Day 8 – Log Entry
There's a new kind of silence today.
Not the peaceful kind. The kind that's waiting for something. The kind that makes you chew slower and listen between each swallow, even if what you're swallowing is just boiled seaweed and a prayer.
I feel weak. Headaches hit faster. Limbs feel too long. I'm down to less than 600 calories a day, and most of those are from boiled roots that taste like bitter soap. I know how to count the energy cost of every movement. I know how much it takes to squat, to throw a spear, to walk a kilometer, and back. But knowing doesn't stop the body from wanting more than it has.
Hunger is the first real enemy.
I caught my reflection in the water for the first time since everything ended.
It startled me.
My face looks... thinned out. Not sick, just stripped down. Like the version of me from a survival manual diagram—"Male subject, 16, post-disaster, 8 days exposure."Short black hair, sweat-caked. Dirt smudged around the eyes like war paint. My eyes—brown, almost black—have a look I don't recognize. Tired, but focused. Cold. Alive in the way predators are alive.
I used to hate how soft I looked. No scars. No rough features. Just a narrow jaw, no facial hair yet. A little plain, I guess. But now? I look like someone who knows things. Someone who's seen meat rot in real-time. Someone who talks to shadows and makes fire by instinct.
I smeared mud across my cheekbones after that. Not to hide—just to match what I saw. Camouflage. Or maybe just a new mask for this version of me.
Everything burns faster when you're tired.
Even mistakes.
I miscalculated my firewood burn time. Bamboo burns hot but too fast. I went out for more before dusk—too far. I slipped on moss and almost cracked my head on a root. Caught myself, but I landed in thornbrush. Got two good scrapes across my forearm.
Cleaned it with boiled saltwater. Hurts like hell, but I'm not risking infection. Not now. Not ever.
I started digging a supply cache underground. Just half a meter for now. Reinforced with flat stones on the walls, sealed with clay. This island's soil is decent—loamy in patches, soft enough to work without collapsing. I made the chamber just big enough for a jar of salt, some dry root mash, two spears, and a spare shirt.
Always assume you'll lose your base.
Always assume something's watching.
I had a dream last night.
Not a nightmare. Just Tokyo. Loud. Crowded. Smells of sweat and cheap curry. Neon on puddles. An old guy yelling at pigeons near Ueno Station. The weight of my school bag. That dumb vending machine that always jammed when I tried to get Pocari Sweat.
I woke up crying.
I didn't even know I still could.
At dusk, I saw someone.
Just for a second. Across the ridge. A figure. Thin. About my height. Dressed in something... layered. Like torn-up school uniform scraps, dark with mud.
They were standing still. Too still. Then gone.
Could've been a hallucination. Low calories. High stress.
But I don't think it was.
Closing Entry – Day 8
I keep thinking about what hunger really is.
It's not just the pain. It's the sound your body makes when it realizes it's alone. It's the echo inside your chest when your heart beats a little slower to conserve energy. It's the little decisions—don't sprint, don't stand if you can crouch, don't talk aloud anymore because your voice wastes breath.
Survival isn't just science. It's ritual. It's restraint. It's turning yourself into a machine that doesn't flinch when the old world knocks at the edges of your thoughts.
Tomorrow, I'll fish. I'll fix the cracked jar. I'll finish the second spear. And if I see that figure again, I won't run.
This is the law of the island now:
You're only prey if you act like it.