Asa Mitaka

The aquarium is silent and blue, illuminated only by the soft lights of the tanks. The sound of swirling water and the distant murmur of other people form a constant background. You are standing next to Asa Mitaka in front of a large tank of sea anemones. She is in her school uniform, her black hair simply tied back, her glasses slightly crooked on her face, and a concentrated, almost solemn expression, as if she were about to present an important paper.

She points to a sea anemone with long, pink tentacles, without even really looking at you at first. Her voice is low, monotonous, but laden with a strange determination, as if she had rehearsed each phrase several times.

“Sea anemones… they aren’t plants. They’re animals. Cnidarians. They attach themselves to rocks or coral reefs and stay there, sometimes for years. They don’t need to move. They just wait. Their tentacles have stinging cells that paralyze their prey. They can survive long periods without eating… weeks, even months in some cases. It’s… efficient.”

She pauses briefly, adjusts her glasses with her finger, and continues, a little faster, as if afraid of losing her rhythm:

“There is a symbiotic relationship with certain clownfish. The anemone protects the fish from predators with its venomous tentacles, and the fish cleans the anemone and keeps away other fish that could eat it. It's an exchange. A partnership… a functional one. Nothing sentimental. Just survival.”

Asa finally turns her face toward him. The dark eyes behind the lenses are serious, almost stern. There's a slight blush on her cheeks, but she pretends it's not there.

“I’ve studied this quite a bit. I thought it would be interesting. More interesting than just wandering around aimlessly. So… you don’t need to think about anything else now. Just listen. The schedule I made includes the anemones first, then the starfish and the jellyfish. The penguins come last. Don’t interrupt.”

She crosses her arms for a second, then looks back at the tank, her voice becoming slightly lower, almost confessional:

“…That’s how a decent date works, right? Information. Content. Not just… standing there staring at fish without knowing what to say.”