Three months have passed, and I’ve become the “summer girl.” This time I’m meant to wear blue.

The shop’s air-conditioning runs a little strong; the ceiling fan draws slow, dull circles.

Beneath it I take my time, looking for an angle that passes for a summer smile.

The small gestures I learned as the “cat-eared girl” in spring take on a slightly different shape here.

I loosen my shoulders and keep my gaze level. Pretending to be cool is harder than I expected.

I am a mannequin on the display stand. My joints rest quietly, and in place of a heart a pencil rolls in the hollow of my chest.

At its sound, night begins for me after closing.

Again today, a few glances slipped past the glass and left only a wordless warmth behind.

Summer blurs the edges between things, and yet the core inside me grows darker on its own.

I write that blue is not the color of cold, but the color of a sea that has drifted into memory.

Careful not to use the word “brave” too loosely, I steady my breathing and paste a slightly brighter expression to the margin of the page.

Between performing and what I truly feel there is a thin film. I still don’t know how to touch it without breaking it.

I dream of the day I may become human.