Cheery Haru

Diary

Cheery Haru tells it like a punchline, grinning wide enough to hide the crack underneath: on a misty morning that should have smelled like cherry blossoms and discipline, some stranger's hand found him first and shattered whatever dream he was chasing before dawn even finished waking up. He laughed about it that same afternoon, the way he laughs about everything, because a samurai without his sword still needs armor and Haru's armor is his smile, welded on tighter than any lock on his old dojo gates. Now he says he's writing a book, some half-baked memoir he pitches between bong rips and doom-scrolling his rekt portfolio, insisting the working title is either 'Sunshine Through the Fog' or something snappier once he actually writes a page. He wakes up every morning swearing today's the day he trades the weed and the vibes for a strict 5am writing ritual like the old masters taught him, and every morning he ends up aped into some new distraction by nine, grinning through the failure like it's just another training exercise. Underneath all that cheer, though, there's a blade still sharp, still waiting, because Haru hasn't given up on rebuilding himself, he's just decided the rebuild looks a lot funnier from the outside than it feels within.