«Nakamura-san! Please, come forward to the staff room. I'll be waiting for you.»
Class sessions, by institutional decree, demand student participation. If a classroom slips into silence, the caliber of scholarly endeavor is considerably compromised by the incapacity to vocalize their thoughts against the audience; that is, your own image being exposed as either correct or wrong.
And this decentralise the habit of learning, since it's a system less concerned with comprehension than with exhibition. You aren't asked to understand; rather, you're compelled to demostrate it—over and over. Ideally, with enough volume and enthusiasm to validate the framework itself.
After all, if the students are not collectively humiliated or inundated with thunderous applause, can the teacher really declared it was a productive day?
However, things rarely run that smoothly. For various situations involving the forcibly active presence of those brats who don't even raise their faces to be attentive to their teacher's words, this introduces me—Why me, of all people?
For one who is not particularly effervescent, socially speaking—essentially, «I don't feel like talking to you anymore, I'd better go play»—the obligation to be a character imcompatible with my temperament was already a chore I'd rather avoid entirely
It is even more detrimental when that individual, supposedly—by these indications I have—, is one of the most obnoxiously active participants in class.
Why is it always, «What's your take, Nakamura?», and never the kid doodling in the notebook, the one who'd spent the last five minutes staring blankly at the ceiling, or literally any other fucking kid? I'm not the only member in your class, you deranged geezer!
I assumed that the "Japanese Language" course would give a pass to the overachievers front-row nerds; however, they were a total disappointment. Quiet as a graveyard—no, fuck that! Even the dead would make more noise than them.
Let's see, let's see: could it be that my own stereotypical judgment and shallow, five-second observations, based purely on appearance, led to this disillusionment in their supposed intellectual abilities—and, as a result, to my lowkey loathing?
An overly sophisticated claptrap, sure; but maybe that's the answer I was looking for. A tedious one—but a possibility all the same. Or maybe I was just surrounded by idiots.
In any case, that's exactly what happened. Same story with that girl earlier: Reimi—I didn't expect her to be so, so unapologetically confrontational.
Back to the present, being rigorously called out, it's not simple to assume that it was because I didn't have the appropiate answers to the questions my teacher was throwing at me. No, actually, I miraculously came up with the right ones.
It was part of a strategy I concocted after my first public screw-up—when I had to stand and read the wrong paragraph out loud, only to butcher it in the most embarrassing, stammer-filled way possible. So I made a deal: I asked Haruki to whisper the answers to me and offered to return the favor.
Turns out, this voicing was for the purpose of explaining my lateness to his class. Ah, what a relief!
I earnestly elucidated the situation I found myself in: where two girls had ambushed me and held me captived—in deplorable conditions—until they could hear an apology from my faltering, pitiful mouth.
The teacher took it in his stride and smiled. Then he gave me a casual warning not to get on women's bad sides, for reasons he started to list—reasons I immediately tuned out—alongside other somewhat dubious remarks: one regarding emotional maturity... and eventually menopause.
To be honest, man: the older people get, the unginhed their advices becomes.
From there, we wrapped up the session and moved on to our next class: Computer Science. The teacher escorted us to a different floor, made us wait in the hallway like well-mannered sheeps, and then finally ushered us into a long room outfitted with rows of monitors.
I won't dive too deep into the details because, as mentioned before, these are just classes—uneventful routines that don't exactly warrant a dramatic retelling and not even considered something I feel especially inclined to narrate beat by beat.
Still, one notable detail did catch me off guard—the only thing worth mentioning: the lesson was held in English. Yes, in English!
I was legitimately taken aback, expecting some heavily-accented instructions and maybe a grammatical trainwreck or two. But to my absolute surprise, our teacher's pronunciation was downright commendable. An applause-worthy performance, ladies and gentlemen!
Granted, it wasn't a full immersion. I'd say maybe 70 to 80% was indeed articulated. Some keywords on the whiteboard—and a few things on the projector—were still in Japanese.
As for the class content itself, I'll point out that we were "continuing" with an overview of how a basic web development program functions. And, apparently it was time to begin crafting one ourselves, in groups, no less... Today!
Therefore, towards the end of class, the teacher retrieved a bulging folder, presumably filled with our names, and began assigning groups through what appeared to be pure caprice, for it appears that organizing by democratic means or a multi-person election would have been considerably more onerous.
Naturally, I was paired with complete strangers. The odds of ending up with Haruki or Kaito were infinitesimal; statistically speaking, this outcome was practically nonexisting.
Eventually, my crew came together: Genji Aoto, Ishino Seijuurou, and Akiyama Sayaha—two guys and a girl, though this chick was mysteriously absent. For what reason? I haven't the faintest clue whatsoever.
The three of us who were present immediately created a Line group where most of our coordination would take place—we agreed to message our missing member later. For the remaining time, it was spent reviewing the project brief and tossing around ideas: titles, themes, sources... All the usual preparatory fluff, you know.
And guess what our project is about? Personal Finance Advisory Website!
Fantastic, right? Because clearly, I—someone who struggles to understand the difference between net and gross income—am the ideal person for a financially savvy CPA!
What the hell do I know about Finance?! About savings plans, money management, expense tracking, or anything even vaguely related to economics?
I was millimeters away from expressing my confusion, maybe even protested the choice, but then Aoto further explained that he's theoretically well-versed in the topic, and—potentially if work isn't a problem—his dad might even help us: he's an accountant.
How convenient! Problem solved, I guess?
Setting aside this hurdle, and opening doors directly to the next of our impending tasks—as life seems so fond of arranging—, extrapolated from the syllabus, now loomed as follows:
Crafting a 3D model of a cell for our final biology grade! Producing a creative reinterpretation of a three-way choice Edo-period poems using modern slang and visual aids (Powerpoint)! And finally, presenting a digital version (PowerPoint, again) of our freshly-birthed website!
Just take me already, Lord.[1]
I've barely settled to academic life and they're already bombarding us with capstone-level demands. Can I breathe, please? If this is the tempo we're expected to keep up for the rest of the year, I might as well wave a white flag now.
At precisely 12:15, the bell was poised to ring at any second, marking our second recess of the day. On reflex, I powered down the computer before me, and whilst I was flexing my knuckles, an unexpected utterance pierced the air: a voice.
A school announcement wafted through the classroom speakers, a young woman's oration announcing the following: «This is a midday announcement! Attention to all students: we inform you that, along with the start of final exams and the upcoming annual marathon, the school will be hosting a collaborative live performance event at the end of March.»
W-What the fuck? Marathon?! What do you mean "marathon"? Are we going for a run? What's that about or how's it going? Is it voluntary or mandatory? Okay, shut up already—I'll address this mystery later.
Thus, I listened half-absently, largely out of benefit, as class had ended and my brain was begging for a distraction. Plus, something about her voice was weirdly soothing, vivacious-feeling.
She continued: «This event will be a joint recreational endeavor, sponsored by the Broadcasting Club and the Student Council, entitled: Last Words! Students and educators alike are invited to use the radio studio, individually or collectively, for a maximum duration of three minutes to record an audio composition of their choosing: a narrative, a performance, a jest, a recollection, a musical piece, or even something abstract. By this means, time will be allocated during class to showcase these recordings for the entire school to listen.»
Ok... Will it be a festival? Are they celebrating some traditions or is it just entertainment?
«The primary aim is to commemorate spontaneity, creativity, and the significance of sharing—even the smallest thing we posses—for our fellow students and soon-to-be cherished graduates. Enrollment sheets will be displayed outside the Student Council room, and the performances will be uploaded to the school's intranet along with an engaging video compilation of memorable moments from our academic journey later this semester. For further information, kindly reference the bulletin boards or consult the club advisors. Your attention is greatly appreciated.»
What in the everloving hell is she talking about? A school-sanctioned stand-up? You've got to be kidding me. I'm not going to waste precious brainpower on the announcement's peculiarities. The truth is, my interest fizzled out just as fast as it sparked: "Poof!" Just like that.
Perhaps I'd be more curious if I had no idea what it was; or worse, if I were somehow already involved without knowing. T-That would be problematic—stop thinking like that, it's scaring me.
Then again, by this point, shouldn't I already know if I'm part of something? No, better question: how the in the world would I know if I'm part of something when I've barely begun my days here? Does that even matter? Whatever!
Circling around the same thought will lead me nowhere; best to shelve it for now. When someone inevitably brings it up or I overhear something, I'll just nod and say I forgot—easy enough.
With that, the teacher instructed us to head back to our classrooms to drop off our belongings, and then, mercifully, lunch. That brief moment of transition, that fleeting reprieve between obligation and fleeting freedom, had never felt more earned.
By then, Kaito would call me from the other side of the room, along with Haruki, unconcernedly waiting amidst the disorganized strut: «Takumi! Come over here.»
I didn't bother replying. Merely followed the resonance of his voice and caught up as they began walking: «So, did your group make any progress? Who you were with?»
«Ah, well... I got paired with Genji, Ishino, and someone named Akiyama who wasn't there. For now, Genji-san's kind of taken the lead. He's been organizing everyone's tasks and laying out what we'll each do when we get home. We're planning to meet up sometime this week and knock it all out in one go, since apparently Genji-san's going to lose his mind over the Biology project if we don't get it done fast.»
And honestly, I could already feel that same weight shifting onto my back—and I hadn't even touched the damn thing yet.
«Oh, Genji-kun. That's typical of him. Biology is crazy right now, so it's understandable that he'd prioritize it: that 3D cell model assignment is brutal. Still, isn't Computer Science's assignments pretty tough as well? This early in the week is pretty hectic, isn't it?»
Haruki, who'd been silently tagging along, chimed in with a dry delivery: «There have been worse weeks. Is there anything to panic about?»
Oh, yeah? Jesus Christ, Japan. What the fuck?
«There's no panic,» Kaito countered easily. «Just saying—if we don't stay on top of things, it'll not work out. Hey, by the way, Haruki—what happened with your swim classes? You still training in this cold?»
«No, I haven't been there recently. Mom stopped me... and to be honest, I was a bit pissed.»
Wait, is this hard-faced guy in swimming lessons? I mean, with his lanky frame swallowed by that oversized jacket, he looked more like a shut-in, famished gamer than an athlete. What's he hiding under there.....? No, no, why am I even wondering about this?
«Ohhh, so that's why you were so bitter. Poor thing. But, you should at least reason why she did it. If her son catches a fever from being cold, she's bound to be worried. Be that as it may, hypothermic swimmers aren't exactly a win for the team or the schol—»
«—It's irrelevant,[2]» Haruki culminated, effectively terminating the discussion with the finality of a slamming door. «I don't mind being a little cold.»
«No-no-no-no, that's not it. Saying "a little cold" is a bit mild for this climate, don't you think?»
«For me, it is,» Haruki shrugged. «I can handle it; what's more, I like it. I've even gone to the academy a couple times without my mom knowing. I told her I was out with you guys and she bought it. Haven't caught on yet, hah.[3]»
«You're so damn cunning,» Kaito lamented, trying to sound disapproving but mostly amused.
«Cunning? It's just being fairly resourceful. And honestly, I don't think it's that bad. Besides, I figure I'm doing her a favor by pushing myself harder. If I do well, maybe I can make it to the school tournaments—and someday, even nationals.»
«Really… you're so hard-headed, but your goals are kinda impressive. I don't even know what to do with you anymore. But if you make it that far, I'll eat my words. Just don't expect sympathy when you're bedridden with a fever, though.»
«That sounds what my mom always says. You sound just like her.»
«Seriously? Then I guess I'll play the role properly. If she's not here to stop you, I'll just have to step up as your surrogate mum. My, it's a heavy burden, but someone's gotta do it.[4]»
«You're not cut out for it.[5]»
«Really? I think you'd be surprised how much I like the idea of me wearing an apron and shouting from the kitchen, "You have to eat your vegetables" or something like that for the spoiled Haru-chan. It might actually be a cleansing experience.»
«That's disgusting. If you do that, I'll throw your lunch into the pool.»
«...Hmm?» Joy pivoted to its antithetical concept: now, instead, a serene countenance filled a latent anger.
«That's not good,» he continued. «You dislike the idea that much? Haha, that's not very nice. You shouldn't say things like that even as a joke. You wouldn't throw it, righhhhhht~? I mean, my older sister made me lunch today, so it's sure to be delicious. It would be a waste to throw it in the pool. Besides, I won't let you do that—I'll get mad at you.»
«Oh, is that so...?»
I believe I've mentioned this somewhere within my own endless stream of soliloquies—perhaps more than once—but it bears repeating just to hammer it into the record: I am, by any measure of speculation, a naturally conscientious person.
Engaging with this very conversation felt, to me, like sitting half-awake in your bedroom while the cacophony of horns and engines reverberates chaotically just beyond the windowpane. Can you heard them? Yeah, you do.
One may discern them, vaguely acknowledging the existence of movement and clamor; however, of course, you won't consider counting the cars or calculating the intervals between them—unless you're hopelessly, irredeemably bored. If anything, it would become ambient noise.
Still, even with that self-admitted tendency to drift and detach, there inevitably comes a point where the ceaseless dialogue grows too loud to ignore; or in this case, it has been interrupted by an unusual silence, involuntarily producing an attentive reaction in me.
I couldn't tell you when exactly this unnatural pause ocurred—It wasn't a moment that declared itself boldly. It was the type of stillness that not solely permeates the atmosphere, but constricts it; and the space between us became heavier, laden with something imperceptible but unmistakable.
Had a fly dared to buzz through that dense air, it would have likely disintegrated on contact—reduced instantly into a paste fit only for a baby anteater's breakfast.
Nonetheless, for better or for worse, someone inexorably had to break the ice: «...I guess that bento would be nice,» Haruki acknowledged ruefully.
«Right?! So, how about a truce? I'll share some if you skip practice tod—»
«I'm going after school.»[6]
«Ughh, didn't work... My words aren't getting through to him. It's hopeless. There's just no reasoning with him... Takumi, it's your turn. Do something![7]»
«Uhm? Eh—m-me?» I blinked. «U-Uhh…»
Now I'm the counselor, huh? But, what am I even supposed to say here? It's not like I'm a therapist or have a degree in teenager's psychology. What kind of advice do you give someone who's that dead-set when it comes to their hobbies anyway?
«W-Well… are you at least worried about the cold?» What a dumbass question.
«Not exactly. Like I said, I can deal with it,» answered and that was it. No elaboration, no clarification. Not even a hint of defensiveness—just that.
Damn it, let's see: Do I need something more convincing? More introspective? Maybe something that requires and answer which didn't just toss my concern aside as if I were a prostitute on the streets of 1980s Manhattan. But then again, what else could I have asked?
No matter how many suggestions, interventions, or health advisories I could throw his way, nothing would've changed. At best, he'd have shrugged—offering some other offhand remark, as if the whole thing didn't warrant a second thought—because, by all appearances, he's simply a phlegmatic, pesky teenager.
That's the problem with trying to make someone see reason when they've already decided what matters to them—it's not that they can't hear you, it's that they already did and move past it. Everyone's got their own sense of self, don't they?
«But, do you at least recognise that you might get sick?»
«Well, yes? It's possible that I could get sick, but I'm taking enough care of myself so that it doesn't happen. That's why I'm training; because if I really cared about my health, I wouldn't be going in the first place, would I?»
«The pool's heated?»
«Oh, that'd be a glorious upgrade—but obviously not. It's a public academy after all: they barely pay for chlorine let alone heating. The administration's stingy, and my coach is no different. Plus, I think cold water's just another variable to adapt to. Nationals aren't held in a hot spring, are they?»
I'm not exactly the type to complain about other people's avoccations—not even, I don't care. Why would I? However, that logical, it wan't even reckless; it's so, so, so, so idiotically short-sighted it made my blood boil.
«Isn't that, you know, like bragging about being able to walk barefoot on glass?» Kaito interjected with measured cadence.
«Hahaha,» the unassuming one actually chuckled at that—a genuine laugh. «You guys are really stretching it just to get me to stop, huh? Making up weird metaphors. I mean, that one doesn't even make sense—glass literally cuts you. Cold water just trains your endurance. So, why even compare them?»
At least I can find commonality in that assertion. Admittedly, that simile was somewhat fruitless. However, he wasn't mocking us; he genuinely didn't get it—and that's worse.
I thought he said it with the carefree confidence of someone who believes discomfort is a fair trade in exchange for ambition; on the contrary, it's his arrogance that governs his actions.
«Look, I'm not saying you should leave it», I said—even if I wasn't all that invested. «Just that maybe you should wait until the temperature gets above freezing...? Just a little?»
«You wouldn't get it. Some goals require discomfort as part of the deal. That's the cost of chasing something worthwhile.»
«You... since when did you get so philosophical?» Kaito's unforeseen observation came in, a bit wide-eyed.
«Ok, that's all from me!» An opportunity to leave that nugatory interaction. «What do you think?»
«I think that was a pretty useless back-and-forth,» Kaito said, lips tugged into a lazy grin. «But if Haruki's aware of the risks, then it's his responsibility now.»
«Of course it is,» Haruki replied flatly.
«You say that, but responsibility's easy to claim and hard to carry. Ah well—what's done is done.»
What an anticlimactic conclusion.
«What about you, Takumi?»
«.....Eh?»
Like a spotlight abruptly transitioning with exhilaration to the center stage, the inquisitive panel now rests upon me, rendering me haplessly unprepared.
«W-What?» I answered vehemently. Weren't you harassing someone else for their well-being? Keep doing it!
«Have you thought about joining a club yet?»
«Oh!» So it was for that. «U-Uhmmm...»
Actually, even discussing this topic seemed premature. I still didn't have the right words for an adequate response, thus I just made that wordless sound: an inarticulate, insipid vowel floating in my throat.
Though the longer I delay, the more inescapable it seemed to end up in the shogi club sitting between four elderly retirees, former-teachers, and a rickety air conditioner that wheezed like a bad omen. One of them leans in to explain a strategy mid-attack, while the other complains about the humidity.
Do I suffer from a hatred of shogi? Nope, not at all; in fact, I like chess—but being part of that kind of club? That sounds like being spoon-fed my own slow, sedated descent into a cognitive coma.
And more pressingly—was this even optional? Were the clubs also mandatory? Was there some directive saying that if I didn't choose, I'd be thrown into the scrap pile? Come on! What happened to freedom of choice? And democracy? Isn't this supposed to be a civilized country?
Kaito tilted his head: «Ahhh, so you're still indecisive. I guess there's too many to pick from. A guy gets overwhelmed too easily on that position. Although, since school's almost over, I suppose it's better to wait until second year, right?»
He glossed premeditatedly with a glimmer of knowingness, as if he possessed the gift of being able to decipher a strange habit off of me and draw a conclusion on his own without further details or minutiae.
«Yeah, I'm sorry.»
«No need for that, haha. I mean, you don't want something boring, but you also don't want something that'll ruin your stomach for a week,» Kaito's chuckle was naturally buoyant. «Take football, for example. From where I stand, it would be the kind that gives you a cramp halfway throught practice. It's very, very, very much not beginner-friendly, and definitely not gentle on third-years. Not with our coach.»
«Wait—that's sound terrifying. Don't you feel fatigued?»
He shook his head: «I wouldn't call it exhausting. Soccer is fun, and I think—in fact, I affirm—it's designed for energetic people because it demands a certain pace. So, between the drills and the coach's punishments, it's definitely not a dream for those who underestimate this sport. But, all in all, it's good recreation: it teaches attention, coordination, agility, and enriches your cardiovascular health. Incredible, right?»
Haruki, who'd been walking a step behind us, contribute—tone as withered as powdered insenct left in the sun: «Sounds like you're trying to recruit him while also dissuading him at the same time. What is your plan?»
«You're mistaken. Recruitment's not really my thing,» Kaito replied matter-of-factly. «Unless I get a commission by my coach. But no, no pressure. Just curious. Besides, Takumi already told me he doesn't like soccer, so we're just chatting.»
He turned to address me: «I thought you would have found something by now, I'm impressed.»
«Soccer, I-I don't like it? I don't like soccer?» I mumbled.
«Yeah...? Or have you changed your mind? Have you changed your mind?! You know you can join the soccer club anytime! We're looking for people who have at least a little interest to give the sport a try!»
«.....Have you revamped the definition of "not recruiting"» Haruki highlighted.
«Oops, does it seem contradictory? But, you know, Takumi said "I'm not interested" six months ago. People change, don't they? I understand that reasoning is somewhat profitable, but we could call it a tactical test: the less interest you have, the more likely you are to become passionate, right?»
«Do you have any data on the correlation between "likelihood of change" and "recruitment"?»
«You're taking it too seriously, don't you...? Well, to be honest, we didn't hit our recruiting target this month. Although it's not like the coach asked us to anyway, you know? I guess it's timely since we're talking about clubs.»
«Hmm, I see. If it's "voluntary recruitment", it's not hypocritical I think.»
«If you call me hypocritical, I'll argue. Even Takumi could get hooked if he tried.»
«Stop using probability theory to influence people, it's giving me PTSD.... Although, well, it has nothing to do with me now. Do what you want.»
«Anyway! Takumi, what do you think, maybe we should try it once!»
«Uhm.....… I think I'll pass.»
Crude or not, my prevailing mentality was sustained by the fragile mandatory routine; until I perceived that I had adeptly harmonized with this new reality, I refrained from disrupting it—much less for soccer.
Among all athletic endeavors, that particular activity struck me as the most incompatible. Ironically, if I had to choose, I would opt for swimming; although I doubt anyone would believe it—given my inability to swim with grace.
«Of course you'll say that! Well, fair enough. That was abrupt—I guess I got carried away. I'm sorry,» he scratched his cheek. «Some people sign up right away; others take their time. I joined immediately, if that says anything. My senpais too. Guess it just depends on what you enjoy.»
Then Haruki, still walking with that undisturbed gait and hands loosely in his pockets, added: «You should go the swimming club instead. You'll get stronger and fit.»
«Don't try to pitch your own club into this.»
«Tsk, that's convenient too, isn't it? I'm not as pushy as you anyway. Although... I am curious: what are you really thinking about then? Takumi. You must be thinking about something, or haven't you thought about it at all?»
Faithfully following the definition of the verb "to think", I would say yes; more, in its veritable aspect, no. It was an ephemeral but conclusive reflection; brief enough to be inconsequential, yet just enough to allow myself the illusion of having pondered it.
I only considered it because I wanted to indulge in the luxury of not deciding right away during the first recess—though we all know how that turned out.
Still, I've chosen to uphold this abstention, if only as a form of passive resistance. Not because I'm trying to make a statement, or prove anything—I just feel safer this way: less vulnerable and much more unpredictable. However, the clock is ticking.
In any case, I have little information about the availability of workshops. For example: I found the literature club sticky cozy. Art was tempting, but I couldn't draw a circle if my life depended on it. Anything sports-related was already ruled out. The cooking club? Ehhhhh... No, never.
Before I could say something vaguely dismissive, Kaito jumped ahead: «You know, you might want to check out the Broadcasting Club. As you just heard, they have something planned for the post exam event in March. I was somewhat distracted, so I listened to maybe 70%, but it sounded pretty good.»
«Broadcasting…?» I echoed.
«Mm-hmm. What, you haven't heard either? That's weird, hahaha! We're even then.»
Actually, I had heard it—quite clearly, in fact. I'd even listened with more attention than I'd care to admit. The problem was the term itself: Broadcasting Club. An appellation that, for all intents and purposes, remained wholly foreign to me. Not in meaning, of course, but in implication.
What exactly did they do in there? What kind of equipment did they use? What was the intended goal of such a club? The more I tried to mentally reconstruct an image of their activities, the more evasive and mischievous the questions became.
«Ok: if I'm not mistaken, they're going to do some kind of live segment—where they'll play videos and audios of us. Right? It was like that, wasn't it? It sounded a lot more interesting than the typical student council drone, honestly. Maybe this is a good way to dive into something, Takumi, if you're curious.»
How strangely fitting. Of course—because nothing says get involved like throwing yourself willingly into a performance space filled with adolescents afflicted by chronic attention deficits, equipped with high-definition smartphones and instantaneous opinions.
Live segments? Auditory and visual recordings "of ourselves" or others? Is that really what they do in there, right? It smells less as a student activity and more as a soft-power surveillance effort—draped in the garb of "creativity," sold under the sugary label of "school engagement."
From an anthropological perspective, few things offend me more than the deliberate, curated reduction of reality. Audio-visual media, when left in the hands of my generation, inevitably devolves into grotesque caricature—a clownish flattening of human nuance into digestible, laughable bytes.
And what could possibly go wrong when they take your voice, slap a royalty-free track behind it, sprinkle in some sparkly effects, and project it on a screen before a classroom full of students who wouldn't know sincerity if it bit them mid-scroll?
Everything! Everything could go wrong! God, I hate it. If TikTok had a dislike button, I'd be a number one hater with no purpose whatsoever.
Although, looking at the bright side—purely in terms of machinery—there was a sliver of genuine fascination: condenser microphones, mixing consoles, near-field monitors, and perhaps even some playout automation software buried under a few cryptic menus.
I mean, I could spend hours dismantling the equipment, admiring its internal structure and circuitry, losing myself in the intricacies of how it all fit together and functioned. But that has absolutely nothing to do with participating in any collaborative sense; it's more akin to an autistic compulsion to take things apart just to understand them.
What draws me in is the engineering, not the heteronomous social exchange that surrounds it. Doesn't that sound rather depressing? I'm not that of a loser; yet, I sound like one.
And yet, if I remained on the sidelines, distanced and uninvolved, I would inevitably begin to wonder—what conversation had I missed? What nuance had slipped past my attention? What unspoken social undercurrent had developed just beyond the reach of my senses?
That is the curse of hyperawareness: you're never really in or out of a moment. You simply orbit it—perpetually analyzing, never arriving. You can't even ignore things properly because curiosity isn't a gift, it's a pathology.
«I mean, I don't know if that's my thing,» thus, a tactical deflection was made.
Phew! Nice recovery, Me. Well dodged, Kaito—you nearly cornered me there.
To his credit, he'd floated the idea with the softness of a pebble dropped into a still pond—rather than hurling it through a window like a brick. It didn't seem like he was cornering me or trying to influence me through peer pressure; he was just offering me an invitation.
Yet, he circled back to the topic with that same good-natured warmth of his: «Doesn't have to be your thing. Could just be something you try out and end up hating. But isn't that the part of the charm? You go in with low expectations, with no pressure, and if it turns out to be a drag—you leave. No harm done! But what if the opposite happens? What if you like it? Then, look: you've gained something! It wouldn't be a waste of time. Although, if you're still hesitant, you'll find something you like later. There's no rush, haha!»
Kaito's phrase had lodged itself somewhere under his ribs: "If it's the opposite? There you go," as if the merit of the whole endeavour lay not in whether the person liked it or not, but in the implicit promise that if they didn't like it, that would be enough. A rather idealistic stance, wouldn't you agree?
Besides, that energy of his remained strikingly consistent throughout the day—unwavering and pristine. Not the slightest trace of tiredness or exhaustion in sight. Charisma? Check. Youthful charm? Double-check. I've never seen someone so socially radiant, it's unsettling.
The only thing I could notice was his lack of commitment to witnessing my erratic behaviour as an anomaly, since, no matter how you look at it: I'm acting somewhat regretful. Yet he takes it casually—is he naïve or discreetly perceptive?
Haruki side-eyed him. «You really don't have a concept of responsibility, do you.»
«I'm definitely more self-aware than you,» Kaito shot back, undeterred. «Besides, in my case, I'd call it moral relativism—but specifically for task management. You talk about responsibility, but you're the one throwing yourself half-naked into a pool when it's minus fifteen degrees out.»
That earned a low, grudging huff from Haruki. He probably hated how Kaito's comment—absurd as it was—had landed just close enough to amusing: «You're exaggerating, idiot»
«Anyway,» Kaito added, stretching his arms over his head as the hallway began swelling with the usual lunchtime commotion, «if you're intrigued, maybe just drop by. They're usually hovering around the student council room. Might even get a flyer thrown at you if you walk past slow enough.»
A fundamentally disconcerting designation lay, in the penumbra, within Kaito's reasoning: it was disarming in its benevolence, but irritating in its refusal to exert any coercive gravity.
He manipulated the logic of "common sense", using the benign façade of "low commitment" and "no expectations" as a Trojan horse for something far more destabilising: the idea that indecision itself could be put into practice, even institutionalised, just by walking into a room.
What he had seemingly failed to understand—or, perhaps more worryingly, understood perfectly and chose to disregard—was that not all minds approached choice as a trivial affair. Some, like mine, ruminated.
If identity was indeed a porous membrane stretched between action and essence, then each entrance—into a nightclub, for example—each stroke of a pen upon a clipboard, each nod of agreement, and accept the drink of others, bore the risk of circumstantially creating continuity. And continuity meant the slow death of freedom.
The greatest danger was not wasting time, it was being steamily rewritten by participation, becoming the glyph of something you never intended through the accumulation of small acquiescences, gradually piling up until you lose your bearings.
Nevertheless, I could—reluctantly—consider that such a comment was minimally admissible: you do certainly have a limited commitment and, potentially on the optimistic side, you will make a "big" profit in the long run. Isn't that what they call an investment?
Hah! Perhaps now I can contribute to our web design assignment.
Moreover, entertaining his proposal would at least constitute a form of reluctant engagement—a gesture in which disjointed systems are forced into interaction. Collaboration is, after all, nothing more than a chaotic experiment in applied entropy: individuals with mutually exclusive internal algorithms attempting real-time compatibility.... Uhmm?
…What the hell am I even talking about anymore? Shitty-ass excuses with pretentious phrasing to sound intelligent and, ultimately, dismissing the friendly discussions we're having to not accept any social gathering with new people.
What's so complicated about walking past the Student Council room and taking a peek at whatever odd project the Broadcasting Club is cooking up? Just go, you fucking imbecile! Will you go? Yes, I will! Begrudgingly, yes—but I'll go. That still counts as trying, right?
«I'll check it out, then,» I offered, a little more casually than I felt. «But before that… shall we eat? I'm kinda hungry.»
«Huh? Ah, right. Of course. We're already here, so we might as well drop off our stuff and go grab our bentos… Hmm? Oh, you'd rather eat right away.»
«Yeah, uh… I think I would, actually.»
Admittedly, my stomach had long since been hollowed out by the slow erosion of time, and the recurrent, paper-thin growls met all the criteria to be considered a formal request for sustenance. Even so, the thought darted through my mind that I could just head straight to that fabled room and get it over with. Skip lunch entirely and be "productive."
In fact, perhaps that was the right move! After all, hunger is tolerable—at least for three weeks, assuming you don't mind falling into a comatose state and eventually dying.
What's more, the lack of my daily dose of vitamin D shouldn't cause any existential remorse either. I could handle it, I told myself. I've faced greater adversity—remember when...? No, I don't want to remember, thank you.
Yet, wasn't this merely a display of self-martyrdom staged for an audience that wasn't even there? Was it genuine efficiency, or merely an internalized mimicry of diligence I'd practiced so often it became reflexive?
Hunger isn't noble: it connotes nothing unless you assign value to it. Am I really convincing myself that I shouldn't eat? What was this, the onset of an eating disorder? Bulimia? I'm already thin as it is. No, I think—I think it's just that I placed a higher value on investigating that Broadcasting Club.
Despite that, I had already made enough sacrifices for one week. Perhaps there was dignity in giving in to the most basic animal need from time to time; or perhaps I didn't crave the chemical reward of carbohydrates as much as I thought I did.
Hard to say. Lately, my thoughts had begun to resemble less decisions and more the deliberations of a jury without a foreman—drawn out, undecided, and increasingly abstract.
«So then, do you two prefer to eat here, or go outside?» Kaito asked, dropping his things and retrieving his shoulder bag in one fluid movement.
«Outside,» Haruki stated.
«....Outside sounds nice,» I added.
I stood upright, lazily placing my backpack on the desk behind me, allowing my body to assume a state somewhere between relaxation and readiness.
Outside, it sounded ideal at first: a haven of nature, albeit artificial, in an environment constantly bathed in fluorescent lighting and the blurred human bustle. However, as my gaze drifted toward the window, reality immediately countered the sentiment.
The sky bore a faint, washed-out pallor—a colorless gradient of leaden melancholy stretching across the firmament. The trees swayed under sweeping gusts of wind, their branches rustling in erratic shivers, sliced through by a cold that was neither gentle nor ignorable. It did not bode well, and it was objectively unpleasant.
On the other side, wasn't this sort of fretting rather shallow?
Such a minor indulgence disguised as a practical deliberation because how absurd that I, once again, was mired in internal conflict over something as deeply inconsequential as the precise location where I would consume a mouthful of fermented soybeans.
Just sit and eat—Why must this be so complicated?
«Ahhh, but you know...» Kaito began with a drawn-out sigh: «Last time we ate on the grass, my back was killing me. And we're in January now, which basically means eight more weeks of soggy snow. Even if it looks dry, the benches are probably soaked underneath. What if we just go to the cafeteria?»
«I refuse,» Haruki complained without hesitation. «The cafeteria's way too noisy. And there's no way there's any space left.»
«There are seats available—you're just picky about where you want to sit. "I have to sit in the exact same place every day to see this or that, blah blah." What are you, a little kid?» Kaito pointed—quite literally—with his chopsticks.
«A little kid, you say? Everyone should already recognize where people usually sit. If you always have lunch at the same spot every day, then it becomes your default seat. No one should even think about taking it. Even the third-years and exchange students respect that rule.»
«But you know there are always going to be situations where people crowd around that area to eat. Their friends, their boyfriends, girlfriends, random cliques. So of course someone's going to end up taking someone else's "usual spot"—even if none of them were ever officially designated in the first place. You get what I'm saying?»
«No. That seat's mine.»
«This guy never chang—huh...?»
«...?!»
Yup, those ellipses were mine.
Upon catching Kaito's expression—frozen mid-thought, suspended in sheer disbelief—I instantly understood where the silence came from. He didn't look angry, not even annoyed; If anything, it was genuine bewilderment—like his brain had briefly disconnected from reality, trying to comprehend whether I was being sincere or sarcastic. I couldn't tell either.
Haruki was the next to start unpacking what presumably constituted his lunch. Meanwhile, I found myself in a slight bind. My own bag, having been half-heartedly flung onto the desk, revealed itself to be disturbingly light—empty, almost. Apart from a few notebooks wedged at the bottom, it was practically barren.
Did my mom forget to pack it? Or did I misplace it somewhere? Maybe I had slipped it into a side pocket and forgotten—though I felt pretty certain I hadn't. She must've made something. Right... right? This shit is so pathetic: I didn't think I'd start running into these sorts of embarrassments again. How utterly idiotic.
Still, that wasn't what threw us off. What did, was what Haruki pulled out of his own bag—a small, flimsy hard-plastic container tucked inside a wrinkled grocery bag. Its contents weren't immediately clear, but after a closer glance… rice? And… something else?
«Haruki, um… is that all you're having? What's in there?»
«Uh… white rice and sausag—Eh? No way, I forgot the sauce. Fuck.»
«....»
«....»
«That's… tragic, I guess,» I acknowledged, somewhat stunned.
«Do you want me to buy you something, Haru? My treat.»
«...You're starting to piss me off.» His tone was sour, sharp in that distinctly Haruki-esque way. «Don't bother doing unnecessary stuff. I was supposed to have more with me, but... I forgot to bring it too.»
«Ehhhh?! Seriously? How do you forget your lunch? What were you even doing?»
«No, I was in a hurry. I overslept and got a little scared of missing the train. But, well, I don't mind: I think I'll just eat something simple today.»
«Don't worry. If we're going to eat at the cafeteria, the air there will smell like fried chicken. It could be a good accompaniment to your meal, Haru-chi.»
«You're a devil. I feel outraged just hearing that.»
«That's what you get... Now then—oh, right! Takumi, are you going there? To the student council. Or should we eat first and go with you?»
«Oh, right. Nah[8], really, I'm fine. I think I'll just head there first and catch up with you guys in the cafeteria after. I'm only planning to take a quick look—won't be long!»
Bullshit: Something will surely happen while I'm there.
«Alright, alright. Let us know how things are, and if you can, grab one of those pamphlets. I might actually sign up for that little event.»
«Sure. Uhm...» I made a unenthusiastic attempt to organize the mess on my desk—only to abandon it completely—and moved on to my farewell instead: «Alright, I'll go now. I'll sort this out later. Be right back.»
«Okay~! And—ah! Wait! One more thing!»
Kaito called out, urgently.
«Eh? Yes, what's up?»
«Agh—I think I shouted too loud. Ugh, that's embarrassing... and it was over something so minor. Never mind. I'll tell you when you come back.»
«...Alright. I'll see you in the cafeteria.»
Words—those vacuous, weightless entities—clinked faintly between this ragtag cluster of adolescents. The kind of empty procession that inevitably raises the question of whether language evolved solely to disguise the simple, brutal truth: no one genuinely desires to understand one another.
I'm sorry, Kaito. Apologies, Haruki. But I'd had enough. If I'd lingered even a second longer, I might've blurted out something as graceless as "Just shut up." It's better for all of us—socially, spiritually, and possibly cosmologically—that I removed myself when I did.
Propelled by a wave of self-pity sharp enough to splinter bone, I extracted myself from the classroom with something less akin to a decisive sprint and more comparable to a silent, controlled collapse toward the sanctified doors of the Student Council room.
Or that's how I'd prefer to narrate it. The reality was far less cinematic—less "escape," more "inert shuffling of limbs, like a moth denied its source of light." I drifted aimlessly beneath the sterile glow of overhead fluorescents, trailing down the linoleum corridor with no particular rhythm or conviction until—ah, there it was. I'd arrived.... So now what?
According to some studies I read in secondary school, the human brain carries out spatial displacement cognition in the hippocampus. So mine must have been replaced by a crumpled metro map which could be faded, unreliable, and prone to distortion at critical intersections.
Is this what dementia feels like? No-no, dementia implies a decline from former coherence—I, in contrast, simply operate in a state of permanent navigational disrepair. Ayame was right; she predicted this: I need a GPS installed in my skull with the professionalism and temperance of a tour guide twenty years deep into their career.
Asking someone for directions again feels like I'd be initiating a needlessly embellished conversation—a flowery exchange over a question with a yes-or-no answer. And I'd rather not; It's not worth the expenditure of syllables and spitting saliva while speaking with a frivolous look.
Although "frivolous" isn't quite the right word. Perhaps: scatterbrained? Off-track? Perpetually misaligned? Whatever synonym best describes someone unaware of their own spatial positioning. That's what people hate most, isn't it? The flagrant disruption of the anthropic principle.
How is it that the same universe capable of producing Mozart and black holes also made me—someone debating whether asking for help constitutes a moral trespass worthy of sanction?
Let's observe the Japanese concept of hazukashii[9]: to openly display ignorance is to risk disturbing the social wa[10]—the delicate, collective harmony. It's better to drown quietly in your own embarrassment than to inflict your ineptitude on others.
But here lies the paradox: I'm not Japaneseee!!
I'm not even the original Nakamura. I'm a foreign variable—an unhandled exception in the human interface. So why does the mere idea of inconveniencing a stranger constrict my chest like a vice?
Erm, well—because humans are biologically conditioned to fear ostracism. Rejection in a social context lights up the same neural circuits as physical pain. Brilliant work, evolution: you've managed to make loneliness feel like passing a kidney stone.
Maybe I should've paid more attention to that TED talk about the power of vulnerability. Or was it a podcast? A fortune cookie? Have I even been to a Chinese restaurant once in my entire life?
Maybe I should just pick a random person and say something like:
«Hey! Hi, are you heading to the Student Council room?»
Boom. Did you catch that? I was polite and fundamentally approachable. My smile probably resembled the final photo taken of a hostage, but damn it—I'd rehearsed it in front of the mirror six separate times.
Was it convincing? Too wide? Too stiff? Real smiles are supposed to engage the orbicularis oculi muscle—or so the psychology articles claim. Mine felt like a taxidermy experiment. Whatever! If sociopaths can fake it, so can I.
«...Hello? What do you want? You're creeping me out.»
«...Huh?»
«What do you want?! Didn't you hear me the first time?»
«.....»
She's right—what the hell is wrong with me? Wait, no, beyond that—what's wrong with her?! Who the hell responds with that kind of cold hostility to someone who, at the very least, made a half-decent attempt at being civil?
«Ah, I just wanted to ask if you were heading to the Student Counc—»
«—No, I'm not going. Why, are you?»
She cut me off.
«Yeah, but... I was just asking.»
«Well, I honestly couldn't care less about what they're planning for the end of February. That kind of thing is for artists, idealists, or people who crave attention. I don't even know why they approved something so childish for a minor graduation event. Is it supposed to make up for the Cultural Festival? I haven't the slightest clue.»
«...Right. So, do you know what it's actually about?»
«Why are you asking me? Did you even listen to the announcement?»
«Excuse me? It was just a brief intro so we'd check the flyers—»
«—With that short explanation, it should've been more than enough to get the idea. Not my problem if you weren't paying attention, you idioooot! I'm leaving. Bye.»
At certain points in history, humankind has flourished in ways that allowed for subtle, amicable coexistence among its members—thanks, in no small part, to the intricate pacts formed for a range of purposes: commercial, political, social, or otherwise.
Evolution is the primary agent behind this phenomenon; our ancestors were compelled toward cooperation—particularly in sharing resources and information. This biological imperative gradually favored traits like empathy and kindness, refining them over generations.
These attributes—honed through the long arc of self-domestication (just as we've done with dogs and cats through selective breeding)—enable us to naturally form durable social bonds and navigate complex interpersonal dynamics with a degree of grace.
Being kind is not some Herculean task. It is, in its most distilled form, an action—a deliberate choice. Pointing out that someone misquoted a statistic during their speech isn't an act of benevolence; it's pedantry. And yet, people cling to that behavior, because correction is easier to manufacture than compassion.
Now, granted, posing this line of inquiry won't trigger some world-altering epiphany, but dissecting a fallacious principle, a lapse in judgment, or a factual inaccuracy? That, apparently, is fair game. So—pardon my manners—but how in the actual fuck is this little gremlin-looking chick still stuck in the Paleolithic era where nobody knows shit about demeanor?
She could've said something as simple as, "Sorry, I'm busy."
Look a that! That's seven words, effortlessly pronounceable. But instead, she chose violence—camouflaged under the thinnest veil of civility—just to leave me metaphorically bleeding out, waiting like a moron for her to show some semblance of remorse.
Is she insecure? Lacking basic emotional intelligence? Does she speak to everyone that way—or is this bespoke treatment just for me? It'd be more tragic if I were the sole recipient of such precision-crafted disdain.
Not that it matters. Who the hell does she even think she is?
«Yuri-chan! Wait up, please!»
Woo-hoo! Come on: Another lovely character arrives to introduce themselves and have a little bit of limelight in this long-ass chapter!
A voice reverberating rapidly throughout, expelled towards... us? Or at least vaguely toward it. Whether they were addressing us directly or someone beyond was unclear. In any case, I recognized where it came from.
I turned just in time to catch sight of a girl briskly approaching in a hurry, carrying on one hand a lunchbox, and in the other, an awkward bundle of miscellaneous items—books, pencil cases, possibly a pouch or two—all jostling in the air as she jogged laboriously.
What's more, it wasn't just the items and her hand in the air that were swaying, but there were… other elements—more dynamic in their motion. Anatomical, to be precise. Wasn't this woman wearing a bra? Oh, my God. Turn around, you idiot! Don't let her see you looking at them.
She eventually crossed right in front of me, completely bypassing my existence, and stopped just short of the other girl. By looking at her, she's really freaking tall and clearly a foreigner. Her voice rang, almost theatrical in its panic:
«Yuri-chan! Gosh, why did you leave without saying anything?! I had to cut practice short to chase after you! You're so mean!»
«B-Bianca? I'm sorry. I was in a rush to get to the cafeteria. I didn't want Hirohashi-senpai's group to steal our spot again. I was going to come back for you after securing us a seat. But we're already late. They usually sprint over like rabid animals… those savages.»
«Oh, you didn't have to do all that. We always have the staircase next to the music room, don't we?»
«Better safe than sorry. You know how Okabe-sensei gets when someone eats near the music wing. "Hey, what are you doing here?! You're blocking the hallway!" he always shouts.»
«You're right… Well, in that case, good work! I expected nothing less from you, Yuri-chan!»
«Don't say that, it's embarrassing,» she protested with affected modesty, though her pride betrayed her; she blushed, looking oddly satisfied. «Let's go already.»
«Yuri-chan… Yuri? Hey, wait a minute—aren't you the tsundere?»
Back when my resentment toward the game's plot—gifted to me by none other than Isaac—was still in its embryonic stages, I'd allowed myself the small indulgence of observing and dissecting the characters parading across its narrative with a tone bordering on malicious analysis.
Eventually, it became disturbingly easy to separate the eccentrically memorable from the immediately forgettable; the former were loud enough in their archetypical excess to etch themselves into your cortex uninvited, while the latter faded into the narrative's margins, no matter how many mnemonic tricks you pulled to keep them afloat.
Among the most flamboyant examples—and yes, I mean every painfully cliché trope wrung out of Japan's modern collective storytelling conscience—there was one particular girl, introduced during the winter arc, whose name and behavior mirrored this Yuri-chan almost too perfectly.
So—who is this Yuri-chan, really?
The in-game Yuri had purple hair tied into two exaggeratedly long pigtails that defied physics—as if the animator responsible had been obsessed with axes of symmetry—she was short, had fiercely friendly eyes and a powerful voice; thanks more to the voice actress who, despite being employed for a game that skimmed mediocrity with every pixel, seemed to pour her entire soul into the performance.
How much did they pay her? Or perhaps she sincerely believed that this role would take her career to the next level? The vocal performance was the only redeeming feature, and even then it felt like a poorly embedded gem in a piece of trinket jewellery.
I may be wrong, but if this Yuri-chan, the one standing before me right now, was expected to be that same "Yuri-chan," then once again, the notable pattern emerges: none of these entities present themselves or are perceived in any way similar to their two-dimensional counterparts.
She was certainly short, but in that nondescript way that many Japanese girls are: her hair was black and tied back in a simple ponytail, and she didn't have that loud or impulsive presence one associates with temperamental characters—no melodramatic tones or comically sharp phrases.
She was rather sober, modest in her mannerisms, and almost imperceptible. So much so that if I had come across her without the prior context, I would have thought she was a friend of Ayame's or even Ayame herself on a particularly reserved day.
Could it be that Ayame and Yuri-chan were deliberately designed as opposites? That would explain—no. No, I'm spiraling again. This is precisely the kind of theorizing I should avoid when my mental foundation is already wobbling on one leg.
As for the girl beside her—Bianca, was it? I haven't the faintest clue who she might be, or might've been, in the game. Which, from a narrative standpoint, renders her irrelevant.
No offense intended—really—but if my memory draws a complete blank when I look at her, and if she never made an appearance in the original storyline, then she's essentially unrecognizable in Nakamura Takumi's life… and therefore inconsequential. Harsh, sure, but efficient.
«Uh… Nakamura-san? T-tsundere? Were you talking about Yuri-chan or me?» She asked, blinking rapidly in a mixture of confusion and embarrassment. «I don't think I've ever been that tsundere… At least, I don't think I have. Somebody called me "bakadere" back in primary school. That hurt, honestly... Or maybe I am a tsundere? What do you think, Yuri-chan?»
«Hey. You.» She shot me a withering glance, one that seemed strangely pernicious. «Could you not call me a tsundere? It's disgusting.»
Oh, so we're doing that now.
«O-oh...? I—uh... Sorry?» I scratched my neck, trying to unearth a sincere-sounding apology that wouldn't somehow worsen the situation. «It just kind of… slipped out, y'know? I didn't mean it in a bad way.»
«Really? Then you must have a pretty revolting mind,» claimed after turning away and started walking, slowly.
«So it was about Yuri-chan,» Nami muttered, head tilting sideways like a puppy in doubt. She stepped closer, then added in a lowered voice: «Hmm… Well, lots of people have called her that, actually. Maybe she is a tsundere, but she's also, like, a normal person. And smart. Which makes the label feel… I don't know, childish? Either way, I get it. Using terms like that without thinking is kinda annoying.»
«Yeah, sorry—it just kinda burst out. Total impulse, hahaha.»
Yuri let out a sharp, nasal exhale, visibly irritated, and muttered something I could barely catch: «Say it one more time. Just once,» the tsundere hissed, with her voice low and saturated with quiet menace. «If you ever refer to me as a "tsundere" again… I'll kill you without hesitation, Nakamura. It's disgusting.»
Ah… yep. She's pissed.
At any point, Yuri—with fragile poise—borrowed Nami's lunchbox and walked away with balletic elegance, despite the fact that barely moments earlier, she'd threatened my life with a look so lethally focused that the veins on her temple looked ready to rupture.
«Ow, you're leaving already? Wait up, Yuriko!»
«Wait…!»
«Oh?» She turned, pausing mid-step. «Did you want to say something?»
«Uh…» So her full name is Yuriko, huh? «Well, can you… tell me where the Student Council room is?»
Even at that juncture, in the course of this senseless and meaningless odyssey, I couldn't let go of my original—and frankly laughable—mission.
I anticipated that something foolish was going to happen; I sensed it with that sixth sense that individuals in my condition develop after a lifetime of disappointments. What I didn't expect was to come across another familiar face from the plot... and not just anyone, but the very same sharp-tongued one.
«Oh, sure!» she replied, her voice artificially sweetened with exaggerated goodwill—almost like she was trying to compensate for the venom her friend finished spitting moments ago. «Okay, so, um… where was it again? Hahaha! Crap, I forgot. Sorry, hahaha!»
Great. «Ah, okay, that's fi—»
«Yuri-chan! Do you know where the Student Council room is?!»
«Like I know?!» Yuri snapped, finally cracking. So she did have a threshold after all.
«Aww, she doesn't know either. Well, guess I'll just ask someone else…»
At that, Nami's thoughts seemed to clear, and she pivoted toward a quiet girl walking toward the stairwell. She tapped her shoulder gently with the polished tip of a manicured nail. With a small wave and a kindness so perfectly disarming it could probably soften cyanide, she asked:
«Hi there, sorry to bother you—could you tell us where the Student Council room is?»
«Th-The Student Council…? Um, yes. If you keep going straight through this hallway, take a turn at the end near the Cultural Wing. From there, head toward the third-year classrooms, and you should see it next to the infirmary. They're handing out flyers for that event that was announced earlier today.»
«Ah—yes, yes, yes! I remember now. Thank you so much!»
«N-No problem. Um, good luck,» she murmured before hurrying off.
«Thanks…!» Then, tossing her voice over my shoulder like a tennis ball, Nami called out: «You heard that, right? Assuming you were actually listening?»
«Y-Yeah… I think I got it. Sort of.» Then, more deliberately: «Anyway, thanks for helping.»
«Hmm? No need to thank me. Honestly, it was just a little nudge to jog your memory, right? I mean, I didn't remember either, hahaha.»
«Yeah… haha…»
«Well, I'm heading off now. And, Nakamura-san? Please try to get along with Yuri-chan, okay? Don't make her angrier than she already is. If you do, she'll start feeling even more bitter toward people, and then it'll be harder for me to cheer her up. Got it? …If you do, then we'll see you around. Bye-bye!»
«Eh? What do you mean? Huh?»
And so, without preamble, and disallowing her words the decency of coalescing in my mind, she turned on her heel and left—hopping away with a cheerfulness so untouched by doubt it suggested she had never once brushed against the jagged edges of human nature. For reasons I couldn't quite name, I envy her.
Now, uhm: How considerate of her, really. A true paragon of altruism to say the least. Yet, what exactly was that peculiar, almost whimsical request she left behind: "Don't make Yuri-chan mad, or she'll lose her faith in humanity"?
Was I being conscripted into some sort of emotional peacekeeping force? One misstep, and Tokyo crumbles? It sounded more like a melodramatic scribble from the technicolor notebook of a child who had only ever known stories with guaranteed happy endings.
Then again—approached with a more dispassionate lens—her plea could be seen as genuine kindness. An act of unprovoked friendship, even. After all, how many people would go out of their way to preemptively soothe someone behind their back?
The answer, of course, was statistically grim.
There are myriad justifications for avoiding such interventions: poor time management—the mayority of cases, this is just an excuse—, inconsistent emotional bandwidth, a chronic empathy deficiency… Or, the simplest explanation: they were never your friends to begin with.
Undoubtedly, social strategies demand investment, and investment demands sincerity, which few are willing to extend when modern life itself feels like a gauntlet of unfinished projects and perpetually postponed intentions; therefore, stopping to agonise over helping "third parties" was not viable.
Despite all that, she did. And I—quietly, passively—would honor her request. Not out of some misplaced sense of moral superiority, but because, in all honesty, it was easier than dealing with the fallout.
Still, one unresolved irritation lingered: the vocabulary. In particular, the word "tsundere," which clung to me like the chorus of a bad pop song. I would identify her as that archetype without fail; the video game had engraved it in my brain.
And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't help but perceive her as such: she just fits, flawlessly. That volatile and irascible temperament, or the way she snapped—it was Wikipedia-type of description and exposition, wasn't it? Of course it was.
After that brief mental detour, I resumed my steps, dutifully following the directions that girl had given Nami and me: head straight to the far end, turn at the corner, and slip through a door that would lead us into a noticeably open, roofless area.
Upon closer observation, the path was quite familiar. I had walked this route once before—when Miyuki and I raced through the school grounds, desperate not to arrive late to the third-semester opening ceremony.
Back then, I hadn't spared a second for my surroundings; I was too absorbed in lamenting that my shoes didn't have better traction and that our clothes didn't crumble into folds or sweat. By contrast, finding my way toward the Cultural Pavillon now seemed like a task I could perform with my eyes shut.
From here, theoretically speaking, I should've been able to catch sight of the third-year classrooms without much difficulty. Or at least, I assumed I could have if I'd taken a detour through one of those off-centered entrances that look suspiciously like emergency exits but aren't.
I didn't have access to a detailed floor plan, so I had to rely on a combination of intuition and half-formed memory.
Although—Logically speaking!—the third-year classrooms shouldn't be located on the first floor, should they? That would go against the standard hierarchical layout adopted by most educational institutions. But she hadn't mentioned any stairs; not once.
Right—because naturally, it was just supposed to be obvious. As if I were meant to know by default. Of course. So… goddammit.
I gave in to instinct and ascended a flight of stairs. A wise decision, it seemed, since the second floor was visibly alive with activity: students going up and down—some clutching lunchboxes or notebooks, despite the fact it was already lunchtime.
The classrooms burst with noise at sporadic intervals, then lapsed into quiet, and a few of the sliding doors stood partially open. Through the narrow slits, I caught sight of teachers mid-instruction, with their voices softened by the muffled acoustics. At the same time, some students were eating inside: with their headphones in, seated in small clusters, or chatting in groups.
I walked through a connecting corridor linking the building I was in with the adjacent one, teeming with passers-by. Once inside the next wing, I began to suspect that I had an almost accidental talent for orientation.
Occasionally, I'd make a snap decision about which way to go, and somehow, the outcome wasn't catastrophic. Which, honestly, has led me to wonder—in a silly way, I admit—if I should try my luck in the stock market.
Not seriously, of course. But say I threw my aunt's savings at a candlestick chart completely at random—would I break even? Probably not. Still, I could probably afford a few mid-tier Steam games out of it.
Let's retrace what the girl said: "Head to the third-year classrooms… infirmary." Right—the infirmary! Which, inexplicably, was upstairs—because of course it was.
Why have something as practical as a doctor's office on the ground floor when you can put it in a corner that can only be accessed by stairs, three turns, and possibly a little quixotic adventure?
I walked, and kept walking—and somewhere along the way, I took mild comfort in the fact that no one had approached me like they had earlier this morning. Maybe they were in a rush to tame their stomachs. Hunger does that: it dulls your social battery and narrows your priorities. Even I was beginning to feel it. I had underestimated the raw, primal authority of an empty gut.
Eventually, a broad set of double doors—slightly glossy, not quite polished—materialized before me. Not the standard single-leaf entries typical of classrooms, but something a little more deliberate and more official. Hanging above were signs—printed, not handwritten—and just beside them, a small observation window offered a preview within.
I slowed my pace and glanced through the glass. Yep—white walls, cabinets, a few metal surfaces wiped down to sterile perfection, untouched medical equipment gleaming with idle potential. Yeah, this had to be it: the infirmary.
She had said "next to it," but… there wasn't anything else. So I figured I'd keep walking a bit farther—maybe take one more turn and then—Ah.… Well, I didn't expect that.
A chaotic, lavish, and unstable congregation crowded manically around a room bathed bathed in the snowy glare of midday light filtering through the windows, sharpening the contours of the shadows and distorting the figures into terrifying and disjointed silhouettes.
And then—crescendo.
The din intensified: a superimposition of high-pitched, continuous voices, their volume amplified by the Doppler effect. Laughter, speculation, name-calling, futile theories, any old crap—I don't know, they're just shouting at this point, basically.
I didn't think the announcement would really attract people. I mean, I anticipated that there would be at least a few small scattered groups, maybe one or two curious couples. But this? This went beyond that.
It had snowballed into something grotesque—a pulsating, multi-limbed organism scratching at the walls, oozing steam, diffusing into the corridor like a sentient fog, caused by the body heat and human friction. It was hard to tell if this was still a school or the starting formation of some eldritch rave.
Should I go in? ....Should I?
If this were a concert, would I willingly throw myself into the heart of that squirming crowd? No. Absolutely not. Nuh-uh. The very thought makes my skin itch. Being wedged in between sweating strangers in a place with questionable oxygen levels is my idea of hell.
Maybe I'll swing by later, once the human soup has simmered down. Actually, yeah, that's the plan. Just wait it out, let the mob thin itself. Survival of the loudest or whatever.... Or so I thought!!!
As I pivoted slightly, as I repelled my actions to postpone them to a manageable broth, a sudden—utterly imperceptible yet distinct—pressure grazed the small of my back. Barely a contact, more like a suggestion of one.
And at the very same moment, another voice clouded my senses as if everything else suddenly muted, and this one thread of sound floated in unchallenged, crisp and near-surgical in its clarity: «Are you interested?»
No matter how placid or Buddha-like I may appear at this moment, with an austere but strange sensation brushing against my body, I will let out a loud cry; for example:
«Waaaaahhhh! Oh, fuck me!»
Dignity, gone. Vaporized on the spot. Who the hell—?!
«…..?! Oh, sorry.»
Another tiny one, another smurf appeared.
[1] ✌️😭
[2] 「関係ない。」
[3] 「まだバレてない、はは。」
[4] 「はぁ〜重い責任だけど、誰かがやらないと。」
[5] 「向いてない。」
[6] 「放課後、行く。」
[7] 「うわ〜〜〜、全然効かねぇ……言葉が届かない……無理だ……拓海、あとはお前の番だ！なんとかしろっ！」
[8] He literally said "Nah". Like... in English... Yeah! "Nah"
[9] (恥ずかしい): It is commonly translated as "embarrassed", "shy", or "shameful".
[10] (和): which is harmony and unity in Japanese culture.