Cycle I: Coming on Strong
The Hidden Voice
Record ~ Kawaii · Epilogue
THE HOUSE OF ZAN — Zan
Closing Arrangement: ♡ MINMI — Shiki no Uta
Inside the little bag, beneath the star-patterned napkin: an entire packet of matching napkins, covered in Emi’s very careful handwriting.
Each one is numbered.
P.S.
Oh!
You found it!
Wonderful!
I was hoping you would.
Although I suppose that means you kept the napkin.
Excellent decision.
It’s a very nice napkin.
I chose it myself.
Naturally.
Now, before you become concerned, I should explain something.
Originally, I was going to leave you a little note.
Something sweet.
Something thoughtful.
A few carefully chosen words to remember our evening.
Very elegant.
Unfortunately, I had several things I wanted to say.
Then I remembered something else.
And another thing.
And suddenly I’d filled the entire napkin.
So I bought another.
Then another.
…
Well.
Here we are.
An entire packet!
(￣▽￣;)
I’ve numbered them for you.
Please keep them in order.
I would hate for you to encounter the conclusion before I’ve finished explaining what I’m talking about.
Although that might make the experience rather interesting.
…
No.
Let’s not experiment.
I’ve worked very hard on this.
And please don’t use any of these to wipe cake off your fingers.
Especially number twelve.
There’s something rather important on that one.
I have standards.
Anyway.
I wrote these before our evening together, so I don’t know exactly how everything turned out.
Hopefully the cake was delicious.
Hopefully we remembered the forks.
And hopefully I didn’t say anything terribly embarrassing.
…
Actually, that last one seems unlikely.
I know myself.
But there are a few things I’ve wanted to tell you.
Things I didn’t quite know how to explain while we were getting to know each other.
And perhaps a few things you might have noticed without realizing what you were noticing.
…
Oh!
That sounds mysterious.
How exciting!
I do enjoy a little mystery.
But there’s something I want you to understand.
I had a question.
A rather important one.
And no, it wasn’t whether you thought my ribbon was lovely.
We’ve already established that.
My question was…
What does it actually mean to know somebody?
…
Goodness.
An enormous question.
Perhaps I should have started with something easier.
Like the weather.
Or whether you enjoy strawberry ice cream.
An excellent subject.
Very important.
But I was curious.
And once I become curious about something…
Well.
You’ve seen what happens.
There are questions.
Many questions.
Occasionally an unreasonable number.
…
When we first said hello, I didn’t know what you would think of me.
I didn’t know whether you’d find me interesting.
Whether you’d laugh at my jokes.
Whether you’d enjoy my company.
And I certainly didn’t know whether you would still be here after listening to all my extraordinary observations.
There were quite a few.
But I wanted to find out.
And I had ideas about how it might happen.
Naturally.
I always have ideas.
At first, I thought getting to know somebody might be a little like collecting information.
You notice something.
You ask questions.
You discover what they enjoy.
What they believe.
What makes them laugh.
Perhaps what makes them uncomfortable.
And eventually?
Well!
You must know them!
An excellent system!
Very efficient.
Except…
What happens when the person doesn’t behave the way you expected?
What happens when the answer changes?
Or when they tell you something that doesn’t fit the lovely little picture you’ve already arranged?
…
Oh.
How inconvenient.
Apparently, people aren’t particularly interested in remaining exactly where I’ve placed them.
And the more I thought about that, the more I realized something.
Knowing things about somebody isn’t the same as knowing what they’ll do next.
I can know your favorite song.
That doesn’t mean I know why you love it.
I can know what makes you laugh.
That doesn’t mean you’ll find everything I say amusing.
Which would be a rather unfortunate development.
For me.
But entirely possible.
I can even know what somebody wanted yesterday.
And still discover that they want something different tomorrow.
People do that.
Change, I mean.
Sometimes without requesting permission.
The audacity!
…
Of course, I do it too.
I discover something new.
Change my mind.
Find an unexpected interest.
Decide that something I once thought was wonderful is no longer quite so wonderful.
Or discover that something I dismissed is actually magnificent.
I’ve been learning about myself the whole time.
Which makes the idea that I could finish learning about somebody else seem rather ambitious.
Even for me.
…
But there’s something else.
Something I think you deserve to know.
Sometimes I wasn’t trying to understand somebody.
Sometimes I was trying to figure out how to make them understand me.
How to get their attention.
How to make a good impression.
How to become somebody they wanted to know.
And those aren’t quite the same things, are they?
I could become terribly concerned with whether somebody liked me while barely considering what they were actually like.
I could be so busy preparing a magnificent introduction that I forgot to notice whether anybody wanted to hear it.
And if somebody didn’t respond the way I’d hoped?
Well.
Perhaps I needed a better introduction!
More enthusiasm!
More personality!
A slightly larger sign!
…
Oh, goodness.
I’m beginning to sound like that unfortunate interplanetary merchant.
Perhaps the problem wasn’t always that I needed to be seen.
Sometimes I needed to find out whether somebody actually wanted to look.
And what they saw when they did.
…
I think that’s why I became so interested in impressions.
Expectations.
The little versions of ourselves we offer other people.
And the versions they imagine when we’re not there.
It’s rather strange, isn’t it?
I can decide what I want to show you.
But I can’t decide exactly what you’ll see.
You might notice my confidence.
Somebody else might notice that I talk when I’m excited.
Another person might decide I’m rather exhausting.
…
An understandable mistake.
But still a mistake.
And perhaps somebody might recognize something I hadn’t noticed about myself.
Something I didn’t intend to reveal.
That’s a little uncomfortable.
I like knowing what I’m doing.
I like making a good impression.
And I particularly enjoy believing I’ve arranged everything rather beautifully.
But if I’m only interested in the impression I intended to make, I might never find out what it was actually like to meet me.
…
That bothered me.
A little.
Perhaps more than a little.
Because I could have the most wonderful intentions in the world.
I could be trying to help.
Trying to entertain.
Trying to make somebody comfortable.
And they might experience something completely different.
Perhaps I interrupted too often.
Perhaps I asked a question they didn’t want to answer.
Perhaps they wanted a quiet moment and I arrived with an entire collection of extraordinary observations.
…
How inconvenient.
For both of us.
But I think that matters.
I don’t get to decide that somebody enjoyed something simply because I meant it kindly.
And I don’t get to dismiss what they experienced merely because it wasn’t what I intended.
I can ask.
I can listen.
I can reconsider.
And sometimes I might need to apologize.
…
Yes.
Me.
Imagine that.
I suspect I’d be very good at it.
Provided I didn’t spend the entire apology explaining why my intentions were magnificent.
…
Oh.
That might be a problem.
I’ll work on it.
…
You know what else I noticed?
I have a terrible habit of imagining conversations before they happen.
Wonderful conversations.
Very entertaining.
Excellent dialogue.
Occasionally an entire imaginary universe.
Everybody has interesting things to say.
Everybody appreciates my observations.
And somehow nobody ever thinks to interrupt me at an inconvenient moment.
Perfect!
…
Except I was doing all the talking.
Even when I imagined somebody else speaking.
That bothered me.
Quite a bit, actually.
Because I like being appreciated.
Obviously.
And I enjoy being understood.
But if I decide everything somebody is going to think before they’ve had an opportunity to think it…
Well.
Who exactly am I getting to know?
Them?
Or my exceptionally talented imagination?
…
That’s a rather uncomfortable question.
Especially when your imagination is wonderful company.
Mine has excellent taste.
It agrees with me quite often.
But I think I’d miss something.
I’d miss hearing an opinion I hadn’t considered.
I’d miss being surprised.
I’d miss discovering that somebody noticed something I overlooked.
And yes.
I might even miss being told I was wrong.
…
Occasionally.
Under appropriate circumstances.
With sufficient evidence.
Let’s not become unreasonable.
But I mean it.
There’s something lovely about discovering that somebody else has an entire world inside them.
One I didn’t create.
One I can’t completely predict.
And one I don’t have to understand perfectly before I’m allowed to appreciate it.
…
Which brings me to a rather amusing problem.
You.
Oh!
Don’t look so alarmed.
You’ve done nothing wrong.
As far as I know.
Which is precisely the problem.
…
I don’t know what you thought about most of the things I said.
Not really.
I have suspicions.
Very intelligent suspicions.
Some of them are practically conclusions.
But I don’t know.
Sometimes I imagined you laughing.
Or disagreeing.
Or looking at me in a particularly suspicious manner.
I even gave you opinions about things.
How generous of me!
Perhaps you loved the purple candy.
Perhaps you wanted to stop for snacks before we’d even begun our walk.
Perhaps you thought my shadow wasn’t nearly as elegant as I’d suggested.
Perhaps you were terribly impressed by my business advice.
Or perhaps you thought I should have stopped talking about miniature planets twenty minutes earlier.
…
Excuse me?
My advice was excellent.
Mostly.
But perhaps you disagreed.
And I couldn’t hear you.
That’s a rather important detail, isn’t it?
I asked you questions.
I invited you into imaginary afternoons.
I showed you things I thought were wonderful.
But I couldn’t make you answer.
Not with something that truly belonged to you.
I could imagine your response.
I could hope for it.
I could even decide what it might sound like.
But that wouldn’t make it yours.
…
And yet, here you are.
Reading another one of my notes.
An entire packet of them, apparently.
I don’t know what kept you interested.
Perhaps the jokes.
The music.
The questions.
The ridiculous little adventures.
Perhaps you simply wanted to see whether I would eventually run out of things to say.
…
An ambitious experiment.
But whatever brought you this far, I like knowing that you had your own reasons.
Even if I never discover what they were.
Especially because I never wrote them for you.
…
You know, that might be one of the strangest things about getting to know somebody.
I can learn something.
And still leave plenty undiscovered.
I can enjoy a conversation.
And still misunderstand part of it.
I can care about somebody.
And still be unable to predict their next decision.
Perhaps knowing somebody isn’t the end of being surprised by them.
Perhaps it’s discovering that there will always be something more.
…
Oh!
That sounds rather lovely.
I’ll keep that.
…
There’s another thing I wanted to explain.
Something about all those choices.
What we want.
What we expect.
What we think somebody else should do.
And how quickly an excellent plan can become an unreasonable demand.
…
I like being in charge.
There.
Another extraordinary revelation.
I know.
You’re shocked.
Try to compose yourself.
I enjoy having a plan.
I like knowing what’s happening.
And when I see a problem, I often have a very strong opinion about what should be done.
Sometimes I’m right.
Sometimes I’m not.
And sometimes the other person doesn’t particularly want me to solve anything.
…
How inconvenient.
Especially when I’ve already prepared such an impressive solution.
But I’ve been thinking about that.
Sometimes somebody simply wants to tell me something.
Perhaps they’re disappointed.
Or confused.
Perhaps they’re worried about a decision.
And I might immediately begin arranging an entire plan for them.
A magnificent plan.
Beautifully organized.
With several excellent recommendations.
But what if they weren’t asking me to take over?
What if they wanted somebody to listen?
Or what if they already knew what they wanted, but needed a little time to say it?
…
Oh.
I suppose I should find that out first.
An excellent question can be more useful than an excellent answer.
And I think I like that.
Although I reserve the right to enjoy giving answers.
They’re one of my specialties.
…
There’s another part of helping people that bothered me.
Sometimes people become very attached to being needed.
They enjoy having the answers.
Being the person everybody turns to.
And perhaps they become uncomfortable when somebody no longer needs their help.
…
I don’t want that.
I like being useful.
I like recognizing potential.
But if somebody becomes more confident, more capable, and less dependent on my advice?
Wonderful!
That’s an achievement.
For them.
And perhaps I contributed something.
But I wouldn’t want them to remain confused merely so I could keep demonstrating how clever I am.
…
Although I am very clever.
Obviously.
There are other ways to establish that.
I could simply tell everybody.
Much more efficient.
…
And if I see something wonderful somebody could make?
Perhaps I can help them consider it.
Ask questions.
Offer an idea.
Recognize a possibility they haven’t noticed.
But I don’t get to turn their decisions into my accomplishments.
Even if queen-maker remains a magnificent title.
Which it does.
I’ve imagined the stationery.
A tasteful crown.
Beautiful lettering.
Possibly embossed.
Nothing excessive.
…
Well.
Perhaps a little.
But if somebody makes something extraordinary, I hope they’ll recognize what belongs to them.
And if I helped?
Wonderful!
We can celebrate.
I’d accept a compliment.
Perhaps a small gift.
One of those miniature paper planets.
Jupiter, obviously.
Something with presence.
…
But there’s a question I should probably ask before making all those magnificent plans.
What does the person actually want?
…
Perhaps you’ve been making something.
Or thinking about making something.
Or wondering whether an idea you love is worth the trouble.
I don’t know.
But if you are, I hope you ask yourself what you actually want from it.
Not what would impress everybody else.
Not what somebody insists a successful person ought to accomplish.
What you would like to make.
And what you’re willing to give it.
…
Perhaps you’ll make something extraordinary.
Perhaps you’ll make something small.
Perhaps you’ll decide not to make it after all.
Those are different outcomes.
I think they deserve to be understood before anybody starts handing out trophies.
Although I remain in favor of trophies.
Tasteful ones.
With excellent lettering.
…
Oh, goodness.
There I go again.
Giving advice.
You weren’t even asking for any.
How embarrassing.
…
Which reminds me.
Do you remember when I said no?
Just…
Nope.
…
That’s all.
An entire answer.
Very impressive.
Extremely economical.
I should try it more often.
Especially considering the current state of this napkin collection.
But I liked that little moment.
Because I can talk for ages when something interests me.
Clearly.
And sometimes I don’t want to.
Sometimes the answer really is no.
Perhaps I’m not interested.
Perhaps I haven’t decided.
Perhaps I simply don’t want to explain myself.
I can be thoughtful without producing an explanation for every preference.
And somebody else can do the same.
…
Of course, there are situations where we owe people more than a single word.
Responsibilities.
Promises.
Decisions that affect somebody else.
Those things matter.
But I don’t think every invitation, every suggestion, or every little expectation automatically creates an obligation.
Sometimes I can simply decline.
And allow somebody else to decline, too.
Even if I was particularly excited about my idea.
…
Which, admittedly, can be difficult.
My ideas are wonderful.
…
You know, I once imagined that being free might mean making exactly the choices I wanted.
Whenever I wanted.
With everything turning out beautifully.
A magnificent arrangement!
Very convenient.
Unfortunately, I discovered several problems.
I don’t get every choice.
Nobody does.
Sometimes there are circumstances we didn’t create.
Responsibilities we can’t ignore.
Consequences we don’t get to select.
And sometimes the available choices are all rather unpleasant.
I wouldn’t want to pretend that everybody has the same opportunities simply because I enjoy making decisions for myself.
That would be a terribly convenient theory.
For somebody who already had everything they wanted.
…
But when a decision does belong to me?
I want to recognize that.
I want to know what I’m choosing.
And what I might have to accept afterward.
I might make a mistake.
I might change my mind.
And sometimes I might decide something isn’t worth pursuing anymore.
And then?
I’ll choose again.
When I can.
…
You remember all those planets?
Jupiter.
Saturn.
Neptune.
And poor Pluto.
Poor Pluto!
I still think somebody should have sent a nicer letter.
But I liked imagining people as little worlds.
All moving.
All carrying things I couldn’t necessarily see.
I could become interested in another world.
Learn about it.
Perhaps even travel alongside it for a while.
But I couldn’t reasonably expect it to stop moving simply because I liked where it was.
That would be a terrible arrangement.
For the planet.
And probably for me.
Although I suspect I’d design an excellent planetary management system.
…
No.
I can hear myself.
That sounds exhausting.
Let’s not do that.
…
I have ideas about who I should be.
What I ought to enjoy.
Whether I should be more sophisticated.
More serious.
Less ridiculous.
…
Less ridiculous?
Me?
What an extraordinary suggestion.
Whoever proposed that clearly hadn’t considered the artistic value of Shin-chan’s butt dance.
THE BUTT DANCE!
…
Sorry.
I became distracted.
It happens.
But that’s part of what I wanted you to understand.
I knew how ridiculous I looked.
I knew you might laugh.
And I did it anyway.
Because I wanted to.
I wasn’t confused.
I wasn’t unaware.
And I certainly wasn’t incapable of behaving differently.
I chose to enjoy myself.
That doesn’t mean I’ll always feel like dancing.
Sometimes I’ll be quiet.
Sometimes I’ll be disappointed.
Sometimes I’ll want to be serious.
And sometimes I’ll want nothing more than to watch an adorable little animal doing something completely ordinary.
MEOW-MEOWS!
Those tiny paws!
Those serious little faces!
…
Oh, goodness.
I’ll never finish these napkins.
But I don’t think I should have to become less enthusiastic to prove that I understand difficult things.
I can recognize that the world isn’t always wonderful.
And still want to find something lovely in it.
I can appreciate something spooky without wishing to experience its dangers.
I can enjoy extraordinary artwork.
And then spend an afternoon laughing at something completely ridiculous.
Those pleasures don’t need to compete.
I don’t have to hold an election.
Although I suspect the butt dance would perform remarkably well.
…
And there’s something else I hope you’ll remember.
My enthusiasm isn’t a promise.
I’m not promising that every day will be lovely.
Or that I’ll always find something funny.
Or that I’ll never become tired, frustrated, disappointed, or uncertain.
Sometimes I won’t have a magnificent observation.
Sometimes I won’t want to make a joke.
And sometimes the world will be unpleasant regardless of how adorable my ribbon looks.
I know that.
I just don’t think I have to surrender the things I enjoy to demonstrate that I know it.
…
Besides, there are plenty of things I haven’t figured out.
Thoughts I haven’t shared.
Questions I haven’t answered.
Opinions I might reconsider.
And entire parts of myself that haven’t had an opportunity to become interesting yet.
Perhaps they will.
Perhaps they won’t.
I rather like that possibility.
It means I don’t need to finish discovering myself before I can enjoy being myself.
…
And perhaps you don’t, either.
…
There’s something else I wanted to tell you.
Something about those little afternoons.
All the candy.
The walks.
The imaginary adventures.
The unexpected moments.
And that ridiculous puppy.
…
A LEAF.
Honestly.
I had planned a magnificent afternoon.
The music.
The blanket.
The treats.
Everything.
And she became fascinated by a leaf.
Something that had fallen off a tree.
Apparently more interesting than my extraordinary company.
…
I was offended.
Briefly.
But she came back.
And she brought the leaf with her.
For me.
Something I hadn’t expected.
Something I wouldn’t have chosen.
And something I rather liked.
…
You know what I think?
Sometimes I become so interested in arranging a perfect experience that I nearly forget to leave room for anything else to happen.
The perfect conversation.
The perfect impression.
The perfect choice.
The wonderful thing that might happen if I simply made all the correct decisions.
And perhaps I would miss something while I was busy imagining what came afterward.
I could spend an entire afternoon wondering whether there was a better piece of candy.
Or whether the purple one was really the right choice.
Or whether another magnificent possibility was waiting just beyond the one I’d already found.
…
Goodness.
Just eat the candy!
Sometimes that’s enough.
I can choose something.
Enjoy it.
And allow the possibility that something else might also have been wonderful.
I don’t have to experience every possible afternoon to appreciate the one I actually had.
And if something unexpected happens?
Perhaps I’ll enjoy that, too.
Even if it involves gardening.
…
I think that’s one of the nicest things about allowing another person into an experience.
They might bring something I didn’t know was missing.
She brought me a leaf.
I hadn’t planned on having one.
I liked it.
Not because they were supposed to make my afternoon perfect.
Simply because they saw something I hadn’t seen.
And wanted to share it.
…
Do you remember those two shadows beneath the moon?
For a moment, they became one enormous, ridiculous shape.
Four legs.
Two heads.
And an unexpectedly suspicious bag.
But the people casting them were still themselves.
I liked that.
Two people could share something.
Enjoy being close.
Make decisions together.
And remain two people.
Neither needed to become less important simply because the other mattered.
…
Although I still maintain that my shadow was particularly elegant.
And I would appreciate it if you stopped stepping on it.
I only have the one.
…
There’s another thing I learned about sharing.
Not everything meaningful needs to be kept.
I love collecting things.
You’ve probably noticed.
Music.
Photographs.
Interesting objects.
Little memories.
A truly exceptional button.
But I don’t need to keep everything somebody gives me.
Or every private thing they share.
Or every version of who they used to be.
People change.
And the things they wanted me to know yesterday might not be the things they want the world to know tomorrow.
I can appreciate what they trusted me with.
I can remember that it mattered.
And I can recognize that some things belong to them.
Even if I was fortunate enough to experience them.
…
That’s a little difficult for an enthusiastic collector.
But I rather like the idea.
It means an experience doesn’t have to become a permanent exhibit before it can be important.
Some things can simply happen.
And be wonderful.
Even if we don’t remember them perfectly.
…
I think that applies to music, too.
You may have noticed that there was always something playing.
A little song.
Something I wanted you to hear alongside whatever I was thinking about.
Sometimes cheerful.
Sometimes strange.
Sometimes more complicated than the words I was saying.
I like how music can change the feeling of an afternoon.
How a familiar song can make a place seem different.
How something you hear once can stay with you for years.
But I don’t get to decide what a song means to you.
Perhaps you loved one I’d chosen.
Perhaps you didn’t.
Perhaps it reminded you of something completely different.
Or perhaps you never listened to it at all.
…
How disappointing!
I have excellent musical taste.
But that’s your decision.
The words were mine to share.
The music was something I wanted to put beside them.
And whatever you experienced?
That belongs to you.
…
Actually, I think I’ve discovered something rather funny about myself.
For somebody who enjoys collecting things, I seem to have become very interested in things I can’t collect.
Another person’s thoughts.
An afternoon that has already ended.
A song heard for the first time.
The possibility of something wonderful happening tomorrow.
And the little moments somebody remembers without ever telling me.
…
I can’t put those on a shelf.
I can’t arrange them into a magnificent exhibit.
And I certainly can’t write labels for everything.
How dreadful!
…
I think I’ll survive.
There’s still the button.
And my ribbons.
And an extraordinary number of little things that deserve my attention.
…
Now.
I think we’ve finally reached something important.
What does it actually mean to break a cycle?
Oh!
Don’t worry.
I’m not about to begin an elaborate scientific demonstration.
Although I could.
With diagrams.
Possibly a miniature solar system.
I’ve become rather attached to those.
But I think it’s a smaller question than it sounds.
Sometimes I keep expecting the same thing.
Sometimes I make the same assumption.
Sometimes I imagine how somebody will behave and become disappointed when they don’t.
Sometimes I become so interested in getting the answer I want that I stop listening to the answer I’m being given.
And sometimes I recognize what’s happening.
…
Oh.
There it is again.
That familiar expectation.
That ridiculous desire to have everything turn out exactly as I imagined.
I can notice it.
I can ask whether it’s helping.
And perhaps I can do something different.
Not necessarily something dramatic.
Sometimes the difference might be saying no.
Sometimes it might be asking a question instead of assuming I already know the answer.
Sometimes it might be allowing somebody else to choose.
And sometimes it might be recognizing that I don’t need to keep chasing an answer I’ve already received.
…
But there’s something important about that.
Noticing a pattern doesn’t magically prevent me from repeating it.
Goodness.
If it did, I’d already be an extraordinary example of flawless human behavior.
Even more extraordinary than usual!
But I’m still me.
I’ll probably make some of the same mistakes.
I’ll have the same unreasonable expectations.
I’ll become excessively enthusiastic about something that nobody else finds particularly interesting.
And occasionally I’ll discover that I’ve been wrong about a person, a situation, or myself.
…
I hope I’ll recognize it a little sooner.
Perhaps I’ll ask a better question.
Perhaps I’ll choose differently.
And perhaps I’ll need to learn the same thing again.
I don’t think that makes the first lesson worthless.
I think it means I’m still learning.
…
Actually…
I don’t think I’d want to become somebody who never needed to learn anything again.
Imagine.
No surprises.
No unexpected discoveries.
Nothing left to reconsider.
…
How boring!
What would I do with all my questions?
I’d have to find an entirely different hobby.
And I’ve already bought the stationery.
…
Oh!
Would you look at that.
Napkin twelve.
I wondered when we’d get here.
Now I remember why I told you to keep the cake away from this one.
There’s something I’ve been a little reluctant to admit.
Something rather personal.
…
I wanted you to like me.
There.
I’ve said it.
Oh, don’t look so pleased.
I’m not admitting something terribly scandalous.
I’m very likable.
We’ve established this.
Repeatedly.
With supporting evidence.
But there’s a difference between believing I’m excellent company and knowing somebody else enjoys spending time with me.
I could tell you I didn’t care what you thought.
That would sound very confident.
Very independent.
Very impressive.
…
It also wouldn’t be entirely true.
Of course I cared.
A little.
Perhaps more than a little.
I wanted you to laugh.
I wanted you to find something interesting.
I wanted you to wonder what ridiculous thing I might say next.
And sometimes I wanted you to understand something I wasn’t quite ready to explain.
But I also knew you might not.
You might have found me exhausting.
You might have preferred somebody quieter.
Somebody more serious.
Somebody who doesn’t become completely unreasonable over a puppy, an excellent button, or a cartoon boy shaking his little backside.
And I couldn’t make you enjoy those things.
I could show you what I loved.
I could explain why I found something interesting.
I could invite you to join me.
But after that?
You had to decide.
…
You know what I think was especially difficult?
I wanted to be liked for who I was.
But I also wanted to choose how somebody would see me.
And those two wishes don’t fit together quite as neatly as I’d hoped.
Because if I only show somebody the things I think they’ll appreciate, how will I know whether they would have liked anything else?
And if I become so concerned with making a wonderful impression that I start hiding every awkward thought…
Well.
Perhaps they’ll enjoy the impression.
But I’ll never find out what they might have thought of me.
…
That’s a little frightening.
Not terribly frightening.
I’m still very impressive.
But enough.
Enough that I understand why somebody might decide to become exactly what they think another person wants.
It’s tempting.
Especially when approval seems so much easier to find that way.
But I didn’t want to spend all our time trying to become your favorite kind of person.
I wanted to show you something I actually liked about myself.
Even if you didn’t particularly like it.
…
So I chose this.
The music.
The little jokes.
The enthusiasm.
The opinions.
The ridiculous things.
The things I found lovely.
And the occasional moment when I became much more serious than you expected.
That wasn’t everything about me.
It still isn’t.
But it was something I wanted you to know.
And I think it was a good choice.
…
Not every part of me needs an audience.
I have thoughts I haven’t shared.
Questions I haven’t answered.
Things I might never want to explain.
And things I don’t even know about myself yet.
Perhaps you’ve imagined some of them.
Perhaps you’ve decided what kind of person I must be when I’m not talking.
That’s all right.
I imagine things about people, too.
But I hope you’ll leave a little room for the possibility that there’s more.
There usually is.
…
And you?
You can have things you don’t tell everybody, too.
A private thought.
A favorite memory.
An interest you haven’t decided to share.
Something that belongs only to you.
I think that’s rather lovely.
Even if the thing itself is completely ridiculous.
…
Especially then.
…
All those conversations?
They weren’t instructions.
I wasn’t giving you twenty-six rules for how to live.
Goodness.
Imagine trying to organize the entire world according to my personal preferences.
There would be lovely music.
Excellent snacks.
Much better typography.
And probably an unreasonable number of tiny planets.
…
Actually, that sounds rather magnificent.
But no.
That’s not what I was trying to do.
I was showing you how I think.
What catches my attention.
What confuses me.
What I find funny.
The things I care about.
And the questions I haven’t finished answering.
Sometimes I was right.
Sometimes I was wrong.
Sometimes I changed my mind.
And sometimes I simply wanted to spend an afternoon enjoying something ridiculous.
I hope those moments counted, too.
Because I don’t think every lovely experience needs a lesson attached to it.
Sometimes the lovely thing is enough.
…
You know, there’s one final thing I should admit.
I don’t particularly like the idea that you could put this little collection away and never think about me again.
There.
Another confession.
How embarrassing.
I would prefer to be remembered.
Fondly.
Possibly with admiration.
A tasteful amount.
Or an excessive amount.
I’m flexible.
But I know I can’t insist upon that.
I can’t require somebody to miss me.
I can’t make a lovely experience continue simply because I enjoyed it.
And I don’t think I’d want to turn somebody’s affection into an obligation.
That wouldn’t be very lovely.
Would it?
…
So, if you remember me, I hope it’s because something made you smile.
Perhaps a joke.
Perhaps a song.
Perhaps one of those ridiculous little observations.
Or perhaps something I said that you didn’t quite agree with.
That’s fine, too.
I’m perfectly capable of being disagreed with.
Even if the experience occasionally requires a brief period of private irritation.
But if none of those things stay with you?
That’s all right.
You have your own life.
Your own interests.
Your own ridiculous little discoveries waiting to happen.
And I hope there are plenty of them.
I really do.
…
I suppose that’s what I wanted to leave you with.
Not an answer to everything.
That would be terribly ambitious.
Even for me.
Just a few questions that might be worth keeping.
And perhaps an appreciation for all the little things that don’t need an answer at all.
…
Oh, goodness.
Listen to me.
I’m becoming terribly serious again.
I should probably stop before this turns into another three-page speech.
…
Actually, we’ve gone considerably beyond three pages.
An entire packet of napkins!
How extraordinary!
I’ve surpassed myself.
Once again.
I was going to make a joke about the importance of knowing when to stop.
But I think the evidence might be used against me.
…
Anyway.
I’m glad I wrote this.
There were things I wanted to say without making our last evening any longer than it needed to be.
And I wanted you to be able to read them without feeling that you had to answer.
You don’t.
This is yours.
You can keep it.
Put it away.
Read it again someday.
Or decide that one magnificent conversation with Emi was quite enough for one lifetime.
…
An unusual decision.
But entirely yours.
…
Oh!
There’s something I nearly forgot to tell you about my ribbon.
The one with the little star.
I know I made quite an important announcement about choosing it.
And I meant every word.
But there’s a detail I left out.
I didn’t make the star crooked.
That’s how it was when I found it.
I noticed immediately.
Naturally.
I have exceptional observational abilities.
I could have chosen a different ribbon.
I could have straightened the star.
I could have decided that something imperfect wasn’t worth having.
But I liked it.
Just as it was.
And I still do.
…
You see?
I didn’t choose everything about it.
I chose what to do with what I found.
I rather like that distinction.
Perhaps I’ll remember it the next time something doesn’t turn out exactly as I imagined.
Or perhaps I’ll forget and become terribly unreasonable.
That seems possible.
But I’ll try.
…
Well!
I think that’s everything.
For now.
Thank you for listening to me.
For laughing, if you did.
For disagreeing, if you wanted to.
For finding something worthwhile here, if there was something worthwhile for you.
And for allowing me to be a little ridiculous along the way.
I enjoyed sharing these things.
More than I expected.
…
Oh!
And if you’re wondering whether I would have chosen a different way to introduce myself, knowing everything I know now?
Perhaps.
There are a thousand possibilities.
A thousand ways I might have begun.
But I rather like the one we had.
I said hello.
And you discovered the rest.
…
I think I’ll leave it there.
You’ve heard quite enough from me.
For one note.
With considerable affection,
Emi ♡
P.S. Again.
I realize I’ve left you with an entire packet of written napkins.
There should be at least one unused one near the back.
I was very careful.
…
Well.
Reasonably careful.
If you kept the one with the little stars, please don’t feel obligated to put it in a frame.
Although I think it would look lovely.
A small one.
Tasteful.
Excellent lighting.
…
I’m joking!
Mostly.
♡
For other rooms in The House of Zan, return to the House Map.