I never thought a broken suitcase could ruin my life, but it sure tried.
By the time I dragged it into my mother's cousin's house, half my clothes were hanging out like embarrassed laundry. The wheel was busted, the zipper gave up after one last groan, and I was left with a pile of wrinkled sweaters and jeans scattered across the guest room floor.
"Guess that's karma," I muttered, holding up a shirt with a rip in the seam. My best shirt. The one with the cherry blossom embroidery I wore almost everywhere back in Tokyo.
I sat cross-legged in the middle of the mess, chewing on my lip. Tomorrow was my first day at a new school. I was supposed to show up looking… fresh. Like a girl who had it together. Not like someone who'd just lost a war with an airport baggage claim.
Which meant only one thing: shopping.
The mall in Calgary was nothing like Shibuya. No neon signs, no crowds of teenagers spilling out of arcades. Just wide halls, too-bright lights, and the smell of pretzels drifting from a food court.
I tugged my hoodie tighter and pushed into the first clothing store I saw. Racks of flannels and sweaters stretched out like a forest. Everything screamed practical. Warm. Safe. Nothing screamed Ji A.
"Excuse me," a sales clerk chirped, eyeing me with a practiced smile. "Looking for anything specific?"
"Clothes," I said flatly. Then, realizing how dumb that sounded, added, "For school. Something… normal."
She led me to a display of jeans and oversized sweaters, chirping about sales. I half-listened, running my fingers over fabrics, trying to picture myself in them. Back in Japan, my style was bold. Loud colors, sharp edges. Here, it felt like blending in might be the only way to survive.
So I grabbed a pair of dark jeans, a plaid shirt, and a soft grey hoodie. Boring. Safe. Exactly what I wasn't, but maybe needed to be.
By the time I left the store with a paper bag cutting into my fingers, my chest felt heavy. Like I was packing away Ji A—the Tokyo version—in favor of some quiet Canadian knockoff.
Outside, the winter air slapped my face awake. My phone buzzed with a message from my cousin: "Don't be late for dinner."
I started toward the bus stop, bag swinging at my side. That's when I caught sight of a tall figure across the street, hockey bag slung over his shoulder, hair messy like he hadn't bothered with a mirror.
Breton Hermes.
I froze, grip tightening on my shopping bag. He hadn't seen me—he was laughing with a couple of guys his age, walking into a sports store like he owned the place.
My stomach twisted. Of all the people in Alberta, why did I have to run into him again?
I turned on my heel, walking fast toward the bus stop.
Tomorrow, school started. And the last thing I needed was drama.
But somehow, drama had a way of finding me.