For myself in the future: in case you ever forget what it was like going to school in your second to last year of high school, this is more or less how it went. 

First, you meet Hana at Meidaimae station. Or more commonly, Hana meets you, but she likely won't admit to holding the record for slipping into the train out of breath seconds before the door closes, collecting glares from the salarymen looking up from their games of Candy Crush. On days she isn't late, you'll stand at the top of the stairs up to the platform searching for the one Kellogg's tiger sweater among the sea of black suits and navy school uniforms. 

The closing of door 3 of the 7:13 am special express cues the start of your artificial intelligence news update, making sure to include a healthy dose of jokes on how Hana's job is getting replaced in the future. More often than not, you can count the hours of sleep you had last night on one hand. You want to sit. You see a seat. You, being Japanese, offer it to Hana. She, being Japanese, offers it back. Both of us, being stubborn little children, agree that standing isn't so bad after all. The swaying to the tides of the train car does make it a little harder to read the hints of the minicrossword on Hana's phone though. 

One wordle puzzle later, you arrive at Chofu station, platform four. It's underground. Void of weather, spanned by black tiles like the belt of an assembly line. Oddly enough, the very mindlessness of the platform with a teaspoon of fate stirred in is part of the reason you and Hana are friends. One national holiday, the train schedule was ever so slightly different. You snapped out of autopilot three minutes into a train bound to skip your stop. Across from you: Hana, still oblivious to her inevitable tardiness. A first excuse to say hello. "Hey. Um. I'm pretty sure we're on the wrong train." 

Chofu is also where you share a small sip of life with some of your favorite characters from a long list of familiar strangers. Exclusive to Tuesdays and Thursdays, you'll see an elderly guy you and Hana call the sudoku man. Without fail, he's first in line to door 2 of car 8. Wearing a gray work jacket zipped all the way up. Carrying a blue backpack with an orange bracelet tied to it. The daily paper folded into quarters, showing a half-finished game of sudoku in one hand, a pencil awaiting the next number in the other. Then, there is the black fedora guy, often walking by with hurried steps as if late for something important – yet arriving with minutes to spare. Spending those minutes fidgeting his hands just to sit still on the train, without even doing so much as checking the time on his phone. Sometimes you wonder what kind of job they have. Or how long they've taken this route. Maybe they've been doing this from long before you were born. Other times, you think about if they have families at home. Though you have yet to spot either of them wearing a wedding ring. 

Through the constant deafening thunder of the half-a-minute period as the train burrows out of its hole to ground level, you'll mouth fake conversations with Hana. Occasionally, you'll continue the silent exchange all the way to the open air of Musashinodai station, where you get off. Here, it's too far from the center of Tokyo for buildings to grow past two stories and you always remember to raise your hand to catch a glimpse of the horizon from the top of the bridge crossing above the tracks. 

On the brief walk between the station and the bicycle parking lot, there isn't much to do but get blinded by the sun. You and Hana thought it would be cool to memorize the angles of shadows that the telephone poles cast to determine the time of year, a task quickly given up three mornings into trying. The parking lot itself is a little gem hidden away behind a bank building: accessible only through an alley with possibly the largest pothole you'll find in Japan. It's tucked between a farm on one side, train tracks on the other. A perpetual sign by its entrance warns that the parking lot is only temporary and will close in 2021, yet, here it is in 2023. It doesn't have a roof so you arrive to a lawn of dew on the west side of your bike seat on chilly days – and the east side too on rainy days. By the time of year that you have to start carrying around a pair of gloves, you find yourself scraping off ice to reach the cushion beneath. A small price to pay for free parking.

The greatest part though is the elderly parking attendants. Every morning, there are two out of four possible guys. There is the friendly one that gives you a warm feeling when he smiles back as you greet him good morning. There is the quiet guy whose lack of response makes you question whether you pronounced your greetings strangely. There's the kind one that often comes over to help you free your bike from the adjacent one with a horrible parking job. And my favorite: the tall one who jokingly questions if Hana has worse dementia than him whenever she struggles to remember where she left her bike the day before. 

Save for the hundred-yard stretch beside a persimmon orchard, the actual mile-and-a-half ride from there to school isn't anything scenic. At one point, you'll overtake a lady on a bike with two baskets. You can tell it’s her because she'll have different flowers in the back basket each time. This time, it’s red spider lilies.  Perhaps one day you won’t remember the lady with the baskets or the verdict of your philosophical arguments with Hana. Perhaps one day you’ll forget how cold your fingers would get when you pedal into the wind. But right now, you see the lady turn down the side street towards the graveyard, Hana is telling you to hurry up, the spokes are clicking below you, and you’ll be late for school.