I never felt nostalgic when I thought about the past. 

Not a single moment of my past seemed to make me happy. But there was still the fact that I could hardly remember anything. My memories only consisted of blur videos and slurred sounds. There were times when I thought of a memory and unexpectedly, it would suddenly become extremely clear. It was not like I was injected with drugs that made my mind turn into jelly but I just have a bad memory, that is all. You might have it. The bad memory, not the injection of drugs. Have you ever tried to think of something in the past and just could not seem to grasp that thread? It was like that for me all the time. 

But, you know, sometimes, I am grateful for this. I am sure that everybody had memories they wanted to forget. The ones which haunted your mind nonstop and was etched in a way that you would never forget it even if you did the Ice Bucket Challenge eleven times. I had a handful of them. When they appeared in my mind, I would either feel annoyed or totally horrified. One of them was so scary I did not go to the janitor's closet for a month. And I am not going to clarify on that. 

Still, besides everything, I could not remember a single happy thing about my past. Sure, there was the time I went on this crazy roller coaster ride in an amusement park and it was amazing and exhilarating. There was the wind running through my hair and my nose and every turn made my stomach queasy which was really one of the best feelings I have ever experienced. Wait, not really. There was also the time I got an entire collection of the Harry Potter Series for my birthday when I was seven but now, it was donated because my parents thought I was more advanced than the 'crazy oxymoron of magical shenanigans'.

But I had way worse memories. My life was not exactly the worst one ever but it definitely is not good. Or decent, at that point. It was just some crumpled, crappy and stupid ball of paper. I had a lot of reasons. Seriously. There was a girl involved who wanted me to commit suicide. Enough said.

"And you are talking to yourself, Yoko Hishinoya," I whispered to myself.

I was sitting in the janitor's closet, with its hopefully not intoxicating smell of bleach and detergent. Metal racks of bottles of cleaning liquids are arranged all around me and I leaned against one of them.  A terrifying-looking mop was towering above me and dirty towels were thrown everywhere. This was the janitor's closet. Situated beside the school's gymnasium on the first floor, it was that small metal door which nobody took much notice of.

I went here in my darkest times, when I felt miserable or melancholic. It was here that I could console myself from the horrors I face. Other than that, I also came here when school ended. The classrooms would regurgitate out teenagers out, flooding the hallways with students. I always liked taking my time to pack my stuff up but somehow, I get pushed along the crowd. That is when my asthma strikes. My lungs close up, I start breathing heavily, beads of sweat appear on my forehead and I cannot think anything except to take my inhaler which is in my pocket.

But the crowd is too strong, pushing me to the school exit and I cannot even reach to my pocket, causing me to feel very claustrophobic. Mustering all my strength, I would smash myself into everybody beside me, causing them to disperse and give me space to run to the janitor's closet. Shutting the door quietly, I would stumble under the mop and snatch my inhaler, feeling the rush of cold and fresh air in my lungs and immediately calm down. After that, I would sit in a comfortable sitting position and meditate. I am not kidding. I took many meditating classes when I was young and mastered it.

Or not. Every day, there would always be ridiculous topics that pop up in my brain like the nostalgia of my past. I also liked reciting the first hundred digits of π. The endless numbers made me feel like it was never going to be the end. That there was no regular pattern in life and it is unpredictable. And I liked it that way. I remembered spending months trying to memorise everything, scratching them onto my brain. 

Breathing out, I glanced around the closet and spotted an empty bottle lying in the corner and a crystal-clear memory struck me in the head, causing me to shudder. It should have just been another ordinary day so when I tiptoed into the closet, I was expecting to be alone. I remembered sitting in a corner right next to the door instead of going into the deep dots like I usually did. While I was sitting there, I could feel another presence near me. Then I heard someone having erratic breaths and some moaning in pain. The thought of an injured person immediately made me realise that maybe someone might have gotten injured in the closet ( For some reason ) and I ran to the source of the sound.

Over there was the school's all-star rugby player Dylan Highmore and he...was having sex with his right hand. I was screaming in shock and when he noticed me, he instantly stopped and stared at me in terror. The tension was thick as we stared at each other, his pants still on the floor and me trying not to look at his thing ( It was freakishly big. So weird. ). Awkwardness filled the environment between us before I finally ran out of the closet, wishing that I had never seen that. That was also the incident that stopped me from going to the closet for months.

I stood up, dusting the dust of my shirt and watching the dust motes in the air swirl around. Sighing to myself, I picked up my stationary and books off the floor and took steps to the exit. Coming out of the closet ( Don't get the wrong idea, people. ), I went to my locker. Our school's interior designer must have had a really bad taste. Lockers were a story away from all classrooms so I had to walk flights of staircases before reaching my locker. 

Weirdly, everybody's locker were all in different colours. Mine was a boring Shepard of grey which I was fine with and in fine, loved it. I liked how my locker looked monotonous and plain. It blended in really well. My locker was also in a good location. It was hidden in a corner and could keep prying eyes from the locker and was far away from any of the poultry kids' lockers. I opened the locker and placed my stuff inside before taking my homework out.

I never liked bring a bag to school and preferred carrying everything in my hands. I walked back home and scanned every house in the neighbourhood. Every house in the nieghbourhood was so close to each other that every house's roof were just a metre away from each other. It was like the neighbourhood was built for people to have marathons on the houses. 

Soon, I reached my house. My parents could not be back at home right now. They were probably still working. Opening the door, I decided that if I was going to be make this day better, I had to do you homework first. I studied enough in school to get passable grades for school. I did not like how cliche and stereotypical it was for people to use the idea of 'A B+ is an Asian F'. I certainly was not a nerd. I was just an introvert who liked using the numbers of π to calm herself down.

I lived up in the attic of the house which had my study table, wardrobe and my bed. It was not that my house was so small but it was the fact that I liked living on the highest floor. Although the attic was really stuffy and was a threat to my asthma condition, it was still the best place to peek out of the window and spy on other people. Not boywatching, I swear. 

I threw my bag on the floor and jumped onto my bed, feeling it spring up and down. High School was tiring every single day. Every day I went home, I felt like the life and soul deep inside me had been seeped out slowly during the school hours. My arms felt limo and my legs felt lifeless. And now, time for homework.

I never had many friends. I think solitude was my only companion in all my years. After what happened that time, I could not bear to socially interact with anybody anymore. I would run away in embarrassment when someone greeted me or shy away if someone helped me pick up my stuff. Lucky for me, I did not look fabulous. Lucky for me, my wardrobe only consisted of clothes ranging from colours of white to black. Lucky for me, I was Yoko Mason.

The girl that was never noticed. The girl that blended in well with everybody. I slipped through places like a thread slipping through the small holes of a woven piece of fabric. I never felt left out though. When everybody ignored me and went on with their lives, I felt like I was being with them, moving on as well. Nobody would have noticed m much  to my advantage and I could stay alone, trusting myself and living independently.

I ransacked my bag for my Math worksheets and something slipped out instead. Isn't it was a multicoloured bead bracelet. On the beads were the letters 'F.R.I.E.N.D.S.H.I.P.' and upon seeing this, I could feel tears starting gather at my eyes. I wiped the sleeve of my sweater against my eyes and pushed the memory in my mind that threatened to tear me apart. Standing up with trembling legs, I went back to the bed again and lay on it. My breath was shaky and I took my inhaler right beside me just in case.

Soon enough, I started sobbing. Tears flowed down cheeks and I felt grief bury me. I still did not dare to think of it. Pain stabbed me in the chest and I put the inhaler to my mouth and felt the air rushing through my lungs again. And I cried some more. I covered my face with my hands and I whimpered, shaking my bed with every motion I made. I hated how every day, I did not throw that damn bracelet away. I hated how every day, that 'jewellery' always slipped out. I hated how time I saw it, I started crying.

Sorrow filled me and I could not control the water gates anymore. I bawled and screamed in frustration. I sat on my chair and put my head into the table p, my shoulders quivering. After a few minutes, I heard the lock on the front door unlock and I stood up immediately, knocking the chair onto the ground. I furiously wiped all my tears away and co trilled my breaths. It was my mother. I yanked my homework out and sprawled it on the table and pretended to do it. My mother appeared on the stairway after a while and looked at me carefully.

"Yoko, are you okay?" She asked.

Her hair was whitening and her face was wrinkling with coming age, making her eyes full of worry emphasised. I glanced at her and felt like crying again. Hiding my face in the shadows, I muttered, "Yeah, Mom, I am fine. Do not worry."

She nodded slowly, still looking sceptical. Standing there for a long while, I could feel her gaze on me as she turned around and walked down. When she was out of sight, I crossed my arms and looked out of the window which was right in front of the table. People were doing their own duties, work and I felt insignificant compared to them. And I was never going to talk to them.

Not afterthat happened.