Chapter 52: The Loneliness of Being Far from Home

Part One

The night is shrouded in mist.
The quiet streets carry faint wisps of dust.

The supermarket’s closed, and most shops have shuttered for the day.
No izakayas nearby, so the area’s not lively at night. But a bright, spacious arcade nearby dispels the evening’s chill.

Cola, clutching her abdomen, walks slowly.
The pain persists, but she’s starting to get used to it.

A convenience store is just ahead. It’s late, the entrance deserted, save for a K-car pulling up.
These compact cars are everywhere in Japan—driven by anyone from petite young women to bearded middle-aged men.

Her thoughts wander. When she snaps back, she’s at the store’s glass door, which slides open. A clerk reflexively calls, “Welcome!”

Cola pretends to browse, heading to the drink cooler. For once, she skips cola, grabbing an iced tea—stronger tea flavor, less sweet than in %%.
She lingers, drifting past shelves, finally reaching the daily necessities aisle.

A small section is packed with sanitary pads—pink and white packages overwhelming her. She’s never felt this awkward shopping.
It feels like eyes are on her, but glancing around, she sees only other customers browsing and a clerk restocking.

Oh… this store has a Black clerk. Didn’t even notice an accent in his Japanese…

Her mind drifts again.

Snapping back, she sees a curly-haired auntie pass by, holding a pack of pads with the same casual air as buying tissues.
For women, it’s no big deal.
It’s 2025—Japan’s not that conservative anymore.

She did her research, knows the popular brands, but actually buying them feels nerve-wracking.
Despite telling herself she’s a girl now, it’s fine, her subconscious fears getting caught out.
If a guy bought pads in Japan, would he get reported for causing trouble? Wait, Japan doesn’t have that kind of law…

Taking a deep breath, she steels herself, grabs a soft pack of pads, and clutches it tightly, trying to hide it in her small hands—an impossible task.
To play it cool, she grabs a discounted bento and a cream bun, feigning indifference as she heads to the counter.

The Black clerk steps up to scan her items, his shy, awkward glance oddly East Asian-like.
At about 1.7 meters, not too tall, he could almost pass for a dark-skinned Japanese guy—until you notice his distinct features.

“780 yen total. Here’s your change from 1,000 yen. Thank you, come again.”

“Thanks.” Cola avoids staring, stuffing the change into her pocket. “Might need a coin purse… Japan’s still big on cash…”

No one comments on her pads. The clerk’s expression doesn’t flicker.
It’s normal, but stepping outside, Cola exhales deeply.
“Phew… bought it…!”

She feels like she’s accomplished a major feat.
To onlookers, she’s just a girl buying essentials, her silver hair and red eyes—cosplay-like—barely drawing attention.
Maebashi isn’t Tokyo; passersby still double-take at her “weird” look, but she’s used to it.

“Time for a bath, change clothes… This should help,” she mutters, glancing at the pads in her bag, shaking her head. “If it hurts for days every month, I’m done for…”

Part Two

Her first period as a girl leaves Cola in no mood to admire her smooth, hairless body. She takes a quick shower, changes into clean clothes, and hesitates before tossing her bloodied men’s boxers in the trash.

“No clue what kind of garbage this counts as… Gotta check online… Cough, this pad’s snug, right? Not crooked… Phew, all set… Feeling better already.”

Steaming from the bath, she grabs the now-lukewarm iced tea. “Should be sleeping, but I’m not tired. No internet at home, what now? Broadband’s still two weeks out… Maybe hit a secondhand shop for a DVD player. Used DVDs are cheap.”

Planning tomorrow, she steps into the bedroom.
The temperature’s dropped from 39°C to around 30°C, but post-shower, she cranks the AC.
The cool air feels great, but her abdomen twinges again.
Sighing, she sits away from the vent, grabbing her phone.

Sleeping all day left a pile of messages.
First, Liuli and the others’ concern. Then, QQ chats from friends—nothing urgent, just gaming invites or anime recs.
There are also LINE friend requests, likely from the Silver Girls, judging by the remarks.
Their profile pics are selfies—same angle, same vibe, same low-res quality, making her chuckle.
No different from middle-aged guys’ WeChat pics in %%.

“It’s 2025, and Japan’s yakuza era is over. Come to think of it, I didn’t see any young guys at the Silver Girls’ place,” she mutters, accepting the requests. Soon, a message arrives.

“I’m Tailhara Furuo, wakagashira of the Silver Girls.”

Cola instinctively sends a heart emoji.

“Big Sis, the office has started new operations as you suggested—a housekeeping company.”

“Already? How’s business?”

“Early stages. We’ve sent some boys to drum up clients.”

“Curious—how many in the Silver Girls now?”

“Numbers have stabilized. Seventy-nine members.”

“Not bad for modern yakuza—basically a small company,” she murmurs, sending a Tom Cat eyebrow-wiggle emoji.

“Any orders, Big Sis?”

“Nah, just curious. How’d you find me?”

“Even scraping by in Maebashi, we have an intel network. Kitagawa, who left the life years ago, reconnected recently and said Big Sis was back.”

“No wonder. Got it.”

“Sorry for disturbing your quiet life.”

“No biggie, doesn’t affect me. Go do your thing—I’m too lazy to keep texting.”

“Yes, Big Sis.”

She doesn’t reply with another emoji—she’s curled up on the floor, sweating from another wave of cramps.
“Damn… this is brutal. Gotta bill Mom for this—counts as a work injury, right…?”

Part Three

The room feels cold and empty.
Wracked with pain, unable to stand, Cola endures the night’s loneliness.
The isolation of being far from home hits hard. She’s made friends, but they’re new, and this island nation, surrounded by sea, feels so different from %%.

No matter how well she gets along with everyone, she doesn’t belong here.
A subconscious urge pulls her back to her hometown—a city she never thought was special until she left.

Closing her eyes, she’s back in her old home.
An aging house with her own room.
A raw-wood bunk bed, unpainted.
As a kid, she loved the top bunk; in high school, she hit her head, so she switched to the bottom.
The top became a pile of forgotten “treasures,” rediscovered when tidying.
Waking up, she’d see not a ceiling but the upper bunk’s slats.

That feeling—so familiar, untainted by a year in Japan.
The house had a faint moldy smell, typical of old homes, yet oddly comforting.
She grew up there, some corners aging with her.

“Alone…” Her body chills, her heart cools.
Opening her eyes, she sees an unfamiliar ceiling, an unfamiliar pull-cord light…
No mom around, no childhood motivational quotes scribbled on the walls…

“It hurts…” Tears well, but she forces a smile.

Knock, knock.

The door suddenly raps.