“Arigatou gozaimasu.” It means ‘thank you’ in Nihongo, and I silently savor the way every syllable slides off my tongue as I thank the 7-11 cashier after taking my breakfast: a huge seaweed-wrapped onigiri, soft-boiled egg, and a can of hot oolong tea.

Moving to the dine-in counter table at the back of the convenience store, I take my time unwrapping my onigiri. It means ‘rice ball,’ although it doesn’t actually always come in the shape of one, and there’s an art to unwrapping it if you don’t want to end up with your nori sheet stuck between layers of plastic.

I inhale appreciatively after unwrapping; the one I’m about to gobble up is triangular in shape and has my favorite stuffing: tuna with a generous amount of Japanese mayo and creamy corn.

Itadakimasu, I tell myself silently before I start on my meal. The term loosely translates to ‘bon appétit,’ and locals always say it the way Christians like to say grace before meals. My eyes close as I savor my first bite, but only five minutes pass by the time I’m done. It’s not that I’m a fast eater, but everything I’ve eaten here is just that good.

My next stop after breakfast is the administration building, and I finish the last of the registration process to complete my transfer. On my way back, I bump into a couple of gregarious gyaru (tongue twister not intended) who ooh and aah when they find out that my reddish-brown hair and green eyes are the real deal.

“You’re so cute,” they squeal in Japanese.

I beam, saying sincerely, “Anata-tachi mo kawaii desu.” You guys are cute, too.

And I mean it. They are cute, just like the rest of the city is, and by the time I make it back to the dorm, my jaw is aching from smiling too much. I just love Tokyo so much. I really, really do.

Have I mentioned how much I love Tokyo?

Because I do.

I used to think a person falling in love with a city was just an exercise of artistic license, but now I know it’s true. I’ve been here for over two weeks now, but every day I just find more reasons to love the city. Tokyo is the Gotham to my Batman, never mind if Japan’s capital has more colors than blue, black, and gray. If my hometown is my first love, then Tokyo is my destiny – the place I want to stay for the rest of my life.

And this city is almost perfect, except for one teensy little thing.

“Tadaima,” I wheeze out when I finally make it to Room 488, my home sweet home in this part of Japan. If there’s one thing about Tokyo that I’m not so enamored by, it’s their allergy to elevators in residential buildings. Only the really tall ones seem to have them, so my five-story dorm?

Not a bloody chance.

“Okaeri nasai.” My roommate is still in the bedroom, fixing her hair in front of the vanity. Her name is Vivi Anderson, and she’s one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever met. I should probably hate her a little, but daughters of theology professors like me just aren’t wired that way. Most times, I’m simply content marveling at how perfect she is. Hair the color of sunlight, eyes that are like liquid silver…you get the drift.

If I tried drawing her, my sketches would probably still have more flaws than the real deal.

When Vivi is done pinning her hair, she says in Japanese, “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“No hurries,” I assure her in the same language, only my accent is ten times worse and at one-fourth of the normal speed of talking. Although I have N2 certification in Nihongo now, passing a fluency test is different from actually applying your knowledge in real life. ‘Motto yukkiri hanashite kudasai’ is still one of my top ten daily phrases, which in English means ‘could you speak a little more slowly.’

Vivi’s insisted on giving me a full tour of the campus today, and it takes us almost an hour to check out everything. I have no idea why the kingdom chose to enroll me in the Tsubaki College of Fine Arts, but I’m definitely not complaining. Every inch of the place is picturesque, its facilities topnotch.

Our last stop for the tour is the three-story university hall, which Vivi tells me is like a mini-mall and town plaza all rolled into one. It’s where all the restaurants and shops are, and it also has several exhibition rooms that students could book at no cost for official school activities.

After, she turns to me, saying gravely, “Our tour is thus concluded.”

Doing my best to keep a grin off my lips, I say with equal graveness, “And so it is. Thank you very much, Vivi.” I bow deeply, and she returns the gesture with the same level of formality. Have I mentioned that my roommate was raised by priests and before coming to Tokyo, she’s lived in a shrine her entire life? While the priests there did a good job in making Vivi as fluent as any local in Nihongo, they weren’t as successful in teaching Vivi her native tongue. Let’s just say that half of their English lessons seem to come from Downton Abbey while the other half seems based on a pirated copy of Merriam Webster.

“I really appreciate you taking the time to give me the tour,” I tell her. “Can I treat you to coffee---”

A grimace starts to mar Vivi’s lovely features.

Oh. Right. I keep forgetting the priests in her shrine think Starbucks is evil for some reason. It’s a far cry from the ones I’ve seen sipping on frappes in Asakusa, but to each shrine his own I guess. And so I smile apologetically at Vivi and correct myself, saying, “I meant tea. Are you in the mood for some tea?”

Vivi brightens. “Always.”

“Great. Any suggestions where we should go?”

Five minutes later and we’re being escorted to our seats in The Blooming House, which is on the second floor of the university hall. It’s spacious and cozy at the same time, with dark wood paneling, leather chairs, tree trunk tables, and hanging flowerpots.

Our table is next to the windows, and when I glance outside, I notice a small crowd of girls gathering by the steps of the university hall. “Is there a big event scheduled today?”

Vivi wrinkles her nose when she sees where I’m looking. Her voice lowering into a whisper, she says in Japanese, “Those girls are morally incapacitated.”

Have I also mentioned that while being raised by priests has made Vivi pure of heart, it hasn’t been effective in curbing her penchant for calling a spade a spade? She’s like the female version of Simon Cowell, just minus the cussing.

Grinning at her choice of words, I say, “This school’s version of Mean Girls, right?”

“Hai. They are horrible bullies. They go to such extraordinary widths---”

“Lengths,” I can’t help correcting with a grin.

“My humble apologies. I do mean to say that. They are willing to go the extra meter for him.”

“Mile,” I supply.

“Oh, yes. That is what I mean to say. It’s horrible, the way they have no limit---” The waitress returns to our table then, and when Vivi quickly stops speaking, I follow her lead, only smiling and thanking the server as she places our drinks on the table.

“I didn’t want to risk anyone overhearing us,” Vivi explains in a whisper as soon as the server leaves.

“I see,” I whisper back. I try but fail to make sense of it. “Why?”

“I told you,” she says, still whispering. “They’re horrible.”

“In what way? Like they think he’s public property so anyone close to him gets bullied and so they hide her shoes---”

Vivi snorts. “You have clearly read too much shoujo manga. We are in college now, and so of course the bullying is more sophisticated. They…what do you call it when they steal your password for social media accounts?”

I gape at her. “Seriously? They’d go as far as hack other people’s accounts?”

“They will stop at nothing, I tell you,” Vivi says darkly. “The whole nine feet!”

My mouth opens and closes. You know what? I think I’m not going to bother correcting her for now. I get what she’s saying anyway.

Glancing back at the girls, I try to imagine what kind of guy could possibly inspire such blind worship, and all I can think of is Charles Manson.

“Is he a celebrity then? Is that why they’re so into him?”

“Not really, although his father has become quite famous recently. Rather, he is…” Vivi says something in Japanese that I can’t quite grasp, and her brows furrow. “How do you say this…he’s one of our school’s…live-in evil men?”

My confusion clears, and I almost start laughing. “Resident bad boy?”

“Hai!” Vivi nods vigorously. “That is exactly what he is. I simply do not understand the appeal of such men. Do you know that last year most of the girls in our school gave him chocolate for Valentine’s?”

“Isn’t that normal?” Here in Japan, it’s common practice for girls to give chocolate to guys. Giri choco or obligation chocolate is for male friends, family members, and just about any kind of guy that they’re not romantically interested in. Honmei, on the other hand, is usually homemade or at least very expensive, and it’s the type of chocolate a girl would give to the guy they like.

“It is as you say, but what is not normal is what he did afterwards.”

I frown. “So…he gave it away?” It’s the most douche-like thing I can think of.

“Worse.” Vivi’s lip curls anew. “He threw it all out, and he did it here in school, where everybody could see!”

I can’t help wincing at her words. “Bloody pig.”

“And that’s just the tip of the glacier.”

Iceberg, I almost correct her, but then I see the murderous scowl on her face and change my mind. Who cares about grammar when it’s just a conversation between roommates, right?

“There is this girl who left him a note about waiting for him at the back of the university hall---”

“To confess?” I ask uneasily. Shy and demure as most Japanese girls seem, it’s nevertheless the norm for them to make the first move in dating. To ask a guy out, a girl “confesses” she likes him, and when Vivi nods and scowls, I feel sorry and appalled for the unknown girl, having a pretty good idea of what happened after. “She got rejected, didn’t she? And you all knew?”

“Once again, it is worse than you imagined. He didn’t even bother to tell her he wouldn’t be coming and so the impoverished girl waited all night. She contracted pneumonia afterwards, and the entire incident so humiliated her she moved away and transferred schools.”

I’m speechless and appalled by the time she finishes. Vivi is right. The guy is evil. Glancing outside the window, I remark bemusedly, “How can they still like him knowing what he did?”

“Hits me.”

Again, it takes me a second to understand what she means, and my lips twitch when I realize what it is. Beats me.

By the time we leave the university hall, Mr. Despicable’s fangirls are still there by the steps, and when we’re far away enough, I ask Vivi what exactly they’re waiting for. Do they just want to look at him? Get his autograph? Steal a kiss?

Vivi rolls her eyes. “What do you think? They’re waiting to confess.”

To say I’m incredulous is an understatement, and I exclaim, “Even after what he did?”

“Ssh!” Vivi looks around us furtively. “Please keep your voice down.”

Oops. “Sorry.” I go back to whispering.

She pats my hand, saying in a low voice, “I am only concerned for your safety. And as for those girls liking him still---” Her upper lip seems permanently curled by now. “It’s because they’re all very nationalistic.”

“I…see.” But I don’t. What does one’s love for one’s country have to---

“They all think they are the one to change him---”

Oh. I quickly suppress my smile when I realize Vivi meant ‘narcissistic.’

“And since it’s been proven that he will not bother to meet with any of them in private, it’s the only way for them to make sure he hears their confessions.”

“Unbelievable.” And it really is. I used to think I was the world’s biggest idiot, to have believed that X was truly in love with me, but those girls have definitely taken foolish to a whole new level.

When we reach the dorm, I can’t help sighing at the sight of the stairs. It’s like a forced workout – and shouldn’t that be illegal?

Vivi’s lips twitch when I release a second sigh. “Is it really that bad?” she asks.

“It’s inhumane,” I say. “That's what it is.”

“But it’s just four floors,” Vivi protests.

I’m horrified. “Can you hear yourself? Four floors, Vivi! Each floor has two flights of stairs, and each flight has twelve steps---”

Vivi starts laughing. “You truly counted it?”

“I truly did,” I growl. “So that’s a total of 72 steps! 72! And I can only imagine how tortuous it’s going to be when I have stuff---” I freeze.

Vivi blinks. “What is it?’

Stuff.

My stuff.

“I forgot my stuff at the teashop,” I wail.

Vivi relaxes. “Oh. I thought it was something serious.”

“This is serious! My passport and wallet---”

“Please do not worry. No one will steal your stuff, I promise. You can go back for it tomorrow---”

“Tomorrow?” I almost shriek the word out, I’m that appalled by the suggestion. Back at home, it takes only a few seconds to leave your bag unattended and you’ll find yourself victimized by identity theft and your credit card maxed out. And she says I can go back for it tomorrow?

“I’m going now,” I tell her. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” she calls out as I start running down the stairs.

“It’s okay,” I yell back. “I remember the way.” And then I break into a run. I make it back to the university hall in record time, but I’m also back to huffing and puffing. My iPhone buzzes inside my pocket just as I reach the second floor and pause for breath. Pulling it out, I bite my lip the moment I realize it’s a text message from the sheikh.

Although the message is entirely casual, it still leaves me flustered. How does one text a sheikh without sounding either too presumptuous or too aloof? Nibbling on my lip, I reach for the steel handle of the teashop’s glass door without looking up, too busy working out the proper wording of my reply.

Should I say ‘hello’ too? I give the door a good, hard yank, but it doesn’t budge.

Weird, I think. I give the door another tug, more forcefully this time, but it doesn’t even give an inch. With my head still down and my gaze trained on my cellphone, I don’t see the guy at the other side of the door, also texting, and also trying to yank the door open – in the opposite direction.

When the door remains stubbornly resistant, I shove my phone back into my jeans pocket with a frown. How heavy can this door be, blast it? Taking a deep breath, I prepare myself to go all out with my third try.

Go hard or go home, KC!

Ready, set, pull!

My gaze lifts up.

Green eyes meet baby blues---

His fingers jerk away from the door handle like it’s burned him, but it happens the same time my fingers curl around the handle on my side for one hard yank. The door nearly swings off its hinges---

Towards me.

Uh…oh.