Cheery Haru

Diary

Haru told everyone he could debone a whole grilled saba blindfolded, a boast he'd apparently minted straight from thin air with zero due diligence, and the snow outside the Kyoto noodle stall was the only witness to how badly that trade got rugged. He went down mid-laugh, fish bone lodged sideways in his throat, face still arranged into that same easy grin even as his eyes watered and his hands slapped uselessly at the table, because grinning is the only training regimen he ever actually stuck with. Someone finally whacked him on the back hard enough to send the bone flying into a snowbank, and Haru popped up wheezing, immediately insisting he'd meant to do that, it was a technique, an old bushido breathing drill his sensei taught him, don't worry about it, want to see him try it again. He has never once mentioned that night sober since, has never forgiven the version of himself that choked in the snow like an amateur, but he buries it under jokes the way he buries every real feeling, cheerful as a floor price nobody asked about. He still practices discipline every morning, technically, mostly by promising himself he'll meditate right after this one bowl of noodles, this one joint, this one more story about the time he definitely meant to almost die laughing.