At any given moment, I found myself wandering—something I hadn't intended to do but ended up doing anyway—past rows of student lockers.
I'd created a problem; I shouldn't have involved her in this mess in the first place. I could've ignored her and searched on my own; but, here I am.
My steps moved horizontally, my eyes darting from one name to another, unraveling unknown identities: Something-ki Aya[1], Tanaka Yukihiro[2], Kobayashi…[3] I don't know, Yamamoto Mei[4], and countless others revealed themselves in a cascade of logograms.
Perhaps they were destined to remain in the realm of background characters—faceless, or born with designs too flat to matter. Yet, such a thought might be tinged with a narcissistic selfishness not entirely aligned with my usual mindset.
I suppose it's the belief of being the center of the world, because… come on, I'm this dashing protagonist. Ha, enough with the nonsense.
Then, an unmistakable voice echoed within the walls, calling my name with gentle authority:
«Nakamura-kun, over here! I've found it!»
Guided by her resonant call, I hurried toward her. And there it was, right in front of me: a paper plaque affixed to the front of the compartment, adorned with the elegant strokes that spelled out my own name—Nakamura Takumi.[5]
So that's how is written, I thought. It's very complex to memorize—as all the other kanji—, why is it so long?
Nevertheless, relief washed over me, and a brief sigh escaped my lips. I turned to face her and expressed: «Oh, my God. Thank you. Really, thank you for your help.»
«There's no need to thank me,» she replied warmly. «If anything, I'm surprised you didn't try to find it on your own—it was in the same row as my locker this whole time. All you had to do was glance through this section, and it would've been easy to spot. Assuming, of course, you read the name first.»
Was there really a need to add that last part? Her words cut deeper than the bullet that shattered the back of my skull.
«Although, I suppose it was my responsibility to remember that too» she continued, her tone tinged with self-reproach. «As you must know...the lockers here are organized by year and section, and somehow I overlooked that detail—or rather, I think I forgot. Hmph, it seems I share a similar problem to yours. Ah, I can't believe it, how awful. It was my fault for not telling you beforehand—I'm sorry.»
«…Hmm? Wha-What? Why are you saying that?[6]»
Her self-critical remark threw me off that I slacked off a bit in English, and the corner of my mouth twitched into a half-frown.
«Hey, hey, what? You're not at fault for anything—what are you talking about?» I began earnestly, giving her shoulder a light, almost weightless pat to grab her attention. «This was entirely on me, you know? I was acting like a complete idiot, burdening you with a problem that was… inherently mundane. And, potentially, disrupting your focus. That's the conclusion! Why are you saying it was your mistake? I really don't get it. I appreciate your help, truly. So, please, just accept my gratitude, and let's not dig any deeper into the blame game, okay?»
Truthfully, I've never fully understood why people have this tendency to shoulder unnecessary guilt. It's as if they have a predilection for flaunting vulnerability—what nonsense.
I pulled the keychain from my pocket, and in the process, I could feel her watching me with a mix of curiosity and mild exasperation before she spoke with measured calm: «Alright, I'll accept your gratitude. And… I don't want to bother you further, but there's something I'd like to ask. I noticed it when I first saw you at the entrance.»
Not again, man. «What is it?»
«Why are you carrying that backpack?»
«…Excuse me?[7]»
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. Of course, you have classes—everyone within these walls is headed to one. I was simply curious about your choice of bag. 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: «"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.»
«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 often inclined toward 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.»
«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? 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 had 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.»
«Yes, that's quite common, but it's never happened to me.»
«Oh, really? I'm impressed. This may be the first time I've ever caught you lying to me without even realizing it.»
«What? I'm telling you the truth! I've never had that happen to me,» I stubbornly scoffed.
«And how can you be so sure?»
«Because 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.»
«Your exaggeration certainly made your story less credible. However, I am intrigued by your conviction. So, would you allow me to verify your memory?»
«"Verify" it? Don't you mean test it? Evaluate it with some sort of cognitive assessment?»
«No, verify it.»
«Well, I'm afraid that's physically impossible; I can't do anything about that.»
«On the contrary, there is. We could always conduct an MRI scan to monitor your brain's visual processing activity.»
Are you kidding me?
«H-Huh? 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.»
«How about you don't come up with anything at all?
«Hmph...Alright,» 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.»
«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 significant—like, say, the names of your friends. That could be quite distressful. That is, of course, assuming your "amnesia" is even real.»
Oh, for the love of—Fuck.
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. «I sense that you attempted to mask a rather awkward lapse in memory by claiming amnesia as a fitting excuse. That being said, I'd strongly advice that you don't bring up such things again in the future—it's a delicate subject, you know? 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! I already told you—it was just a poor choice of words. A mere exaggeration, nothing more. I'm sorry.»
«I see. As long as you understand, there's no need to dwell on it any further now. Let's just.. forget it, okay?»
«Yes, I understand completely. And… if I caused you any trouble or concern, I sincerely apologize. Um… You, uh…[8]»
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.
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.
In the blink of an eye, she seized 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.
I caught glimpses of subtle glances—furtive exchanges of whispers, perplexed stares, and others who feigned indifference. Yet, unbothered by the growing attention, she forcefully grab my tie and resumed speaking: «You were about to say my name, weren't you? Would you be so kind as to pronounce it for me?»
«Wow-wow-wow! Let's chill, girl!» I tried to expressed, but rather, a cold sweat threatened to form.
«Ehmm… H-How would you like me to address you? A nickname, right? That's what you want, isn't it?» I suggested instead, grasping at what felt like my only lifeline.
Her gaze sharpened, eyes narrowing slightly with an unquestionable tinge of irritation.
«It seems your tiny brain has been entirely consumed by this amnesia of yours. A tragic fate, don't you think? Nakamuchi[9].»
«H-heh? Na-Naka… what? What the hell—»
«You know, that hurts,» she interrupted smoothly. «I never imagined I'd be so utterly insignificant to you. But for now… does it even matter? Doubtful, wouldn't you agree?»
I don't know—why don't you tell me? Do you consider yourself important?
Setting that aside, it seemed like I had been given a name that could only be interpreted as a degrading moniker. That was new.
«However… in the interest of simplifying things for both of us—given that you, a most egregiously unmindful individual devoid of any consideration, so blatantly failed to recall my name when attempting to address me—I may grant you a singular chance at redemption. I'll expect you, from this moment onward, to refer to me by an abbreviation that carries the weight of both respect and reverence. That is, after I properly reintroduce myself to you, Nakamuchi.»
Her words carried an air of unwavering confidence.
The irony lay in accusing me of being unfeeling when, in reality, she seemed to lack empathy toward people with such conditions. Not that I actually fell into that category, but still, I found myself entangled in this whole mess.
At this point, I couldn't, in good conscience, determine whether she was dealing with dissociative identity disorder, or the oscillating temperament of bipolarity, or if simply enjoyed assuming an intimidating role in response to my poorly timed transgressions throughout our conversation.
If it was the latter, I couldn't exactly blame her. If she was genuinely angry, well…It was not only justified but, to some degree, commendable.
Picture this: In her position, I'd probably opt for a direct punch to the liver, followed by a very clear directive to quit the excessive attention-seeking. Ah… brings back memories. Feels like it was just yesterday.
But let us return to the crux of the matter—regardless of the hypothesis, I find it disconcerting.
The idea that she might be dealing with an illness provokes a sense of sadness, but, paradoxically, she stands out as a competent actress with those cutting remarks. Let's hope it's the last one, for both our sakes!
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.
«You...want me to call you by an honorific?» I ventured cautiously.
It was, by all accounts, the only plausible conclusion to draw. The cryptic allusions to an "abbreviation" and the "weight of respect and reverence" left little room for alternative interpretations.
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.
As a result, her expression softened, the rigidity in her features melting away like frost beneath the first light of dawn. A flicker of amusement, subtle yet indubitable, danced within the depths of her pupils.... She's having fun.
«Indeed, my dear companion.[10]» Now, she's deliberately avoiding the use of my name. «I believe "Matsushita-sama[11]" would be the most appropriate form of address.»
Ah. "-sama," was it? 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.
Hah, the audacity. Who did she think she was, to demand such exaltation: the royalty?
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?
«…M-Matsushita-sama, Matsushita-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.
And just like that, without even realizing it, I had become her zombie. Long Live this bitch!
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. 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.
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.
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 cute one, actually.
In a show of friendly affection, she gently leaned on my shoulder while covering her mouth to cover her smile and, in a kindly tone, assured me: «S-Sorry. There's no need to be so tense. I was only joking. Please, forgive me, hahaha.»
…So she had been acting all along. How unsettling, I thought.
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—»
«However![12]» 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, Matsushita, 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.[13]»
«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: «A-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 [14]or something along those lines. Nothing too formal, nothing too stiff—just enough to keep things quite natural....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.[15]»
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.[16]»
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[17]?
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!»[18]
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![19]»
A brief silence. A slight tilt of their heads. Then—
«O-Ohio…»
«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.[20]»
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.
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: Matsushita Ayame. How could I have possibly forgotten?
One might raise an inquisitive brow and ask, "How?" To which I would counter: How could I have 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. No recognition there. 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 in which I shall surrender myself to its profound, undisturbed comforts. In other words—sleep. Because let's be honest, studying is out of the question, as always.
[1] 鈴木彩
[2] 田中幸宏
[3] 小林大樹
[4] 山本芽衣
[5] 名嘉村択身
[6] 「なぜそんなことを言う？」
[7] He said it in English... How in the world could I write that and not be a repetitive explanation or self-aware comment like "I said that in English"?
[8] 「あの、君は、その…えっと…」
[9] 「中虫」
中: The first Kanji of Nakamura: Na-ka
虫: Kanji for insect; pronounced: Mu-shi
[10] 「同僚です」
[11] 「まつした様」
[12] 「だが！」
[13] 「それは冗談だ」
[14] 「あやめさん」
[15] 「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」。
[16] 「択身くん」
[17] Could be also gymnasium (教室), but I prefer to call it Coliseum. They called it that in my school, so...deal with it.
[18] 「あら、名嘉村くん。おはよう！」。
[19] (オハイオ)
[20] 「じゃあ、いってらっしゃい」。