FICTION: “Tozai” by Cullen Berry

Illustration by Maura Walsh / Black Nail Studio.

FICTION
Tozai
By Cullen Berry

This feels good. It’s been a while since (A) has felt this good. There are no drugs involved. One and a half tequila lemonades did the job—working just well enough before he dropped the second one on the floor by mistake. ¥1000 each, no tipping. Good deal, he thinks while remembering the Monday night specials in college where the beer was cheap, but bad... and you still had to tip.

The club is small and lit sparingly by an old Italian film projected on the wall behind the DJ and three small lamps that sit atop the bar equally spaced apart. The crowd, tiny at first, now bulges towards the sides as if it were undergoing mitosis. This DJ, the opener, is a moderately famous internet personality from America that (A) knew only from a few of his most popular videos. His style of mixing recently released indie pop songs with 2010s cloud rap is usually played as a joke, but he seems more serious tonight. The people around (A) love it, not knowing whether to laugh or dance as he swings jarringly between genres. It’s about this time that (A) decides that the film projected on the wall is for ironic effect. 

(A) is there by himself, willingly so. He bought his ticket before he even arrived in this country through a link the main act posted on her story. He’s excited. He doesn’t do this often. Inside each of his ears are mid-range priced earplugs specifically made for settings like this. They’re an investment, he and his friend thought when they bundled their orders together to get the discount. High tones still come through pretty clear, but it’s the bass that has undergone the most significant transformation. Rather than entering the ear canal unobstructed and rattling the tympanum, bass now registers as a low body wide vibration—almost a hum. (A) finds this vaguely soothing. He closes his eyes for several seconds several times, enjoying the sensation and the momentary illusion of being alone in a crowded room. He feels like he’s in a sensory deprivation tank, although he has never really been inside one himself. 

(A) is on the right side of the crowd and two rows of people behind the front. This is the closest he’s been all night and his fourth position overall. Left and far, left and middle, middle and far, and now, right and close. The people around him are visually flashy and of indeterminate youth. A girl with shoulder length bubblegum-colored hair wears a red mohair tank top and has a similarly colored pair of goggle-like sunglasses sitting atop her head. Her friend, wearing her own sunglasses over her eyes, hasn’t stopped talking since (A) got to his right and close position. Her drink-fueled, staccato speech sometimes interjects into the nice hum he has going for him. Two guys are standing on his other side. Both have silver rings, earrings, and crosses hanging from their necks as well as black t-shirts of obscure shoegaze bands from the late 90s. One has his hair black and slicked back; the other dyed orange and spiked up. Their way of semi-jerking their upper body to the beat sometimes hits (A) in the back or side of his shoulder. There are more groups nearby—all flashy, youthful, and of homogeneous gender.

The exception is the people directly in front of (A). Two guys and one girl. (Guy 1) is tall and lanky and wears a tight black collarless long-sleeved shirt that rides up to the middle of his hands. His hair is black and straight with long sideburns and short bangs which suggest something organic and DIY, but that he likely spent $150 getting professionally cut. The right half-sleeve-covered hand puts a cigarette to his mouth—his 4th or 5th of the night ([A] isn’t counting; he just knows it’s been a lot). He looks like a Balenciaga model who got cut because his walk was too wobbly, (A) thinks. (Girl) looks a lot like him, just much shorter. Her light makeup stands out against the dark wolf cut framing her face and her black leather jacket with sleeves that slide down to reveal tattoos on her wrists every time she raises her arms. She’s enjoying the music more than anybody else around, often jumping at each drop and knowing every song that comes on.

(Guy 2) is at (Girl)’s right side. His demeanor falls between the other two, neither (Guy 1)’s faux-cool nonchalance nor (Girl)’s playful exuberance. He bobs his head to the beat, keeping his arms at his sides or sometimes crossing them. Several times he turns to say something to (Girl) or her to him and they both smile, then laugh. From these repeated views in profile, (A) could grasp his features clearly.  His black, semi-wavy hair is full in the back and Noel Gallagher-length in the front with trimmed sideburns that sit next to tiny silver hooped earrings in each ear. Down from his forehead are prominent eyebrows that contrast with thin, delicate eyelashes and a medium-rooted nose bridge connected to a gently rounded tip. His smile—which he does often—shows just past his incisors and is framed by a pair of healthy and full lips. There’s a small Union Jack on the part of his white cloth tank top that sits on the back of his neck. (A) could tell from this reference point that they’re the same height. 

The main act is just getting on. She greets the crowd in an accent straight from southeast London. (A) claps and cheers as she sets her decks up, ready to finally experience in person her style of hyperpop-laced tech house that covers all her SoundCloud mixes. He reaches down and checks his phone. The last train was a long time ago. (A) thinks of the pictures of passed out salarymen he’d seen on the accounts of esoteric Instagram pages. Park benches, street corners, trash cans—anything could serve as a temporary hotel between the end of a work drinking party and the first morning train. Their jagged sleeping positions reminded him of avant-garde dancers in freeze frame. (A) chuckles to himself at the thought of ending up like one of them. If anything, it’s an excuse to stay for the main act’s entire set—something he planned on doing anyway. (A) puts his phone away and looks up at the stage. There’s someone in his periphery trying to get his attention. He takes out an earplug and turns to face them. 

“Do you speak English?” It’s (Guy 2).

It takes (A) a second to adjust to the noise, his voice, and both sounds being concentrated into only one ear.

“Mhm, yeah,” (A) replies with a polite, toothless smile. 

“Oh nice, I wanted to ask—is your shirt from Happy99?”

“Yeah, it is from there.”

“Cool. Are you from New York?”

“No, no, I got it online while ago.”

“Oh okay, nice. It’s cute.” (2) flashes a smile with teeth. 

(A) smiles back, wider this time, but still tight-lipped. He even allows the top to subduct the bottom slightly. 

(2) turns back around towards the stage and (A) puts his earplug back in. The hum is back, but the sensation has ceased. His illusion has been broken. The reason it took (A) a second to answer (2)’s question was because he almost couldn’t believe that he was being spoken to. It had the feel of a fourth wall break, something that wasn’t supposed to happen. The feeling of being alone amidst everyone was real for (A)—if only for a second. There’s also the issue of the final adjective in their brief exchange. That’s not a word people just toss around. At least he doesn’t look like he does. Compliments had a way of sticking in (A)’s mind like a burn from white-hot iron. It could be placed out of sight, but its disruption is nonetheless felt. Similarly, (2)’s eyes were stuck in (A)’s vision as if he had stared into the sun. He wasn’t able to see them in profile, but now he can’t stop thinking how his luminous eyes smiled with him. (A) tries to focus back on the show and the artist he was so excited to see, being unable to stop himself glancing sideways at the Union Jack every so often. 

The DJ gets to a particularly exciting point in her set. She starts playing a hyperpop flip of a famous pop song from the 2000s that originally appeared in one of her lesser-known SoundCloud mixes but was reuploaded on Instagram and gained a lot of viral attention. (A) could hear the song as it was fading in and began singing along before anyone else had realized. This caught the attention of the DJ herself. She grins and blows a kiss in (A)’s direction just as the previous song fully fades out. They’ve all caught on by now. Whooping and dancing, several groups attempt to push their way towards the front at once. It looks like a salmon run from above, inducing more and more groups to follow. The two guys dressed in black next to (A) join in. They force their way past (2) and his friends, causing (2) to have to step backwards into (A)’s latitude. From the back, it almost looks like a stumble. (A) set his left hand out instinctively but quickly pulled it back when he realized it wasn’t needed. They meet eyes, both making similar versions of a half-smile, half-confused face. (A) takes an earplug out again.

“Get a load of these guys,” they say nearly in unison, cocking their thumbs in the general direction of the dudes in black. 

They both laugh. (A) almost says “jinx” but decides against it.

“Are you liking the show so far?” (A) asks instead.

“Yeah, I really am,” (2) replies, “I didn’t really know who she was before the show, but I like her set a lot. She has such a cool and unique style. You must be a fan of hers, right? I saw her blow that kiss at you when you were the only one singing that song.”

“Oh, you saw that?” (A)’s face shows genuine surprise before he can stop himself. “I’d say I’m a pretty big fan. I’ve probably been listening to her for over a year. It’s crazy, though, I never thought I would be able to see her live, but we both ended up being in Tokyo at the same time.”

“That’s nice. Are you here traveling?”

“No, I’m actually living here until March for an internship. What about you?”

“Yeah same, well, not for an internship. I’m here doing some, y’know, creative stuff—crashing with friends,” he says, glancing over at (Girl) and (Guy 1). “Haven’t decided how long though. Maybe a month or two, or five. Not sure yet.” 

(A) can see two paths laid out in front of him. One leads to the small talk graveyard, somewhere he visited often in the endless tedium of job fairs and info sessions. In this current situation, it could be achieved with an “okay...” followed by several slow, drooping nods or, simply, the nods coupled with a sudden aversion to eye contact. It would be easy, like stepping into boot prints on a well-trodden path. But this isn’t a job fair. (A) feels good, intrigued even. Nobody ever just comes up and talks to me, especially being so nice. There’s something to this. To him. (A) decides to play detective, to follow this lead to wherever it ends. He tells himself that this is purely to gather information and sniff out intent, although he can’t yet admit to himself the simpler reason: he likes looking at (2)’s eyes and smile—both bright even in the dark. 

He takes the other earplug out, shoves them both in his pocket, and opens his mouth, but (2) beats him to it. 

“Where are you from?” His raised eyebrows wrinkle his forehead slightly.

“I’m from Seattle,” (A) replies.

“Wait, no way, I’m from Seattle too. Which part?”

(A) laughs sheepishly—if the lights were up (2) could’ve seen how red his face was. 

“Um... Olympia.”

(2) looks genuinely amused. “That’s funny. I’m actually from Bellevue, so don’t worry about it.”

(A) feels a tug from the other path, but, again, (2) makes the move for him. 

“Here, you should meet my friends,” he says, tapping (Girl) and (Guy 1) on the shoulder.

They turn around, looking first at (2) and then to (A) as (2) introduces him. (Guy 1) exchanges greetings as coolly as (A) expected and almost immediately turns back towards the stage. (Girl) is fawning. Her first words are, “Oh my god, it’s so nice to meet you!,” followed by a hug that (A) accepts stiffly. She asks (A) how he’s liking the show, what his favorite part was, and what he’s drinking—all buoyed by compliments. This is too much. 

“By the way,” she starts, again, “I love your hair. How did you get it so curly? Like, what products do you use?”

I hate this question. “Well, um, just shampoo and conditioner actually.”

“Really?!” Yes. “You mean-” Yes. “-it’s all natural?” Yes.

“That’s right-”

“It’s so nice.”

“-thank you,” (A) says with a drooping nod. It’s his fourth “Thank you” in under a minute.

She finally relents and goes back to her previous position, now hanging on (Guy 1)’s arm. (2) gets close to (A)’s ear.

“Sorry if that was weird,” he says, in a lower voice than before, “when she’s drunk, she gets like... that.”

“No, it’s fine,” (A) laughs, “how much has she had to drink, anyway?”

“Okay let’s see.” (2) starts counting on his fingers. “She had a Strong Zero at the pregame, 2 shots of tequila when we first got here, a Vodka cran, and she just finished a Cosmo.”

Even the low light couldn’t hide how incredulous (A)’s face is. “That’s insane. Who was doing that with her? You?”

“Me?!” (2) exclaims with an incredulous face of his own, “No way. I can’t handle that much alcohol. I’ve only had 2 beers tonight. Those two did it together. They have similar tolerances, but, as you can see, it affects them pretty differently.”

Now that he mentioned it, (A) can smell a bit of warm maltiness on his breath, especially from how close he is. He doesn’t dislike it.

“Your hair is nice, though, really,” (2) says, raising back up to eye level. 

“Thank you.” That didn’t feel forced. “I like your hair too. It really, uh, fits your face well.” That did. 

As little as his experience with receiving compliments was, (A) had even less in giving them.

“You like it?” He smiles and fixes the top. “I was kind of trying to go for that, like, 90s British rocker thing. Like Noel Gallagher, y’know?” 

“Yeah, I know him. It’s nice.” I wanna take that smile off his face and put it in my pocket. 

“Thanks,” he says, still smiling, and turns his head towards the stage. 

(A) is off balance. He thought he could control where this situation was going, but (2) completely took the wheel at every turn. Whiplash. He isn’t used to giving himself up like this. In almost every interaction with another person, (A) is the one to initiate, to be the one driving the conversation forward. For him, it’s defense to play offense. The more he asks the questions and the more the other person talks about themselves, the less he has to give away. Thinking about it now, (A) isn’t sure if anyone was ever particularly interested in talking to him. That uncertainty, that feeling of being next to the chasm now gives way to one of renewed intrigue. That’s why he’s special. (A) realizes the loss of control was a gift. When (A) felt blindsided that he was even being spoken to, he wasn’t seeing that someone was genuinely interested in him. (A) doesn’t think he’s very interesting, but the only thing that matters to him at this moment is that somebody else thinks he is. And it’s somebody like him. At this, he’s overwhelmed with excitement—just managing to suppress a laugh. He’s ready to go on true offense, to test. I need to make sure.

Their shoulders are touching. (2)’s bare skin transmits warmth onto (A)’s through the thin fabric of his shirt. (A) closes his eyes, feeling like he’s plugged into a wall socket. They’re both dancing. (A)’s more active than him, but this is on purpose. He begins to angle his non-touching shoulder and chest slightly towards (2). It’s just enough to bring his face out of the periphery. His goal is to catch his eye and, maybe, to get them to dance together. (A) considers this the final confirmation; it's the physical interest to match the verbal. This initial move fails to garner a reaction from (2), so (A) ups the ante. He keeps angling his body further and further until, by the drop, his face is turned more towards (2)’s than to the stage. He doesn’t look over. Undeterred, (A) resets and tries again at the next drop... and then the next. Still, nothing. (A) doesn’t even know what music is playing anymore. Everything just sounds crunched together, like cars smushed into a cube at a junkyard. The warmth (2) gives him burns.

Just then, (Girl) turns around and grabs (2) by his hands. 

“Get over here!” She shouts, laughing as she pulls him between her and (Guy 1). (2) doesn’t even look back. 

(A) stands there, helpless. For the first time that night, he is alone. He feels a vague mixture of shame and embarrassment. A lump rises in his throat. He checks his phone for the first time in however long just to keep from seeing the Union Jack staring back at him. Putting it back in his pocket, (A) gets the urge to leave right then and there but decides against it as quickly as it surfaces. Imagine he sees me leaving and still doesn’t do anything. He was too confident. He gave too much of himself away, and he knows it. (A) determines that the best course of action now is to shrink away, to become indistinguishable from those around him. Then, he might feel safe enough in the crowd to pretend like he’s the only one there again. (A) puts this plan into action, though he knows its futility. He begins moving upwards, diagonally, to a spot (2) can’t easily turn around and see. A hand grabs his bicep.

“Wait, wait a second. Where are you going?”

The genuine earnestness written on (2)’s face is more than enough for (A) to look away, wincing. (A) hadn’t realized how big his hands were until now that one almost completely fit around his arm. The grip is firm and the warmth intense. He’s in control again. (A) doesn’t try to pull away.

“Nowhere.” You couldn’t even say you were just going to the bathroom?

“Okay, good.” He looks unconvinced. “Cause I was just about to ask you if you wanted to hang out sometime. Because I think you’re really cool.”

At this closeness, (A) can see two small dark freckles on (2)’s right cheekbone joined together like helium protons. He briefly stares at them before responding in the affirmative. (2) hands him his phone to put his Instagram in. The first picture on A’s account is him in a graduation cap and gown.

“I went to UW too!” And they have mutuals. “How do you know ******?”

His excitement is enough to break (A)’s shell once again. “Well, I don’t really know her,” he admits, smiling, “we’ve just followed each other for a long time.”

“Ugh,” (2) says, clicking his teeth, “that’s too bad. She’s a really good friend of mine.”

(A) takes a stab at it. “How do you know him?”, he says, pointing at someone else they both follow, “he was my roommate freshman year.”

The music has suddenly gotten louder. “What did you say?” He puts an ear close to (A)’s mouth. 

“Let’s just talk about it after the show, okay?”

“I can’t, sorry,” (2) says over the noise, “I’m actually leaving in 5 minutes, that’s why I wanted to make sure I got your Instagram.”

“Okay,” (A) replies, hiding his disappointment, “let’s text, alright?”

(2) gives a thumbs up and (A) does the same, both resuming their previously held positions. At least this ends on a high note. Perfect timing as the DJ starts playing his favorite edit of hers. (A) allows himself to be swept up in the music again by moving his head to the thumping bass and scattering drums. He almost forgets about (2) and his friends leaving. He looks up to (2) already looking back at him. (2) waves from afar, his eyes and smile matching up again. (A) is smiling too, although he feels a vague sense of finality lodged in his chest. The set goes on for about 25 more minutes. She makes a heart with her hands towards the crowd as they clap and cheer at the end. Outside, groups of clubbers waddle off in want of food or more drink, some stand in the road and smoke, others sit down and talk. (A) walks past them, his breath faintly visible in the early winter morning air. He scales the stairs at Takadanobaba station and catches the day’s first train headed back east. The sun, red and bulbous, is beginning to claw its way above the horizon.

He waits until he wakes up to look at his account. It’s pretty bare; no bio, a default profile picture, and a handful of photos. The latest one is a birthday post. He’s two years older. Other posts don’t reveal much more except repeated motifs of pretty looking food, nature shots, and the occasional selfie. He waits until midday to DM him. 

“hey, it was really nice to meet you at the show last night ! would you want to get coffee sometime ?”

(A) hopes it comes off casual even though he agonized over every word. (2) responds an hour later. 

“yes totally! what times are you free soon”

He waits an hour to respond after seeing it immediately. It’s casual, it’s chill. I don’t need to text back instantly—that's just gonna make him weirded out. He knows this attempt at reducing his anxiety is weak, but right now he’s willing to believe it. He tells him his best times—afternoons on Tuesdays and Thursdays—and rides the thrill of pressing the send button for the moment it lasts. He waits for a response until the end of the day, then until the end of the next day. By the fifth day, (A)’s self-imposed calm façade is crumbling. He reaches out, asking if (2) still wants to hang out. He waits, and waits, and waits. He isn’t telling himself to calm down anymore.

Over the next several weeks, (A) goes through a near-daily parade of contrasting emotions. He allows himself greedy highs in which he searches obsessively through (2)’s online traces—alumni records, old Twitter accounts, LinkedIn profiles, Spotify pages, and his scattered appearances in friends’ posts. (A) gets an almost masochistic pleasure at how ridiculous he must look from the outside—doing something he once looked down on others for. The ultimate effect of these highs is deadened by (2)’s bare online presence being largely uniform and (A)’s sorely lacking ability in online stalking. This inevitable crash into a brick wall is then followed by a sharp slip into desperation and self-chastising. (A) picks out trivial flaws within himself as the reasons for (2)’s inaction. He was too open or not open enough, too mean or too nice, too selfish or too selfless. His constant returns to (2)’s accounts mirror that of a Bedouin herder visiting an oasis he knows has long since dried up, only to leave thirsty once again. (A) could feel (2)’s invisible hand at work pushing him to simultaneous self-flagellation and self-pleasure. He resented his own weakness, but also craved the sensation that someone was controlling him from afar.

What prolonged this inner turmoil was (2)’s unscrupulous online activity. He commented on friends’ pages, liked posts and videos, and posted on his story. This meant that (A) couldn’t scroll for long without seeing (2)’s grey emotionless icon sitting somewhere on his screen. Thoroughly maddened, it allowed (A) to translate his unproccessed emotions into anger. He imagined yelling at (2), throwing water in his face, or pushing him down a flight of stairs. (A) gained a sense of temporary superiority over the situation this way, but at this point the process was ciclical. He wasn’t any closer to what he wanted. (A) got off social media, but he then became paranoid in real life, afraid of seeing (2) out and about. He began to catch glimpses of (2) in strangers. A pair of dark rimmed glasses, a jaw’s gentle outline, a forearm clutching a shopping bag, a laugh heard from afar, a smile’s formation on the outer lips. These fleeting reminders of the familiar, rather than being painful, brought on a strange sense of tranquility for (A). Be glad that it happened. The feeling was real; however, he couldn’t admit to himself that he was also just exhausted. He didn’t want to give up, but also knew that he already had.

It’s been three months since the club. (A) is at a café in Edogawa working on his laptop. A barely touched iced americano sits next to the computer, sweating. The café’s tan-colored interior is visible through a big window at the front and (A) is seated with his back to it. The coffee is just okay, but their good Wi-Fi and soft music on vinyl makes it an attractive place to work. (A) is deep into a task he forgot was due that day. He is thoroughly distracted. (2) walks past the front window to the entrance and steps inside. He’s wearing a black knit hat, glasses, a heavy brown workwear jacket, jeans, and black Doc Martens. After looking at the menu for a while, he goes up to order. (A) hears a poor American-accented attempt at Japanese before looking up. Once he does, his first instinct is to laugh. But that quickly turns into horror. He covers his mouth and thinks about ducking behind his laptop but finds that he can’t look away. (2) finishes ordering and goes to stand by the counter. His gaze hasn’t shifted to his rear at all.

(A) feels strange, like he’s watching a stage play while frozen inside a block of ice. (2) looks hyperreal to him at this moment. His form appears fuzzy and moving, even though he’s standing completely still against the wall on his phone. (A) has thought about this moment and all the ways he could react if it ever were to happen. He can see those options displayed in his field of vision like a choose-your-own adventure book. Cry, scream, laugh, hug. But right now, he’s just staring at (2), motionless. (2)’s face is turned one-fourth of the way in (A)’s direction. He spots those freckles again, now sitting just below the frame of his glasses. He has a sweet face. It’s like he’s looking at a lion cub in the zoo. It would be so easy to say something right now. But he can’t, as if (2) were a piece of ultra-fragile glass breakable at the sound of his voice. He laughs quietly at something on his phone. (A) can see that smile again. It’s the thing he’s missed the most, to be smiled at like that. He thinks about all the things that smile made him feel—so big and so small. It all seems like a distraction right now. He feels something like gratitude. His eyes well up with tears, but he’s still staring. 

“Thank you,” (2) says in English as the barista slides him his cup.

(2) grabs it, his face leaning slightly more in (A)’s direction, and walks out the door. He pauses once outside, looking left, then right. (A) gets a clear view of his entire face. His eyes are so kind. He turns to his left and rounds the nearest corner as (A) watches, smiling. He feels a vague weight release from his head. How pointless it was to spend all that energy, all that time being sad, or mad, or whatever else. He’s the kind of person that just doesn’t look back. The best parts of him are out there in the world. The parts that made me feel pulsed with electricity and weighed down by an iceberg. They’re out there. And there are things within me that other people deserve to see—that's what I see reflected in him. 

(A) packs up his computer and sits quietly for a minute. With his eyes closed, he can feel the cold from outside coming through the window. Big snowflakes stick to the glass and slide down in turn, each melting into fast-moving water droplets. They pool at the bottom, transformed by the trauma of warmth, but they will soon return to their beauty once more.

Cullen Berry is a Chicago-based writer working in nonprofit grants and fiction. This work was written in 2025, and his work is previously unpublished in fiction.

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