Music in media: Tsugaru Jongara Bushi (Tsugaru Shamisen)

Elevators are a lie—they don't elevate your spirits.

You can't be too harsh on them either, or they will crash and burn and leave you asphyxiated. On another note, people always focus on how they lift you up, but no one ever talks about how they bring you down too. What a service.

Not that I can escape their clutches. I have to face one of these overbearing monsters every day of my life. No, I do not live in a high-rise building, but I do have to visit the Ivory Tower. Trust me, it's not the most enjoyable trip and I'd really rather be at the Enju Gym talking to Matsuba or bingeing shows at home.

So here I am, trapped within four walls, alone in an illusion of boundless space as I perform an involuntary Bunshin no Jutsu. Even though they're my own reflections, turning my head in whichever direction makes me feel like someone's watching me. That's why I make it a point to always look straight ahead.

Sike, you'd think it helps. In this painstakingly slow journey spanning ten floors, I must notice every detail that's wrong about myself: blue hair that's frowned upon in this uber-conservative city, ripped jeans that declare I'm a victim of some rabid Pokémon when it's really just modern fashion (not complaining though, at least I get the precious attention of the Kimono Girls), and an RBF.

That's new. I've never had an RBF. And my eyes are small, but never two black dots. That's quite insulting, as if the 'me' in the doors is drawn by some judgemental person, maybe even racist. Running a finger across my mouth, I feel the dry tenderness of my lips which have vanished from my reflection. Strange. My facial features are but reduced to a stickman's.

Hypothesis #2: Elevators project your insecurities.

Whoever told you technology makes the world more secure clearly doesn't know what they're talking about. Or maybe you just aren't part of the world in question.

Shut up, my last brain cell. Don't make me shove you into the microwave.

Anyways, this reflection-coming-alive thing has been going on for way too many times whenever I take the elevator, and it seems like a 'me thing'. I've asked around but no one has had similar experiences. Maybe the elevator heard the rumours and decided on an RBF today.

So here's Hypothesis #3: E is for Enemy. E is for Elevator. Elevator is Enemy.

To all the elevators in my life, news flash, I hate you too.

"Please love me."

"Nyak!" My heart smashes my ribs as I fall on my butt, my hands touching down on the floor a little too late. I think I'm going to crap in my pants. Should've worn diapers.

"Please—" The reflection in the metal doors shrieks as the elevator grinds to a halt. I glance at the red 6 in the panel and sigh. This is going to take a while.

"Doors opening!" A female voice joins our awkward conversation. The bell dings. Court shoes shuffle toward me when the doors part and heels clack in the background. Yes, background, because the foreground displays my reflection attempting to reconcile his sliced body. The half on the left tries to reach for the alarm button with a short arm and a wobbly leg while the other half puts on a dark blue kimono, a tabi sock, slips into a setta sandal, spreads open his sensu fan and belts an aria.

But what's with that contorted face when the doors close? I only fish it out when a character dies on screen for no reason other than emotional impact or when my favourite character has to confront unrequited love. Oof, I don't want to imagine the grief! My heart is going to crumple into a paper ball and I must toss it into a "waste paper basket", a term proudly presented by the classy people who moved into Enju City since the opening of the Ivory Tower. To them, "trash bin" or just "bin" doesn't give them the right feels. They must know that what goes into the basket (The cylindrical one, not the one you bring to picnics on sunny days, ma'am! Where are you going with that ladder, sir? The basketball court? You know that's a hoop, right?) is the extra piece of paper lying around in the office waiting to become a Swanna or a Pikachu, or doodles they are dissatisfied with and ashamed of showing to anyone, especially their future self who exists one minute later, or their to-do list which includes the ten million ways to take revenge on an unpleasant superior.

Well, that's quite a lot to take in, yes? It's exactly how I feel right now. A horde of white-collar workers in the elevator, smirking when they see my pathetic being; my reflection rubbing honey on his face and setting a Pomodoro like it's facial time. He twirls in his kimono and takes a selfie, which looks like he's so done with life. I want to be like him. I can't move despite the elevator not being packed.

Note to self: Never put your hands on the floor unless you want to have high heels crushing your left hand and boots dirtying your right one. Recommended number of floors based on your level of endurance is less than one. Pray tell, Aomine Kyo, how do you hold it all in for four floors?

I'd like to know too. It's a rare occasion that warrants celebration when you say "excuse me" and don a sheepish mein not because someone's blocking your way, but as a result of two people stepping on your hands. And what do they say? Do they apologise? Of course not. They thank me.

When the doors open, the woman says, "Thanks so much, boy! You've given me the excuse to use this packet of sea-salt-caramel-scented wet wipes that my ex gave me! I always avoid touching it, but today's my lucky day!"

The man shoves her out of the elevator and ups his game. "Thank you, son! There's this renovation job going on at my floor and I accidentally stepped onto some wet paint. Really, I'm eternally grateful to you for wiping it off the soles. These boots cost more than whatever pocket money you get every year! You're my saviour!"

Everyone else just saunters off.

Shortly after, my reflection is whole again, for the third time. Watch him scrape the honey mask off his face. Listen to the soothing shamisen music. Smell the fragrance of maples. Taste the rainbow.

I think I just saw Ho-Oh.

No, that's just the graphic on my backpack. Nearly forgot I was carrying one.

"Watashi to kite, Aomine-kun."

He wiggles his finger and reaches his hand out. Should I take it? What if he's a kidnapper in disguise? This is some high-level magician show. I won't fall for it.

"I... Isogashii."

That's the best excuse, isn't it? When you tell someone that you're too busy to make time for them, they'd tend to back down.

I push myself off the floor and dust myself.

My reflection pouts. "You don't lub me?"

Shaking my head, I bring a fist to my mouth and hack a dry cough. "What do you want to do today? I have errands to run."

He blinks. "Errors? Oh, I know!" He slams his first on his palm. "You want to fix yourself."

Can he not say that with a serious look?

"Errands. I have things to do."

By his open mouth, it's obvious he doesn't know what I mean. If he's my mirror image, how does he not have the same capabilities? And if this isn't the first time we're striking a conversation, he should know by now why I have to be here.

"It won't take long."

I roll my eyes. "The last time you trapped me here for an hour and the food's gone cold. My mother wasn't pleased."

"Just five minutes," he says as he rubs his hands together and kneels.

"I-so-ga-shi-i." Waving a nonchalant hand, I jab the button. The doors, engaged in their tryst, refuse to part ways.

"You should mimick the voice," he offers, closing the fan with a sweeping motion and smacking it against my shoulder. "It'll help."

Naturally, I squirm and lower my gaze. What has this world come to? Though, if this is the only solution, there's no other choice than to wield my secret weapon-falsetto.

I inhale. Cool air courses through my being, inflating my diaphragm till it's rock solid. This is good enough. Straightening my back and keeping my legs shoulder-width apart, I say, "Doors opening!"

My reflection hides his face behind his fan and laughs. "Kawaii, Aomine-kun."

Alas, I leave the elevator, engulfed in a cold light. My feet sink into a blue carpet. A zephyr caresses me as the carpet scratches my ankles. Plucked strings echo and deliver cut blades of grass dyed in an ocean's embrace, a navy blue with white spots like salt. A quick scan transmits "voodoo teleportation" into my tingling nerves, prompting me to slap my cheeks. It hurts, unexpectedly.

Blinking doesn't take me away from the misty horizon either. In the vicinity, a white object seems to protrude from the grassy terrain. Just where is this place where soothing shamisen music flows from a source unseen and blue grass falls from the heavens?

"Anyone?" I howl. Silence echoes in my heart and spreads across the landscape. Seems like I'll have to explore the place myself.

Strolling towards the white thing proves it to be a tower shimmering with ivory skin in the sunlight. I have to shield my eyes just to give it a glance, thanks to the glare. The outlines of each brick connect like a network of a thousand serpentine rivers, gaps of darkness starkly contrasting their bright surroundings, seeming to hide some mysterious secrets inside them. At the top of the tower rests a white pagoda with a snow-capped carillon and a jacquemart that takes the form of a Smeargle, striking its tail against the bell. It's etched in such intricate fashion that a first glance would have cast the Painter Pokémon as a vandal.

As I climb the thirty off-white steps to the gilded gate, otherwise known as Amulet Coin for its resemblance to the treasure on a Meowth's forehead, it grows apparent that this is truly the Ivory Tower. Set against a foreign backdrop that's likely my imagination, the tower appears as an erect symbol of isolation. It might be a stretch, but the closest place my surroundings piece together is Mt. Silver. Though, what business do I have here?

I'm no trainer. Besides, the almighty Red has gone back to his humble abode. Still, it couldn't be Mt. Silver, given the unnatural grass field.

Doubt germinating in my heart, I push the door open. The interior of the Ivory Tower is as spick and span as I recall, but there are some differences from the one in the real world. No one's at the front desk and the silver shelf of boxes tacked to the white wall is barren save for a pink lock with a diamond-shaped keyhole. The free paper umbrellas for the sharing service make the rack a suffocating display, very unlike its emptiness that sprouts from the workers' forgetfulness to return them, if that's really the truth.

Perhaps the most ominous feature of this phony tower is the spiral staircase wrapping round a central pillar of the tower, tiny windows slapped onto it at random spots giving it the sense of a panopticon. There are no elevators here, and definitely no emergency stairs.

"Seems like the only way is up."

Quite a lonely place, really. I mean, where did everyone go? Each time I pass by a window and look through it, the room either contains a playstation or a television or a stack of books or a gaming laptop complete with branded headphones and a mouse that changes colour every once in a while. The higher I go, the more lethargy consumes me, and the more disparate the rooms. They expand with every loop of stairs, introducing new elements like a flashier wallpaper, from rainbow-coloured to calligraphy-skinned to splashes of poetry to all styles of art; a dresser with empty photo frames placed on them; an air mattress laid out on the floor; a refrigerator packed with food (the hojicha ice cream's really authentic and delicious) and many other details to mix and match with. Funnily enough, the final room before the stairs blend into a round stage at the end of the pillar contains only a rocking chair that shudders on its own accord, in the middle of a room with peeling wallpaper keen on revealing panels of some unheard-of manga behind it. The panels, from right to left, seem to tell the story of a Poké Ball who goes through the hands of many people, but is not once opened. Upon removing the wallpapers, the full story receives an open closure, with the Pokémon inside still unknown, perched on the top of a tower, watching a leaf storm tackle the world around it. Is the Pokémon resigned to its fate, or will it be the world's unlikely saviour? I'm not sure.

The style's detailed, with all that shadowing and perspective-taking. If the manga's got a sequel or if it was ever published in the first place, I'd buy it.

Getting myself out of the squarish window is harder than I thought. The steps are detached from the walls of the tower, so I have to proceed with caution to ensure I don't flip myself off the edge and celebrate my demise, or stumble down the stairs till I'm drunk-dazed.

When I reach the stage, my mirror image greets me with a blank look while swirling a glass of rice wine, sitting on a red armchair with one bent leg resting on the other's knee, a hand supporting his head.

"You sure took your time, Aomine-kun," he says as he puts the glass down and eyes me. "What do you think?"

I frown and dangle my backpack in front of me to check the condition of the bento. Still feels warm, so that's one piece of good news. Zipping my bag, I ask, "How much time was wasted this time?"

"One minute."

"Time flows differently here?"

"Yeah." He stands and extends a hand to me. "I'll let you go after we dance."

"Do I look like Cinderella to you?" I pout. "And why are you still in that kimono?"

"Baka, it's Rapunzel. Besides, what's wrong with this kimono?" He pinches his sleeves and sniffs it. "Want to smell it? It'll remind you of your first love."

I drop my backpack near the edge of the circular stage and walk to the centre. "I've not dated before."

"You're seventeen! Maybe not first love, but first crush?" He cups my face.

Pushing him away with a welcome snort, I lock gazes with him. "Do I look like someone who's crushed on anyone in my life?"

"Poor thing, you don't know love." He snatches my hand. "Let's waltz."

"Shouldn't it be tango?" I cock my head sideways, watching as he inserts his fingers between mine, and smirk. "What do you know about love?"

"Love dispels loneliness," my alter ego purrs as he takes a step back, prompting me to move forward. "Right now, you're the loneliest person in the universe."

I chortle as I retreat and yank him towards me. "And narcissistic. I must be the only person to ever dance with himself."

"So you admit you're lonely." He twirls me.

When our eyes meet, I hiss, "You shan't twist words, Your Honour."

He lets go of my hand. I take his other hand and spin him around thrice before tripping him so he can fall into my arms perfectly.

"You mean you honour me?" He winks and I give him the honour of breaking his back. Don't you love the sound of bones fracturing after a clumsy fall?

After a sigh, I grab him by his sleeve and give it a hard tug. Before I know it, the back of my head slams onto the floor while he stands in front of me.

"Actually, we spent twenty-five minutes here," he says.

"You said—"

He seals my lips with the finger. His chest heave-hos. "I don't like odd numbers so I decided to square it."

My teeth pierce his gooey skin. Eww. "Twenty-five is still an odd number. Know what? That makes you a square."

"You can't say that! I'm your double!"

"Seems like someone's new to the self-deprecation business," I mutter. "Can I go back now?"

He shakes his head. "Riddle me this: do you love me, Aomine-kun?"

My eyes bulge. If there's no way around this, that leaves me with only one option.

I gulp and get on my two legs. Puffing up my chest, I shut my eyes, feeling the sting of tears arising from my embarrassment. "I love you!"

The bell reverberates through the horizon. Caws and wingbeats fill the air next. Blue leaves brush against my hot cheeks.

"Do you mean it, Kyo?"

Kyo?

My eyelids slide up. My reflections surround me. The doors have parted ways after their tryst. The shamisen music fades out.

Behind the threshold, a young man donned in black and purple taps his foot. His torn scarf (a personal touch, somehow), purple and red near the jagged edges, sweeps his shoulder-length golden-blond hair, almost blending with his headband.

My throat turns into a desert. All confidence shrinks into a croak.

"Matsuba?"