Day 11, August 28, 2015
Account Balance: Remains unchanged at ¥2,580,000
Profit Change: 0
Aria woke up to daylight already pouring through the window.
She didn't check her phone. Didn't look at what happened in the U.S. overnight markets.
Her first move was to walk into the kitchen and pour last night's soaked white rice into the rice cooker.
She even added a piece of kombu.
Just like a normal person would cook.
Like a "normal woman" who didn't flip through U.S. options chains at 3 AM.
She switched her phone to airplane mode and dropped it into a drawer, shutting it with a quiet click.
It sounded like she had muted the world.
No quotes, no volatility, no tick-by-tick hypnosis.
She walked into the bathroom, tied up her hair, and changed into her slightly faded UNIQLO loungewear—a gray-blue cotton set, neckline stretched a little too wide.
She even sprayed on a bit of perfume.
Not for anyone.
Just to confirm that she still existed as a person.
The scent was Shiro's white tea.
So faint it was almost not there—like herself.
After laundry, she hung a full basket of clothes on the balcony.
When the sheets lifted in the wind, she stood there watching them,
as if confirming:
This was real.
Not some hallucination stitched together after a crash.
She took a sip of water.
The room was so quiet, she could hear herself swallow.
Around noon, she walked to the Matsuya near the station and ordered a bowl of curry udon.
Not a special deal. Not a coupon exchange.
Aria just wanted to eat something "completely unrelated to candlesticks."
She sat in the corner, stirring her noodles while flipping through a decade-old manga, Death Note.
Her first-ever manga set, bought back in high school.
She remembered how, in her senior year, she fantasized about being L.
When she got older, she realized L wasn't a genius, just a sleep-deprived workaholic.
She stared at the cover and smiled faintly.
It was one of the few memories she had that "money couldn't buy back."
Back home, she opened the balcony doors and sat on the tatami mat, basking in sunlight.
Beside her, the freshly washed laundry.
Sunlight dappled the floor through the curtains.
The air was a little warm, but better than the days before.
She spread the manga open on her knees, but didn't read a word.
It wasn't that she hadn't tried to "return to normal."
She didn't trade today. Didn't check futures.
Didn't open the Nikkei, S&P, or AAPL charts.
Didn't launch the Matsui app.
She spent the entire day doing human things—
Laundry. Bedding. Food. Comics. Cleaning the toilet.
Like nothing in her life had ever gone off track.
But she knew.
This was just a scheduled, intentional self-deception.
As evening fell, she walked into the kitchen, turned off the rice cooker, and turned on her phone.
The screen lit up. Airplane mode was still on.
She stared at the little airplane icon for ten seconds.
Then opened her Memo app and wrote:
"The more you try to escape the market,
The more it proves, it has already moved into your mind."
She didn't hit save.
Just stared at the sentence for a while, then turned off her phone again.
Julian woke up at 7:00 a.m.
His hair was a mess.
Not the carefully tousled, "just-got-out-of-bed" kind.
It was actually a mess that he hadn't showered last night, hadn't changed clothes, and had fallen asleep right in front of his Bloomberg terminal.
The bed was untouched.
He hadn't brushed his teeth.
Only the old air purifier in the corner kept humming faithfully, obsolete, irrelevant.
Barefoot, he crossed the hardwood floor and headed to the kitchen.
The fridge held:
– a pack of nearly-expired boiled chicken breast,
– two cans of cold brew,
– a bottle of vodka, and
– a 95-yen pack of frozen miso soup from the local supermarket.
Julian chose the miso soup.
Not for nutrition, but because "hot things feel more human."
No thermometer. No timer.
He just boiled some water and poured it into a MUJI mug.
The stir stick was a leftover gift from a financial seminar printed with the phrase:
"Volatility Is Opportunity."
He stared at the mirror for a full ten seconds while washing his face.
No fury in his eyes. No breakdown.
Just exhaustion.
He changed into a clean set of clothes:
a charcoal-grey UNIQLO U T-shirt, paired with UNIQLO slacks.
Not because he'd sworn off designer brands,
But because he'd ruined his Tom Ford shirt in the wash the day before.
But the cologne?
Still Maison Francis Kurkdjian, the light version. One spray, just below the collarbone.
Julian knew he didn't need cologne.
But he also knew that not wanting to live and wanting to live with dignity are two different things.
After breakfast, he went for a walk.
Yoyogi-Uehara's streets were as quiet as a market with investor sentiment at zero.
He walked slowly, hands in pockets.
Passing a convenience store, he bought a FamilyMart curry rice—not the discounted version, but the one with the upgraded thick omelet topping.
That evening, Yuji's design firm held a small team dinner.
The venue: a low-lit izakaya in Shibuya called Sumino Kura.
The handwritten menu was messy but enthusiastic.
The lighting is just dim enough to blur everyone's exhaustion.
Six people around the table.
The third bottle of sake is already open.
Someone ranted about a client's bizarre request.
Someone else mimicked the team leader's Kansai accent.
Another shared how their dog had been constipated for days.
Laughter bounced around like loose change on a train floor.
Yuji smiled twice mechanically.
Mouth corners lifted. No sound came out.
He didn't say a word.
Not because the topics were foreign.
But because silence had become his default.
That night, the voice message he'd sent Aria was still there little notification bubble floating at the top of her screen, waiting.
She didn't open it.
She had switched her phone to airplane mode and slid it under her pillow—
as if silencing the market and pausing their relationship in one motion.
She wasn't angry.
Just too tired.
And Yuji's message "Do you think it'll rain tonight?" was too light, too warm.
It didn't fit the spiked armor she now wore around her mind.
She sat cross-legged on her tatami mat.
Fresh laundry beside her.
The air held the scent of detergent and sunlight.
But she couldn't smell it.
All she remembered was this:
She neither gained nor lost money today.
Her account still sat at ¥2,580,000.
19 days left.
The goal is still distant.
She suddenly realized:
She could no longer talk to Yuji like a normal person.
There was a time they'd go to Odakyu to hunt for discounted soda.
Or spend an entire evening arguing in Mitaka about whether 5 Centimeters per Second had any meaning.
Now, she stared at the delta-gamma tables while he cracked jokes that didn't land.
It wasn't that she didn't love him.
It was just that she could no longer return to that version of herself.
And Yuji… was still there.
Still watering the plant she bought six months ago.
Still picking up her favorite almond pudding at the konbini.
Still remembering which shirt made her skin itch.
But Aria was changing every second.
Sharper. Faster. Colder.
She scribbled down a line:
"It's not that I don't love you.
It's just… I'm no longer beside you."
Then she buried herself under the covers and tried to sleep.
Yuji's phone screen glowed all night.
He didn't mute notifications.
He just stared at the "Delivered" message.
Five times.
His coworkers said he'd been weird lately.
Didn't talk much.
Only sat in the corner sipping water at company dinners.
He couldn't explain.
It wasn't heartbreak.
Not even grief.
It was more like being on the wrong channel.
He kept broadcasting love,
But she'd already been reformatted by the market.
Back home, Yuji checked the potted plant.
The leaves were yellowing.
But a new sprout had appeared.
He didn't smile.
Didn't say anything.
He quietly unlocked his phone and scrolled to the top of his LINE messages.
There it was: the voice message to Aria.
Still "Delivered."
Not "Read."
He opened his profile.
The background photo was still that night at Chiba Port the fireworks bursting behind her as Aria munched on takoyaki.
She'd told him:
"Stock markets are like fireworks.
The brighter they are,
the more dangerous they become."
He hadn't understood back then.
Thought it was just another cryptic metaphor.
Now Yuji realized it was a prophecy.
Later that night, he washed his hands and stared at the potted plant by the sink.
Some roots had started to rot.
He gently pulled it out, washed off the old soil, and replanted it in dry, fresh dirt.
His hands moved delicately, like trying to repair an unspoken bond.
Yuji didn't send her another message.
Just moved the pot closer to the window and whispered:
"You didn't leave.
I was just slowly let go."
The light hit the leaves just right.
And for the first time in days, the plant looked almost… alive again.
At precisely 7:00 a.m., the doorbell rang. Twice.
Julian opened the door to find Aria standing there wearing a dark gray hoodie, hair pulled into a messy low ponytail,
eyes still rimmed with sleep.
In her hand: a plastic bag from LAWSON,
holding a tub of egg salad and two rice balls.
She didn't say "Good morning."
Didn't mention the pictures from the night before.
She simply asked:
"You got hot water?"
Julian nodded and stepped aside.
As she slipped off her sneakers, she muttered:
"Didn't sleep well.
That damn candlestick was all over my head."
Julian watched her settle into the chair by the table.
She peeled open the egg salad like she was unboxing something fragile.
Her movements were clumsy. Quiet.
He didn't smile.
Didn't joke.
Just poured two glasses of wine.
One for her.
One for himself.