What Yuki Saw When She Stopped Pretending She Could See
Lead-in:
Found this under Yuki's mattress after she disappeared. Or left. Or just moved. Nobody's sure. Written on the backs of rejection letters from art residencies. Some words are crossed out so hard the paper tears. Someone at the intersection keeps making copies, changing parts, like they're trying to fix something that was never broken, just honest.
---
3:17 AM. Can't sleep. Woman in the next bed screaming about Iowa again.
Keep thinking about that artist. Daniel something. Made something about hurricanes. María. The hurricane, not a person.
But I see my face in it. Why do I see my face?
Because I'm a thief. Stealing other people's disasters. Never been in a hurricane. Never been to Puerto Rico. But here I am, claiming I understand because I see sound as color. Like that means anything.
The Goon Ox in my head now. Or in the room. Can't tell. That stupid orange hair. Want to touch it. Want to ask if it's real. Want it to tell me I'm real.
Fuck, I'm losing it.
---
Firelei—can't spell her last name. She paints hurricanes eating history.
Grandpa. Camp. 1942.
Never talked about it.
Mom never talked about him not talking.
I never—
Is this why I'm here? Other people's checkpoints because my family's camps are too—
Stop.
---
Lockdown. I lied. Said I was fine. Developing my practice. Bullshit. I was terrified of doorknobs. Of air. Of finding out alone meant alone meant alone meant—
That's why I grabbed these people. Desta. Karim. The intersection. Like a life raft. Like if I held tight enough I'd become real.
---
More artists in my head. Or on my phone. Can't tell if I'm googling or dreaming.
Someone weaving weather into baskets. Someone else making Florida paradise and hell at once. Someone flooding things for twenty years.
Twenty years of the same thing. Could I do anything for twenty years? Can't even sleep for twenty minutes.
They're all so sure. No, that's wrong. They're not sure. They're just doing it anyway.
I'm not doing anything. Just watching. Claiming I see colors. Claiming I hear what the Goon Ox hears. But I don't. I just have regular synesthesia and a need to feel special.
---
4 AM. Or still 3:17. Phone's dead.
Here's what's true:
- Desta needs housing, not me seeing her hum purple
- Karim needs the checkpoint gone, not me documenting frequencies
- The Goon Ox probably doesn't exist
- I made up the pressure ghosts because I wanted to belong
No. Wait. Some of that's not true. Or all true. Can't tell anymore.
---
Grandpa died when I was seven. Showed me a photo once. Him young, behind wire. Smiled in the photo. How do you smile behind wire?
Mom won't talk about it. I won't talk about her not talking about it.
But here I am watching Karim's wire like it's a movie. Like it's art. Like his pain is my material.
I'm disgusting.
---
No. That's too dramatic. I'm just lost. Confused. Twenty-something with synesthesia thinking it makes her deep.
The woman screams about Iowa. Every night. Iowa Iowa Iowa. What happened in Iowa?
---
5 AM. Eggs cooking somewhere. Real smell. Not dream smell.
Getting up. Legs numb. Rejection letters crinkle. Rejected from places that want artists who know what they're doing.
I don't know what I'm doing.
---
At the intersection. Desta's there. Always there.
"I don't—" I start.
She holds up cardboard: "I know"
"Know what?"
She writes: "You're not sure you belong"
"How do you—"
She points to everyone. Karim. The elder gardener. Even the empty space where the Goon Ox might be.
Writes: "Nobody's sure"
---
Karim counting. Six minutes something seconds.
"Why do the seconds change?"
"I forget. Or remember different. Or time isn't—" He stops. "Your grandpa. Camps."
"How do you know?"
"You look like my sister. When she remembers things she won't say."
This makes no sense. Also makes complete sense.
---
The Goon Ox appears. Or doesn't. Or someone walking weird looks like it for a second.
Orange hair in morning light.
"Is it real?" I ask whoever's listening.
"Is anything?" someone says. Maybe Karim. Maybe me.
---
I want to make a speech about finally understanding. About how we're all uncertain but moving forward anyway. About transparent colors and painted wind and—
But I don't. Because that would be neat. Clean. False.
Instead I just stand there. Seeing purple. Or blue. Or nothing. Hearing pressure ghosts. Or traffic. Or my own need for meaning.
Desta hums. It's not beautiful. It's damaged. Like everything here.
That's not profound. It's just Tuesday. Or Wednesday. I've lost track.
---
The artists in my dream—if it was a dream—they painted disasters without knowing if painting mattered.
I'm here without knowing if here matters.
Same thing maybe. Or completely different. Or—
The woman who screams about Iowa walks past. Daylight, she's fine. Buys coffee. Nods at Desta. Normal.
We're all normal in daylight. It's the 3:17 AMs that show who we really are. Confused. Scared. Making things up. Holding rejection letters under mattresses. Seeing colors that might not exist. Counting seconds that keep changing. Humming because talking is gone.
This isn't a revelation. It's just what is.
---
Coda:
I keep trying to end this with wisdom but I don't have any. Just synesthesia that might mean nothing. Family trauma I can't discuss. Friends who might be imaginary. A wobbling ox with orange hair that definitely doesn't exist except when it does. We're all at intersections where roads meet wrong, pretending we know which way to go. The only honest thing is admitting we don't. The only real thing is showing up anyway. Not profound. Just Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Fuck, what day is it?
