As I crossed the threshold of the classroom, my gaze instinctively scanned the interior, cataloging its inhabitants: Four students had already settled—a group of three boys engaged in animated conversation by the window, and a solitary girl at the far end.
I allowed myself a moment of recognition as my eyes methodically scanned the dimensions of the room: The layout followed the rigid, almost universally order—five aligned columns, intersected by six rows of desks, each with a sturdy wooden board reinforced with metal edges.
On the other hand, the walls bore a mix of instructive posters, amateur artwork, and, oddly enough, festive remnants of the Christmas holidays—that's a testament to nostalgia or, maybe, sheer neglect. And, at the front of the room, an austere blackboard stood sentinel.
Meanwhile, an overabundance of natural light cascaded through the towering windows, imbuing the space with an almost supernatural luminosity: soft, pearly rays that diffused into the air like remnants of a half-forgotten dream.
This place... Wow, It's really amazing. And, it really differs to the purgatory I previously had to endured.
My old school was a literally sensory assault: a sterile, windowless—since most of them didn't had any glass—expanse where we languished under the oppressive glare of artificial light. A brightness so merciless that even the briefest upward glance threatened to temporarily blind us.
And yet, would you believe it? This place had air conditioning too!
That singular realization, trivial as it seemed, was strangely comforting. Still, a problem presented itself, a question so elementary that its absence from my mental preparations was almost offensive: Where the hell am I supposed to sit?
Surely such a fundamental information should have been documented, distributed, or at least written on some discreet piece of paper or a kind of agenda.
But no—who, after all, possesses the patience for such pedantic foresight? Certainly not Takumi. And evidently not a single person in this goddam world.
Thus, I found myself at a dead end. I could sask for help from the trio by the window. In theory, an optimal solution; in practice, however, it was lowkey a task requiring a delicate approach: direct but not abrasive, assertive but not too demanding.
Ok, here we go...
«Uh, excuse me[1]!» I called out, mustering the bare minimum of assertiveness.
Abruptly, the cadence of their conversation faltered, their collective discourse momentarily suspended as all three turned toward me in seamless synchrony—like a well-rehearsed ensemble acknowledging an uninvited soloist.
One of them, after a brief moment of scrutiny, offered a perfunctory look of recognition: «Ah, Nakamura.»
Feeling a little tense, I suppressed the involuntary stiffness in my posture and said: «Uh-Uhm...Would any of you happen to know where my seat is?»
Truthfully, I wasn't holding my breath for a response: I'd anticipated little more than a vague gestures of dismissal. And yet, after a fleeting exchange of murmured deliberations, one of them casually lifted a hand and gestured toward a particular spot.
«I think… you sit over there.»
My gaze followed the indicated trajectory before I nodded, «Oh. Thanks!» A dry chuckle slipped past my lips, laced with residual uneasiness.
Well, that was absurdly easy. And to think I had half-expected some ordeal—like, a tedious barrage of questioning, or, worse, some form of ritualistic hazing for the horrible crime of ignorance. What an immense relief!
Anyway, so this was to be my assigned seat: the fourth in the first column, conveniently stationed by the door. A rather prime location, all things considered.
Without further hesitation, I meandered toward it, finally allowing myself to collapse into the chair. A sluggish lethargy began creeping into my limbs for walking more than a mile, beckoning me toward a moment of rest.
Thankfully, there was an analog clock in here, declaring the time as 07:09. That's clearly a demonstration to my excruciating punctuality. Which, unfortunately, also meant that I was now burdened with an entire hour and twenty minutes of nothingness to tolerate before the class officially starts.
Far too much idle time for my liking.
Resigning to the inevitability of human proximity, I folded into my desk, feigning sleep as a preemptive measure against unsolicited interaction. However, even as I closed my eyes, I was keenly aware of the inescapable truth: it wouldn't be long—after all, even a piece of failure like me must have acquaintances in a classroom.
Minutes bled into each other, the ambient hum of arriving students growing more and more pronounced, a slow crescendo heralding the start of another unremarkable day. And then, of course, inevitably it happened... Someone.
Someone approached, and before I could will them into nonexistence, his hand gripped my arm as he gently shook me, saying:
«Hey, wake up.»
To my surprise, it's a boy's voice. Unfamiliar—Who the hell could this be?
Without delay, I dropped my pretense and, groaning and exhaling a quiet sigh of protest at the unwarranted interruption, looked up to see him: a tall, well-built young man, with his dark hair neatly trimmed—not a strand out of place—complementing the striking sharpness of his deep-set, foxlike eyes.
Involuntarily, a hushed, almost reverent, «Oh… wow,» stumbled at the sight of this undeniably handsome fellow. Also, why is his collar button undone? Are you trying to act sexy? Oh, no—what is happening to me?!
«Good morning», his voice was composed, but there was a glint of curiosity in his expression as he studied me. «It's unusual seeing you here this early. Did you wake up at dawn, or did you simply not sleep at all?»
I hesitated. No immediate response seemed adequate, so I opted for the simplest course of action—I returned the greeting and, without much forethought, extended my arm, palm open, in invitation for a clash of palms and squeeze.
He, on the other hand, did not move.
Just as he was about to pass by, he came to a full stop with his eyes flickering with unmistakable confusion at my unexpected motion. There was great bewilderment on his features, matching my own puzzled look.
Honestly, I'd acted too impulsively. In reality, I do lacked the necessary familiarity with these customs, even less so with the nature of Takumi's interactions with his peers. A miscalculation, no doubt, which is just a blunder born from overzealous attempts at camaraderie.
Wait a minute: have my rehearsals and practices for dictable choreography really not been successful? If that's so, then that would be considered a waste of time and energy. I'm gonna kill myself.
In spite of that, just as I braced for the possibility of being left hanging in social limbo, something extraordinary happened: after a brief pause, he slowly lifted his own hand and clasped mine.
Oh, my! Regardless of this miracle, for the sake of mischief, I decided to—with a subtle tug—pulled his arm toward me and gave him a firm, fleeting shake before releasing it.
Judging by his expression, he was still struggling to decipher the meaning behind my actions, but instinct seemed to guide him nonetheless. He reflexively mimicked, albeit with an air of cautious compliance.
A beat of silence passed as he mulled over the interaction. Then, he finally asked: «What… was that?[2]»
To which I responded: «A greeting.[3]»
His brows furrowed slightly. «Greeting? That's… creepy. No, it was new. You've never done that before. It was a little unusual.»[4]
«Well then, consider it a newly instituted morning greeting between us. You'll have to embrace it with more enthusiasm and adjust accordingly. Understood?» I declared with unwavering finality.
«…Sure.»[5]
Ah. That was awkward.
A slow-burning mortification crept up my spine, settling in the pit of my stomach. Worst of all, he barely put up any resistance, merely accepting it at face value before slipping into his seat behind me without another word.
Moving past this regrettable episode, a far more pressing dilemma loomed over me: I have absolutely no idea who this guy is. His identity, his role in the game—if he even had one—his name… all of it was a complete enigma.
For now, I'd let the uncertainty fester and consume me at its leisure.
However, if there was anyone I should attempt to extract answers from, it was this dude. Unlike Ayame, whose involvement in my predicament was riddled with ambiguity, this guy was undoubtedly a friend—that much was certain.
With that in mind, I turned to face him and, with what I can only describe as misplaced confidence, uttered: «I see you brought a bag as well.»
What in the ever-loving hell was that? A fucking, shitty ass opening.
Can someone—anyone—provide me with a crash course on how to initiate a conversation that doesn't sound like a tragic attempt at small talk? Thanks in advance.
His expression stiffened in response to my words, reflecting a mix of hesitation and dismay at my bluntness—perhaps even at the underlying implications of my remark.
«…Of course, I brought one. How else am I supposed to carry my things? What's with that question?»
«Yeah, right? What a stupid question, ha-ha.»
«Speaking of which… what's up with yours? Planning a pilgrimage somewhere?» He gave a half-smirk, the kind that leaned more toward mild obfuscation.
Damn it. «No, I'm not going anywhere. I just grabbed this one in a rush. Total coincidence.»
«Ah, I see. Hmm, that happens. Even so, you should move it—it's kind of in the way. Almost tripped over it, you know?»
«Huh? Oh, sorry. It's just… well, where am I supposed to put it then? At the back of the room?»
I glanced towards the area in question: there were a few pieces of furniture scattered around, though I couldn't tell if they were vacant or already claimed. Even if they were available, there definitely weren't enough for every student in the class.
So, what was the protocol here? Was I supposed to just throw my bag in some communal storage pile? That didn't seem workable.
Don't they have lockers for this kind of thing, apart from the getabako? Personally, if you carried a backpack into class, you just kept it on the floor next to you. But this was Japan—the rules were probably different here, and I'm clueless what I was supposed to do with it now.
«The back? Just put it under your desk, against the wall. I doubt it'll hang properly, not to mention it'd be pointless to even try—it'd end up on the floor either way.»
Wait, what? …Oh!
Silently, I obeyed, without objection.
I picked up my heavy-looking sag and tucked it into the narrow space beside my feet, leaving it there as unceremoniously as a drunk slumped against the pavement outside a bar.
Then, my gaze flickered to the small metal hook protruding from the side of my desk—clearly designed to hold lighter bags, nothing like the one I'd brought. So, that's what he meant by "hanging it", where students were expected to place their belongings—good to know.
Brushing the topic aside, I redirected my attention back to him and resumed our—objectively pointless—conversation.
«Alright, let's move on from this,» I leaned slightly. «Tell me, what's on the agenda?»
«What do you mean?»
«What are we going to do next?»
What classes do we have first? I need to mentally prepare myself. If it's math, I might just scrape by without too much trouble; If it's literature, though, I'm as good as dead.
«Oh…Uhm, well, the entrance ceremony. What else?» He replied, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.
«The entranc—what now?»
For some inexplicable reason, I'd fully expected him to mention the start of a class right away, but instead, he brought up some institutional event. Was that what I'd been vaguely alluding to earlier with the auditorium?
«Uh, yeah~, right! That thing... Completely forgot. What time does it start?!»
He paused, casting a glance at the clock perched at the front of the classroom before returning his gaze to me, answering: «In forty minutes.»
«Wait, seriously? Shouldn't we be heading there now?»
«No. Well, you could, technically. But according to the school's schedule, students are advised to arrive early, not excessively early. If you show up before the recommended time, you're expected to remain in your assigned classroom until a designated instructor rounds us up for the procession.»
I could practically hear the unspoken "dumbass" hanging in the air. «Oh! And, when exactly is this great shepherd supposed to appear?»
«In about half an hour. Takumi, you're so out of it.» In a tone of restrained exasperation, added: «You never answered me earlier. Did you stay up all night or...what happened?»
Shit, I intentionally dodged that question because, well, the truth was that last night, I'd been so unaccountable stressed that sleep had flat-out rejected me.
To make matters worse, at some ungodly hour, I stumbled upon an old jar of coffee buried somewhere in our house—one I hadn't even known existed. And to my absolute bewilderment, it was good—suspiciously good! But I'm fairly certain it wasn't the caffeine that kept me awake, I just wanted something to blame.
And when my alarm blared at 5:30 AM, I felt an overwhelming, primal urge to hurl it out the nearest window.
That being said, I did find a way to preoccupy my mind through the endless abyss of the night: staring at the ceiling and calculating the number of people I'd be forced to interact with on a daily basis. My own variation of counting sheep.
For reference, the final tally landed at 239 students—I hope that's not foreshadowing my future.
…Anyway, how was I supposed to respond to this? Beyond seeking enlightenment on how to initiate a conversation, I could also use some pro tips on dodging open-ended questions. That would make my life significantly easier and, ultimately, render me unstoppable.
«I was up for, what, two hours? Hardly a noteworthy ordeal for people our age—most of whom willingly sacrifice sleep to stare vacantly at their phones, mesmerized, doing absolutely nothing else.»
«Were you one of them?»
«Hah! I'm not that reckless. I turn it off when I'm supposed to be sleeping,» I stated, then immediately realized something.
Oops, that might've been an ironic little bombshell, considering that, to them, Takumi would probably be one of those incompetent fools.
Notwithstanding the incertitude, I was rather confident—perhaps too much so—in the notion that the revered Nakamura was not only irrefutably attractive but also an upstanding, responsible young man with an unshakable grasp on his duties.
«…I see,» his response was diplomatic at best. For now, I seemed to be in the clear.
«In any case,» he went on, «I'd advise you not to overdo it. You look exhausted today.»
«Oh, do I?»
«Mm-hmm. But, if memory serves me right, that's nothing new for you, actually. A few months ago, you told me you stayed up all night because you couldn't stop thinking about some second-year girl who you thought was cute—one who invited you out for a walk, remember?»
I don't fucking believe it.
…Well. What did I expect? No, actually—I think I do remember that, vaguely.
Before I could even attempt to attune with Ayame in any meaningful way, I was, by sheer necessity, required to acquaint with all the other maidens of the game.
Each of them, in their own distinct yet formulaic manner, was designed to stand out—to be unmistakably recognized as an important female character. This was achieved through their two-dimensional—read: anime-style—illustrations, which graced the dialogue box in the lower third of the screen.
A smile, tearful eyes, a sharp glare, a fatigued expression—each meticulously rendered emotion felt as if it had been wrung out of the artists, held captive in some metaphorical dungeon, forced to imbue these heroines with just enough vitality to placate their devoted, otaku audience.
But with only a handful of expressions at their disposal, their emotional range was as limited as their budget. Not that it truly mattered. It was sufficient, I suppose.
Outside of these scripted interactions, however, the world operated under a different set of rules.
Occasionally, I would step out into the streets and, by sheer narrative convenience, stumble upon various girls. These encounters always presented me with the option to interact—an obligation, really, if I wished to improve my ranking on the Friendly Communication Meter, a system I had deemed indispensable for unlocking additional dialogue choices.
Thought, here was the catch: these incidental girls lacked anime-style portraits. Their words appeared in the textbox, sure, but their presence was reduced to mere lines overlaid on a three-dimensional background. This, I quickly deduced, relegated them to the role of background characters.
Regardless of how—of this, I am absolutely, unequivocally certain—I'd once crossed paths with a second-year girl in the school hallway. One who, ostensibly, I was supposed to take out on a date; or at the very least, one who was heavily implied to be my first romantic outing.
So, if this guy was suggesting that I'd been so enthralled by her that I physically couldn't sleep, then, logically speaking, the only possible conclusion—the only explanation that could be extracted from the mind of an average Japanese youth—was that I was consumed by an almost comically overblown sense of romantic anticipation.
Which, in essence, by their numerous interpretations in the manga, are quite inept when it comes to relating to a woman.
But, if I'm being brutally honest—I'm off-track.
I was under the distinct impression that I've never even had my first date. If I tried to recall my actions within the game, my mind drew a blank.
The only moments I could distinctly remember were the ones that I personally deemed significant—the ones that piqued my interest. Everything else? Trash. Irrelevant. To hell with it.
Nonetheless, if I weighed it up, these feelings of joy, nervousness or any semblance of excitement didn't seem to manifest themselves in the game. Instead, it was simply described: "I felt happy" or "I felt tired".
If I had truly felt something—if any of it had actually mattered—it would have had an effect on me; however, I felt none. And according to him, I was so stimulated that I became sleepless.
Did I have the same expression then as I do now? Who can say for sure? Certainly not me, but him!
«It's normal for someone my age to experience this kind of excitement,» I commented.
«I suppose so. I wouldn't know for sure. But this time, it seems to have taken a toll on you. They're not entirely visible, but… there are faint dark circles just beneath your eyes.»
Ah. I see. I see. That was pretty quick.
First, let's dissect his testimony. Yes—if one were to scrutinize my face with the same level of detail a jeweler inspects a precious stone, this would indeed be the most apparent flaw in my otherwise middling appearance: dark circles.
Just as this fine gentleman indicate, they're barely perceptible. So faint that you'd have to lean in closer—too close—to even notice them. And that alone would be enough to deter most people.
However, given that Takumi is someone who usually radiates enthusiasm—who exists in a state of perpetual, infectious energy—the emergence of anything that deviates from his usual disposition would ignite a frenzy of showbiz news among the first-years.
A fresh wave of whispered theories, outrageous assumptions, and dramatic retellings about the hows and whys of this peculiar development.
And, of course, this would explain why Ayame, in her own way, took note of it earlier. Why she felt compelled to bring it up—only to hesitate and retract her words at the last moment.
Perhaps, strangely enough, she refrained from mentioning it outright because she feared it would be seen as intrusive. As prying into something far too personal.
Honestly, I would do the same; if a girl, for example, was lately drawing on false eyelashes because her natural ones were lacking, I wouldn't say a word and just leave it to normal.
In the case of the appearance of my fossaceous fences, it will be a temporary change, which will most likely persist for a few days before returning to normal—that is, unless I continue with a cycle of bad sleep, which could turn them into a permanent feature.
Not that I have any intention of altering my current look, tho. I had to consider the impact on those who had grown attached to the Takumi of now; I couldn't just shatter that image so carelessly, one must exercise a degree of empathy, after all.
As for Perfect-san, she never explicitly addressed the matter, but she did indirectly suggest I wash my face—implying, in her usual roundabout way, that I should appear more ginger-up during the day. Even so, out of all the details she could have focused on, this particular contradiction in her personality stood out the most.
Of course, all of this is pure speculation on my part; I'm not asserting any of these observations as absolute truths. But I do enjoy watching people: analyzing the way they behave within their social circles, dissecting the subtleties of their interactions, and drawing conclusions about who they are is second nature to me—and I would not leave it behind.
Returning to the matter at hand, he had confirmed that, at some point, I did look worn out; I took note of it. Without the slightest hint of distress, I responded:
«Oh? You noticed?» Absentmindedly, my fingers brushed against the skin beneath my eye.
«If someone stares long enough, it's not that hard to see.»
«Huh… Yeah, you're right. And you're not the only one who pointed it out. Ayame-san mentioned it too.»
«Matsushita-san?»
I nodded before continuing, «She called it out, but not directly. She just yelled, 'Wash your face,' and walked away.»
«And? Did you?»
«Not yet.» I have no idea where the bathroom is.
«Then do it already. What are you waiting for?»
«Nah, I'll take care of it before we head to the auditorium. We've got time,» A quick glance at the clock confirmed that only a few minutes had passed since I arrived.
«Once the teacher gets here, he won't let you leave. Just do it now—unless you want people pestering you about it later.»
«Who's going to pester me?» The teacher?
«You tell me. Do you really want people bombarding you with questions about how you look?»
I have no clue what this guy was getting at. «I'm not following. But this is about what you mentioned earlier, isn't it? About me being in this same situation before?»
He gave a disinterested nod. «Which is why I'm telling you—at the very least, freshen up so you don't look half-awake.»
«Alright, alright, I get it. I'll do it,» I relented, before shifting gears. «But first—can you do me a favor?»
«What?»
«Tell me what happened that time.»
Naturally, I was curious about the reactions this supposed "change" had triggered—if there had been any at all. Did they just assume I had a bad day?
Meanwhile, this gloomy individual gave me a weary look, resting his head on one arm against the desk as if he no longer had the energy to engage. Then, after a pause, he muttered, «I don't really remember.»
«Ow, really?»
«...»
The silence dragged on.
«Come on, don't be like that. Just tell me.»
Please, spill it before I resort to dramatic self-endangerment just to prove how insistent I can be.
It was imperative for me to understand how these primates had responded to Takumi's state. This wasn't just about maintaining a likable image—it was about grasping the social dynamics at play. How others related to me versus how I related to them.
In the context of this physical reality, as I'd previously established, interactions like these never occurred in the game. There was no on-screen aftermath, no lingering consequences—just a quick fade to black, and then bam! The next day rolled in.
If that kind of continuity did exist, it would mark the undisputed pinnacle of hyper-realistic game design—requiring cutting-edge technology capable of encapsulating such nuanced data.
Discouraged, he exhaled in mild exhaustion before finally giving me something: «The girls in our class—most of them, anyway—came up to you and asked what happened. Their expressions were… I don't know, concerned? Sad? Something like that. But you just told them you'd been up gaming until midnight. They took it at face value and left it at that, that's it.»
Holy shit, that's impressive! What a barbaric thing to be popular in Japan! Even the infinitesimal deviation from normalcy was enough to have a whole crowd interrogating you like you'd survived a near-death experience.
«I see. And what happened with the second-year girl?»
«Why are you asking me that? You're not talking to her anymore?»
I don't know that girl, for fuck's sake! Just give me her name, dude.
«That's not an answer.»
«Neither was your question.»
«You're avoiding it!»
«No, I'm redirecting it. Big difference. In any case, I wouldn't know how to answer.»
«Well, uh... I wouldn't say that we're not entirely talking. We just exchanged greetings and had some small chat here and there,» I improvised.
«Just that?»
«Just that.»
«Ohhhhhh! Well, that's a shame. She probably got a bad impression from that meetup.»
«What do you mean?»
«Like I told you before—you looked exhausted. I advised you to postpone, to reschedule for a time when you wouldn't appear as though you'd just clawed your way out of a grave, but you paid me no heed. You still went anyway. With her. And her friend too, I think.»
«Oh, really?»
I don't recall ever making such a desperate decision. For that matter, I also don't recall this guy ever giving me that advice. Which puts me in an interesting predicament.
Is it that I genuinely don't remember any of this? Or is it that none of it actually happened, and I'm just internalizing what he's saying as if it were real—when in fact, it was something that only played out in the game?
«"Oh, really?" What's with that? What's that supposed to mean?» He replied, sounding bitter.
«Nothing in particular, let's move on—»
«That's a lie,» he interrupted me. «Why are you deflecting?»
«That's a convenient assumption.»
«—Did you forget?»
«What...? No, I didn't say that.»
«So you remember?»
«N-No, well... I don't appreciate this interrogation,» I fight shy of answering.
He exhales, barely audible, the kind of exhale that suggests he's debating whether engaging with me is worth the energy. Then, he decides it is: «I don't really understand what's happening on your mind right now.»
«It's nothing, really. I just wanted to remember.»
«"Remember"?» He eyed me with mild suspicion, launched a dry laugh. «What's with the remember thing? Or, you just wanted me to spell it out for you? If it's so, then that sounded an awful lot like a narcissist trying to relive his most thrilling experiences through other people.»
«Huh? N-not at all! What?» I let out a small, nervous laugh, brushing off his assumption. «I just wanted to hear your version of events.»
«Why?»
«Because, I simply thought it was funny, that's all. Since, this time, nothing happened... You see? No one's approached me about it. Not a single soul. It's just been you two so far, and considering you're the ones closest to me, well, that hardly counts as a meaningful sample size, now does it?»
As I delivered that last line, I let my gaze drift across the classroom, scanning the nearly full rows of seats, with only a handful left unoccupied—purely for effectiveness, that's for sure.
«…Well, yeah, you've got a point. But—»
And just then, another voice cut through the air as someone approached.
«Morning, Takumi-kun»[6]
[1] 「あの、すみません！」
[2] 「なんだそれ？」
[3] 「挨拶」。
[4] 「挨拶？なんか...怖い。いや、新しい。今までそんなことしたことなかったのに。ちょっと珍しかった」。
[5] 「...はい」
[6] 「よう、拓海くん」