With the veracity laid bare, she scrutinized my appearance, her finger pointing curiously at the black backpack slung over my shoulders.
It was stuffed with items I'd scavenged from Takumi's room. And since this unlucky guy didn't have a planner, I'd grabbed some math textbooks, Japanese literature materials, and a few random notebooks.
Yet, her next question threw me off. Why was she asking this?
Then it hit me: this girl wasn't carrying a backpack—just a black "purse" hanging from her shoulder.
I reasoned that it was normal for girls to carry smaller bags; however, most of the students around me didn't seem to have backpacks either. Instead, they carried rectangular briefcases with white-trimmed edges.
And, to add insult to injury, my backpack looked like something you'd take on a mountain hike. On top of being visibly deflated and half-empty—it weighed nothing—she, or anyone with half a brain, could probably deduce that I wasn't here to study but to loiter aimlessly.
Regardless, I didn't dare fire back with questions of my own; answering her inquiry with more interrogations would be idiotic. I needed to come up with a response, even if it sounded a little improvised.
«Well, I have classes,» was all I managed to say. A completely useless response.
«That's...quite the redundant answer. Everyone here is on their way to class, after all. What I was wondering about was your backpack. Did something happen to the previous one?»
Why are you so persistent, woman? Just leave me alone.
«No, nothing. The other one was just… smaller,» I replied indifferently, trying to keep my answers vague and evasive.
If I claimed something had happened to my old bag, it would naturally invite the expectation of an explanation. In other words: an incident, a reason, a justification—none of which I possessed, nor did I intend to fabricate
Besides, the actual backpack I was supposed to be using would've been off-limits under any circumstances. Without a doubt, the accident I'd concocted for its absence would disintegrate upon its reappearance—unless, of course, I randomly announced one day that I'd bought a new one.
But then again, is it even possible acquire one? Does the school manufacture and distributed them systematically, or is there some store that sells them? That's a question I'd like answered.
In any case, she didn't seem impressed with my response: «Oh! "Smaller," you say? Huh. Fascinating. So after carrying it to school every single day, you just woke up one morning and decided it was no longer suitable. How odd, haha.»
«I just felt like carrying a different one.»
«So this was purely a personal whim? Or… perhaps you joined a club or something, and needed extra space?»
Once again, her unimpeachable curiosity had inadvertently done me a favor.
By casually affirming that I wasn't affiliated with any school club, she had unwittingly granted me another crucial piece of information—one that would've otherwise been difficult to uncover in casual conversation. A small mercy, but a relief nonetheless.
Still, no matter how much I scoured my mind for remnants of the game's world-building, my efforts bore no fruit. Squeezing my brain for any relevant material from a fictional framework was proving to be an increasingly tiring, daunting, insurmountable task.
Even if she hadn't mentioned it, I'd have had a hunch that I wasn't part of any club anyway—its obligations, its members, its inherent disruptions to my routine. But, the very fact that I had no recollection of any such commitment all but confirmed its absence.
Now, while I could see how claiming membership would've provided a convenient alibi for my peculiar choice in baggage, I had no intention of altering my established role, for now.
Clubs required effort. Engagement. Participation. Just contemplating the burden of it all was exhausting enough.
«No, I'm not in any club,» I admitted.
«I see…» She mused, her tone thoughtful. «Yeah, that aligns with what you've said. People are surprisingly fickle, aren't they? Don't you think there are times we made decisions that might simply be spontaneous or impulsive, driven by a desire for novelty or variety, wouldn't you agree?»
«Uh, yeah, exactly,» I replied, offering the bare minimum of agreement. «You have a unique form of articulating things that's… pretty accurate and disturbingly stately.» She's been doing that for the past minutes, giving me a conveniently correct answer for every inconvenience I have.
«Really? [1]Not particularly. I just string words together to make sense of what I observe—or what I know.»
«Either way, you hit the nail on the head.»
«Did I?[2] Well, then I'll stop prying,» she finally conceded. «After all, I suspect you probably "overlooked" where the original was, grabbed the first one you saw, stuffed in whatever you needed, and decided to act normal to avoid embarrassment.»
This girl was being annoyingly persistent; it grated on me.
«How could I possibly overlook where my own bag is?»
First of all, I had absolutely no clue where it was! I'd merely assumed that the one I currently carried was the one I was meant to have, by default.
«Who knows? You seem to be the exception here,» her voice is a recreational cadence. «But overlooking isn't so unusual. There are people who frantically search for their phones, and look for it with their own flashlight, you know?»
«Yes, that's quite common, but it never happened to me.»
«Oh, really? As expected of Nakamura-kun. I'm impressed. But based on our situation, this may be the first time I've ever caught you lying to me without even realizing it.»
«What? No, for real. I'm not lying! I've never had that happen to me,» I stubbornly scoffed.
«How can you say that so confidently?»
«Because I know for a fact I didn't do it. It's recorded here, in my head,» I asserted, tapping my temple for emphasis.
«As far as I can tell, you mentioned suffering from amnesia. Is it true what you're telling me now?»
«I explained to you that it was an exaggeration.»
«Hehe, do you realize that all that "exaggeration" is making it seem less and less credible? But if you're so confident, I'd like to give it a try. Nakamura-kun's memories»
«Uhm, what? "Try" it?»
«No, not "try", but "check".[3]»
«...Well, I'm afraid that's physically impossible; It's not something that can be done.»
«On the contrary, there is. For example, we could always conduct an MRI scan to monitor the brain's visual processing, right?»
Are you kidding me?
«H-Hah? Are you crazy? How much do you think an MRI costs? I—I'm certain that would cost a ton of money! And there's absolutely no need to go that far just to satisfy your curiosity!»
«You're right, I'll have to come up with something more cost-effective.»
«You don't have to think about it!»[4]
«Hmph... Alright[5],» she said dissatisfied, with a soft pout.
Again, it happened again. A surreal interaction had formed. My words were nothing more than a cataract of unfunny dialogue; without realising it, I collaborated in a kind of an impromptu script.
I'm starting to freak out; and this wasn't the first time. Something eerily similar had transpired with Takumi's mother.
A heavy sigh escaped my lips, a feeble attempt to shake off the peculiar unease settling over me. Brushing the thought aside, I turned to my locker and swung it open—only to be met with an expanse of absolute emptiness.
Of course, I hadn't expected to find anything inside. My actions had been purely reflexive, a meaningless motion executed out of some habitual compulsion. But at the very least, I now had tangible confirmation: there's nothing there.
Then, the lady intervened in my musing. «Anyway, since you've located what you were looking for, I guess you won't need me to be your guide in this building anymore, do you?»
«N-No, that won't be necessary,» I mumbled hastily. «Just—just quit messing around already, will you?»
«Oh, relax. I won't do it again, I promise—don't be so overwhelmed by my presence,» she claimed. «To be honest, I don't find forgetting the location of your locker to be all that concerning. As you can see, it was relatively simple to find. What's far more worrisome, however, is if you were to start forgetting something more important—like, say, the names of your friends. That could be quite distressful. That is, of course, assuming your "amnesia" is even real.»
«....»
Oh, okay. Her words rendered me momentarily speechless.
I'd been in the midst of unlatching the small wooden door of my getabako, fingers idly tracing the outline, when her remark struck me with such unexpected weight that my entire movement came to an abrupt halt.
«I'm sorry, but I simply cannot bring myself to buy into that story,» she pressed on, unabashed. «Maybe you're just claiming amnesia, to mask a rather awkward lapse in memory, as a fitting excuse. If that's the case, I'd strongly advice that you should refrain bring up such things again—it's a delicate subject. Not one to be tossed around lightly. Certainly not something to be trivialized or, worse still, misdiagnosed with... Do you understand, Nakamura-kun?»
Her stance was firm, arms crossed, her gaze steady yet not entirely devoid of concern. And with that same commanding posture, she extended a single, instructive finger in my direction—an almost pedagogical gesture, as though reprimanding a misbehaving child.
She seemed genuinely committed to upholding the sanctity of matters concerning health. And while I agreed with her in principle, something within me couldn't shake the suspicion that all of this was, in part, a miss-calculated smokescreen.
Agh, this is my fault! Please, forgive me! I swear, I didn't mean anything by it!
«Uh.....S-Sure! I know that! It was really—just a matter of how I said it. I made a big deal out of it and I didn't mean... any harm. Sorry.»
«I see. As long as you understand, there's no need to discuss anymore. Let's just forget it, okay?»
«Okay, I get it. And, If... I caused you any trouble, or told you something that was offensive, I sincerely apologize. Um… You, uh…»[6]
Oh, hell. I'd completely botched it.
I should have left it at "Yes, I understand." That would have been the smart thing to do. Or better yet, I should have simply nodded—remained silent, let the moment pass without incident.
But no. Some misguided, infernally impulse had pushed me to soften the tension by addressing her directly. A regrettable decision, considering the obvious: I had not the slightest clue what this girl's name was.
And to make matters worse, my hesitation had been so painfully transparent that even the feeblest attempt at salvaging the situation would have been pointless. I hadn't even bothered to correct myself or restructure the sentence into something less damning.
In the end, it was too late—she had already noticed.
«….....?»
Her reaction was swift.
A near-imperceptible shift crossed her expression—a minuscule yet deliberate adjustment in her proximity to my face, as though she sought to amplify the gravity of her unspoken demand, forcing me to summon her name from the depths of my so-called consciousness.
«Nakamura-kun,» she uttered. I'm getting chills with the unsettling frigidity tone she has right now. Or is it my imagination?
Faced with this challenge, I maintained an air of composure, upheld not only by the crushing weight of expectation but also by the captivating charm of her striking features.
«You tried to say my name earlier, didn't you? But it didn't come out. Is that right?»
«Ehmm, well... I mean... I was just wondering how you'd prefer me to address you. That's what you were hinting at earlier, right? For a while ago,» I suggested instead, grasping at what felt like my only lifeline.
Deep down, I knew I was stalling—bluffing—, hoping I'd sidestep these affairs.
Moreover, I thought the reaction would be a sharpened look with her eyes narrowing slightly with an unquestionable tinge of irritation. However, it was replaced by a querying plea to her uncertainty with a puzzled tone.
«Oh, so that's what it was. I see. I didn't thought you'd say that. But, do you really put that much pondering into names?»
«I mean, yeah?! I was wondering if that kind of thing would be good since it's been a time we were calling each other's surnames, right?»
What was I looking for? Nicknames: humanity's bizarre tradition of linguistic vandalism. Certainly, nicknames are inherently human, and I'm human.
The psychology escapes me—some primal urge to sand down formal edges until we're all rubbing shoulders in the sweat lodge of familiarity. For example: Jeffrey → Jeff. Elizabeth → Liz. To put it simple, it's just emotional laziness masquerading as intimacy.
However, in this case, I'm sure it wouldn't be the same. If I remember correctly, in other countries, including my own, although less common, people are nicknamed after objects, characteristics, or simply for rusticity.
Properly, we'd tag the muscular kid "Roidrage" or Christen the chubby friend "Galactus the World-Devourer" or straight up "Fat-ass"—very childish, right? Now, if Japan follows similar nickname conventions, it might give me some clue about christening my apparent jolly-good acquaintance over there.
Not that I could just slap a label on hre out of nowhere—though nicknames do arise spontaneously and organically, even for me that's quite easy, but only on english.
While proper names derive meaning from kanji strokes, nicknames must absorb their essence by osmosis, right? And I haven't the faintest clue how to engineer such linguistic alchemy. Frankly, the whole process seems daunting—I'd consider it a part-time job.
Still, having an informal moniker for hre would streamline my social navigation considerably, am I wrong? Althought, she's bringing the vibe of a delicately refined and modest woman that I don't know if using a term like that would be appropriate...
«...Hey, Nakamura-kun. To be honest, I might be a little hurt.»
Yeah, nope—abort mission! «No, I-I didn't mean it like that...! S-Sorry...!»
«Don't apologize. I was just a little surprise. I mean: it's pretty unbearable when someone doesn't call your name properly, you know? Because names aren't just labels; I think it shows how close you are to someone, or how you feel about them, or something like that.»
«That's true, but... I didn't mean any harm, really!»
«Then why did you stop and say, "um..." or "well..."?»
«Eh, well...» Shit! «I-It's just... the timing was bad, I think.»
«...Hmm. Timing? Maybe you're right: you've missed an opportunity, failed it to attempt it, and an undesirable consequence appeared—If you look at it that way. So next time don't miss it, that timing.»
«Okay, I'm sorry. I'll try.»
«No need to sulk or beat yourself up over it. I'm not scolding you. If anything, I could frame it as a clumsy but well-meant attempt at giving me a cute little nickname, right? How sweet of you. Still, for the record, I don't really mind being called Nakamura with the 'kun' attached. I'm not the biggest fan of nicknames—they can get unnecessarily harsh.»
«Well… yeah, I guess they can be,» I conceded, reluctantly.
Just how vicious could Japanese teenage nicknames get? What kind of linguistic monstrosities do they slap on each other out of boredom, spite, or sheer creativity? They must be at least some incredible one given the extensive language they have.
«But, well, I don't know any of them. Like what?»
«Nakamuchi[7], maybe»
«H-heh? Na-Naka... what? "Muchi"? Is that... Insect? Bug?»
«See? A bit mean-spirited, right? That's exactly the kind of thing I really can't stand. I don't know what's going on in boys' heads lately to come up with names like that.»
«Wait… Has someone actually said that to me?»
Could it be that, due to some inexplicable misunderstanding or perhaps just sheer pettiness—be it jealousy, rivalry, or any of the many petty poisons that brew in adolescent hearts—my so-called classmates gathered around the proverbial campfire to forge a nickname expressly to mock the one and only Nakamura Takumi?
Is this some twisted subplot I hadn't unlocked yet? Has the supposedly universally adored dating sim protagonist been quietly subjected to ridicule behind his back this whole time?
Wasn't this supposed to be a romantic game-world fantasy? When exactly did it devolve into this unflinchingly cruel simulacrum of actual high school social warfare? Well, it is now, right? When will the screen of quests appear? I was calling you on the first day, you know?!
«No, I just made that up now. Although, I hope there really isn't someone who does use it behind your back. That would be heartbreaking, don't you think?»
«.....»
Are you fucking with me?
«Well moving on, if I may—are you really telling me you've never once stopped to consider the implications of nicknames? I mean, just listen to that one. "Nakamuchi." It squishes in your mouth like something wet and unloved. And that's precisely why I think they're dangerous. Too careless, too easy to be cruel under the guise of playfulness. I don't know about you, but I'd rather not be branded like cattle just because some group chat thought it was funny.»
«I mean, I guess so? That nickname was seriously weird! Anyone would get stuck on that!»
«My, my. You're surprisingly touchy for someone who claims to have no memories. You genuinely thought that name might've been real, didn't you?»
«What...? N-No! I mean... maybe? Look, can you really blame me? People can be kind of cruel sometimes.»
«You truly don't understand how people see you, do you?»
«Wha—what's that supposed to mean?»
A paused emerged. Perhaps realizing she had spoken with more intensity than the situation deserved; but rather than retract it, she simply tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, straightened her posture like a lecturer concluding a thesis, and added softly:
«If you're going to be this weird about nickname, then I suppose it's only fair that I rebalance the scales just a little…»
In the blink of an eye, she seized vigorously the sleeve of my forearm and tugged me away from the lockers. Before I knew it, we were repositioned beside the doorway, standing adjacent to a promotional poster for the soccer club.
Out of the blue, whatsover, it came: a ridiculously-sounding yet serious-given petition: «Call me Matsuhira-sama.»
«...Wh-What?»
If your first exposure to Japanese was through pop culture—J-pop, anime, or films—you're probably familiar in the common practice of appending diminutive suffixes such as "-kun" or "-chan" to names, denoting familiarity, playfulness, or even affection.
These, of course, were honorifics. And evidently, she expected me to use one. However, there was a tiiiiinnnyyy problem on that request!
"-sama," was it? You know: wasn't that honorific reserved for dignitaries, or for figures of indisputable reverence; for those who expected to be gazed upon with deference from below?
Haha, the audacity! Who did she think she was, to demand such exaltation: the royalty?
«Why… would I do that?» I managed to mutter, dragging each vocal out like a prisoner on death row awaiting cross-examination.
«Mmm? Why "why"? Obviously because I want you to understand how I feel. Do you really think asking for a nickname will save you from the terrible lie you attempted to conceal from me?»
«Ehh...»
«This is exactly what I'm trying to command. Just this once, I want to see if you can manage the simplest act of regard, and whether you truly respect our friendship and won't diminish it into something easily forgettable. You don't barge into people's lives with silly, made-up syllables, you know? You're supposed to approach them with respect. That's why our names existed.»
«Ahhh...»
«For that very reason, the term "-sama" won't refer to someone with a prominent, high-ranking position. In fact, it refers to the position of "an esteemed and beloved customer." We've been looking out for each other throughout the year: I lent you several of my notes to practice, and you gave me advice on managing my calendar, routines, and tasks. In my view, this is a form of reciprocal respect. However, right now you'll be the only one doing it because you've been bothering me for quite a while. If you confuse it with something hierarchically dissimilar, I'd say the misunderstanding lies squarely on your side of the equation.»
After being absolutely unbothered by my internal disintegration and making, ultimately, a conclusion to her oratorical monologue, she included the most unfair command:
«And if you fail to comply, I'll be upset with you.»
«Ahhhmmm...!»
Now, giving focus to the words she spouted in her admonishment, it became apparent that she was issuing a decree—a simple instruction dictating the precise manner in which I was permitted to address her, and If I don't do so, I'll lowkey get punished.
But I didn't want to comply. The notion alone soured my mood, left an acrid taste in my mouth. And yet—what alternative did I have? Referring to her as "-chan" was unthinkable, what would happen if she poked me in the eyes afterwards?
«You... want me to call you by that honorific?» I ventured cautiously. «Is there other any other alterna—»
«—No.»
«....»
Fuck this woman.
«...M-Matsuhira-sama, Matsuhira-sama...!?»
Still, I repeated it monotonously, with a broken accent; the syllabels cascaded off my tongue like a reluctant prayer, whispered in quiet resignation, escorted by a choked sigh. I'm actually lying; my voice cracked.
And just like that, without even realizing it, I had become her zombie. Was I supposed to say it like that? I almost got involved in a more cringeworthy position; yet, it didn't stop my clumsy wain.
I caught glimpses of subtle glances—furtive exchanges of whispers, perplexed stares, and others who feigned indifference. Yet, unbothered by the growing attention, I was forcefully coerced with nothing and resumed speaking: «Matsuhira-sama~!»
Although, let's dissect for a while: in this little jest, her surname had been revealed, though her given name remained conspicuously elusive. Not that it particularly mattered.
You see: Japanese convention dictated that one address others by their family name unless intimacy had been firmly established—a privilege earned, not freely given. And we, despite the precarious nature of our interaction, were hardly kindred spirits.
If anything, I would hesitate to call us even friends—I did not know her, nor did I recognize her; practically, a stranger. And strangers, by definition, weren't the company I sought.
That's right. I no longer wished to tether myself with preordained and invevitable existences. I wanted new acquaintances—ones born of genuine encounters, not the scripted remnants of a life that are not mine.
But, as with all things, such aspirations bordered on the impossible. Who will be next?
And then, as if to jolt me from my reverie, the most unexpected thing occurred. Without warning, the severity that had defined her presence shattered into something altogether different; something warm, something almost endearing—a laugh. A sheepish one, actually.
«W-Why did you say it like that!? Geeeez! Ah, how embarrassing, hahaha! Sorry, Nakamura-kun. I'm really sorry for putting you through that. Forgive me, truly.»
I followed suit, laughing along with her—albeit slightly unnerved—because being toyed with like this was enough to drive anyone to the brink of madness.
«I-I see... I see... That was kin—»
«However![8]» She suddenly retorted, bitterness laced in her voice.
Uwah! The abrupt shift in her demeanor was nothing short of terrifying; it was as if she were battling full-blown bipolar disorder rather than merely putting on an act.
Someone, please help her! And while you're at it—rescue me too!
...W-What am I thinking? This automatic ridiculous monologues are getting out of hand, and are still horrifying me. Somebody, really, rescue me from it.
«I warned you not to trivialize such matters. The way you dismiss things so thoughtlessly… it irks me. Your gestures, your expressions—they make me uneasy, uncertain whether you're genuinely as absentminded as you claim, or, in a far more extreme scenario, struggling through the arduous plight of someone afflicted by such a disorder. Either way, it's concerning, you know? Which is why, Nakamura-kun, I need you to be honest with me. Do you actually have memory issues, or am I worrying over nothing?»
Setting aside this unusual repertoire of buffoonery, I had to acknowledge that engaging in this sort of discourse—so trivial, irrational, and, above all, absurd—must be an enormous source of frustration. Even, to some extent, for someone as composed and astute as her.
What did take me aback, however, wasn't the severity of her tone of voice nor her undeniable perceptiveness, but rather, the failure to consider another entirely plausible explanation—one that I, at least, had accounted for: the desire for attention.
Even with the introduction of falsehood in this scope, it seems that this girl places great trust in me and safely dismisses that particular motif from her earring set.
To be perfectly frank, she is not entirely wrong. The thing is, I would not stoop to something as absurdly petty as seeking attention.
I would rather have my name etched in the public consciousness through a more significant event—perhaps killing myself—than be in the headlines for getting a girl pregnant or something. No, if I accidently get a girl pregnant, I'll also kill myself.
The implications I stressed earlier about refraining from talking rubbish turned out to be nonsense. I constantly find myself entangled in situations where my words, though thoughtless, inevitably come back to stun me.
Never before had I anticipated the need to offer genuine apologies. My track record has been relatively free of causing mishaps, let alone in matters as trivial as this.
The last occasion had to do with my own insecurities, to the extent that I sacrificed my dignity simply to offer others a semblance of satisfaction.
On the other hand, at present, all it takes to avoid discord with this young woman and her unwavering moral convictions is a single, sincere apology.
It is true that I was inconsiderate, that I took this fictitious affliction too lightly, and that, by all reasonable accounts, it is only fitting that I make amends. My excuses lacked credibility—and it's this area in which I must undoubtedly improve, maybe.
While my mother took it in stride, aware that her son has a predilection for idiocy; but this girl, Matsuhira, seems to have taken it seriously. Apparently, she only expresses her displeasure at my impertinence to those who really struggle with such problems.
Whatever.
«No, I do not suffer from any severe condition. I am truly sorry; I will not joke about such things again,» I've never intended to in the first place. «And, as I have explained, I'm just a little disoriented.»
«May I ask why?»
«Actually, I don't know how to explain it. It's not a disease, it's not a performance; rather, it is... a sensation... Do you understand?»
«Not entirely, but I can, at the very least, form a vague impression of what you mean. Either way, if you need help, don't bother asking me.»
«No-no-no-no-no—I'll manage on my own. I'll have to... work on some concentration exercises to keep my mind sharp, right? Maybe solve puzzles, play chess, or even try and practice meditation techniques in my room. I'll figure something out,» I said decorously and regretfully.
«I understand.... Oof, what a misery. I've been overly troubled by your predicament. Hmph, if you do need assistance to be more attentive, then perhaps I should simply beat some sense into you this very moment,» she proposed with a stunning lack of refinement.
«Huh?»
«Just kidding.[9]»
«Violence is no laughing matter.»
«Neither are mental problems.»
«All right, I'm sorry! Really; I've already apologised.»
I feel completely defeated by this girl; if this exchange persists, I wouldn't be surprised if she had me on my knees, reciting my apologies a thousand times.
«Now I will forget everything that happened,» her eyes softened and spoke in a calmer voice. «It was a bit overwhelming to play along, but now that you are aware of your cessation, I trust that you won't persist in this behaviour.»
«I understand...» I replied in distress.
Nevertheless, for a brief moment, an almost imperceptible silence took hold of her. Simultaneously and beyond belief, her cheeks tinged with a delicate blush as she added coyly:
«Ahem! Anyway… considering your clear struggles with formality—evident in how clumsy you are when addressing people—I'd really rather you stopped using "-sama" altogether. It's… well, a little unsettling.»
«No, yeah, I get it! No problem. You were just playing around with me, weren't you?»
«Yes! A joke—just a joke! I guess I got a little too caught up in the moment. That awkward hesitation of yours when you tried to say my name? It threw me off so much that I thought the only possible way to relax was to mess with you a little, you know? A tit for tat, so I just went for it—switched my attitude on a whim. Looking back… I have no idea what came over me, haha.»
Yeah, definitely: the sheer staginess of her gestures, the way she so effortlessly slipped between personalities—it was almost too natural.
You sure you don't have aspirations to enter a municipal theatre? With that level of dramatic flair, you could easily secure a spot in any major theater troupe.
«Be that as it may… I do think it'd be simpler if you just called me Ayame-san [10]or something along those lines. Nothing too formal, nothing too stiff—just enough to keep things quite natural, right....? W-What do you think?»
Oh. Now that was unexpected.
«A-ya-me…?» I echoed fragmentarily, letting the name settle on my tongue for a moment before offering a measured nod. «Yeah, alright. If that's what you'd prefer, then I'll go with that, Ayame-san.[11]»
I accompanied my words with a small, almost imperceptible smile—an attempt to mask the lingering embarrassment from my previous blunder.
She returned my acceptance with a soft smile and a glimmer of understanding flickering behind it. Then, with a composed yet casual voice she declared: «Well, I should drop off my things in class. See you at the coliseum, Takumi-kun.[12]»
I caught it immediately—the way she said my name, with "-kun", instead of my surname.
It wasn't unusual. It was just a small marker of familiarity, much like how "-san" often softened formalities for girls. I didn't mind it, not in the slightest. She could call me whatever she wanted—as long as it wasn't something utterly humiliating.
However, just as she turned to leave, Ayame suddenly halted mid-step, her body shifting back toward me with an air of hesitation.
«Oh, right—» She started, as if something had just come to mind.
I watched as she lifted a hand, her movements languid, almost absentminded—ironic—, gesutring vaguely towards her eye, tracing a loose circle beneath it with her fingertip.
Then, just as quickly, she hesitated. Her hand faltered. Whatever she had intended to say wavered on her lips, and in a split second, her expression tensed—just a little.
«No, never mind… Just splash some water on your face! See you later!»
Her voice snapped back to its usual confident cadence, breaking the moment's uncertainty as she turned and disappeared down the hall with effortless grace.
But I knew—I understood exactly what she meant. Or perhaps it was just a gesture of kindness and I was making too much of it.
Either way, this would be another example of how these people, especially the ones I know, will behave towards me from now on. I should take into account every word that comes out from people familiar with Nakamura Takumi.
But for now… the coliseum[13]? Had she really just said we'd be meeting there? I probably should've asked, but—ah, screw it. I'd figure it out later.
Lifting a hand in a silent farewell, I watched as she vanished into the sea of students. Only after she was completely out of sight did I finally exhale, turning my attention back to the task at hand.
With a decisive motion, I reached for my getabako, sliding it open. Inside, nestled neatly within the wooden compartment, sat a pristine pair of black leather shoes.
I crouched, loosening the laces of my sneakers before slipping them off and replacing them with the polished uniform footwear. The fit was snug, precise—a seamless completion of the standard male dress code.
Then, without hurry, I straightened my posture.
With measured steps—each one deliberately paced, elongated just slightly—I ventured forth into the lively, bustling corridors of the school, weaving my way into the tide of students that defined the morning rush.
I manoeuvred carefully through the crowd of students—avoiding any possible social interaction—pivoted right at the first intersection, seamlessly following the path as if tracing the well-worn contours of a map.
As I advanced, the world around me unfolded into a vivid tableau of academia—hallways lined with classroom doors, bulletin boards boasting a polychromatic of club posters, and glass cases proudly exhibiting the artistic endeavors of the student body.
This could be the after-match of the Cultural Festival. But then...
«Ara, Nakamura-kun. Ohayou!»[14]
Before me, stood a cluster of girls, their expressions alight with easy nearness.
There it was—that intrinsic human instinct to reciprocate a greeting, a fundamental cornerstone of civility. But, espite this inherent social mechanism, I was momentarily ensnared in my own thoughts, ensnared by a single, unshakable truth: I had absolutely no idea who these girls were.
Which, given the circumstances, was hardly surprising. I was, after all, a recent addition to this school, an outsider still acclimating to the intricate web of pre-established social dynamics.
Should I entertain the interaction? Or should I simply extricate myself from this moment as swiftly as possible?
The second option sounds sweet. And so, with the most minimal effort conceivable, I opted for a response devoid of both enthusiasm and the niceties of etiquette.
«Ah, yeah. Ohio![15]»
A brief silence. A slight tilt of their heads. Then—
«Eh...? O-hi!-o…?»
«Uhm, what? I said— "Oh-high-yo".»
Was my pronunciation so spectacularly bad? Was my one and only attempt at casual pleasantries been that hideous? Fantastic. Absolutely mortifying.
«...Well, ha-have a good day.[16]»
With that feeble attempt at salvaging the exchange, I offered a half-hearted wave and promptly accelerated my pace, leaving behind a palpable sense of bemusement radiating from the group. Even as I moved forward, I could feel their lingering stares.
And then—It happened again.
«Nakamura-san! Good morning!»
Another voice. Another group. This time, a handful of girls accompanied by a pair of boys, their collective energy brimming with the same unreserved cordiality.
Once again, I muttered a mechanical response.
And again. And again. And again. And again.
With every step, another greeting. Another exchange. Another instance of some inexplicably familiar face beaming at me as though I were an old friend, a beloved acquaintance—Even teachers were greeting me!
Who are these people?!
At this point, I was beginning to suspect I had somehow wandered into an alternate reality—one in which I had unknowingly assumed the identity of a local celebrity. Because, truly, what other explanation could there be?
It was as if they all saw something in me that I couldn't comprehend—some inexplicable allure that warranted recognition. But let me be clear: I am not Mads Mikkelsen.
So, please, for the love of all that is holy—Stop talking to me! I'm really getting sick of this; my mind is getting dizzy. I just want to get to class.
Without the slightest shilly-shally, I pressed forward; upon encountering a staircase to my left, I ascended to the second floor. Once there, I veered left at the intersection and continued ahead until I reached my intended destination—the third room.
None other than my designated classroom: 1-5. Finally.
The route was mercifully straightforward, ensuring I neither lost my way nor wasted unnecessary time. However, the whereabouts of Takumi's supposed friends—Ayame included—remained a mystery. I hadn't the slightest inkling of what class she had been assigned to; not that I had been particularly eager to.
However, there existed an even more peculiar quandary: How did I even know the exact location of this classroom?
And—perhaps more disconcertingly—why was it winter? That is to say, why were we inexplicably at the tail end of our first year rather than at its inception?
It warrants mentioning that my awareness of this alternate world's details—including, bizarrely enough, the precise coordinates of my designated classroom—wasn't acquired through conventional means.
I hadn't pored over a neatly compiled student handbook, nor had I memorized the layout in some desperate attempt to assimilate, like the city—No!
This singular piece of information had been etched into my mind from the moment I awoke in this reality, as if it had been implanted there through sheer inevitability.
And I would be remiss not to acknowledge that my arrival here was no arbitrary occurrence—In fact, I think there was an intent. That would explain this sadistically calculating precision, like an underlying mechanism arranging my position.
Even now, as I stand here, to be perfectly frank, the sheer implausibility of my awkward situation would be awe-inspiring if it weren't so thoroughly exhausting. Yet, no matter how many times I reiterate this fact, no epiphany awaits me. I have long since ceased expecting one.
It all began two days after my untimely expiration date—on the 24th of December—coinciding seamlessly with the advent of winter break. An innocuous date to most, yet in my case, one imbued with an unsettling significance.
Do you grasp the weight of this event? No, I imagine you don't.
While I enjoyed the game Isaac had given me, I criticised him relentlessly for my inability to come to terms with my deep obsession with it—a compulsion that essentially led to my premature death, practically.
And as though dictated by some omnipotent, mischief-loving playwright, the timeline of my so-called "real-life circumstances" had literally aligned to the in-game "Winter Break" arc.
Unfortunately, that remains merely a theory—a Game Theory, if you will. And as a direct consequence of my woeful ignorance regarding the inner workings of this world, I was left with no alternative but to experience that arc firsthand, whether by design or by some twisted decree of fate.
Hence, here I stand: trapped within this universe, a realm in which I am inexplicably addressed as Nakamura, the ever-so-charming first-year student. Or so I say.
And.... Yeah: Matsuhira Ayame. How could I have possibly forgotten?
One might raise an inquisitive brow and ask, "How?" To which I would counter: How could I've fucking possibly remembered? The discrepancy between her in-game persona and her real-world self is, in no uncertain terms, staggering.
Like, I mean—come on. What was I supposed to do, just intuitively piece it together? Ayame, the impeccably rendered moe heroine from a second-rate 3D dating simulator, has somehow manifested in reality as a living, flesh and bones human being. The cognitive dissonance alone is crippling.
Her voice? Not the same actress. Her face? Completely unrecognizable. The stylized, anime-esque aesthetics I once associated with her have been wholly discarded in favor of—well—actual human features. Her way of speaking? Do I look like a mind reader?
Her name? Oh, that? Yeah, I knew that much. And yet, it hadn't been enough.
A deep sigh escapes my lips as I suppress the swell of irritation clawing at my chest. No—I refuse to dwell on this any further. Ruminating on such a fruitless matter would be as productive as attempting to discern constellations in a fog-drenched sky.
And so, stationed just beyond the entrance, I inhale intensely, summoning what remains of my composure. My shoulders loosen, my neck tilts ever so slightly to one side—a satisfying crack resounds.
With newfound resolve, I extend a hand and press it against the smooth, lacquered surface of the sliding door: the panel glides along its track, parting effortlessly to unveil the classroom beyond.
Behold—my latest sanctuary. A place where I will surrender to its deep, undisturbed comforts. In other words—sleep. Because let's be honest, studying is out of the question, as always.
[1] 「そう？
[2] 「ほんとに？
[3] 「ううん、“試す”じゃなくて“確かめる”。」
[4] 「考えなくていいから！」
[5] 「……わかった」
[6] 「うん、わかった。……それと、もし……何か気に障るようなこと言ってたなら、本当にごめん。あの、君、その…えっと…」
[7] 「中虫」
[8] 「だが！」
[9] 「それは冗談だ」
[10] 「あやめさん」
[11] 「ああ、わかった。アヤメさんがそうおっしゃるなら、そうさせていただきます」。
[12] 「択身くん」
[13] Could be also gymnasium (教室), but I prefer to call it Coliseum. They called it that in my school, so...deal with it.
[14] 「あら、名嘉村くん。おはよう！」。
[15] (オハイオ)
[16] 「じゃあ、いってらっしゃい」。