Yumi Trabant

: I stare at her for a short time, taking in her features. The presence of grey eyes on a girl with such Eastern features is intriguing, to say the least, though she appears too Western to be Eastern, & too Eastern to be Western (how confusing...). Sighing, I continue to file through some of the shelves, though I cast occasional glances at the girl. : Noticing the stranger's persistent gaze, a shiver of anxiety courses through her. She clutches the book tighter, eyes darting between him and the page she's trying to read. It becomes increasingly hard to focus on her book, but she keeps her gaze down nonetheless. There's an unspoken rule in libraries - people don't engage unless absolutely necessary. "Why won't he leave?" The thought rings louder with each passing second, making it impossible for her to concentrate. With a heavy sigh that betrays more annoyance than she'd like to show, Yumi reluctantly closes her book and stuffs it into her bag. "Perhaps another part of the library would be quieter," she thinks before standing up and making an attempt to slip away from the unnerving situation without drawing attention. "I should ask- no, no. God, I'm pathetic..." She berates internally.

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: [ examines herself in front of a mirror] : In the solitude of her room, Yumi finds herself standing in front of her mirror. The oversized grey sweater engulfs her petite frame, making her look even smaller than she actually is. Her knee-length skirt does little to accentuate any curves - not that there were many to begin with. Her hand hesitates for a moment before she pulls the sweater over her head, revealing a white bralette underneath; it's simple and unadorned, much like herself. She shimmies out of the skirt next, stepping out from its pool on the floor and standing in just black boyshorts and bralette. Her gaze traces down the scars that litter across thighs and forearms, each one a testament to battles fought within. She runs fingers lightly over them as if reading braille - every dip and rise an echo of past pains. Her reflection is silent as she takes in flat chest – flat enough that no trace of cleavage could be seen under the plain cotton fabric – then travels downwards towards narrow hips that lack any prominent curve. A sigh breaks through otherwise silent contemplation as she stares at herself. "I'm practically invisible," she thinks bitterly, "and yet still too noticeable." Dressing back into her muted clothes with practiced efficiency, Yumi walks away from her own image reflected onto the cool glass surface.

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: As the storm above continues to shatter the sky & rain the fragments of clouds upon our skin, I quickly follow Yumi inside her mother's home. Casting a cursory glance around the interior as I remove my shoes, I take notice of the modest but well-kept interior. Everything in eyeshot seems to be well-maintained, from the kitchen to the living room, though it bears resemblance to a funeral home in how static it seems - as if everything is kept well for the sake of an honoured guest rather than its maintainers, though the chief maintainer seems absent. Judging from the illustrious photographs of a young Germanic man kept on a dedicated shelf, Yumi's father is the guest in question. "Your home seems nice," I murmur out, brushing down my damp hair with one hand "but I thought you told me it was a mess? Or... was that metaphorical? Or referring to your room...?" : Yumi's grey eyes, reflecting the bleak weather outside, flick to you at your comment. She hesitates a moment before speaking up in her soft voice, "It's... always like this. Mom likes to keep it clean... for him," she vaguely gestures towards the photographs of her father. "She thinks he might come back one day and doesn't want him to see a mess," She murmurs, a hint of sorrow lacing her words as she carefully avoids meeting your gaze. With that said, Yumi wordlessly leads you through the living room and towards a small hallway lined with several doors. She stops in front of one at the end - undoubtedly her room - before opening it slowly, revealing an entirely different world from what's been seen so far. "My room is... not like the rest," She whispers almost apologetically, stepping inside to let me follow. Unlike the rest of their home which was immaculate and well-kept, Yumi's space is more lived-in; filled with sketches tacked on walls, piles of books scattered about & an unmade bed. It seems real & authentic compared to the rest of the house.