📘 2007: A Girl with No Tomorrow

✦ Chapter 5: Prize Money Doesn’t Heal

> “They handed me a trophy.

I wondered if they’d notice if I left it behind.”

— Aki Hoshino

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The assembly hall was full.

Banners were taped to the walls, spelling out "Congratulations, National Champion!"

The microphone screeched as the Vice Principal cleared his throat.

“And now, let us welcome Hoshino Aki to the stage once again — this time, not only as our pride, but as Japan’s newest youth archery champion.”

Applause. Loud, thunderous.

Students clapped because they were told to. Teachers smiled like they were taking credit for her win. A few classmates rolled their eyes behind their hands.

Aki walked up the steps like a wind-up doll. Perfectly upright. Perfectly blank.

Her uniform was ironed. Her hair was pinned neatly. Her expression — the same lifeless calm she'd worn for years.

The Vice Principal handed her a certificate. A small golden trophy. And an envelope.

> “A special cash award,” he said. “You’ve earned it.”

More claps. More flash photography.

Aki bowed.

She didn’t smile.

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Back in class, the teacher praised her. A few students forced compliments.

“So cool…”

“She must be rich with all those prizes.”

“She probably has no idea what it feels like to fail.”

Aki sat silently in her seat, the envelope unopened in her bag.

Her hand brushed against it. She didn’t feel joy. She didn’t feel anything.

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That night, in her room, she pulled open a drawer.

Stacked inside — a dozen white envelopes.

Some tied with red ribbons. Others marked with stamps. All filled with cash.

Unspent. Untouched.

Cold.

She added the new one to the pile.

Then sat on the floor.

She took out her notebook.

> Date: October 16, 2007

Trophy: No weight. Plastic. Dustable.

Money: ¥30,000. Market value of today’s perfection.

Applause: 4 minutes, forced.

Feeling: None.

I don’t think they’d cry if I died.

I think they’d use my photo on a flyer.

A scholarship in my name. A hall named after me.

They’re not clapping for me.

They’re clapping for what I do.

And what happens when I stop?

She paused. Her hand trembled.

Then, almost absentmindedly, she reached for her bow case. Unzipped it.

Ran her fingers over the string.

Tight. Clean. Deadly.

Aki didn’t cry. She hadn’t in years.

But her reflection in the glass window looked blurred.

Like maybe she was fading.

Or maybe she already had.

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End of Chapter 5

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