VOLUME III: 41 – Black Dress From Walmart

One flight, two tear-stained customs forms, and a mother’s forced goodbye later— she was back where everyone spoke like they’d swallowed a ruler and thought politeness could fix a person. Aoi got dumped back into London like a punishment dressed up as family “structure.”

She’d promised her sister she’d behave.

But promises were cheap currency when your whole chest buzzed like an unshaken soda bottle.

So her second morning, she ditched half her unpacking, ignored the too-tall prefects pretending to supervise, and stalked every hallway looking for one person— Krei.

He was supposed to be here. He knew how to translate her moods into something quiet and normal. He was hers before the world taught her how to fold herself small enough to fit people’s expectations. He would know what to say. Or not say.

Except he wasn’t anywhere.

And by the time she checked the old lounge, the practice wing, even the stupid oak tree behind the dorms, her hands were shaking from holding in every swear word.

She ended up behind the chapel wing, hidden by the stone archway and a rusted garden bench nobody bothered to sit on anymore. She lit a cigarette she’d stolen from the convenience store— the lighter sputtered twice — and inhaled like it's the only escape she'd ever touch.

“Oi. You’re not supposed to smoke here.”

The voice came out of nowhere. Calm. Not scolding but worse— amused.

Aoi spun around, lips curling half feral, “Call the Queen then.”

The boy leaning against the archway looked older, probably a sixth form prefect, blazer neat, shoes dry despite the drizzle she’d walked through for an hour. His eyes flicked from her cheap lighter to the half-burned stick between her fingers.

“You’re new.” His tone was mild, careful, like he’d seen her type before: trouble that thought it was a hurricane.

Aoi blew out a plume sideways. “Don’t you have a charity gala to suck up to, prefect?”

His mouth twitched. “Fair point. But you’ll get detention for that.”

“Already planning on it.”

He pushed off the wall, steps slow, so she wouldn’t bolt. He nodded at the smoke still shaking in her grip.

“First day and you’re hiding?”

“I’m looking for someone, actually.” She lifted her chin, defiant despite the tremble in her wrist. “Krei Astor. Know him?”

Recognition flashed behind his eyes— quick, gone. “Tall, quiet, pretends to read when people bore him?”

Aoi’s scowl softened half a fraction. “Yeah. Him.”

“Library basement. He’s usually there this time. But…” He held out his hand, palm up. “Give me that first.”

She hesitated, flicked the ashes at his shoes on purpose, then slapped the cigarette into his palm like a dare.

He didn’t flinch. Just crushed it between two fingers, flicked it into a bin behind him, and dusted off his blazer sleeve.

“You’re welcome,” he said, tone so irritatingly calm it made her want to bite him.

She squinted. “What’s your name, prefect?”

He didn’t answer. Just tipped two fingers off his brow in a mock salute and turned to vanish back into the gray drizzle that had spit her out this morning.

“See you around, Halberd.”

Then he left her there, damp bench, rattled lungs, and smearing rain.

She found Krei an hour later, exactly where this infuriating boy said he’d be— but by then, a new, quieter ache had settled under her ribs.

~

BZZT BZZT BZZT

My phone shrieked like it had been waiting all night to ruin my life.

I slapped it off the nightstand. It thudded to the floor but kept buzzing, vibrating against the warped floorboards like a petty poltergeist determined to drag me into adulthood.

I cracked one eye open. The ceiling stared back, same water stain in the corner, same faint crack running through the paint like a stress fracture that refused to heal.

“...What the actual hell was that dream?” I croaked to the ceiling, voice half gravel, half confused panic.

It's more like my brain throwing old film reels at my face just to remind me I’m a walking open wound with a Wi-Fi plan.

I groaned into my pillow. For a good three seconds, I considered letting the world burn and staying here— half-buried in blankets, face-first in questionable choices.

But my brain— traitorous, loud — reminded me: Grandpa’s birthday.

Right. That.

I dragged my arm out from under the blanket, fished the phone from the floor, and squinted at the notifications.


Akane:
Don’t be late.
I mean it.
Wear something presentable. Not your hoodie.


I barked out a laugh that sounded like a dying cat.

“Good morning to me,” I croaked, rolling over. My head throbbed with the leftover chaos of last night’s stream. My mouth tasted like I’d argued with a pudding cup and lost.

I lay there for a second longer, staring at the ceiling, wondering how a single family event could feel more terrifying than any demon-summoning collab I’d ever done live.

Grandpa’s birthday.
Akane’s expectations.
A family that still thought politeness could fix people like me.

I sighed, loud and dramatic, because the walls deserved to hear it too.

“Fine. I’m up. Happy trauma day to us all.”

I shoved myself upright.

Time to play the well-adjusted granddaughter. Again.

I dragged myself off the futon and rummaged through the mess near my desk until I found the crumpled envelope Akane had so graciously slid across the table during that rooftop dinner.

I flattened it against my knee, trying to ignore the dried ramen crumb stuck to the flap.

You are cordially invited to the 88th birthday of Mr. Hiroshi Takahara. Formal attire requested. Family attendance is expected. Dinner promptly at six.

Family attendance is expected.

Right. Like I was an RSVP card, someone kept losing and then passive-aggressively taping back to the fridge.

I tossed the envelope onto my pillow and kicked open my closet. It yawned back at me with all the enthusiasm of an underfunded thrift store clearance rack: hoodies in various shades of regret, three band T-shirts that no longer sparked joy, and my old interview blazer that still smelled faintly of anxiety sweat.

“Nothing says respectable granddaughter like dried energy drink stains,” I muttered.

I checked the clock. Four hours to fake dignity. Great.

San Francisco, you beautiful overpriced sprawl— take me to your nearest Walmart.

Forty minutes later, I stood in the glaring fluorescent embrace of Walmart’s so-called Apparel Section, clutching my phone like a lifeline while Google auto-suggested, how to look put together when your life is actively falling apart.

Around me, rows of suspiciously synthetic blouses and knee-length dresses in patterns that could only be described as “grandma curtains but corporate” mocked me with their cheerful plastic hangers.

I grabbed the least offensive black dress I could find— knee-length, plain neckline, no sequins, no glitter slogans about “girl boss energy.” The tag said Business Casual Chic. Lies. But I’d seen worse on my old debate team.

I held it up to my chest in front of a fingerprint-smudged mirror, making direct eye contact with my own dead-inside reflection.

“Congratulations, Aoi,” I said under my breath. “You’re about to attend a dynasty-level birthday party in a Walmart funeral dress that cost thirty bucks and the last shred of your self-respect.”

Someone’s toddler screamed somewhere in toys section. The store PA crackled about a cleanup in Aisle Seven. I resisted the urge to lay face-down in the sock bin and manifest a coma.

I ended up throwing a plain cardigan and a $2 clearance lipstick into my basket, too. A desperate attempt to whisper I’m a functioning adult to the universe.

At checkout, the cashier didn’t even flinch when I paid in crumpled bills and loose coins. I appreciated her professionalism.

Bag in hand, I stepped out into the parking lot’s concrete wasteland, the sun already mocking me by pretending it was a nice day.

I checked my phone again.

Akane:
Don’t be late.
This is your final warning.

I exhaled through my teeth. “God bless Walmart and cheap synthetic blends. Let’s ruin this family portrait in style.”

I stuffed the dress into my battered tote, hoisted it onto my shoulder like it contained my last scrap of dignity, and trudged back to the bus stop.






I can’t believe we’re here~ Volume 3!!

Thank you for reading this chaos nugget of a chapter. I promise (lie) that it only gets worse (better?) from here. We’re digging deeper into old ghosts, new regrets, and family dinners that feel like tax audits with extra judgment.

As always, your support keeps this caffeinated ponko circus alive. I see you. I love you. We suffer together.

See you in the next one~ where we ruin a birthday party in a Walmart dress.

~ Edeshei 🧃