Perhaps it's fate—or more specifically, my nemesis, which governs the probabilities of gaining much when I await nothing, and gaining nothing when I dare to hope for even the slightest something.
Life is—more like, it seems to be—a delicate tango between expectation and reality, a choreography influenced by countless factors beyond our control.
We're often caught off guard by the unexpected twists of destiny when we least anticipate them, while our carefully constructed expectations can lead us straight into the jaws of disappointment.
It's as if the universe was a perversed jokester, aligning itself not with our desires but with our doubts. When we imagine failure instead of success, we often find ourselves receiving exactly what we feared: nothing.
Similarly, when we expect something, it means we're aware of its existence—our expectations, even when seemingly grounded in probability, are inherently incomplete. They're missing the wildcard, the unknown variables that introduce uncertainty and potential error into our calculations.
So, when we say we expect something, we're only considering a handful of probable scenarios, not all of them. The unknowns are always there, lurking in the shadows, and we rarely estimate their impact with any real precision.
This unpredictability leads to a significant margin of error in our presuppositions, breeding a kind of "fear" that something unpredicted might happen. That fear, in turn, creates apprehension—and when the unexpected does occur, we're left feeling cheated.
After all, humans have evolved to seek quick results, to crave instant gratification. In doing so, we've forgotten a fundamental lesson from nature: everything happens in its own time. Therefore, a rational and practical being must always be aware of the influence of the unknown and adjust their expectations accordingly.
Or, to put it more simply: I'm in a bit of a bind.
The probabilities of encountering a classmate were, by all accounts, remarkably high—a statistical inevitability I was expecting, you know? However, I just thought maybe it wouldn't be at the school entrance but a classroom.
For me, this wasn't the right moment, and I found myself unusually nervous, fumbling through our brief interaction. If fate truly exists—and I'm not entirely convinced it does—then it must have a very funny and corrupt sense of timing. Besides, I wasn't even sure if she was in my exact class.
Now, let's address the elephant in the room: Takumi. The image of him—meticulously nurtured and cultivated into a paragon of charm and competence—is on the verge of being dismantled by none other than yours truly.
It's almost poetic, really, how quickly a carefully constructed facade can crumble under the weight of a single misstep. I'm feeling like Nora Helmer, for God's sake.
Could it be that people have higher expectations of me? Well, suppose I can't entirely blame them for that. After all, I've done little to dissuade such notions.
Or perhaps the more pressing question is this: Will people now perceive me as a loner? Such a development would be unprecedented, utterly unheard of, and—let's be honest—directly my fault.
But let's not lose sight of the bigger picture here. Technically, I am him—or rather, he was a character in a game that I controlled. So, in theory, I could excuse my behavior by claiming I'm simply "acting at home"—relaxed, a bit sleepy, and wholly unbothered.
Yeah! Wouldn't people not find that endearing?
No, that's probably unlikely. Like, who in their right mind would find such a thing cute?
Perhaps idols, with their curated personas, could pull it off. Their fans would undoubtedly scream or swoon at the sight of their oshi embodying a new character.
Wait, isn't that it? What if I framed this as my "new character"? Cool, right?
No, the hell with that, the fuck? I refuse to stoop to such levels of performative nonsense. The very idea of being one of them—a tiresome, untrustworthy, duplicitous, artifically double-dealing bunch of hypocrites—is enough to make my skin crawl.
I'm getting off track. Let's think about it: In the game, my options were limited—a fact I've lamented before. I suppose there were different paths, each with its own alternate ending, but they all converged on the same outcome.
There was no intricate web of interconnected plots, no grand narrative twist to elevate the gameplay. You simply end up with a girlfriend, and that's that, no post-credits scenes—I think. Hardly the stuff of legends.
So, no matter the decisions I made, they would all lead to different actions but ultimately land me in the same circumstances as the other options. There's no escaping it; these routes are set in stone, immutable and unchanging. And by extension, so am I. Damn it all.
Finally, as we crossed the threshold of the institution, the lobby greeted us with a flurry of scattered students—each engrossed in their own activities, whether strolling, chatting, or erupting into laughter.
Yet amid the clamor, an underlying current of order prevailed.
In the foreground were the famously shoe lockers called "Get a tobacco[1]": rows and rows of compartments carefully labeled for each student and teacher.
Beside them, slimmer cubbies provided designated spaces for bags and personal belongings, ensuring a private and secure hideaway—though, realistically, the only thing worth stashing there would probably be books.
And, as if to reinforce a sense of discipline, a really large bulletin board on the wall near the entrance. It displayed important announcements, upcoming events, and reminders for us students—or so I assumed.
Shifting my gaze back to my "new" companion, I observed her graceful form as she made her way toward the shoe lockers, her steps imbued with a calmness that seemed almost incongruent with the surrounding bustle.
Unfortunately, the predicament of my own circumstances remained unresolved. Despite the meticulous organization of this institution, I felt utterly lost, thinking to myself, "Where the hell am I supposed to go?"
Thus, I resigned to the arduous task of scouring each shelf, frantically searching for the label bearing my name. I didn't want to do this—it was a pain in the ass, plain and simple.
So, I approached her, and when I stood behind her, I began with a soft «Ahem!», seeking her attention.
Absorbed in the act of untying her sneakers, she turned to me, her almond-shaped eyes framed by delicately arched eyebrows, and offered a curious glance.
«Hm, yes? What's wrong?» She asked.
Summoning what little courage I had, broached the subject weighing on my mind: «This might sound like a strange question, but… do you know where my locker is?»
I'd stumbled upon a keychain on Takumi's desk while rummaging through his belongings. There were four keys in total, each distinct from the others. I tested them on various locks, and two turned out to be for his bedroom, while one opened the front door of his house.
However, in this school, it seemed the lockers were the only part of the facilities equipped with compartments that students could secure with padlocks for added privacy—a practice not exactly common but justifiable.
Though, isn't this country known for its impressively low crime rate? Remarkably cautious, aren't they?
Because of this, I'd been rather wary and kept it in my pocket. Yet now, I faced the challenge of figuring out which locker in this area was mine, as I mentioned earlier.
«Yes, it is a bit strange that you're asking that,» she remarked with a hint of suspicion, her lips curving into a faint, surprised smile. «Shouldn't you know better than me?»
Well, duh! Of course I was suppose to. But, how?!
«You're right. Though, in my defense, it feels like my memory falters at times. You know, some days, how people have those peculiar moments of forgetfulness—like a fleeting sensation of memory loss? Amnesia, right? It's like that. A minor inconvenience, but it can be quite disconcerting,» I admitted, my tone laced with a touch of false self-deprecation.
Wait, I think I've used this flimsy excuse before.
«N-Nakamura-kun, amnesia is a serious condition! Were you diagnosed with it? What happened to you?»
I realized I've made a mistake.
«Wait, no, no, no. I was just making an analogy! Something...not quite relatable. It's nothing alarming, I swear,» I backtracked, trying to clear up the misunderstanding.
For her reaction, she flinched slightly; consequently, those around us glanced our way—no, I could feel their stares boring into us.
«...Uh, an analogy? Comparing your memory to amnesia is a rather harsh analogy, don't you think?»
«I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be dramatic; it was just a poor choice of words. I was merely trying to say I feel a little bit scattered, you know?»
«"Scattered", huh?» She said, tilting her head slightly. «That's quite specific. In case you didn't know, the term implies dividing your effort—like your attention—messily across multiple areas, okay? But I understand it was just a description for your current state, so we won't dwell on it. Still, I was a little worried at first. It's strange to hear someone say their memory is faltering. Are you sure you're okay? Have you been eating well, or have you been stressed about something? Multi-tasking or juggling too many things to a particular project lately?»
«N-No, no. I'm fine, it's nothing serious,» I tried to regain my composure. «It's just that certain… "monotonous" knowledge in my life has somehow been eclipsed, you understand? By other interests I've developed recently. Could it be laziness, right? That might be one of the factors, but I'm not entirely sure.»
«Distractions?» She probed.
«Maybe. Yeah, I guess.»
«Hmmm, distractions...»
As my words hung in the air, she gracefully slipped off her indoor shoes and slipped on a pair of black doll-style loafers—probably Mary Janes: the finishing touch to her radiant ensemble.
Thus, as she turned her gaze back to me, an expression of practicality flickered, and reassured: «Alright, I see. I suppose it's truth. Personally, I wouldn't torment myself too much over it; as you mentioned, it occurs ordinarily to people. From time to time, I'd preferly say.»
«Thanks for the reassurance,» I forced a practiced smile. «At this point, I'm starting to think my brain might be staging a rebellion against me. Maybe it's demanding better working conditions.»
If my brain were truly rebelling, it would have every right to. After all, I've been pushing it to its limits lately—navigating a foreign world, deciphering social cues, and starting to pretend to be someone I'm not without rehearse. It's no wonder it's staging a coup.
The real question is, who's the tyrant here? Me, or the circumstances I've been thrust into? Fuck my destiny.
«Should I be worried that your brain is unionizing? Or is this just another one of your... analogies?»
«This time, call it a metaphor,» I shrugged. «Though I'm not sure if my brain's demands include higher pay or just more sleep.»
«Hmm, I'd say its salary is rest. And... that's genuinely concerning. I don't know what you've been up to during the Winter Break, but at least prioritize your well-being above everything else if you're coming to school with an amnesic condition.»
On repeat one more time with me: Researching and failing my communication possibilities abroad; analyzing the geographical environment in which I find myself; practicing and, partially, improving social methodologies for common and ordinary interactions. You count them, actually.
«Well,» she continued, «if your brain goes on strike again, let me know. I'll make sure to send it a fruit basket or something more comforting.»
«A fruit basket? Not a raise?»
Come on! It could've been a consolation. Your friend has a disturbingly high nuisance value, and you're not going to pay for his uneasiness?
«Consider it hazard pay for putting up with you,» shot back.
Ow, that's a new one.
That stung more than I cared to admit. But then again, she wasn't entirely wrong. I was a walking disaster, and she'd been patient enough to humor me this far? Maybe a fruit basket was fair compensation—though I'd have preferred cash. Or at least a nap—I've been feeling quite slothful.
«So, moving on,» she began, her tone shifting slightly. «If your memory's been "eclipsed" by other interests, what exactly were these distractions? Something scandalous happened?»
«Scandalous? Do I strike you as the scandalous type?»
«You strike me as the type who'd overthink whether or not they're the scandalous type,» she retorted without missing a beat.
Type shit—No, I mean: Touché.
«Fair enough,» I conceded. «But no, nothing scandalous. Just... it's nothing special, really. I said it before: sometimes your brain decides to prioritize the wrong things, and completely blanks out others.»
«Like forgetting where your locker is?» She shook her head, clearly amused. «You're acting pretty out-of-touch. No offense, truly.»
«So I've been told. But I prefer to think of it as "outlandish." It sounds more sophisticated,» and accurate.
«The best I can offer is calling you "crazy."»
Bruh. «Call me whatever you like, but the most important thing you have to tell me right now... I-It doesn't matter, just point out where my locker is, please.»
«You want the truth? I don't know, Nakamura-kun. I'm sorry. Plus, you're worrying me unnecessarily.»
«There's no need to worry! This is just a... I don't know, a blip in the grand scheme of things.»
«But blips don't usually involve forgetting the layout of a school you've presumably attended for months. And you will be here for another two years.»
«Presumably,» I echoed. «But let's not talk hypotheticals. For now, let's focus on the feasible. For instance—»
«For instance,» she interrupted, undeterred, «if your memory is indeed as unreliable as you suggest, perhaps I could assist you, or give a little push, with something far simpler. Let's start with the basics, shall we? Show me, or tell me, where's the bathroom,» she demanded.
Are you fucking serious?
«The bathroom...?» I hesitated, glancing around as if the answer might materialize out of thin air.
Gosh, where the hell would that be? «It's, uh-uhm. Probab—no, they're all here on the left!» Eventually, I declared with confidence, snapping my fingers.
Please, be correct. Please, be correct. Please, be correct. Please, be correct. Please, be correct.
«Wow! Nakamura-kun, the nearest one is on the right. And, to top it off, the bathrooms are actually on all three floors. Such a limitation would be quite inconvenient, don't you think?»
How awful.
«Ah, y-yes, it was a mistake. I got confused about the direction.»
«Now you're having trouble with your sense of orientation?» She catechized acidly.
According to that worryingly obvious, bitter look, I understood her emotion to well; I too had gone through times when frustrating friends asked me for help with simple things like that, and was wondering if they're that stupid or just rage-baiting me.
«Listen... I don't usually share this, but Nakamura-kun is pretty smart.»
Unexpectedly, she complimented me and continued speaking in a more relaxed tone: «What you mentioned about laziness, a while ago, is true—it could be an answer to your problem. We tend to forget information unless it has a practical application or we actively reinforce it through repetition, right? Since we were on our Winter Break, you probably relaxed enough to forget the location of your locker. Sounds strange, but doesn't also sound plausible?»
She didn't realize it, but her innocent words were a godsend, providing me with a perfectly reasonable argument to back up my excuse.
It was a lucky break—or perhaps an unintentional endorsement from her peers. Either way, I'm safe!
«But I'm still puzzled that you don't remember it, given how straightforward this information is,» she added, tersely. «It may be that you have a certain degree of absent-mindedness—which will require you to develop your memory better, I suppose—but I highly doubt that is the case, for the same reason I expressed to you at the beginning. So I wonder if you're just pulling my leg.»
Jeez, man.
Unbeknownst to them and unseen by anyone, a solitary bead of sweat trickled down my temple.
I'm screwed. She saw through my act—or at least she's starting to.
After all, in what world would a healthy young man, with no documented memory issues or accidents to claim as a cause, suddenly suffer from a temporary deficit caused by brain damage?
I was the idiot who brought up, for the second time, this stupid topic, making it even more obvious. Now, how could I possibly dig myself out of this mess?
Should I confess the truth? Admit that I've been joking and then go find my locker on my own. Or should I just tell her everything? No, absolutely not. The whole transmigration story is off the table.
Yeah, in any case whatsoever, it was something I couldn't afford to reveal. Not to her, not to anyone. The idea of explaining my situation—of admitting that I wasn't who they thought I was—was laughable at best and catastrophic at worst.
The first option is the most logical and reasonable, but I also don't want to look like a fool wandering aimlessly in search of the places I need to go within this institution. For example, where the freakity-freak is the cafeteria?
I could always follow others or ask for help, but now this girl—despite saying it's no big deal—is taking our unpleasant interaction to heart.
I'll keep this up for a while: a plausible deniability, hoping it would be enough to keep her at bay, just a little while longer. But first, I need to remedy myself and offer an apology—again.
«No, I'm not doing that, but... yes, you're absolutely right—my apologies,» I stammered, scrambling to improvise. «Sometimes my mind drifts into the clouds, leaving me disoriented; I've been easing up on classes lately, thanks to my decent exam results, and thought I'd indulge in a bit of respite. In any case, thank you for pointing it out.»
She seemed to soften, her expression shifting to one of understanding: «It's fine. Everyone makes simple mistakes like that.»
«They're not as simple as they appear, though, and I could really use your help with this.»
«With finding the bathroom?»
«With finding my locker!»
She sighed, very heavily, and commented: «If your actual predicament is locating something you, by all personal obligation, should already know, I hate to break it to you, but you might need a map—or perhaps even a GPS—to travel around here.»
«Please, don't treat me like a lost cause. Are you going to help me or not?»
A flicker of serendipity crossed her face, groaned, and her voice adopting a tone of convenient benevolence. «Well, what else can I do? I'll help you.»
With an eloquent gesture, she pointed toward the designated area and proposed: «While you search on the right, I'll investigate this section, alright?»
In response, I offered a wordless nod.
[1] Getabako; (下駄箱)