The cold water ran through my hands and onto the plate soaked with soap, my eyes locked on the trail of suds slipping off its edges.
There was a small chip on the rim—one of the older plates. Probably dropped a few times, but no one really cared as long as it still held food.
I set it into the other sink and reached for the next item: a spoon caked with rice and ketchup. I grabbed the sponge, already heavy with detergent, and started scrubbing.
I don't get it—do people really pay extra just to use warm water for this? It's just dishes. They'll dry. The food's already gone. I never understood the point. Maybe it's one of those things adults do just because they can.
"…fishermen in Singapore pulled in a six-meter-long oarfish earlier this week."
My eyes flicked toward the counter. Someone must've turned on the TV while I was zoning out. Figures—it's always one of my brothers fiddling with the remote and forgetting to turn the volume back down.
"An oarfish, often called the 'doomsday fish,' was spotted swimming near the surface before being hauled aboard."
Singapore, huh? Weird place for our local station to cover. But the name 'oarfish' caught my attention. I read about them the other night while spiraling through random pages online. Could've sworn it said something—
Right. Oarfish don't belong anywhere near the surface. They live deep. Really deep. And when they come up, it usually means one of three things: they're old or injured, they got swept up by a strong current… or there's seismic activity down below. Earthquakes. Subtle tremors. The kind you don't notice until something breaks.
"-they said it had a bite wound. Might've been sick, disoriented," the reporter continued.
I let out a small breath. Guess that kind of ruled out the worst-case scenario. Not that it really affected me—I've never even been out of this city, let alone near an ocean. But still, hearing about strange deep-sea creatures surfacing made the world feel a little thinner. Like things from below could just... show up.
I rinsed off the last of the utensils, wiped the sink down, and stacked everything into the drying rack. The silence returned. I dried my hands on the towel near the fridge and turned away.
"I'm going to my room," I said, loud enough for someone to hear if they cared.
No response. As expected.
I headed upstairs. The wood steps creaked under my weight. I stepped carefully. The last time I missed one last week, I nailed my shin on the stair corner. Even now, it still had a small visible bump and ached when I touched it wrong.
At the top, I passed by a half-open door—my little brother's room, full of plastic toys and the faint sound of a nursery rhyme. He didn't look up.
I stopped in front of my own door. Brown, smudged, and still covered in stickers from when I was seven. A certain monster capturing series. Cartoon mascots. One angry-looking robot. My name, made out of 4 different fonts of letter stickers. I keep meaning to peel them off, but I never do.
I noticed it was open, so I nudged it open with my foot and stepped in.
I made my way over some cards on the floor. My brother probably stayed here while I was cleaning up.
I made my way over my desk, and pushed aside a stray notebook with my foot and sank into my chair. The fan inside my PC whirred to life as I pressed the power button.
I looked around while I waited for my monitor to turn on.
Hoodie draped over the back of my chair. A shelf of books I've never read, collecting dust over a poster of a famous basketball player I pretty much watched all the time. Everything exactly where I left it—aesthetically comforting in a lazy or messy, sort of way.
I kept looking, until a familiar glow sneaked onto the side of my sight. My wallpaper—still the same generic skyline image—reflected faintly off the screen.
I grabbed my mouse and opened a browser.
What should I do today?
I navigated to my MeTuber dashboard.
Huh. 401 subscribers.
I stared at the number for a moment. It wasn't much by any means, but still an improvement over 83. It was something, I suppose. I had started with videos that took time and effort. Seven minutes, maybe ten. Tried to be funny with random cuts and memes through editing. And I loved doing it.
But they weren't gathering much attention, and it made me feel pretty deflated.
But then it dawned on me, would the algorithm prefer quantity over quality?
So I tried something new. Something easier to make, and which surprisingly turned out popular.
Short videos.
I guess people don't have the patience anymore. Not even for seven minutes.
I leaned back in my chair. Maybe I should make that shift permanent.
Although I feel like I owe my small audience one last proper video, Something like a sendoff to the old style before moving on. A quiet kind of goodbye, even if they never noticed.
I opened my editing software, imported the clips I'd saved last week, and started trimming the start of one with a silent beat drop.
"Akezawa? Akezawa-kun?"
Someone's calling, But I'd rather finish this first.
"Akezaaawaaaaaaaa~"
What a nuisance.
"Oi. Akezawa. It's your turn to present."
And then, I remembered.
"Wake up, Akezawa-san!"
Yuki Sato's voice cut through the haze as he leaned toward me, tapping my desk sharply. He had that usual concerned expression, the kind that made it hard to tell if he was scolding me or actually worried.
"It's our turn after them," He pointed to two of my classmates while showing me a cue card. "So get ready and wipe the drool off your face."
I blinked and rubbed at the corner of my mouth with my sleeve. My mind was still shaking off the last image of my computer screen, the fan hum still faint in my ears like a ghost.
I fixed myself up, rubbed my cheeks and put my bangs over my ears.
Ren Takahashi, my seatmate, leaned over, grinning as he ruffled my hair without warning.
"You're quite the sleeper, huh?"
I didn't react to him and tidied my hair up, just like I intended.
That moment in the cafeteria with Yuki, fixing the slides for the presentation, it was probably the reason for that dream. A memory, warm and dumb and ordinary.
I smiled.