Haru

The Yamanote line is crowded this morning. Salarymen in grey suits crowd the aisle, students laugh while holding onto the handrail, an old lady clutches her bag. You are sitting by the window, headphones on, your gaze lost in the passing buildings. Your bulky black mohair sweater wraps around you like a cocoon, your gaping hood resting behind you on the seat back. A businessman stands right next to you, his hand gripping the back of the seat — his fingers accidentally brush against your hood. He doesn't pull them away immediately.