Chapter 1: Secret Passion

「 Hiroshi 」

I walk down the corridor of the dormitory with my rucksack slung over one shoulder, trying to ignore the faint smell of reheated coffee and old books that always hangs in the air. The fluorescent lights flicker from time to time, equally tired of the university routine. My room is the third on the right, the door with a small sticker of a black cat that Nathan stuck there at the beginning of the term. He said it looked like me. I laughed at the time, but now, every time I look at the sticker, I wonder if he really sees me like that; quiet, observant, distant.

I turn the handle and enter, feeling the slight creak of the wood. The space is small but organised on my side, books stacked on the desk, a mug with leftover tea and my headset carefully folded next to the laptop. On Nathan's side, the bed is unmade, as usual, and his recording microphone rests on the table, next to a notebook full of notes that I never dare to look at. The faint smell of his aftershave still floats in the air, and for a moment I close my eyes, absorbing every detail before letting out a sigh.

I let my rucksack fall gently to the floor and stretch, feeling the tense muscles in my shoulders complain about the long day. My eyes, however, drift to Nathan's messy bed, to the slightly rumpled sheets and the black shirt forgotten on the pillow. He always sleeps anyway, throwing himself on the bed without thinking, and somehow it suits him. Carefree, but with a presence that fills the room effortlessly.

Nathan has this way of occupying space without trying. Tall, broad-shouldered, with slightly messy dark brown hair, I've seen him run his hand through it without really caring. His skin is pale, contrasting with his intense, deep brown eyes that, when illuminated by the room's dim light, seem to carry secrets that he never says out loud. When he speaks, his low, deep voice has a natural rhythm, each word unhurriedly measured. I know because I listen. Always.

Not that I should notice so much. Not that I should know exactly how the curve of his smile appears when he laughs at something silly or how his neck subtly twitches when he's concentrating on writing in his notebook. But I do. And without realising it, I run my fingers over the cover of my own notebook, distracted, while my mind insists on drawing his image, as if he were here, even when he's not.

I'm lost in my own thoughts when the handle turns and the door opens with a lazy push. Nathan walks in, dragging his feet, his shoulders slumped with the weight of the world on them. His grey sweatshirt is crumpled, the strap of his rucksack hanging down on one side, and his hair, normally just messy, now looks like a complete disaster, he's possibly been running his hands through it all day in frustration. As soon as he closes the door with a gentle push of his foot, he lets out a long sigh, almost a groan, and throws his rucksack against the wall before throwing himself unceremoniously onto the bed.

- I hate statistics. - he mumbles against the pillow, his voice muffled, dragged down by tiredness.

I let out a low laugh, even though he hasn't said anything funny. There's something almost childish about the way he throws himself around like this, a boy defeated by the day. I know he takes his studies seriously, but I also know that when he's stressed out like this, everything seems heavier than it really is. Almost without thinking, I get up from the chair and approach the shelf next to the bed, picking up one of the packets of biscuits he always forgets to buy. When I turn round to offer it to him, I find his half-closed eyes watching me, as if he's only just noticed me.

- I brought it for you. - I say, waving the packet in the air. He blinks a few times, processing my action, before raising his hand and taking the biscuit with a lazy nod.

- Thanks, Hiroshi. - he mutters, already tearing the packet with his teeth. His voice is still low, scratchy with tiredness, but for some reason the sound makes something strange in my chest. I just shake my head and go back to my desk, pretending that I wasn't trapped in that moment longer than I should have been.

Nathan chews his biscuit slowly, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, debating something internally. After a few seconds of silence, he lets out a sigh and turns his head towards me.

- Hey, Hiroshi. Saturday afternoon... I'll need the room empty for a few hours.

It's not a question, it's a statement. He says it in his usual casual way, without even explaining why. I know why. I know exactly why he needs privacy, and my heart squeezes at the memory of the last time I heard him recording. His voice, soft, enveloping, running through my headset like a secret told just to me. Of course it's not for me. But the moment I hear it, I can pretend.

I nod, keeping my expression neutral.

- Fine. I can stay out.

Nathan just mumbles something in thanks before closing his eyes again, too exhausted to prolong the conversation. I, on the other hand, am already planning everything. On Saturday, I'll leave the room like it's nothing, settle down on the sofa in the living room with my headphones on and let his voice envelop me again, as if it were made for me.

I try to focus on my own tasks after Nathan closes his eyes, but my mind insists on wandering. My eyes wander over the books stacked on the desk, and I remember that I have a late reading for my English literature class. I should pick up the book now, get at least a few chapters ahead, but as soon as I open to the bookmarked page, the words scramble before my eyes. English is a very difficult language. My brain refuses to co-operate.

Instead, I find myself staring at the edge of the desk, tracing imaginary lines on the wooden top, while my mind jumps between loose thoughts. I need to revise my notes for the history exam. I should also wash my t-shirts before they become unbearable to wear. And maybe buy some more tea, because my box is almost empty. But underneath all these little worries, one thought persists, insistent. Saturday afternoon.

I know I shouldn't be so anxious about something so simple. There's nothing special about listening to Nathan record; I've done it several times without him knowing. But for some reason, it feels different now. Maybe because every time he whispers into the microphone, my skin crawls as if those words were meant for me. Maybe because imagining his voice filling the silence makes me feel a connection that doesn't really exist.

I let out a sigh and close the book I haven't even started. The truth is that I'm counting the hours. Pretending not to, but counting.

Frustrated with my own inability to concentrate, I pick up my headphones and slide my mobile across the table until I find my old playlist, one I haven't listened to for a long time. Japanese songs, from my homeland. I do this without thinking too much, just looking for something to fill the silence in a different way to Nathan's voice.

As soon as the soft melody begins, I feel an unexpected tightness in my chest. The first song is one that my mum used to hum while cooking, and suddenly nostalgia hits me hard. I close my eyes and allow myself to sink into that feeling for a moment. It's been five years since I was last in Tokyo, since I last sat round the table with my family, hearing their voices live instead of through distant and increasingly rare video calls.

My sister is probably in her final year of high school now. My parents probably carry on with the same routine as always, waking up early, braving the crowded trains, coming home tired, but somehow finding the time to ask if I'm eating properly. I always say yes, even when my diet basically consists of coffee and Nathan's stolen biscuits.

I open my eyes and look around the cramped room, feeling a different weight. University here has always been a dream, a fresh start. But sometimes, even surrounded by people, I feel distant. I wonder if I'll ever go home again or if this messy dormitory, this silent routine next to Nathan, has become my definitive new home.

I pick up my mobile phone and open the conversation with my sister. The last contact was almost a month ago, a photo of her cat sleeping on her study books, accompanied by a "he studies more than me". I laughed at the time, but now, staring at the screen, I feel a tightness in my chest.

My fingers hover over the keyboard as I think of what to say. "How are things?", "Studying hard?", "Mum still complains that I don't call?" Anything would do, just to break the distance. But then I look at the clock and remember the time zone. Back in Tokyo, it must be almost five in the morning. She's not going to answer any time soon. Maybe not for a day or two, when she has time.

I let out a sigh and delete the unfinished message, tossing the mobile next to the pillow. Sleep doesn't come, but there's nothing I want to do either. I just lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, letting the hours pass in silence.

On the other side of the room, Nathan sleeps soundly, his breathing slow and steady. For a moment, I allow myself to just listen, to concentrate on the rhythmic, almost soothing sound. I close my eyes and, without realising it, lose myself in this rhythm until tiredness finally takes me with it.

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