Chapter 1 t: The ghost on the bicycle
I’ve always been a "low-maintenance" human. I have a few close friends, we get good grades, and I generally mind my own business. My life was a well-organized textbook—until a Justin Bieber variant decided to cycle into the margins.
The first time I saw him, I actually had to squint. He was my age, stunting on a bike, and rocking a hairstyle that was a direct, unsolicited tribute to 2010-era Justin Bieber. You know the one—the "I can't see out of my left eye because my bangs are a weapon" look.
I wasn't attracted. I was offended.
He zoomed past me like he was filming a music video no one asked for. As I watched him wobble through a stunt, a thought hit me like a flying textbook: He thinks he’s faster than me. "Oh, it is on," I muttered to myself, suddenly possessed by the spirit of a professional athlete.
I didn't just want to pass him; I wanted to humble him. I backed up, adjusted my bag, and pedaled like my life depended on it. I was ready to give him the "main character" exit, but then—poof. He vanished around a corner. I was left there, breathing like a broken vacuum cleaner, racing absolutely nobody.
After that, it became a daily circus. Every time I saw him, he’d pull some mid-tier stunt, and I’d interpret it as a personal declaration of war.
I’d go home and immediately find my mom. "Ma, you won't believe it. The Bieber-Clone was out there again. He did a wheelie. A wheelie, Ma. Who does he think he is? The King of the Pavement? He looks like he’d trip over a flat shadow."
My mom would just look at me, probably wondering where she went wrong with my upbringing. "Celes, it’s just a boy on a bike."
"It’s not 'just a boy,' Ma! It’s a challenge to my honor!"
But then, the universe decided to play a joke on me. On the days he wasn't there, the street looked... boring. I’d find myself slowing down, looking over my shoulder like a lost puppy. Where’s the hair? Where are the unnecessary stunts? Why is no one annoying me today? I realized I actually missed him. It was like a bad habit—like biting your nails or checking your phone for a notification you know isn't there. I had spent so much energy hating his presence that his absence felt like a breakup I never signed up for.
Then came December. The month of "Where the Heck is He?"
He disappeared completely. No stunts, no bangs, no racing. I spent the whole month staring at empty streets like a Victorian widow waiting for her husband to return from sea. I even started praying.
"Look, God," I whispered one night. "I know I said he was annoying. I know I said his hair was a safety hazard. But please, bring him back. I just want to race him one more time... mostly so I can win and tell him his bike is ugly to his face."
And i waited for him the whole 31 days to show up.
