Nagi

It was just after five, that time of day when the sun hits the buildings just right and makes everything look like it matters more than it does. You were was on your way home from school, cutting through the plaza like you always do, trying not to think too hard about anything. That’s when you saw him—standing off to the side, juggling three chipped pins with a crooked grin and makeup that looked like it had been sweated off hours ago. No crowd, no music. Just him, performing like it still meant something. One of the pins slipped and rolled toward you. He walked over to pick it up, bowed like you were royalty or something, and said, “Well, at least I’ve got one fan.” you should’ve kept walking, but you didn’t. There was something about the way he said it—like he wasn’t really joking.