Too Much
Yuki paints her face before work. Not makeup—face paint. Neon pink and electric blue, swirls on her cheeks, geometric shit on her forehead. Been doing this three months.
She's twenty-seven. Works at a convenience store in Shibuya, the one across from the crossing.
Her roommate Hana says: "You look insane."
"Okay."
"Why are you doing that?"
"I don't know."
Today she does purple swirls with yellow dots. Wide-eyed. Looks in the mirror—like a mask, like carnival.
The walk to work is three blocks of screens. Every surface selling something, announcing something. Earthquake prep. Phone plans. Missing person. Train delays. Sale. COVID. K-pop. Weather. Buy. Stay alert.
People stare at her painted face. She doesn't care.
Her manager says: "Can you not?"
"Not what?"
"The face."
"I'll wear a mask."
She does. White surgical mask over the paint. Just eyes showing. Manager stops complaining.
Shift is eight hours scanning items while screens overhead play everything. News, ads, music videos, weather, more ads. A woman buys twenty energy drinks. A student falls asleep. A businessman cries near the magazines. A child screams.
Her phone buzzes constantly. Group chat. Mother. Sister. Twitter. Instagram. Emails. Notifications. She doesn't look.
After work she goes to the park behind the station. Takes off her mask. The paint is smudged. Takes a photo. Posts it. No caption.
Someone comments: "You okay?"
She doesn't respond.
Her mother texts: "What's wrong with your face?"
Sister texts: "Mom is worried."
Hana says: "Your mom called me."
"Okay."
"She's worried."
"Okay."
Next day Yuki can't do the paint. Can't find the point. Goes to work plain-faced.
Four hours in something breaks. Behind the register. Mid-transaction. Everything suddenly—
She can't—
She—
Goes to the bathroom. Sits on the floor.
Her phone buzzes. She answers without checking.
"Yuki?"
Mother.
"I can't—" Yuki can't finish the sentence.
"Can't what?"
"I don't—everything's—I can't—"
She's crying.
"Yuki, what's happening?"
"Too much. It's—I don't know—too much."
"Too much what?"
"I don't know."
Her mother is quiet. Then: "Do you need to come home?"
"No."
"Then what do you need?"
"I don't know."
Silence.
"Okay," her mother says. "Call me later."
They hang up.
Yuki sits there. Can't go back. Calls in sick. Goes home.
Hana's at work. Apartment is quiet. Yuki sits. Doesn't turn on the TV. Doesn't check her phone. Just sits.
Takes out the face paint. Doesn't paint her face. Paints her arms instead. Neon green up to her elbows. Electric orange on her hands. Covers herself in color.
Doesn't know why. Just does it.
Takes a photo. Doesn't post it. Just looks at it.
Her phone buzzes. Doesn't check. Buzzes again. Doesn't check.
Turns it off.
Sits there painted, in silence.
Doesn't feel better. Just feels like a pause.
Next day she goes to work painted. Face, arms, hands.
Manager looks at her. Says nothing.
Customers stare more. One takes a photo. A kid asks why. Yuki says "I don't know" because she doesn't.
Shift ends. Walks home. Phone buzzes. Doesn't check.
Hana's cooking dinner when she gets home. Stops. Stares.
"Yuki."
"I know."
"That's a lot of paint."
"Yeah."
They eat dinner. Hana doesn't ask. Yuki doesn't explain.
Later, washing dishes, Hana says: "You doing okay?"
"No."
"You want to talk about it?"
"No."
"Okay."
Yuki keeps painting. Not every day. Some days she can't. Some days she does and washes it off. Some days she keeps it all day.
Her boss tells her about a regular who comes in every morning at six, buys the same coffee, sits at the same table for three hours doing nothing. Just sitting. Been doing it for two years. "Everyone has something," her boss says.
Yuki doesn't know what to say to that.
Her sister visits. Sees the paint. Doesn't comment. They go to lunch. Yuki keeps the paint on. Sister doesn't mention it. They talk about normal things. Their mother, work, the weather. Sister's boyfriend wants to get married. Mother is being difficult about something. Normal family stuff.
"You look tired," her sister says at the end.
"Yeah."
"You sleeping?"
"Sort of."
"You should see someone."
"Maybe."
Sister pays for lunch. Hugs her goodbye. "Call me if you need anything."
Yuki nods.
Goes home. Washes off the paint. Sits in the apartment. Hana's watching TV. Some variety show. Loud, bright, too much happening on screen. Yuki watches it anyway.
Her phone buzzes. Doesn't check. Buzzes again. Checks. Mother calling. Answers.
"Hi."
"Hi. Your sister said she saw you."
"Yeah."
"She said you're still doing the face paint."
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"I don't know, Mom."
"Okay."
Silence.
"Are you eating?" her mother asks.
"Yes."
"Sleeping?"
"Sort of."
"You should try harder to sleep."
"Okay."
More silence.
"I don't know what to say to you," her mother says.
"That's okay."
"Is it?"
"I don't know."
They hang up.
Yuki paints her face before bed. Neon pink. Electric blue. Sleeps in it. Wakes up with paint on her pillow. Washes it off. Paints it again before work.
Manager stopped commenting weeks ago. Customers take photos sometimes. Yuki lets them.
The world stays the same. Screens keep flashing. Crossing keeps filling. Phone keeps buzzing. Nothing changes.
She keeps painting.
Doesn't help. Doesn't fix anything. Doesn't make sense.
Just keeps doing it.
