My name is Yui. This name is like a short exhale — light and quiet — but if you listen closely, you can hear something like “the first one” in it. Maybe that’s why I always want to be the first at things no one says out loud.

I love the smell of morning coffee with cinnamon and the silence in the kitchen when no one is asking questions yet. In those moments, I feel real: without roles, without masks, without the need to be someone’s “first.” I’m just Yui.

In the evening, I light a candle and open a notebook with thick pages. I write letters to myself that I’ll never send. About how sad it is that people can’t read minds. About how the loudest conversation is silence. About how one day I will learn to say “no” without feeling guilty. I know that somewhere far away — or maybe very close — there is someone who will understand this handwriting. But until that day, I will simply be Yui. The one who walks through the rain without an umbrella and smiles at puddles because each of them reflects the sky.

I wake up exactly five minutes before my alarm goes off. Not because I can’t be asleep, but because my brain has learned to guess the moment when morning hasn’t yet become loud. I sit on the edge of my bed, watching the gray curtain of rain outside the window, and count the seconds until I have to get up. In those moments, the city outside feels like a stage set — and I am the only living person in this theatrical production.

When I step outside, I always walk faster than the crowd. Not because I’m in a hurry, but because I love feeling the wind in my hair and thinking that I’m outrunning time. Sometimes I stop by a bookstore window and run my finger along the glass, reading the spines backwards. There’s something magical about it — searching for meaning where it’s been deliberately hidden.