He picked up the magazine. It was a photography journal — all black-and-white shots of vending machines at night.
We didn’t kiss. We didn’t hold hands. We just sat there on the curb, two broken people with one melted pudding, watching the first train of the morning rumble past. soredemo ashita kareshi
“Mochi,” I said. “I’m here because I ran out of courage to sleep.” He picked up the magazine
He picked up the magazine. It was a photography journal — all black-and-white shots of vending machines at night.
We didn’t kiss. We didn’t hold hands. We just sat there on the curb, two broken people with one melted pudding, watching the first train of the morning rumble past.
“Mochi,” I said. “I’m here because I ran out of courage to sleep.”