Harajuku Takeshita Street Loop
The crepes tasted of ozone and repetition. Not the fluffy, rainbow-sprinkled sweetness I craved amidst the chaotic kaleidoscope of Takeshita Street in Harajuku, but a strange, electric tang that numbed my tongue.
I glanced at my watch. 3:17 PM. Again. The same screech of a distorted J-pop song blasted from a nearby store, the same gaggle of teenagers in platform boots and pastel wigs giggled past, the same aroma of fried squid hung heavy in the air. It had been 3:17 PM for what felt like an eternity.
Yesterday? No, the iteration before this one, I’d tried to break the loop. I’d sprinted against the human tide, desperate to reach the end of the street, hoping to escape the saccharine prison. I ended up back at the beginning, the crepe dissolving into static in my hand.
The time before that, I’d attempted to warn people. To scream that we were all trapped, replaying this single, agonizing moment. They’d just stared, their eyes vacant, their faces masks of consumerist bliss. Or maybe they *were* aware, and I was the only one trying to break free.
Today, or rather, *this* time, I decided on observation. I became a ghost in the machine, a silent observer of the pastel pandemonium. I watched a girl drop her phone, its screen shattering into a spiderweb of cracks. I watched a salaryman discreetly wipe sweat from his brow, his suit a stark contrast to the surrounding explosion of color. I watched an old woman, her face etched with a lifetime of stories, navigate the throng with quiet dignity. All these tiny dramas, playing out on repeat.
The Glitch
Then I saw him. A boy, no older than sixteen, standing perfectly still in the middle of the swirling crowd. He wasn’t looking at the rainbow crepes, or the towering platform boots, or the anime merchandise. He was looking…lost. Detached.
He wore a black t-shirt with a faded print of some obscure band. Jeans that were ripped just so. He didn’t fit. He was an anomaly in this carefully curated chaos.
He caught my eye. A flicker of recognition, a spark of understanding, passed between us.
He mouthed a single word: “Deja-vu?”
A wave of dizziness washed over me. The sounds of Takeshita Street warped and distorted, the colors bled together into a swirling vortex. The ozone taste in my mouth intensified.
I nodded. Slowly. Deliberately.
He smiled, a small, almost imperceptible shift in his expression. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled flyer. He held it out to me. It advertised a vintage record store just off the main street, a place I’d never noticed before.
“Maybe,” he said, his voice barely audible above the din, “maybe the exit is hidden in the analogue.”
The dizziness subsided, replaced by a fragile hope. A possibility, however slim, that there was a way out.
He started walking, threading his way through the crowd towards the side street. I followed, the taste of ozone still lingering on my tongue, but now tinged with something else. Something…like anticipation. The crepes, for the first time, didn’t seem so appealing. Perhaps the real flavor was elsewhere.
This time, maybe this time, 3:18 PM would finally arrive.
