” Dazai asked as he leaned his cheek into his palm with his eyes gazing up at you.