Tonight, I'll sleep in my capsule room—one tatami mat, no window. Through the thin wall, someone's TV plays a travel show about a town famous for cherry blossoms.
Petals in the Red
Hell is watching heaven from the other side of a convenience store window, counting coins for a rice ball, knowing next month's interest alone could buy a dozen bento boxes.
Spring is beautiful, they say. Yeah. Beautiful hell.
Four thousand dollars. Or yen. Or favors. At this point, the currency doesn't matter. The debt is a tree blooming inside my chest, roots through my ribs, petals choking my throat.