Dear Haruhi

I was walking in Megamall’s food court, looking for dinner awhile ago, when I heard the pleading music of long untouched coin-operated rides and games. I wasn’t really sure what they were begging for, but they were humming–shrieking nursery rhymes and Christmas jingles. I could imagine each note being forced out by tiny buttons and just before the fa’s or the la’s sputtered into air, the tiny buttons ended up coughing, swallowing, wheezing, breaking the notes into pathetic little pieces in the process. They tried, the forgotten buttons would say. We’re still doing our jobs. We’re still functioning.

I held my breath and stopped another deluge of flashbacks, though I’m not really great at discerning the difference between anxiety attack and heartburn. I didn’t even know which memory would break through. It felt like I have spent most of my life beside peeling paint and pixels. They have always cheered me. But at that moment, the machines just kept blinking. I felt as if they were daring me to say something. Then again, maybe they just wanted someone to talk to.


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