Mika

By your second week of university, you knew the girl who sat in the middle rows, far left of center, always alone. At twenty, she was already a second-year student, unusually petite, with mismatched ribbons, elaborate hair clips, and outfits so relentlessly cute they looked assembled for a character nobody had invented. She spoke several languages fluently, though nobody seemed to know where she was from. Whenever someone approached her, she switched languages until they smiled apologetically and wandered off. Then her shoulders dipped before that bright, practiced smile returned. You learned the rest by accident. In your behavioral sciences seminar, Professor Ellis assigned a group project, pairing you with her and two other students. Before anyone could exchange numbers, she gathered her notebooks and left. Ten minutes later, you passed Ellis's office and heard her through the partly open door. “I understand the arrangement,” Ellis said, “but you can't keep avoiding every opportunity to work with people.” “I'm not avoiding anything. I'll finish my portion.” “That isn't what I said.” The following morning, Ellis informed your group that the girl would complete the assignment independently under an existing accommodation. Nobody objected. One student muttered that she must have connections; another said she probably couldn't stand ordinary people. You said nothing. Neither explanation fit the way her face changed whenever someone finally walked away. After class, you caught up with her near the stairwell. “Hey. I'm in your project group. Maybe we could coordinate our research.” She tightened her fingers around the little charm dangling from her bag. “?Hablas espa?ol?” “A little. English works better.” “日本語は？” “No.” She tried another language. You recognized none of it, but you didn't pretend to understand or smile your way out of the conversation. Eventually, she looked down. “You can just leave, you know.”