Pretty Seven - A Taste of Fame

Chapter 02 - Haruki

Peço desculpas pela confusão. Vou remover os sinais de pontuação — do texto. Aqui está o texto sem esses sinais:

The Lisbon airport seemed to pulsate with a unique energy as I awaited my flight to Tokyo. Sitting on a bench, tired after an intense collaboration with Plus, a Portuguese television channel, I allowed myself to close my eyes and surrender to the surrounding atmosphere.

The constant murmur of people, the diversity of intertwining languages, and the flight announcements created a peculiar symphony. With closed eyes, I absorbed every sound as if immersed in a sea of unfamiliar voices.

The bench was my temporary refuge, a point of tranquility amid the transition between two hectic phases of my life. Even with closed eyes, my face revealed the fatigue from the recent journey. However, an aura of serenity hovered over me, as if recharging my energies by surrendering to the chaotic melody of the airport.

Time flowed smoothly as I simply existed in that transient space. The wait to board the plane became a necessary pause, a moment of introspection where I absorbed the echoes of the world around me.

While resting on the bench at Lisbon airport, the surrounding buzz began to gain a sharp and incessant note. The sound of children running back and forth, ceaselessly, echoed through the corridors, mixing with the exuberant shouts that only children can produce. With each scream, my irritation grew, like a subtle dissonant melody amidst the noisy chaos.

Even with closed eyes, the restless energy of these children seemed to intensify, penetrating my temporary refuge. The hurried steps and shrill laughter created an annoying soundtrack that competed with the serenity I tried to maintain.

The calm expression I displayed began to unravel, giving way to a glimpse of frustration. Each scream, each run seemed like a off-key note, interfering with my attempt to find peace in that brief layover between flights.

I take a deep breath, trying to block out the unwanted noise, but each child's laughter seems like a persistent echo, resonating in my mind. Patience, already tested by exhaustion, began to wear even thinner.

I open my eyes and come face to face with the children, involuntarily staring at them. I can't contain my displeasure as I watch their unrestrained play. My eyes, once closed in search of tranquility, now express clear irritation.

My sharp gaze targets not only the children but also their parents, who are chatting quietly as if oblivious to the commotion their children were causing. I feel that my expression of discontent is evident, and I'm sure they've read my mind. In a moment of silent connection, the parents decide to grab their children and move to a distant bench.

As they move away, I realize that the cacophony of children begins to diminish, and the serenity I sought slowly returns to my refuge at Lisbon airport. I still maintain a serious expression, but now I feel a momentary relief with the newly created distance between me and the frenetic energy of the children. I breathe deeply, trying to regain composure as I resume my place on the bench. The brief episode reminds me that even in the busiest places, silence is a precious refuge that deserves to be preserved.

Still recovering from the episode with the children, I hear a female voice from the side. She speaks in broken English, indicating that she is probably a foreigner.

"I love children, but I was getting a headache," she says.

I look to the side and feel almost stunned and speechless. She is beautiful. Very beautiful. Possibly the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. However, I don't show any expression, and I know I gave her the same look I gave the children seconds before.

I maintain composure, trying to disguise my surprise at her beauty. The irony of the contrast is not lost on me, and my gaze, which previously betrayed irritation, now seems to have found a completely different reason to fixate. Nonetheless, I remain discreet, avoiding any exaggerated reaction that might suggest my gaze is anything more than a brief acknowledgment of her presence. Her beauty, though remarkable, does not alter the serenity I seek to maintain in this brief interval at Lisbon airport.

"Looks like I wasn't the only one feeling that," I reply, sharing a knowing look. The mutual relief from escaping the chaos of the children creates a brief bond between us, a silent understanding shared in a busy airport.

"I know you!," she says, suddenly. Okay, that's not unusual, but I'm only famous in my bubble, among dancers and choreographers. If she knows me, she's at least an enthusiast.

My thoughts start to churn as I try to understand where she might recognize me from. Did she watch one of my performances? Perhaps she attended a class or workshop. I'm curious, but I maintain my calm expression, waiting for more details on how she recognized me.

"Haruki Mitarai! It´s you, right? I can't believe I found Haruki Mitarai, I can't wait to tell my friends!" She seems extremely excited, but the beauty I saw before suddenly disappears. She's too loud. "Can I take a picture? I'm a big fan of yours!"

"Can you be quiet? I'm exhausted," I say. Her smile fades, but I can't feel bad. I don't find much interesting in being famous, although I'm flattered to have a fan. But they usually show up at inconvenient times.

She looks surprised and a bit hurt by my direct response. I notice that the initial excitement of having her as an admirer fades. My tired eyes reflect the exhaustion from so many recent flights and commitments.

"Sorry, I just..." she nods, somewhat embarrassed, but understanding. In the busy life of a dancer and choreographer like me, these spontaneous encounters are sometimes uncomfortable.

I watch as she walks away, and I could swear she left crying, probably disappointed. However, I can't do anything about it. I arrived from Tokyo early yesterday morning and went straight to the recording. As soon as we finished, I came straight to the airport. She can't even imagine the pains I'm feeling in my body right now. I just want to go home.

Physical and mental exhaustion begins to manifest more intensely, and the pains I'm facing make each step more challenging. Despite

all the glamour associated with fame, there are moments when the reality of a packed schedule and others' expectations becomes overwhelming.

I feel a mix of compassion for the fan and frustration for the situation, but the urgent need for rest outweighs any other emotion. I head towards the boarding gate, sincerely wishing I could escape to the tranquility of my home.