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.

you can always gift me some special toy to use only with you here!

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.