Matsumoto buzzed with noise, too loud and too alive to feel like the quiet castle town most outsiders imagined.
I stepped into the Nakamachi district — the old shopping street where centuries‑old kura storehouses stood shoulder‑to‑shoulder with souvenir shops, cozy cafes, and lantern‑lit izakaya, all splattered across from the stone‑paved road.
It all hit me with the weight of apathy. Still, it was a free day, and without school or work to drag me down, I decided to be anywhere but home.
Some spare cash jingled in my pocket, practically begging me to spend it. Naturally, that meant a trip to the music shop.
In this era of streaming—Spotify, YouTube, SoundCloud making music instantly accessible to everyone—collecting vinyl and physical albums was my most old-school hobby.
I was also practicing guitar, because yeah… I had ambitions beyond just being a rapper.
I entered the music shop, the scent of rusty wood and old vinyl greeting me like an old friend. Shelves creaked under stacks of CDs and LPs, Japanese pop and rock taking up the main aisles.
I ducked into the Yougaku section, scanning for rap. Juice WRLD, Pop Smoke, a few dusty vinyls of older American acts—enough to make my fingers itch to play. I ran a hand over the spines, imagining the beats in my own head.
Guitar ambitions, rap dreams—it all felt a little closer here, among the music I couldn't stop chasing.
After grabbing everything, I headed toward the register—but froze when I spotted Tetsu, carefully scanning the J-rap section.
As soon as he noticed me, I raised a hand in greeting. His face split into that goofy grin I knew too well.
"Yo, kid. What's up?"
I walked over, and we shook hands before bumping fists.
"Nothing much, just out shopping. Didn't think I'd run into you here."
Tetsu laughed, tapping my shoulder.
"You're not the only rap head around, man," he said, glancing at my cart. "Just not really into foreign stuff."
"Fair enough," I shrugged. "But hip hop is from America… that's the vibe I'm chasing."
"You're an odd one," he grinned, clearly amused.
"I get that a lot," I replied dryly.
We shared a short laugh, then made our way toward the register together.
As if to drive his point home, Tetsu lifted the Creepy Nuts album he was carrying and tilted it toward me.
"See? This is real Japanese flow," he said with a proud smirk.
"Eyo, it's not like I don't listen to Japanese rappers," I replied. "They're just not my first pick."
After paying, we stepped outside. Tetsu wrapped his arms around my shoulders and leaned into my ear.
"Yo, by the way," he said. "I got some new stuff today… wanna drop by my place later? Indica. Top‑notch. This one ain't free, though—it's gonna cost ya," he added with a grin.
I weighed it over, running through the pros and cons. Even if I bought some for myself, where would I hide it?
Home was out of the question. If my mom or my sister found it, I'd be out on the street.
Or in a cell.
"I'll give you a call," I said, neither denying nor accepting.
"Aight. Got some business to run. I'll see ya," he replied, then bolted down the street.
As I stood there wondering where to go next, a voice called out from behind me.
"Shiba-kun?"
I turned around to see Yamashita, her neat bob cut fluttering softly in the wind. She wore a plain light-blue blouse and a long skirt that fell just past her knees.
She gave me a small, surprised smile, and I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling awkward.
"Y‑yo, Prez… didn't expect to see you here," I said.
"I was heading to the bookstore. What about you?" she spoke casually, then noticed the plastic bag in my hand. "Wait—what's in there?"
"Me? Just out for a walk," I replied, pulling a vinyl from my bag. Death Race for Love… such a classic.
"And, uh, I picked up a few things on the way," I added, shrugging.
Her eyebrows lifted slightly, a faint grin forming on her lips.
"Wow… I had no idea you were into this kind of music," she said, sounding genuinely surprised.
Boy. Oh, boy.
"Yeah… well, I also rap," I mumbled, before I could stop myself. Damn.
That probably invited some needless attention. Still, for some reason, I felt… comfortable enough to share my hobby with her.
Yamashita stared at me, dumbfounded, before her eyes sparkled for a brief second—a look I never thought I'd see.
"Really? You've got to let me hear some of your stuff! Show me~" she said, a little too loudly.
Immediately realizing she'd overstepped, she covered her mouth, cheeks tinged with pink.
Then she fidgeted nervously, twisting the strap of her bag.
"Um… Shiba-kun, would you… maybe… accompany me for a bit?" she asked quietly, almost hesitantly.
"Sure," I shrugged, keeping it casual. If I didn't know any better, I might've thought she had a crush on me or something.
Then again… even if she did, what would that change?
A wannabe rapper working part‑time in a yakuza bar, walking next to the quiet, studious president of Class 2‑B? Yeah, right.
I wasn't exactly good for someone like her.
We walked side by side in silence for a bit, the city noise filling the gaps.
Then Yamashita suddenly turned to me.
"Hey… you doing alright, Shiba-kun? With all the rumors and stuff going around school…"
I shrugged, keeping my voice even.
"Well," I said dryly, "doesn't really bother me."
She giggled softly.
"You've always been like that…"
There was a pause. Then Yamashita looked at me—really looked. Her eyes softened.
"You seemed happier that day," she said gently. "It suits you."
I blinked, caught off guard.
"T-thanks," I muttered.
It felt strange, hearing that. Not unpleasant—just unfamiliar.
We continued on toward the Nakamachi library.
The library was quieter than I expected, the old building tucked between a row of shops, its wooden beams worn smooth from years of use. The faint smell of paper and ink hit me as we stepped inside, and the bustling street outside seemed to vanish.
Yamashita moved ahead, her steps careful, almost reverent, as if she didn't want to disturb the stillness.
She paused at a shelf, her fingers trailing along the spines of the books. "Hmm…" she murmured, scanning titles in neat Japanese script.
I leaned against a nearby column, pretending to look around but really just watching her.
The way she studied the books—so deliberate, so quiet—made it obvious she was in her element. Like me in the music shop.
After a moment, she turned to me, holding a slim volume. "Shiba-kun, have you ever read this one?" She held up Norwegian Wood, and the soft light glinted off her hair.
"It's… melancholic, but beautifully written. I think you might like it."
"Yeah," I said, shrugging, trying to sound nonchalant. "I've heard of it."
Truth was, I'd never picked it up. Reading's never been my strong suit. But she didn't seem to mind. She just smiled faintly, as if she only expected me to try.
She led me further down the aisles, pulling out books she thought I might enjoy—music biographies, philosophy, some modern fiction—and set them gently on a nearby table.
She moved with that quiet purpose of someone who treats knowledge like a treasure.
"Sometimes," she said softly, almost to herself, "the right book… it's like it finds you, not the other way around."
I blinked at her. For a second, I almost forgot how much noise and chaos usually filled my life. Here, it was just her voice, the faint rustle of pages, and the warm scent of old paper.
"Alright," I said finally, "so what's your plan? You gonna bury yourself in these all day?"
She laughed, low and genuine, the sound almost echoing in the quiet space. "Maybe not all day," she said. "But… a little escape doesn't hurt."
She glanced at me, eyes soft. "I wanted to share it with someone who might… understand, even just a little."
I shrugged, looking down at the books.
Understanding wasn't my strong suit either. But for some reason, it didn't feel awkward to be here with her. It felt… natural.
And that was enough.