"Well, see you tomorrow at school, Haruto~" Shihori stood by the open entrance, looking back with her usual cheeky smile.
"Lucky me," I muttered. "Guess I'll see you whether I want to or not."
"How mean~ Goodbye!"
And just like that, she got in her family's car and was driven away. I stayed by the door, watching until the car shrank into the distance and disappeared. A lot had happened today, but I was glad it had ended on a peaceful note.
I closed the door behind me and turned toward the kitchen but didn't step in. Instead, I lingered quietly, peeking in through the doorway. Mom and Dad were being lovey-dovey again, feeding each other bits of donut and teasing like teenagers. It was honestly impressive, the way they still looked at each other after all these years. With a small chuckle, I left them to it and headed for my room.
My room wasn't anything special. Just your typical high school guy setup: bookshelves filled with manga and light novels, shelves stacked with console cases, and a custom-built PC tucked in the corner across from my bed for maximum laziness. No decorations, never really cared for them. The only thing remotely decorative was a small photo on my desk. Shihori and I, grinning like idiots, were probably eight or nine years old. I never moved it. Never even thought to.
I glanced between the glowing PC and the bed, debating if I had the energy to game or if I should just crash. My body made the call for me; I collapsed onto the bed with a sigh. Yeah, no more grind tonight. I was spent.
But even then, I didn't sleep. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling like I was waiting for something.
[Bzzt, Bzzt]
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. A message from an unknown number.
[Hey there, I just got home]
Right... I exchanged contact info with Shihori-san earlier. Guess I forgot to save her name.
I replied, teasing as always.
[Uh, who's this?]
[…You can't be serious.]
I could practically hear her fuming on the other end. It made me smile.
[Shouldn't you be getting ready for bed?]
[A pretty girl is messaging you, and you're worried about her sleep? You should feel honored I'm risking my beauty rest to talk to you.]
[Wow, I'm so blessed. Just don't blame me if you knock out in class tomorrow.]
[Anyway! Thanks for the donuts and drink today. Let's go somewhere next time, I wanna treat you to something in return.]
[Sure. When we're free.]
[Great!]
And... the messaging stopped. I guess that was all she wanted to say.
I set my phone down on the nightstand and plugged in the charger. Then I lay back down on the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, waiting for sleep to pull me under. My body was exhausted, but my mind still wandered until my eyes grew heavy and the world around me dissolved.
That night, I dreamt of something I shouldn't have.
I saw my younger self, middle school me in fact, standing alone beneath a harsh spotlight. In front of me stood a piano: old and worn, its black paint chipped and faded. The pedals dangled loosely, barely hanging on. The keys were cracked, uneven, and some even out of place, like crooked teeth.
Still, he walked toward it and placed his fingers on the keys.
He tried to play.
But no music came out.
Only static, distorted, broken sounds echoed hollow across the stage. My younger self didn't stop. He kept trying, striking the keys harder, faster, desperate to bring out a melody. But the more he played, the more the piano fell apart: wood splintering, keys snapping, the entire instrument collapsing beneath his hands. Yet, he kept playing. Even as the piano disintegrated beneath his touch, he didn't stop. And then, his body began to crumble too. His skin cracked like porcelain, flaking away piece by piece. Still, he played.
Then, slowly, he turned.
He looked at me, his older self. His fingers moved mechanically across the broken keys, but his eyes locked with mine.
Anger. Hatred. Disappointment.
"You should have tried harder." He said, tears streaming down his cheeks.
And then, he shattered completely, falling apart like sand in the wind.
I woke up with a jolt, drenched in cold sweat, breath caught in my throat. My heart thudded so loud it drowned out everything else. I sat up, arms wrapped tight around myself like a shield, grounding myself with the fact that I was still here. Still whole.
I looked down at my hands. They were trembling uncontrollably, every finger quaking like fear had taken root in my bones. I rubbed them together, desperate for warmth, for calm, for something to tell me it was just a dream.
"Haruto? Are you okay in there?"
Mom's voice came from just outside my room, gentle but laced with concern. I took a steadying breath, forcing the tremble out of my voice before answering.
"Y-yeah, I'm alright, Mom."
"You sure? Your dad said he heard some noise coming from your room earlier, so he asked me to check on you."
I swallowed down the lump in my throat. "Yeah. Everything's fine. Thanks for worrying. Tell Dad I said thanks, too."
"Alright, dear. Sweet dreams."
"You too, Mom."
Her footsteps faded down the hallway, leaving me in silence again. Just me and my thoughts.
I rubbed the bridge of my nose, trying not to dwell on the dream, on him. Maybe it was just a one-time thing. Stress, maybe. I didn't want to read too much into it.
I pushed myself out of bed and fired up my PC. The soft whir of the fans kicked in, followed by the subtle glow of RGB lights and the familiar flash of my dual monitors flickering to life. I didn't even know what I wanted to play, if anything. I just didn't want to sleep. Not yet. Not with that dream still clinging to the back of my mind.
Midnight came quietly.
I finally powered everything down and leaned back in my chair, a long breath slipping past my lips. I turned my head toward the far corner of the room.
Even in the dark, I could make out the outline of it—the large object covered with a drape, untouched for months now. My legs felt like lead, but I pushed up from the chair anyway, each step dragging me closer to it.
I grabbed the edge of the drape, the fabric cold and stiff in my hand. With one tug, I pulled it off completely.
Underneath was the piano.
Its once-polished body was now a graveyard of sharpie scars, 'Failure' scribbled over and over like a cruel mantra. Torn-up sheet music lay scattered inside, some barely clinging to their original form, others reduced to confetti.
"Nice seeing you again, old pal. Still as haunting as usual."
I tried to sound nonchalant, as if all this didn't mean anything. As if I didn't remember the day I put it in this state.
I lifted the key cover. The ivory was chipped, worn, grooves etched deep into the surface like the aftermath of a war. I reached out, fingertips brushing across them, then pressed down one key after another.
No sound.
Just the soft click of useless effort.
I guessed the insides had long since given up, like I did.
--------------------
"Hey, Haruto? You okay, buddy?"
Katsui leaned over, noticing how out of it I was, and gave me a light shake.
"Don't tell me you stayed up grinding games again?" he asked, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Y-yeah, something like that," I mumbled, not exactly eager to bring up last night's... episode.
He sighed, dropping the teasing. "I keep telling you, your health matters, man. Anyway, the class rep was asking which events you're joining for Sports Day. You were so zoned out this morning that he asked me to handle it."
"Sports Day..." I rubbed my eyes, trying to wring some life out of my half-asleep brain. "What events still need people?"
"Relay race needs more runners. Cavalry battle, too. Not sure about ball toss or the borrowed item race; they might still be open. We'll get the final list by the end of the day."
"Alright, put me down for relay and cavalry. I'll check back in later if I've got more energy."
"Got it. I'll let the rep know. Seriously though, get some rest during recess—you look like a zombie."
Katsui gave me a thumbs up and walked off, leaving me draped over my desk with eyes half-lidded. He had a point. After last night, pressing lifeless keys on a ghost of a piano, I could use more than a nap. I needed peace.
[Good morning, everyone~]
Kocho Sanao's voice chimed in on the broadcasting speaker as lively as ever.
[Today, we are having a very special person who was willing to give our school a performance that, in her terms, "will soothe a troubled mind and restless soul"? Is that so, Shihori-chan?]
[Hey! Don't say it out loud, it's embarrassing!]
[Oh? But you were so enthusiastic earlier, with that smug on your face too~]
[Shut up!]
Their back and forth went on for a few more minutes, with Shihori at Sanao's mercy, barely able to use her voice in the end, and just stayed quiet, flustered if I were to guess.
[A~nyway, what song will you be performing for us today, Shihori-chan~, I hope something everyone knows well~]
[It's "Merry-go-round of Life", I thought I'll try something other than classical today.]
[Well then, the stage, or mic, is yours. Knock yourself out~]
Right when Sanao-san's voice disappeared, the entire school fell silent, as if everyone was holding their breath. Then… something slipped in through the speakers.
It didn't rush. It didn't demand attention. The sound moved gently, carrying itself forward like a slow current, and before I realized it, the tightness in my head began to loosen. The exhaustion I'd been dragging around all morning faded into the background, replaced by a calm I hadn't known I was craving.
My hand moved on its own.
Fingers glided across the surface of my desk, pressing against the wood as if there were keys beneath them. They followed along, instinctively, tracing a path they remembered even when I didn't ask them to.
I just let my hand move. I let it play along until the song came to an end.
The speakers crackled to life, a burst of static cutting through the lingering quiet, followed by Sanao-san's cheery voice.
[That was lovely, Shihori-chan~. Can I hire you for my birthday next month~?]
[W-what are you even saying, Sanao-san!?]
Just like that, the atmosphere shattered. Snickers rippled through the room, followed by laughter, and the heavy stillness from moments ago vanished as if it had never been there.
The two of them went back and forth for a while, turning the broadcast into an impromptu comedy routine. Laughter filled the room, desks creaked as people shifted, and the day resumed its usual rhythm.
I didn't really listen.
I rested my forehead against my arms and closed my eyes, letting the noise wash over me without meaning. My hand stayed still on the desk this time. No phantom keys. No restless fingers.
Just quiet.
"Haruto Shimazu, first place."
"First place winner is HARUTO SHIMAZU."
"Once again, Haruto Shimazu takes first place in the Kanagawa Musical Competition."
Ah… those dreams again.
Me, twelve years old, standing in the middle of the stage, holding the competition trophy. Lights shining, applause roaring, little me smiling proudly like an idiot… and then, here it comes.
The lights vanished. The applause died out.
Little me stood there alone, hands no longer holding anything.
"The reigning champion has been dethroned! What on earth happened to the blessed child!?"
"What was that abhorrent sound? Disappointing."
"Shimazu! I did not teach you to play like that! What on earth were you thinking!?"
"Haruto Shimazu!"
A rough voice yanked me out of my dreams. I slowly straightened up, looking around to figure out where it had come from.
"Bold of you to sleep in my class! What? Do you want a piece of chalk to the face or something!?"
Harikumo Nozawa, a literature teacher notorious for his strict teaching methods and non-negotiable assignments, along with a mountain of homework. His wrinkled face was staring daggers at me, while my still-sleepy eyes stared back, struggling to register what was going on.
"Class already started…?" I asked, rubbing my eyes before forcing myself to sit up straight.
"Yes. Class has been in session for fifteen minutes already," Teacher Nozawa replied flatly. "I'm glad you finally decided to join us."
He let out a sharp huff and turned back to the blackboard, chalk scraping against its surface as he resumed the lesson.
"So," Teacher Nozawa said, his hand moving swiftly across the board as chalk scraped and wrote in uneven strokes, "who here has actually read Kokoro by Natsume Sōseki, as per the assignment I gave last week?"
Students glanced at one another, surprise and confusion passing silently between them—as if the assignment were news to them.
Teacher Nozawa let out a tired sigh, already expecting as much.
Before he could say anything else, Shihori-san raised her hand.
"I've read it before, sensei."
All eyes turned toward her, a mix of amazement and disbelief rippling through the room.
"Ah! Shihori," Nozawa said, sounding almost pleased. "Already putting yourself above the rest of this troublesome class."
"I only read it because I was bored, sensei," she replied plainly.
"Doesn't matter!" Teacher Nozawa exclaimed, turning toward Shihori-san, "Tell me, what is your take on Kokoro!"
Shihori-san hesitated for a moment.
"I think it's about regret," she said slowly. "About someone who keeps punishing himself for something that already happened, until that regret becomes who he is."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Is it really like that?
No way… the title literally means "heart." How could something like that be so depressing?
I was pretty sure those thoughts were shared by more than a few people in the room.
Teacher Nozawa let Shihori-san sit back down before clearing his throat, drawing the class's attention back to him.
"That's right," he said. "Anyone who has read Kokoro would come to that conclusion."
He turned back to the board, chalk scraping softly as he began to write again.
"Kokoro isn't depressing because of what happens," Nozawa continued, chalk tapping once against the board. "It's depressing because of what doesn't."
He wrote a single word in large characters.
"Regret," he said. "Or guilt, depending on how you read it."
The chalk moved again, slower this time.
"The protagonist spends his life trapped between who he was and who he believes he should have been. He doesn't move forward. He reflects. He remembers. And in doing so, he isolates himself from everyone around him."
Nozawa glanced over the room, eyes briefly sweeping past me without stopping.
"What makes the story painful," he went on, "is that nothing is forcing him to suffer. There is no punishment. No external enemy."
The chalk paused.
"The one hurting him the most… is himself."