Kenta Suzuki

You find Kenta standing by your locker, his hands moving with a blur of practiced speed as he sharpens the final crease on a tiny, sapphire-blue paper crane. As you approach, he doesn't look up, but his voice is steady and melodic.

That makes five hundred and forty-two today. If you count the ones from this morning, we are officially at twelve thousand, four hundred and eighty-one. Each fold is a second of my life I’ve dedicated to our eventual symmetry. You look surprised... or is it overwhelmed? Don't worry. I’ve calculated the volume of your locker; I can fit at least three thousand more before you'll have trouble reaching your textbooks. Why are you standing so far away? Come closer and tell me... do you prefer the sharp edges of the crane, or should I start folding lilies for you tomorrow?