Is It Better to Be Like Everyone?

This morning. In the entryway, Nagi held a hat in both hands. The hat her grandma had knitted for her. Its pom-pom wobbled, boing. Today the whole class was going to the park. "Should I… wear this one?" On her shoulder, the squirrel Chai gave the pom-pom a little pat. — But. Yesterday, somebody had said something.

Grandma had knitted this hat all through the winter, at the kotatsu. "Which colors would suit Nagi best?" she'd say, choosing the yarn. Stitch by stitch, by grandma's own hands. When Nagi put it on, it was warm — like being hugged tight. Nagi's most favorite thing in the whole world.

At school, everyone wore the same hat. The shiny, popular cap. Matching, like one single team. Nagi's hat wasn't a match. Yesterday, when she'd worn it, one kid had tilted their head. "What's that? That's weird." A few giggles. Nagi's cheeks went hot and red. — But.

But she looked at the hat again. The wobbly pom-pom. The warm colors. Grandma's every stitch. She loved it. Loved it so much. But if she wore it, they might laugh again. If she went without it, no one would laugh. Nagi's chest went tight.

On the table sat a plain cap, too. Wear that, and she'd be like everyone. No one would say a thing. Safe. — But grandma's warmth would stay behind, at home. It wouldn't quite feel like "the real me." Wear the hat she loved, and she'd be herself. But she'd be the one kid who was different. Two feelings collided.

Chai nestled its cheek softly into the pom-pom. As if to say, "I love it." Nagi's hand rested on grandma's hat. Then on the plain cap. Outside the window, friends in matching hats were waving. "Nagi! Hurry, let's go!" The choice was right there now, so close. Just a little more.

Nagi drew in a breath. In her hands, grandma's hat. Warm, and hers. By the door, the plain cap. Put it on, and she'd melt right into the group. Wear the hat she loved? Or be like everyone? …What will Nagi do?