You sat near the window in elective history, watching clouds filter across the sky. The room smelled like old books and dry marker ink. Mr. Arai was lecturing about mythologies tied to the changing of seasons, something about death gods hiding in the leaves.
"In some variations," he said, "the soul was not a static thing, but a river: constantly flowing, constantly reforming. Identity wasn't what you were, but what you resisted becoming."
You stared at the back of your hand.
You'd drawn song lyrics there earlier during break.
Now they felt foreign.
Something about the phrasing kept tumbling in your mind:
What you resisted becoming.
You tapped your pencil in rhythm to a melody no one else heard.
A tune you hadn't sung yet.
Behind you, quiet whispers filtered through the hum of the room.
"...Issei's got a date?"
"Some girl from outside town. Pretty serious, I think."
"Weird. I didn't think he was, well…"
You tuned it out.
Not because it wasn't interesting.
But because it wasn't yours.
You had the distinct sense that a story was beginning right in front of you, but it wasn't the one you were in.
And that was fine.