“Hey,” She looked at me with such a disappointed look.
“Why aren’t you getting hard?”
A girl—probably a high schooler—is currently on top of
me, half naked.
It wasn’t like this was planned at all. In fact, even I
was surprised.
Kiriya Aoki, a high school teacher in his late 20s.
Happily married—or so I’d like to say, but for some reason I’m currently
doubting that. And due to many things happening at the same time, I’m currently
in a motel with a girl, probably in her second year of high school, in a
position that will definitely get me killed socially if someone were to see us.
“Isn’t this what you came for?” She smiled naughtily.
Her left hand traced my lower half in a gentle manner; I jolted in reaction to
the sensation.
But for some reason, I still didn’t get hard.
“It might not be the case,” She stopped, her eyes
locked with mine. “But are you ED?”
“That is definitely not the case,” I replied hastily.
I am no saint, and not much of an ethical person. But
for some reason, I just can’t see myself doing something indecent with her.
“Do you not prefer young girls?”
As a proper adult, I don’t actually know how to answer
this, since either way it would feel really wrong.
But that day, my patience was definitely tested.
Rika in
April
Riichi
Rusdiana
“Goodbye, Kiri-sen!” She waved as her stride got her
further.
“Be careful on your way home.” I waved gently in
response.
So, I guess this is the end of the current semester,
huh.
I clenched my fist, relaxed it, rinse and repeat in
succession. While winter technically ended, it was still early spring, so the
cold wind stung a little. I looked at the smartwatch on my left arm.
It was this late, huh.
“Thank you, Kiriya-sensei.” A voice caught me by
surprise. It was a colleague, a female teacher at the same school. “I know they
are not in your class, that’s why I’m glad you offered to help us.” She added.
I stayed late to prepare for the new semester. Next
month will be the start of it, so our school has been doing preps for those who
transferred for their second year of high school.
To be honest, it wasn’t my job desk, but the one in
charge is on maternity leave, so I just had to do it, if anything.
“How about you, Monaka-sensei?” I started a
conversation with her without stopping my stride. Our house is in the same
direction, so I usually go home together with her. With my wife’s permission,
of course.
You might be thinking what kind of wife would let her
husband walk home together with some random female colleague. But it wasn’t
like that at all.
Besides, Monaka-sensei likes girls, so there is no way
something between us would have happened.
Monaka Mona is a peculiar female.
“I heard you're transferring to Chiba for the next
semester,” I added.
“Yeah,” She replied. Her hand
covered her chuckle. “My girlfriend already moved to Chiba early due to her
job, so we’re in a long-distance relationship right now.”
“I… see…”
The way she told me about her girlfriend,
I guess she really likes girls. After all, if there is love, gender does not
matter. Nowadays, in modern society, just because you are born with a penis
does not mean you are a male.
I know I sounded stupid, but
it is what it is.
Monaka Mona is a peculiar female indeed.
In the middle of our conversation, we passed by a shop
that was similar to kanmidokoro. But instead of Japanese sweets, they
specialize in Indonesian cuisine. In short, they sell something called Terang
Bulan.
It was a simple pancake with a crispy bottom and soft
inner, smothered in butter and sprinkled with sugar, shaved chocolate, and
peanuts. It was my wife’s favorite.
They also sell the savory version with crispy skin,
namely Martabak Telur. The inside was filled with eggs, green onions,
and meat, and often served with pickled cucumber.
“Are you gonna buy some, Kiriya-sensei?” Monaka-sensei
looked at me as we stopped by that shop.
“Ah, yes.” I hurried to pull my phone and readied my
payment app. “My wife really likes Terang Bulan,” I added.
I just pointed at the standard variant; chocolate
sprinkles and peanuts.
“It will be ¥1500.” The clerk swiveled a display
tablet in my direction, showing my current transaction. “How would you like to
pay?” She added.
“Ah, Suica, please,” I replied, tapping my
phone on the scanner.
In less than twenty minutes, the Terang Bulan
was ready. The scent alone was heavy and sweet—a comforting aroma of warm,
spongy pancake, butter, and crushed peanuts. The pizza-sized disc was sealed in
a white box, pre-sliced into manageable, moist wedges, perfect for taking home.
It was a piece of Jakarta Street food, now here in Tokyo.
We continued together, walking only as far as the
district corner. Monaka-sensei had rented a temporary apartment nearby, a small
place to bridge the gap until her transfer was finalized. Her former house was
two stops before my station, but tonight, the familiar walk was just mine. I
watched her turn off down a side street, the white box warm against my hand,
carrying the sweet weight of our conversation.
It was probably a coincidence, but I suddenly spotted
a familiar stature in the distance. The figure looked exactly like my wife—no,
wait. It was her. My heart seized with the sickening realization. Kiriya Rika,
the woman who married me, stood there.
She wore the standard company suit—a charcoal gray,
two-button jacket with sharp, pressed creases down the trousers—a tough look
that always felt like a statement of purpose. Her slightly
over-the-shoulder-length hair was just as I remembered, and her nonchalant
expression was now softened by a slight, rosy blush, probably due to being
drunk.
She was listing dangerously, her body swaying between
her feet, obviously lightheaded from too much alcohol. Her colleague was a blur
of expensive grooming—a handsome young man, perhaps two or three years out of
college, who moved with practiced grace. He had her by the elbow, guiding her
with a blend of discreet assistance and barely concealed awkwardness, trying to
ensure her professional dignity didn't completely spill out onto the pavement.
But what are the odds?
I was in awe about how things turned out.
They just casually entered a hotel nearby.
A male and a female entered a hotel together, looking
drunk.
And that said female is my wife.
I feel like puking.
“What should I do?” I mumbled; my voice was swallowed
by the night of the city that never sleeps.
Should I just ask? Straight, cold words to cut through
the tension? My throat tightened at the thought. To confront her was to invite
a certainty I couldn't bear—the cold, empty room that would remain after the
conversation ended. The "after" felt like a deep, suffocating vacuum.
I was afraid to hear the quiet.
I was afraid…
... that my voice would find nothing left for her to
answer.
I clenched my fist, as if I was trying to grip that
uncertainty. The ill feeling that lingers deep within my heart.
The package of Terang Bulan, which I’ve been
holding for the past few minutes, now felt damp and cold. It wasn’t that they
lost their warmth, but rather, I have lost my senses to feel them.
So, what should I do?
My body felt heavy, the strength draining from my
limbs. I couldn't face the silence. Lost in a blur of panic, I forced my legs
to move, not toward them, but away.
I ran as fast as I could, putting distance between me
and the conversation I feared.
As far as I could go.
Run…
Run……
Run………
That was the only thing on my mind.
The soles of my feet were hurting, probably because it
had been a while since I’ve moved my legs that much. The steps felt heavy;
every stomp I made stung my feet.
It hurts…
I burst into the nearest station. The familiar,
roaring sound of the Tokaido Line felt deafening. My legs carried me up the
stairs, past the gates, and onto the first train—any train—that shuddered to a
stop.
The next station is Tokyo.
The doors on the left side will open.
The noise of the announcement felt meaningless in my
ear. It was like a static sound produced by the cheap earphones that did not
even feel comfortable when worn.
Arriving at Shinagawa.
Please change here for the Shinkansen and Yamanote
Lines.
I just casually followed where my feet would bring me.
At this point, I was no different than a sunfish; swayed by surroundings only
to be eaten by despair.
“Fuck, why did I get off?”
My mind wasn’t in its right state. I walked through
several people; my shoulder stumbled upon a few, but I didn’t care. The night
was a bit chilly; it stung through my semi-long coat.
The Shinkansen ticket counter was a cold, white
beacon. A train to anywhere. The destination board was just a dizzying blur of
Kanji, all meaningless. I didn't read them; I just pointed, pressing a random
square on the touch screen, letting the machine designate my fate. I didn't
care where the tracks led, only that they were leaving. The machine spat out
the most expensive, most final ticket, the paper shaking in my hand against the
slick heat of the Terang Bulan box.
Why did I even run away?
The question—which the answer should have been
answered—suddenly hung on top of my head.
As I sat on the departing train, I totally had no idea
where I was headed. As the train slid out of the station, the city lights
blurred into streaks of liquid neon. So, this is Shinkansen Nozomi.
The unnaturally quiet, clean, and fast Shinkansen I
boarded glided through the rails. I pressed my forehead against the window, the
glass cold against my feverish skin. The speed was terrifying and comforting
all at once, carrying me West, away from everything I knew.
Well, whatever.
As I blacked out, I can only imagine the worst things
that could happen due to my irresponsible decision.
By the time I came to my senses, my limbs were stiff;
my clothes were wrinkled. The emotional exhaustion I felt was far more
suffocating than I thought.
I just woke with a violent, adrenaline-fueled jolt,
immediately disoriented. It wasn't the rhythmic sway of the train, but the
shocking, complete stillness of a room. The air felt thin and dry, as if it was
taking away my breath one step at a time. Above me, the ceiling was perfectly
flat, lit by the weak, gray light of a window I didn't recognize.
It took a long, confused minute to place the
unfamiliar silence. I was in a small, generic hotel room.
I was in Nagoya.
“Ah, that’s right,” I exhaled. “I ran away, huh.” The
sudden realization shook me as I was looking for my smartphone, which was not
in my pocket. I rubbed my eyes out of the gloomy mood that compromised my sense
of reasoning.
“There you are,” My hand stumbled upon my smartphone,
which was on top of the nightstand.
After spending 15 minutes apologizing to the school
for my absence, I took a quick shower and straightened my clothes. I just told
them I haven’t been feeling well this morning. It was painful to know they
believed me so easily, but what can I do?
I trotted towards the city in search of an unforeseen
future.
There was nothing I could’ve done, might as well enjoy
the trip.
It felt like my body was drawn to Nagoya, but for some
reason I just couldn’t care less about the scenery in front of my eyes. I just
lifelessly trotted through a busy street, not looking for something in
particular.
Actually, it was on top of my bucket list that I would
travel across the country. It felt like a pilgrimage; a way of looking for
solace, to forgive my past self.
“I guess I’ll just have to follow wherever the wind
brings me,” I mumbled softly.
Unknowingly, the vibes brought me to one of the
tourist destinations in Nagoya; it was the SCMaglev and Railway Park. The
massive hall was overwhelmingly clean, smelling of metal and polished floors.
It was basically a sterile fortress against the outside world. Some even said
this is the temple of speed and technology.
I walked past the giants—a steam locomotive, an early
Shinkansen, the sleek, futuristic shell of the Maglev. Each one was perfectly
preserved, standing dead on its track, a symbol of a journey finished and
routes controlled. It felt less like a museum and more like a freezer; it
preserves stuff that should be moving, freezing them in time.
My attention, however, snagged on the massive model
railway display. Tiny, silent Shinkansen zipped through a perfect world of
miniature cardboard buildings. It was a world I could never reach, but for a
moment, I pressed my hands against the glass, begging to be let inside.
The moment I realized, I was caught in a crowd.
It was Osu Shotengai.
Osu was the place where the city's undercurrents
surfaced. Instead of mainstream designer labels, the windows here were packed
with rare vinyl records, faded vintage manga, and questionable knock-off
figures.
The wafted scent in the air smelled like cheap oil and
fried chicken. Sometimes you catch a glimpse of lingering incense aroma from a
temple nearby. Above, a translucent arcade roof held the natural light captive,
casting a perpetual, hazy afternoon glow over the crowd.
A dusty secondhand store selling forgotten VHS tapes
sat right next to a vibrant claw machine parlor, where high school students,
still in their dark uniforms, screamed over a lost prize. The ground vibrated
with the rhythm of foot traffic and competing loudspeaker jingles—a constant,
cheerful, overwhelming hum.
I felt like this place was the spot where people like
me; those who wanted to disappear. It was a dense river of humanity, weaving
past discount shops and shrines, the perfect place to hide in plain sight.
Or you simply just happened to be looking for
something nobody else was looking for.
I took a few photos with my smartphone, but they felt
nothing special. It's just the same as hundreds of photos I took before. I
wonder if I was too stressed to even enjoy this trip.
These places always feel the same.
I trotted deeper towards the Shotengai. There, I
stumbled upon a closed shop. There was a piece of paper taped at the front. I
guess it wasn’t that important since I don’t remember what was written on it.
My body strides like an autopilot, deeper towards the
nearest temple. It wasn’t like I was specifically looking for something, but my
body felt like I would find the answer I’ve been looking for if I keep walking.
I stopped, froze, in front of the temple entrance. It
wasn’t your usual Shinto temple; therefore, there are no torii gates—it
was clearly a Buddhist structure.
Staring at the temple jolted my memory. Deep inside, I
caught a glimpse of images. A bright, cheerful girl in her sailor uniform.
“Was she, my girlfriend?” I mumbled; the words soft,
foreign. I couldn't grasp the thought that was being processed.
No, I don’t think so.
More like, I’m not sure.
The memory was like an old photograph held underwater:
the details were too blurred to make a positive identification. I couldn't
recall her face clearly, yet the feeling of having met someone like her,
someone that vivid, settled deep in my chest. It was a warmth that felt like
borrowed light. It resembled my wife, perhaps during her high school era, but
at the same time, it sharply wasn't. I was certain of nothing, especially since
I'd only met my wife in college; all the years before that remained a terrifying
blank.
I don’t know.
The thought that I might have had memories with
her—the ghost in my memory—made me frustrated.
While dazed by a thought, I felt like someone had
tugged my coat. I jolted in response.
“Hey, mister—”
It was a girl from my memory.
Wait, no. It wasn’t.
“—You looked like you needed company. Wanna come with
me?”
The girl—didn’t exactly look like the one from my
memory, but was pretty similar—dressed in a light inner consisting of a t-shirt
and short pants. She wore a pretty thick beige hoodie with a black inner part.
Personality-wise, she wasn’t exactly the girl from my
memory, but her face totally resembled hers. I was in shock for a moment until
she brought me back to reality.
“So, how is it gonna be? Do you wanna grab a lunch or
not?”
I was going to go grab lunch anyway, so I guess having
a company wouldn’t hurt. Though it is kind of sketchy, however you look at it.
But I decided to brush off that feeling.
As if she could read me like a book, her hand found
mine—a soft, casual touch that sealed the connection between us. It was like
she hadn't just held my hand, but had reached deep into the void left by the
memory and pulled me back to the present. All the leaden despair that had
anchored my body dissolved; the cells in my body jolted back to life, fueled by
an unknown, terrifyingly pleasant emotion. It was the simple, warm comfort of
her touch that accomplished it.
It wasn't bad at all. In fact, it was the first good
thing I'd felt since I started running.
“I want to eat ramen!” she announced, her voice
cutting through the remaining silence like a bright bell.
Released from the temple's dark pull, we made a quick,
light run toward the ramen shop she wanted to visit, the promise of warmth and
steam washing over the anxieties of the past hour.
We sat in one of the available tables. After placing
our order, we waited around ten minutes until our food arrived. I ordered a
local specialty ramen; it was a spicy and flavorful ramen with stir-fried
minced pork and chives. The broth has a chili oil and garlic taste to it. The
consistency is similar to the creamy tonkotsu—wait, it is indeed a tonkotsu
broth.
She picked another local specialty. It was similar to
mine, but without soup; a mazesoba.
“Thank you for the meal!”
“Thank you for the meal!”
While slurping, I was lost in thought.
What am I doing here with a girl? Moreover, sharing
ramen?
As the smell of the rich pork broth and the steady,
comforting slurp of noodles momentarily masked the absurd reality of the
situation. I was a man who had fled his own life hours ago, and now I was
having a casual meal with a stranger—a joshikousei—who was easily the
prettiest thing I’d seen all day.
“Hey,” I stopped eating for a moment, the chopsticks
freezing halfway to my mouth. My eyes locked with hers across the steaming
bowl. She, of course, did not stop slurping her ramen.
“Hmm?” She looked up at me, cheeks stuffed with
noodles, the expression utterly unbothered.
“Why me?” I asked, the confusion finally spilling out.
Why me? Why was I the person she chose to pull from the street and share
the most intimate of quick meals with?
She swallowed a big mouthful of ramen, choked, gulped
a glass of water, and then tried to catch her breath.
I repeat, she swallowed a big mouthful of ramen,
choked, gulped a glass of water, and then tried to catch her breath.
The sheer, unadulterated chaos of her reaction—the red
cheeks, the gasping, the total lack of self-consciousness—was arresting.
Dang, that’s cute.
She leaned forward, blinking once to clear the tears,
and answered with the same straightforwardness she used to attack her bowl.
“Your face is kinda cute.”
The words hit me with the force of an oncoming train.
Cute? That was her reason? My serious, life-altering question about fate and
loneliness had been dismissed by a ramen-slurping, choking girl based on a
superficial assessment of my face.
I facepalmed in reaction to her answer. “I don’t think
cute is the word that you want to utter to some random man in his late
20s, though,” I added, while slurping another bite of ramen.
“Why not? Your face is definitely kinda cute, not
gonna lie.” She replied while pointing her chopsticks at me.
“Hey, don’t point your chopsticks at someone else.” I
scolded her.
“Sorry, sorry.” She grinned naughtily.
She shoved another bite of ramen into her mouth,
slurped the rest of the length with focused, noisy satisfaction. Her eyes were
locked with mine. “You looked like a kitten in trouble.” She let go of the
chopsticks in her hand. Surprisingly, her bowl was already empty. “In no way
would my conscience just let that slide,” She added.
I narrowed my eyes, leaning forward slightly across
the counter. The seriousness felt like a necessary counterweight to her
lightness. “What if I do have ill intent? What if I’m dangerous?”
She simply tilted her head, the empty ramen bowl
forgotten. “Are you?”
The question was simple, but its honesty felt
piercing. I quickly looked down at the empty table, avoiding the direct gaze
that had just seen straight through my cheap attempt at being intimidating.
“...No,” I mumbled. The word was a quiet, reluctant surrender. All the
fabricated danger I had tried to wrap myself in simply vanished, leaving me
exposed and feeling strangely fragile.
“That’s good then.” She smiled, her chin sat on top of
her hand; her eyes locked with mine. “So, spill it. What’s up? You clearly ran
away from something big.”
After paying for the food, we decided to take a walk
for a change of pace. We trotted into the nearby station and hopped into one of
the trains. The distinct rumble of the Meitetsu Line vibrated through the
carriage, trembled our ears. As the train pushed through a busy weekday, our
bodies swayed by the law of inertia.
The journey to the coast was quick. Thirty-five
minutes after leaving the city, we stepped off the train at Shinmaiko Station.
From the platform, we walked for ten minutes, crossing the high bridge that
delivered us over the tracks and down to the sea. The salt-laced air was an
immediate promise, leading us straight toward the open space of Blue Sun Beach.
“You saw her having an affair,” She repeated my story.
Her gaze wasn’t directed towards me, but rather, to the horizon, far away from
wherever we stand. “But instead of confronting them, you ran away?”
“Why?” She tilted her head; her gaze locked into mine.
It felt like they were trying to strip me of my reasoning.
The answer stuck inside my throat. It was rough; I
didn’t know how to put them into words. As I was sunk deep into my thoughts,
along with the sound of the ocean, she crashed into my territory.
“I think it’s okay to be afraid,” She wrapped her
hands around me. The distance between us was so close, I could even feel her
breath, her warmth. Along with it, comes a comforting feeling. “You are afraid
because you love her, right?”
As much as the truth hurt, she was right. The depth of
my love for my wife was exactly what made the memory—what I had seen—feel like
a brutal, agonizing wound.
I finally leaned towards her, settling a portion of my
weight onto her. “You know, the Chita Peninsula feels like a slow town.”
It wasn’t the manic, high-speed blur of Tokyo, or even
the urgent rush of downtown Nagoya. Here, the minutes didn't scream past; they
drifted. The streets were quiet, smelling faintly of salt and diesel from the
small fishing boats. Life moved at the speed of the elderly residents who
seemed to have nowhere to go, walking with an unhurried, fixed pace. It was a
place built on permanence, where the horizon never shifted, making my own
impulsive flight feel like a panicked, meaningless sprint into stillness.
“You might not notice it, but this city changes every
day. In a way that you would not expect them.”
In the end, they are just a city, transitioning
between times, prone to changes.
“However,”
Unlike concrete and steel, there are things you simply
forget—not because they stopped existing, but because the people those things
were associated with have quietly disappeared from your life.
As time goes by, the things I’ve done, the things I
haven’t done, the things that haven’t gone the way I wanted them to... they
just fade. They lose their color and texture, like old photographs left in the
sun.
They fade, just like a fleeting city.
The grip on her arm felt stronger than before. I can
feel her breath tingling my ears. The warm feeling that jolted my mere
existence, I was taken aback by her whispers.
“Hey, mister—”
She pulled my face closer to hers.
“—Do you want to know how your wife felt?”
The next thing I know, we were
in a small hotel room, just the two of us, feeling each other’s warmth.
“Mister…”
A familiar sense touched my
lips; it was hers. She gently traced my collarbone as we indulged ourselves in
each other’s company. Even with no words involved, it was like we were talking
directly through each other’s hearts.
She slid her fingers in
between mine, and with a swift motion, she took off my wedding ring. She then
put them on top of the nightstand, without breaking her gaze. The way her
tongue licked my ears was astonishing. It was like she was totally indulging
herself in my earlobes.
“My first kiss tastes like a
ramen.” She chuckled naughtily, then, without stopping, leaned her face towards
mine; our lips touched, once more.
Suddenly, a memory jolted my
body. It was the taste of my first kiss with my wife. The same taste I’ve been
having with this girl right now. The surge of various feelings—pleasure, guilt,
happiness, sadness—everything overwhelmed me. I was taken aback; in response, I
pushed her face gently away from mine.
“I’m really sorry, we can’t—”
“We’ve come this far, why stop
now?” She replied hastily, feeling unsatisfied.
The surge of guilt hit me like
a truck, once more. “I don’t think it’s possible,” I replied, my gaze staring
at the ceiling of the hotel room, looking at the emptiness. “I can’t get hard,”
I added. It might be the response to the guilt I’ve been feeling since we
started.
I gently moved her body from
mine. It felt heavy, along with the feelings I’ve harbored. After straightening
my clothes, I walked slowly towards the hotel room’s door.
“Thanks, anyway.”
I then walked out of the hotel
room without looking back, not knowing what kind of expression she made.
The next station is Tokyo.
The doors on the left side will open.
It might sound hypocritical,
coming from me. But sometimes, I still thought about her, the girl who looked
just like someone from my old memories.
I wonder what she is doing
right now.
Recently, every time I made
mistakes, her face just appeared in my mind. It wasn’t something related, but I
felt like she was always watching over me.
Unbeknownst to me, my feet
were already standing right in front of my house. There, my wife stood still.
Kiriya Rika—the woman who married me—was still in her work clothes, the same
ones the last time I saw her.
“It’s been a while, huh.” Rika-san
crossed her arms. Her face looked like some weight had just lifted from her
back.
“I believe we have lots to
discuss, but first things first,” she said, her voice smooth and deliberate.
She walked toward me with slow, assured steps, closing the vast distance I had
just traveled to create. Her hand came up, delicate fingers finding the knot of
my necktie. She didn't yank it, but held it by the silk, pulling me gently but
firmly into her space. Before I could process the familiar scent of her
perfume, her lips found mine. The kiss wasn't a question or an apology—it was
an anchor. The familiar sense of her touch on my mouth jolted me, pulling me
out of the chaos of Nagoya and back to the present.
When she finally pulled away,
she delivered the final blow, her eyes holding mine,
“Welcome back, Aoki.”
Finally, after days of
agonizing frustration and guilt, I felt a deep certainty: this was what was
done right, the way it was supposed to be.
Ah, this
felt right.
I reluctantly broke the kiss,
needing to see her face. The face of the woman I love, they’re so close to
mine. I could feel the heat of her breath and see the slight tremble of her
smile; every single beat elevated my senses.
“I love you, Rika-san,” I
whispered, the words heavier and more genuine than they had ever been before. I
kissed her once more, sealing the words with an absolute, desperate finality.
Rika-san’s hands, however,
pushed gently against my chest, easing our lips apart. Her eyes held a spark of
teasing warmth. “I would certainly like to continue this in bed right now,
Aoki,” she murmured, her voice laced with promise. “But first things first!”
She pulled back completely,
clapping her hands together with a surprising, decisive cheerfulness. “I’m
starving! I promised myself that the first thing we would do when you came home
was to eat ramen!”
The next morning, I woke up to
the smell of coffee and the complete absence of a shaking train carriage. I
felt lighter, fit as a newborn—ready to tackle everything I had intentionally
left behind. After a shower and a stern lecture from Rika-san about answering
my phone, I reluctantly headed back to school.
I was halfway down the
third-floor corridor when a familiar voice greeted me with a burst of surprised
relief.
“Ah, Kiriya-sensei!” It was
Monaka-sensei. She stopped dead in her tracks, clutching a stack of lesson
plans to her chest. “You did not respond to any emails I sent, so I honestly
thought you had died.”
I managed a reluctant smile
and a slight bow, the gesture feeling heavy with unspoken apologies. “I was
pretty much alive, thanks for worrying about me. I am very sorry for the
trouble I caused over the past few days.”
The can of Nescafé—the one
that I usually bought was café latte, now plain black—felt sweeter than usual.
It felt like a sense of accomplishment just basked me, knowing I just tackled
one of my habits.
This is
where I started.
I guess I
made the right choice.
The cherry blossom petal flew
through an open window. For a moment, I felt her presence. It was so close, yet
so far.
“I wonder where you ran off to
now,” I mumbled, letting the warmth of the memory settle before forcing myself
to finally let it go.
I slide open the door to a
classroom. It has a sign 2-C written on top of it.
“My name is Kiriya Aoki, and I
will be your homeroom teacher this year,” I said with a straight but gentle
tone. “A pleasure to meet you all.”
“Now, please introduce
yourselves, from front to back—”
One of the students in the
middle seat stood up. Her uniform had a different color; by the looks of it,
she was a transfer student. She smiled in a calming manner, her gaze locked
with mine. Suddenly, a rush of memories hit me like a train, obliterating the
calm of the classroom.
It was her. The girl from
Nagoya.
“I’m Harukawa Rika.” She
smiled, her gaze never broke. The name hit me first, stealing the air from my
lungs. It felt like my heart had stopped, leaving only a deafening silence
behind the pleasant murmur of the classroom.
“Nice to meet you—”
My hands tightened on the edge
of the desk. It felt like my heart just stopped. My student, the chaotic angel
who had saved me from myself, delivered the final, impossible blow:
“—Kiriya-sensei.”
