---

---

We inconvenience each other, and neither of us offers any notable rescue.
*What a very human relationship,* I concluded, capping off my self-deprecation with false self-praise.

Same day, lunch break.

Halfway up the stairs nearest the school store, I spotted Inazawa's back. Attached to his back were, naturally, a front and sides; it was obvious he was the three-dimensional Inazawa. Without saying anything for the moment, I skipped a step as I descended the stairs, slipping past him.
"Ah," Inazawa's voice piped up.
"Long time no see. You came to school today."
Before I even turned around, Inazawa caught up beside me. Same as always, the kind of guy who looks like he might peel off a piece of his bicep and offer it, saying, *“Eat my skin,”* as if it would taste like cool mint gum.
"How's Misono-san?"

Inazawa checked as we descended the stairs and landed on the hallway floor.
"She's dreaming."
Receiving Inazawa's wry smile, we headed towards the place where food was sold.

Inside the school store, only two students were browsing the wares. Generally, at this school, the cafeteria is always the more crowded option. It's cheap, the portions are large, and the seasoning is light, making it easy to fill your stomach—that must be the secret to attracting hordes of students.

Inazawa met the eyes of the middle-aged lady managing the store, offering a small smile and a nod. Just like that, the expression of the heavily made-up woman in her forties—who seemed to exist solely to advertise her lack of motivation—softened, and she bustled into action. "It was this and this, right?" Treating him like a regular, the register was rung up before Inazawa even had to select his items, and his purchase was completed without a hitch.

"I always eat the same things, so she remembers, but somehow I never get tired of it," Inazawa offered me a light explanation as he received the bread and drink wrapped in a plastic bag. "Is that so," I replied flatly, and without watching Inazawa walk away from the counter, I began my own browsing. I bought lunches for myself and Mayu somewhat randomly and handed some coins to the sullen-faced lady. Then, as I left the store intending to head back towards the stairs, I found Inazawa standing there, leaning against the wall in front of the staircase. He timed it so that just as I passed, he started walking parallel to me. Could he have actually been waiting?

"What did you buy?"
This time, halfway up the stairs, Inazawa tossed out a piece of routine small talk. With this sort of question, the act of replying itself is what matters; the content is utterly irrelevant. Which meant there was no problem whatsoever in saying something like, "A sushi sandwich"—a product name that sounded like it *might* be made somewhere if you looked, but certainly wouldn't exist in a mere school store. Inazawa showed no particular reaction.

"The other day," Inazawa began, then paused. We climbed to the middle of the staircase, crossed the landing in three steps, and started up the next flight. Around there, Inazawa started speaking again, "The other day."
"We talked about Misono-san, right?"
"We did."
"So, um... are things going well with Misono-san?"
"For now, yes." *As long as I don't screw things up.*

"I see, I see," Inazawa nodded readily. The rustling sound of food shifting inside his plastic bag.
"Are you perhaps hoping we'll break up?"
When I asked this as part of our small talk, Inazawa flashed a somewhat earthy, slack-jawed smile.

"For Misono-san to open up to everyone—well, mostly to me—that would probably be the best way."
Having said that, Inazawa mustered a smile that reached his lips, then grew lazy about spinning the rest of his lines. *He could just take summer vacation right now for all I care,* I feigned indifference.

We walked side-by-side down the second-floor hallway after reaching the top of the stairs. Inazawa was silent the whole time.
My classroom was closer, so we'd part ways there without any sentimentality. Inazawa peeked into the classroom, spotted Mayu lying face down, smiled, and then delivered the rest of his deferred lines.
"I'll find another chance to talk to Misono-san again. I plan to be persistent. See ya."
With that declaration, Inazawa walked away with confident steps.

I watched him go until I blinked, then returned to the classroom.
He doesn't need to give up, but... can Inazawa still like Mayu even after knowing Mii-kun's deal? Though symptoms that lacking in purity are rare.
And realistically, as for me, what's the wisest attitude to take towards Inazawa?
If Inazawa manages to win Mayu over, I'll lose Mayu. Lose her?
"Hmm..."
*Can I even state definitively that I 'have' her?*
I checked my own hands, both physically and mentally.
Physically, I had the bread from the store. Mentally, in my heart... "...".
What has the hand of my heart picked up, and what has it continued to protect?
How can I know?
At the classroom entrance, I continued to stare alternately at the ceiling and floor for a long time.
What is it that I *haven't* lost yet?

***

Same day, after school. Now for club activities. I'm having quite the energetic day.
But since when did I become a member of the badminton club? I honestly reflected on this question as I thwacked the shuttlecock back and forth.
In a corner of the grounds, the president of the Amateur Radio Club [Fushimi] and I, who normally assisted the drama club, were enjoying a game of badminton with no court or rules. Fushimi had brought the equipment from somewhere and invited me to play. Mayu was forced to attend remedial classes to ensure she could advance to the next grade. After all, she'd scored so badly on the last exams that she practically needed help from a future cat-shaped robot. The teacher had kicked me out of the classroom, saying Mayu wouldn't concentrate on her studies if I was around. On my way to illegally dump my boredom in the library, I ran into Fushimi, and here we are. While pondering the proposition of how to dispel Mayu's bad mood once I got back to the room, I decided to work up a healthy sweat (the green-juice variety, though I almost mistook the word for 'youth'). Putting into practice the school's motto of 'pen and sword in accord.' Just kidding, though.

We'd been enjoying the rally for about forty minutes now. Both of us were drenched in sweat, our legs getting tangled. Thanks to Fushimi's strategy, dirty in its artlessness, the score was even. Should I call it a tactic, or an F-Attack? It's hard to judge. Not being an expert in such matters, I haven't cultivated the eyes to discern it just by watching silently—perhaps that's a failing in my eighteen years. Not that I'd want it brought up as an issue.
Well, to put it crudely, she's a dirty player because her breasts move up, down, left, and right like an analog stick. Every time she chases the shuttlecock, every time she hits it back, it robs a club member of their concentration. Putting me aside, anyway. I'm more of a D-pad type, like Mayu or Nagase... Okay, well, that's a slight lie.

Anyway, feeling the limit in my legs and hips, I let the shuttlecock drop to the ground instead of hitting it back.
*'Finished?'* Fushimi showed me her notebook, panting heavily. In a situation where you're too exhausted to even open your mouth, it's quite useful. "Yeah, finished," I replied and sat down on the curb.
Fushimi also sat down next to me. The fact that she didn't hesitate was slightly suspicious.

*'Fun?'* The notebook asked for my impression, with a question mark added. Wiping the sweat from my forehead with my fingers, examining the burning sensation in the soles of my feet, I conveyed my conclusion, "This is surprisingly fun." The notebook fluttered open and closed, playing a poem of joy with goofy sound effects.
"Fushimi, did you have enough fun playing with me?"
*"Yes." "Very." "Berry Match."*
A reply that inspires anxiety about both her modern Japanese and English skills. As long as the result is mutual understanding, the process doesn't matter, I suppose. If only we weren't exam students next year.

"Speaking of which, Biwashima mentioned it the other day, but why were you wandering the streets late at night in times like these?"
*"Student Council." "This term's goal." "Arrest culprit."* "I'll do my best!"
A combination technique using her notebook and her actual voice. It brings to mind a Japanese person traveling abroad who can only order food by pointing at the menu—Fushimi's odd ways. What nationality *are* you?
"The culprit...? Fushimi, you should stop doing that kind of thing."
*You're obviously frail. You look like a prime candidate for the second victim. You seem like you'd get shaken down by neighborhood elementary schoolers.*
How did Fushimi take that warning? She searched her notebook and showed *'Worry?'* adding the question mark herself, turning it into a query. I struggled slightly for a reply.
"Am I worried...? Hmm..."
*Even if she's not exactly close, she's still an acquaintance. I'm not so inorganic that I can't muster at least some surprise when someone I know gets turned into mincemeat and manufactured into a failed hamburger patty—I firmly believe that. Though there's the question of what about Yoshihito... But Fushimi is a girl whose epidermis is reasonably healthy, and who, in a sense, should be described as a goddess of bountiful harvest... So, it's unfair and troublesome to be accused of thinking, 'So you'd just snort if someone whose face looked like a prankster's or a woman with a barren upper body got turned into yukhoe.' Besides, would Fushimi even be happy to be worried about by me?*

"I've been thinking this for a while, but Fushimi... aren't you scared of me?"
Unlike the drama club folks, you don't chirp a single complaint at me, the cause of your broken equipment.
"[Your] eyes not shining is a little [scary]."
She pointed it out bluntly, even specifying the exact part. It's not like I can install tiny light bulbs in my eyelids.
"But I affirm that."
"Eh?"
Fushimi's serious face was so close I wanted to pull back, but still, I couldn't move.
"I hate my own voice."
"Mm, ah."
"That's why I use a notebook to converse." *Ah, so that was the reason.*
Fushimi shifted her body, fixing her gaze on me.
"That's true even when talking to you, who doesn't laugh. But... I hate being disliked, and I hate being laughed at."
I started to lower my eyes. But Fushimi kept facing straight ahead.
"But you don't laugh at my voice. I don't question whatever process leads to that; I just respect and appreciate the result. That's why I accept it. I acknowledge your scariness, and I affirm it too."

In her hoarse voice,
those words raced through me.
Whoosh. My head felt bleached clean for a moment, and then, as if the contents had vanished, it became incredibly light.
Functionality restored.
"Whoa..." *What is this feeling of exhilaration?* If someone told me I was ascending to heaven, on the verge of my soul departing, I think I'd accept it right now.
"So I want you... to keep acknowledging my voice forever."
Fushimi, scarlet to the tip of her nose, made her proposal while wiping sweat with her fingers.
"Yeah... Likewise, please do."
I wasn't particularly conscious of it usually. So it's easy.
...But, I see.
I'd forgotten. That to maintain my existence, I needed water, and *that*.
Something gained through acceptance and compromise—something that feels almost rude and infuriating to put into words.
Since being hospitalized, I hadn't talked with Sensei at the hospital, so maybe my supply had been interrupted.
No wonder my operating efficiency had been on a steady decline.
I realize now, belatedly, just how significant conversations with Sensei were.
Because this is the one thing Mayu doesn't give me.

"What's wrong?" Fushimi peered into my face.
"I was just realizing that Yuyu is the soothing type."
*"Yuyuyuyuyuyuyu."* There's that rejection response again. Ah, the notebook is being hijacked by 'Yu'. I watched blankly as she filled the white page, wondering how far she'd go, until she started writing on her thumb and stopped.

"By the way, way..."
In a high-pitched, strained voice, Fushimi tried to broach some topic or other.
Her cheeks were glowing bright red from hyperventilating.
"S-Sumer, perhaps?"
"? ... Yes, well."
The world's oldest nation, yes. It is most definitely *not* the homeland I return to in glory.
Fushimi mimed flipping a tea table—using the shaking of her chest to mesmerize track-and-field boys devoted to their club activities. Then, after flustering about, Fushimi's challenge began once more.

"D-Didn't g-go on the s-school trip, did you?"
"...I did not go, no."
I don't carry out *private* school trips, unlike Kikuchi or Aihara.
"Then, then, this."
Fushimi thrust out a long, white rectangular box from her bag. Right under my nose—or rather, ow, the corner is actually stabbing my nose. Anyway, I decided to accept it.
"What's this?"
"A s-souvenir from the s-school trip."
"Ah, thanks... But, now?"
If I were to express the time elapsed in novelistic terms, wouldn't this be a story from about two volumes ago? Though the person making the comparison doesn't even understand it. So that's how she wanted to continue from 'Shu' earlier, huh?
Fushimi scurried away towards the school building with a crab-like run. What a dextrous person.

Since my unmarried wife would just throw it away if I took it home, I opened it on the spot. Peeling off the wrapping, the contents that emerged were sweets the color of a tarnished 10-yen coin.
"Chocolate."
What connection does this have to Kyushu? Did she get on the wrong plane and end up in Belgium or something? Or maybe there's a thriving trend in Kyushu of using chocolate as a letter of challenge? It could certainly intimidate an opponent, especially if sent on February 14th.

"Ah, whatever..." *It's closer to my preferences than mentaiko, at least.*
I took a bite from the end. A sweetness that made my cheeks pucker, and a powdery texture. It left a feeling of sticking in my throat.
...Hm? Could 'Akechi' possibly be this? Because it's chocolate... Meiji... Akechi.
If so, then that memo didn't mean 'Come to club activities'?
"But what kind of cipher is this, where you decode it but the meaning still doesn't come across?"
Maybe I'll ask Fushimi about it next time.

"...I see."
After finishing the chocolate, I stored the wrapper in my pocket and pulled out my cell phone instead.
The phone. Composed of mechanisms far more complex than me, yet still nothing more than a tool.
It breaks so simply, and its function recovers so quickly.
I feel like I'm far more machine-like (and an outdated model at that).
So that's how it was. Oh, I've achieved pseudo-enlightenment.
I can't *be* complex.
"I get it now." *My mind can't manage holding multiple emotions at once.*
The 'missing piece of the heart' that Biwashima mentioned—embarrassingly, only now at this age have I finally understood it.
Since there's no way to replenish spare parts from elsewhere, there's no way to fix it.
Koibi-sensei couldn't possibly have been a quack doctor. Sensei...
Ignoring such sentimentality like the wind, my body aims for the next thing. Naturally, my vocal cords too.
"Right then."
Today marks the third day since I nearly froze to death napping on the veranda.
The date displayed on my cell phone's LCD screen is Friday.
The day of the decisive battle, based on my own arbitrary judgment and prejudice.

***

After returning home, while waiting for dinner.
Having something on my mind, I called that number, which I still couldn't say I was used to seeing.

After it rang 'trrrring' six times, I was first surprised that it connected.
"...Ah, hello?"
"........."
"Um, it's been a while. You said not to show my face, so I thought maybe just my voice would be okay."
"...Still fond of pointless arguments as ever, aren't you?"
"Yes, I'm as twisted as ever, haven't tired of it. Thanks for the obligation chocolate last month."
"...Chocolate. Ah, right. It's already March, so Valentine's Day was last month in February, wasn't it."
"...Sensei. Do you realize you just said something incredible?"
"When you're cooped up at home all the time, you lose track of the date. So, do you need cacao now? Or rather, who did you get such a counterfeit from?"
"Uh, from Geronimo-san."
"Ah, the superhuman or the human version? Anyway, *I* don't know them. If you meet this Gemini Man, tell them off for using my name."
"...Hah. Understood. Maybe Geronimo-san is actually a good person."
"How so? Natsuki should just arrest them for misrepresentation. So, what did you want?"
"Yes. Actually, I felt like hearing one of your little stories, Sensei."
"You know, kid. What did you think my talks were until now? Being treated like a *rakugo* storyteller is just too unexpected."
"No, your insightful lectures, sermons, whatever is fine. It's just, sometimes I feel like stuffing my ears with that sort of thing."
"Hmm. But hey, you sound a little happier today."
"Do I? I guess that sort of thing seeps out, huh?"
"Mm, did something happen?"
"Actually, today I received a souvenir from the school trip."
"...You guys skipped it, but didn't your classmates go in the fall?"
"They did, but..."
"I'll ask frankly, is that girl an idiot?"
"No, no, she's just shy."
"So shy the contents have probably rotted. And so, you want me to tell a story?"
"Yes."
"Even if you ask suddenly, the topic... Hmm. Okay, how about 'Don't Assume'?"
"Yo, I've been waiting!"
"For example, assuming you're unpopular."
"What's with that heart-gouging premise?"
"I said 'for example,' didn't I? Besides, in reality you *are* popular, uh... Geroolio-kun, was it? You got chocolate, right?"
"...Sensei, I had a faint suspicion, but have you been absorbed in the Famicom?"
"Ah, you can tell? Amazing, kid. I pulled it out of a cardboard box in my younger brother's room and tried it, and it's actually pretty fun. The skin on my thumb peeled off."
"...Don't you have anything else to do?"
"Even if I did, I'd play. Anyway, what I want to say is, you're thick-headed."
"Hah."
"Who told you to win?"
"Really, nobody said that."
"...Sorry, can I change tracks?"
"In that haphazardness, I felt Sensei's presence strongly. Please, go ahead."
"How do you interpret 'becoming an adult'?"
"With the sublime principle of personally experiencing the mechanism of human reproduction."
"Shut up, fake horny brat. I wanted to make a cool pronouncement about how becoming an adult means developing both strength and weakness."
"........."
"Maybe because humans carry hearts, they're inflexible with their baggage, they're clumsy. While maintaining that state, people get caught up in all sorts of things. If they get used to it or build up stamina, they become stronger."
"..."
"But naturally, there are times you drop your heart on the ground, times it gets knocked down by someone's interference. Depending on the circumstances of the fall, there naturally exist wounds that won't heal, or cases where edges get chipped off."
"........."
"You certainly have a heart like a lump of scars, and lots of chipped-off parts too. That can't be helped anymore; it's a reality you have to give up on resisting and accept."
"...Yes."
"You don't need to deny any of it. No need for self-deprecation either. But, if you can't break through and remain a child like Misono, eventually you have to become an adult."
"Yes."
"Use that heart you've neglected through laziness, without overdoing it, and try to obtain a little strength too. Before your thumb and the D-pad start bleeding."
"...You're a mirror of teaching by negative example."
"Hm? Not arguing back today?"
"Because from today, I intend to become a True Human."
"Ahaha, that's so like you. Man, you're a kid who loves pointless lies."
"Because I am Mayu Shounen, after all."
"Ah, right. How's Misono?"
"She's going 'kyuu kyuu' and 'kyaa kyaa'."
"Hmm. Well, if you two are happy, that's close to the best outcome. Though I won't guarantee a thing."
"You're busy, aren't you, making assertions and then hedging your bets."
"Return my manga."
"If you're okay with the one that's become three-color printed."
"Well then, do your best."
"Uissu."
"Because you're still going to become an adult from now on."

That was a clean ending, very like Sensei.

"Shall we hang up on the count of three?"
"Okay, ready, set—" *Click.*
*...Though she didn't quite hang up.*
It wasn't me who hung up. This is just a hypothesis, but perhaps the muscles in her thumb spasmed from overuse, and the effect was to cut off the call.

"Well, that was something..."
Today is the first time someone recommended I become stronger.
Did she recognize signs of growth in me, enough to bring up that kind of topic?
And hearing her words makes me feel anew the presence or absence of a true calling.
As I thought, Sensei really is suited to being a psychiatrist, even in my amateur opinion.
Sakashita Koibi is surely a person who can touch wounds to a degree that doesn't cause pain.
Maybe next time I should meet her in person, and we can both bring up consultations about employment.

...But still.
Towards those golden lines—simmered slowly from the thirty years of knowledge, implications, and life philosophy lived by the single human being Sakashita Koibi, radiating multicolored brilliance with their exquisite encouragement and reproach—the very first thought that came to mind was, 'This feels kinda like the episode before the series finale,' which definitely made me think once again that maybe I should just die. Someone point it out for me, tah-hah—

And then, nearing that day's end. I head out into the late-night town.
This time, not accompanied by the young siblings.
All alone, I looked up at the night sky.
"Right then, shall we go?"
To eliminate the waves and wind tomorrow.

***

## Second Person: Simple Murder

I hated dogs. So there was no need to hold back.
I hated cats even more. There was no room for leniency to intervene.
The last one, the person, wasn't hate but curiosity. That's why I killed them.

Beneath the dark night, memories too recent to be relegated to the past swirl.
I unbearably love the clouds drifting in the night, but at the same time, I feel anxiety. An impatience makes my fingers and toes tingle, as if night exists solely for the world to end. When I told a friend, they laughed loudly.

I walk, matching pace with *her* up ahead, in the distance. My footsteps are as restrained as my recent calorie intake.
Sometimes she stops.
During that waiting time, I recall the process by which I came to hate dogs. ...That's right, when I was in elementary school. A dog started living at a friend's house, and several of us went over to see it one day. It was a small dog, and my friend's mother introduced it as a mutt. But later, looking at an encyclopedia, I learned it was actually a Shiba Inu. The dog was extremely popular, passed from hand to hand. According to my friend, it was fluffy and super cute, apparently.
My turn came, and while the next kid urged me with "Hurry, hurry," I took the dog. It was certainly covered in fur, and didn't feel bad to touch. But everything else was a failing grade.
That night, when I captured it, despite having dealt it a fatal wound, it bit me with desperate strength. Thanks to that, a scar still clings to the back of my hand. And the *taste*, too, was several ranks lower than the previous Shiba Inu. Perhaps it being too much of a puppy was also a factor. Considering the taste of a dog I tried again years later was quite good, I must admit that hating them from the perspective of ingredients was prejudice.

Conclusion: I hate them because they bite.
Movement resumes. Passing in front of a newly opened candy shop, crossing a small river. If I recall, small shrimp live in this river. They live far more politely than dogs. That judgment might have been personal subjectivity based partly on illusion and experience.

She stops again. This time she's looking up at the sky, as if searching for unseen stars. Having no choice, this time I recall cats. Cats, even judging their appearance favorably, had problems with their taste. A flavor that makes you want to cock your head no matter how many times you try it. Simmering brings out gaminess, grilling brings out gaminess—in that way, they are *too* challenging to cook. Honestly, they're too much to handle. A specialty that makes you feel the limits of an amateur. Oops, she started walking, so let's keep moving my feet while continuing the playback. My mother used to tell me I was a kid who could do anything if I tried, so it should be fine.

I follow that back crossing the agricultural co-op parking lot as if it owned the place. Meanwhile, I'm cutting through a fruitless persimmon field, getting my skin scratched by branches—what a fine status she has. Can't she hurry up and get to a place out of sight, like usual? This is why slowpokes don't know how to live humbly with self-awareness. Anyway, about cats, another factor that makes me want to sigh is that they're hard to catch. Simply put, there aren't many stray cats in this town. Conclusion: Cats are unsuitable as food. Therefore, I hate them.

Has her solitary star-gazing party ended? She resumes wandering. Her unsteady, aimless steps strut down the pedestrian-only road. Alright, good girl, I send cheers and ready my weapon. Still too early. The destination is just around the corner. ......Aargh, but she stopped again. What the hell *is* she? Is she really human? I shuddered that a prime example, rightly unavoidable of the criticism 'disqualified as a human', was before my eyes, and lamented her depravity. And then, I think about humans.

Humans were the most difficult creatures to taste-test. As one living in the world of humans, it's a natural restriction. How many times have I looked upon the saltwater crocodile with envious eyes. By resisting the urge to just casually chop up my sleeping older brother's flank and sample it variously, only my perseverance was forged. And then, as a reward for waiting it out, a scrap and an opportunity came around, and one human was chosen.
He was frail. When I experimentally poked his head with a weapon, I couldn't help but despair at his fragility, unable to offer much resistance. A caterpillar crawls on the ground to survive. He didn't possess that kind of nobility of life. That's precisely why I sent him to heaven with a blow of mercy. And then, by being taste-tested after dismantling and processing, he gained the value of life and death.

The meaning *of* living lies within oneself, but the meaning *of having lived* is something others freely bestow and sometimes snatch away. Fearing that sensation of being plucked, people severely shy away from death.