Before me stood yet another young man pressing two fingers firmly against his forehead in a mock-salute. He have a wavy, dark chestnut hair; eyes gleaming like polished orbs beneath the classroom's sterile lighting, and a disposition that exuded an almost effortless vibrancy.
«Ah, morning!» I replied, my voice carrying the kind of detached politeness that required enthusiasm.
«Top of the morning to you too, Haru-chan[1]~», he singsonged.
«Hi[2],» came a languid greeting from behind me, uttered with a lazy intonation.
But, wait a second: "Haru-chan". He called him "Haru-chan". That's a nickname, right?
With clinical detachment, I watch as he, nonchalantly, slid the strap of his slate-gray messenger bag off his shoulders, resting it momentarily against the upfront table's surface before settling his arm perched itself over my desk as if laying claim to the space—his gaze fixed upon me with attentiveness.
Then, in a tone that bordered amiable, he began: «So, how have you been? What've you been up to these past few days? You completely disappeared on us last week, which I can only assume you were having a great time.»
Christ. The minefield of modern teenage social politics. There was no way I could just admit outright that I'd been actively dodging every possible social engagement—like an anti-social cryptid—with a degree of dedication that some might call pathological.
«Well,» I responded, deliberately measuring my words, «I've just been wandering the city a bit, checking out places I hadn't been to before. You know—restaurants, with menus not exclusively deep-fried, shops selling objects not manufactured by Konami… Yeah, that kind of thing..»
In the end, I settled on a response of a shit-eating grin that was technically accurate but revealed nothing of consequence.
His eyes widened slightly, betraying a flicker of curiosity—though whether it was due to my words or my delivery remained uncertain. At this point, I wouldn't be surprised if these people had already started picking up on the incongruities in the person I was pretending to be.
«"Wandering"[3]?» He echoed.
«Yeah…?» I tilted my head. «To be honest, I just roamed around aimlessly for a few days last week. But for the most part, I was at home with my mom.»
«Oh, really?» His grin turned lupine. "Ehhh, how very... monastic of you, haha. I figured you'd be hanging out with people more often instead of—well, you know, aimlessly drifting through the city on your own...»
He anticipated with great disenchantment; apparently my answer was not the best, although that was what I expected.
However, he then came to reason with another question: «Oh, right! Your meetup with the girls from Section 4—how'd that go?»
Ow, man. Are you kidding me?
So, apparently, I'd scheduled another meetup with some girls—or worse, it might've been a date. Either way, it was already far beyond salvageable. Whatever romantic or social landmine I'd apparently planted could detonate at any moment.
II let out a short, vaguely self-deprecating chuckle like a choking seagull—the kind that barely concealed my discomfort—and, with a sheepish grin that felt almost physically painful to produce, I responded:
«Ah, that… kinda slipped my mind… Tee-hee[4]?»
Utterly ridiculous.
The silence curdled between us. Three sets of eyes dissected my pathetic excuse—Haru-chan's gaze sharp enough to perform amateur surgery, New Guy's wide with performative shock, and mine doubtless radiating the frantic energy of a cornered possum.
New Guy—let's call him Sunshine for now—finally broke first: «W-Wait, what do you mean? So... you ghosted the Class 4 girls? Why, what happened?»
«N-Nothing, nothing. Really. It's just... I don't know.» I stutter and left speechless.
«You know they booked that karaoke place two weeks in advance? How it was called... Big Echo, right? Yes, she told us about it, I remember that.»
Oh, jeez. This wasn't a casual hangout as going shopping: I'd apparently bailed on some sacred social covenant. My stomach performed an Olympic-worthy backflip.
Sunshine's finger tapped a slow, ominous rhythm against my desk. «Fascinating. Because Fujisaki-san messaged me days ago asking if you'd...» Air quotes that could strangle a man, «—gotten hit by a truck or something.»
I manufactured a cough to hide my choking noise. The truck comment hit too close to home: Thanks God I was shot in the head, and nothing hurtful happened.
«In my defense,» I began, grasping at straws, «last week was... a transitional period. Spiritually speaking.»
Sunshine barked a laugh. «What's with that? Dude's out here having a goddamn existential crisis instead of texting back,» he mimed wiping tears away. «So poetic. No, so tragic.»
«Think about it, let's call it a paradigm shift. Priorities have been reorganized,» I spread my arms like a televangelist. «After all, I'm a human too.»
«Uh-huh,» Haru-chan expression suggested he wanted to strangle my justification with its own pretentious word choices. «And do you understand that normal humans...» He said 'humans' like I'd just claimed to be a lizard person «...give basic courtesy texts when flaking on plans?»
Sunshine nodded sagely. «We're not asking for haikus, Takumi. A simple "my dog died" would've worked if you were that desperate to not go. Even so, you were pretty excited too, I'm amazed that sudden change of perspective.»
«Ha-ha, yeah...» I couldn't help it, but my laugh dissolved into the sterile classroom air like cheap oven steam.
Yet the persistent little Mr. Blue Sky wouldn't let it lie, planting this question and quietly taking a seat: «Are you okay?»
I arranged my features into what I hoped passed for insouciance: lips quirking in that carefully calibrated half-smile perfected by anime protagonists worldwide. «What? I'm fine! Perfectly fine, even. What's up with that all of sudden?»
«Nuh-uh.» His index finger wagged with the rhythmic certainty of a metronome. «One look at you and I can tell: your colors have faded.»
«My... colors?» I blinked, thrown by the poeticism from someone who probably quoted his first symbolistic literature as life philosophy.
«After all, I'm saying your responses have all the emotional depth as a politic. With such modest and vague answers, not even your own mother would recognize you. Pardon me, Nakamura-ma'am...but your son appears to have been body-snatched by some joyless doppelgänger.»
Somewhere in Tokyo, I swear I felt my borrowed mother clutch her pearls.
«I... don't see anything wrong with me?» The sentence curled upward involuntarily, betraying my uncertainty.
For most of the times I've talked to myself about not altering Nakamura Takumi's image, it seems there's no way it can be resolved as such, because, undoubtedly, people will somehow be able to tell how you're feeling.
Either you're talking or you're not talking at all; something's happening to you. How do you act normally?
«Not wrong per se,» he conceded. «It's just your way of speaking that denotes a change in your mood.»
«You can diagnose my mental state through speech patterns now?»
«Language affects our feelings more than we think, you know that,» he declared with the gravitas of a bad self-help book. «When Takumi-kun start pulling hermit crab behavior? And also, hearing you say things like: "Went to a restaurant alone", "Took walks around town", and this sudden disinterest on going out with... your friends I suppose? That's not just weird—it's fundamentally sad, don't you think? I would say it is an attitude that is not typical of your personality in general.»
He then spun towards and beyond me, like a game show host revealing the final answer. «Am I wrong, Haruki[5]?»
Ah. So the brooding dude behind me bore the name of Haruki. Yeah, that's good to know.
I pivoted to confront my judge. Haruki took his sweet time—a full five-second pause—before delivering his verdict: «Honestly? I don't even know anymore.»
«Wow.» Sunshine clutched his pearls too. «Look what you've done, Takumi. You broke Haruki's moral compass. But let's leave it at that, I'm going to my seat,» he stretched with theatrical exhaustion. «Ah~ Lunes, lunes[6]!»
With that obnoxious sing-song, he abandoned his invasive perch and sauntered toward the row's end. His actual assigned seat, presumably. The audacity of this man, squatting in my personal space like some chatty dictator claiming imperialist rights.
Which, actually reminded me—talking about the devil—: my mental dossier on Mr. Sunshine remained embarrassingly blank. Brown hair... carefree personality... The details are disintegrating like food in stomach acid; I might as well have goldfish neurons swimming in mineral water.
Turning back to Haruki with what I hoped passed for casual curiosity, I ventured.
«So... Haruki-kun.» The honorific stuck to my teeth. «What's the... What was his nickname, or... well, is he only referred to by his first name?» I discreetly gestured toward the human disco ball now holding court with two giggling girl classmates.
Nicknames. Humanity's bizarre tradition of linguistic vandalism. Certainly, nicknames are inherently human, and I'm human.
The psychology escapes me—some primal urge to sand down formal edges until we're all rubbing shoulders in the sweat lodge of familiarity. For example: Jeffrey → Jeff. Elizabeth → Liz. To put it simple, it's just emotional laziness masquerading as intimacy.
However, in this case, I'm sure it wouldn't be the same. If I remember correctly, in other countries, including my own, although less common, people are nicknamed after objects, characteristics, or simply for rusticity.
Properly, we'd tag the muscular kid "Roidrage" or Christen the chubby friend "Galactus the World-Devourer" or straight up "Fat-ass"—very childish, right? Now, if Japan follows similar nickname conventions, it might give me some clue about christening my apparent jolly-good acquaintance over there.
Not that I could just slap a label on him out of nowhere—though nicknames do arise spontaneously and organically, even for me that's quite easy, but only on english.
While proper names derive meaning from kanji strokes, nicknames must absorb their essence by osmosis, right? And I haven't the faintest clue how to engineer such linguistic alchemy. Frankly, the whole process seems daunting—I'd consider it a part-time job.
I could've just asked for his given name instead of fishing for pet name, but that would've raised more eyebrows than showing up to school naked. Besides, this whole line of questioning already feels unnatural.
Still, having an informal moniker for him would streamline my social navigation considerably.
Haruki responded with a dry titter, his expression cycling through disbelief before settling on raised-eyebrow amusement: «Actually revising my answer to "yes"—you're definitely acting weird. What are you asking me? What kind of question is that, Takumi?»
«Just answer, please; my mind's elsewhere» I waved vaguely at my own skull. «And I'm simply curious if they've given some affectionate handle on that guy, you know? Special nickname territory.»
Haruki's face developed the peculiar tension of someone debating whether to humor a madman. «...Dunno. "Kaichan[7]", "Kaikun[8]"... "Kaiten"[9], maybe? That what you're after?»
«I see. Kaiten, right? How's that written?»
«Ugh.... Well, uh, they mashed together the kanji "kai[10]" for "rotation" and "ten[11]" for "heaven"... I think, yeah. And... if I remember right, it's about how he can spin through social situations smooth as a record—adapting however many times he wants. Like celestial bodies in motion or something of that crap,» Haruki rubbed his temple. «Actually, kanji is not my forte. Just repeating what I heard.»
I nodded, absorbing this explanation while privately admitting the nickname was disturbingly apt—even based on my limited exposure. The accuracy left me momentarily speechless.
Haruki shattered the silence with his deadpan follow-up: «Want his full profile next? Height? Blood type? MBTI results? Maybe his hat size?»
«His what? No, not like that. I'm not some obsessed fan.»
«Then why ask?» Haruki's expression did that judgmental twitch again. «Planning to rebrand him yourself?»
«You mean calling him "Kaiten"?»
«Yeah.»
«Well obviously. Don't we all call him that?»
«We've never called him like that.»
«...Come again?»
My confusion must have been palpable, because Haruki sighed like a salaryman explaining fax machines to monkeys.
«You see—that specific nickname came from second-year girls fawning over how Kaito [12]just... slides between friend groups with his calm and friendly demeanor. It's as if he were one of their own in each of their groups, like he's got some social chameleon gene,» he made a swirling motion with his finger. «Rotating through social circles as a revolving door. Hence the whole "heavenly rotation" poetic nonsense. They, among others, are the main people who talk about it.»
Kaito. The name clicked into place: Kaito.
First name confirmed, although his precise spelling is still a problem. On second thought, this called for reconnaissance—maybe swipe a class roster with names and seat assignments
Fuck, should've thought of that sooner. Now I'd have to memorize this shit like some deranged Berlitz course. The Japanese obsession with naming conventions was impressive in its relentlessness.
«And what about us?» I pressed.
Haruki shrugged. «We don't really use them. Not banned or anything, just... unnecessary.» His tone suggested this was common sense.
«Right, right. So if we're not using "Kaiten", why bother with it at all?»
«You asked for a nickname. I gave you the one I know. What are you talking about?»
«Yeah...!»
A moment of silence, again. I was mentally drafting my resignation from this conversation when Haruki suddenly muttered something that definitely wasn't Japanese—«Heol ige jjajeungna[13]»—before switching back with visible irritation: «Hey... Seriously, are you mess with me right now?»
Oof, I'd overplayed my hand provoking more doubt on his part—an uncertainty that seemed to have persisted from the very moment we greeted each other.
«What? No-no, not at all. I was just—»
«Then perhaps you'd care to explain what's actually going through that head of yours?» Haruki's voice carried the restlessness of a sniper exhaling before a critical shot, that even a sort of accent slipped through.
«I was just playing. Nothing serious,» my deflection sounded pathetic even to my own ears.
Haruki processed this with infuriating composure, exhaling through his nose. «Can't get too uptight about it. Can't say I'm surprised either. But humor me—I need to satisfy my curiosity. Like Kaito asked earlier: Are you okay? You told me your brain is somewhere else. What happened, genuinely?»
«...Yeah. I did. But I'm completely fine,» I reiterated, already standing. «Don't waste concern on something so trivial. Think I'll... go splash some water on my face,» until I drown.
A cursory glance around the classroom revealed that most of the students had already assumed their seats, and those who were still lingering quickly found their places. Having expressed my intention, I left my seat and headed for the door.
«Oi, Takumi! Where you off to?» Sunshine's voice cut across the room.
«Bathroom. Face. Water,» I straight-faced without turning. The clock read 7:19—less than twenty minutes until auditorium assembly. Perfect timing for a—Ouch!
The unexpected came because, as I crossed the threshold I inadvertently bumped with something solid.
A chest. A middle-aged man's chest, to be precise. He appeared to be in his thirties, sporting an indistinct air of vitality but ruined by his short and unkempt facial hair.
The unmistakable aura of an underpaid educator; our homeroom teacher, no doubt. And of course he'd materialize the second I tried to escape. More surprinsingly, he was at my eye-level.
«G-good morning, sensei!» The honorific leapt from my mouth half a beat too late—I'd almost defaulted to English saying "Teachs" since this gentleman does not appear to be japanese. «And, uh, my apologies. Didn't mean to use you as a speedbump.»
«Ah, no-no, likewise! No need for apologies,» he responded with that particular brand of teacher-nervousness—the kind that comes from being perpetually three seconds away from a stress ulcer. «I was in a rush too. And where were you headed?»
«To the restroom, sir,» I replied with military-grade formality, spine straightening instinctively.
«Ah...Sadly, I can't authorize that right now, Nakamura.» He adjusted the collar of his shirt. "My orders are to herd all my students directly to the Cultural Hall. If I let even one stray, the administration will have my head on a platter... That could be annoying.»
«The ceremony's starting already?»
«Yeah.» The teacher checked his wristwatch. «Well, it's scheduled for 8 AM sharp, but we're required to be there for...» He waved vaguely. «Final preparations. Stage adjustments. You know how these things go.»
«I-I understand. But I just...» I clasped my hands in supplication. "I only want to refresh my face, because I got up very tired today. It won't take me more than five minutes. So, please, I beg you, let me go.»
The truth was more complicated: Besides wiping my face, I also need to relieve myself. And besides urinating, the inclination to frequent the bathroom is one of my idiosyncrasies, similar to a nightly foray to the fridge to find food—especially when avoiding social obligations, this was non-negotiable.
The professor deliberated for a moment before giving his consent in a thoughtful tone: «Relax, relax. I'm not some demonic overseer. Permission granted—but make it quick, okay? If you hurry, you can catch up as we shuffle through the halls at our glacial school parade pace.» His smile turned conspiratorial. «With this crowd's speed, you could probably crawl and still keep up. If you miss us, however, just head straight to the coliseum—I'll wait at the entrance.»
«Understood. Thank you!» I bolted before he could reconsider.
Standing outside, I managed to hear a invigorated, «Okay, good morning, everyone!» followed by the synchronized chorus of student responses. «Stop terrorizing each other and form two orderly lines!»
Now for the real challenge: where the hell was the bathroom?
Memory served me well—I recalled passing a restroom on the first floor. Yet here on the second floor, I was fairly lost. No helpful hints to the left or right, just the endless repetition of room doors stretching into the distance.
I theorized the layout mirrored the floor below—bathrooms stacked vertically like architectural afterthoughts. And so I marched down the fluorescent-lit gauntlet, hyperaware of the muffled lessons bleeding through each classroom door.
Ayame could be behind any of them. For some reason, the thought made my shoulders tense, so I fixed my gaze straight ahead, purposefully ignoring everything at my surroundings—just straight ahead.
A subtle turn to the left brought my quest to fruition when, like a medieval tavern sign, I saw the signage: pictograms, one of a man and one of a woman, in light blue and pink respectively.
Stepping inside was like entering a spaceship: Gleaming surfaces, odorless air. It looked like the ones you'd find in a shopping mall, or maybe in a hotel, but still, I'm still blown away by this image. Is it because of the status of the school, or is it because Japanese toilets are like that?
My old school's facilities—when functional—resembled trench warfare latrines: because, one time, of a stupid challenge, we endured the lack of soap dispensers and toilet cubicles without doors.
Anyway, methodically, I rolled my sleeves to the elbows. The faucet responded to my touch with obedience, delivering a perfect arc of water neither too aggressive nor apologetic. I cupped my hands beneath the stream, watching liquid light dance across my palms before splashing it against my face.
The cold shock traveled up my sinuses like a truth serum.
Pump soap—actual, existing soap—dispensed a pearl of citrus-scented modernity into my waiting hands. I worked it into a lather with the focus of a neurosurgeon, massaging the foam across my face in slow circles.
«Huhff...Ahh.»
For thirty seconds, I wasn't a fraud or an impostor: just a guy giving himself the world's most unnecessary facial. Not in the disgusting way.
The rinse brought clarity; water sluiced away suds and self-absorption in equal measure. I shook my hands with the energetic enthusiasm of a wet dog, and the paper towel dispenser yielded its bounty without protest—none of that "one-square-per-pull" awful mechanism.
Now, as I looked at myself in the mirror, with my dry hands pressing vigorously on my face, all I could think was: It really sucks to deal with this incessant pressure.
The reflection staring back had bags under its eyes no amount of splashing could erase. My fingers dug into my cheeks, stretching the skin like a bad Photoshop job.
My sole objective now is to unravel the truth about Takumi's social ecosystem: or more accurately, how this hollow shell of a person supposedly moved through this world before I became its unwilling occupant.
But why me? This cosmic joke tastes particularly bitter.
Trapped in the body of some dating sim Casanova, expected to perform as this effortlessly charismatic golden boy. Let me be clear: charm offensives have never been in my arsenal.
Oh, but the hardware's all there—the face that launches a thousand ship emojis, the easy smile that probably made girls screenshot his profile. But the operating system? That's still me. Being forced to run this social simulation feels like wearing a skin-tight wetsuit.
The sheer exhaustion of maintaining this facade makes me want to gauge my eyes out with a spork. Emulating day after day this performative role, smiling when I want to snarl, nodding when I want to disappear.
I'm tired and the day hasn't even begun yet. I've never auditioned for this campus royalty. Never wanted to be that guy who walks into a room and watches oxygen molecules rearrange themselves around his presence.
Yeah, I sound like some whiny NEET complaining about winning the genetic lottery. But you try waking up as a teen fantasy when your soul still remembers being wallpaper. The cognitive dissonance is like chewing aluminum foil.
It's pointless. Pointless. Pointless. This entire mental spiral is just my brain's screensaver—all motion, no progress.
Obsessing over expectations won't make them evaporate. The exit strategy isn't some grand philosophical breakthrough; it's mundane survival: Learn the rules, play the part, don't get voted off the island.
After all, who in this glittering prison could possibly throw me a lifeline? The teachers? Please. Haruki with his X-ray vision for bullshit? Kaito who smells emotional vulnerability like shark senses blood?
I delivered two perfunctory slaps to my cheeks—equivalent of "suck it up, buttercup."
Relax, dude; I need to relax. Instead, it was better to concentrate on the task at hand: acclimatising myself to this new society, this new world in which I found myself. Isn't that what my mother wanted?
In a moment of determined encouragement, I continue slapping my face and pushing my hair back; but my eyes betrayed no particular enthusiasm, utterly unconvinced. The face might be new, but the exhaustion behind it it's a classic model of mine. At least, I'm familiar with that.
I marched out of the bathroom and, wow!
As I approached the threshold, I almost collided with someone once again; however, this time I managed to nimbly dodge the impending collision—thinking of another teacher confrontation—, but the scent of citrus shampoo betrayed the collision-avoidance target: a girl.
A very particular kind of girl.
Bob-cut hair so precise it looked airbrushed, framing a face that belonged on one of those "natural makeup tutorial" videos. Warm brown eyes wide with recognition, flawless complexion glowing like she'd been buffed by angels—and a figure so delicately proportioned it made Ayame look like a rugby player by comparison.
Why was I mentally cataloging this? Christ, maybe Takumi's hormones came with the body.
«Nakamura-kun!» Her voice hit that perfect pitch between surprise and delight, the kind usually reserved for spotting puppies in baskets.
I swallowed a sigh. «H-hey.» The word cracked like a middle schooler's voice. «Sorry. Didn't mean to—you know,» I gestured vaguely at the near-collision, my other hand already searching for an escape route. «I didn't mean to scare you.»
She waved off the apology with a warm but awkward smile. «Oh, don't worry. Really! I wasn't scared at all.» The smile didn't falter—if anything, it brightened.
«Um, I don't want to intrude on something private, but why are you here?»
«Hmm? Oh!» A blush—actual, honest-to-god blush—crept up her neck. «Yes, uh. I got held up. I just arrived at the classroom, but I found the other students had already left. I checked the time and saw that there was still half an hour until the ceremony started, so... I decided to take a moment in the bathroom to freshen up a bit.»
«I see,» I replied, mentally chalking it up to what I assumed was "girl stuff."
She clasped her hands. «Yeah... Uhm, would you mind waiting? So we can walk together?»
«Eh? Ah, sure,» I heard myself say with a hint of embarrassment.. «We'd better both go so the teacher doesn't get mad at me.»
Her laughter tinkled like wind chimes. «Hm, okay! I won't be long»
[1] 「はるちゃん~」
[2] 「どーも」
[3] 「ぶらぶら」
[4] 「てへぺろ」
[5] 「はるき」
[6] "Monday, monday"
[7] 「かいちゃん」
[8] 「かいくん」
[9] 「カイてん」
[10] 「回」
[11] 「天」
[12] 「かいと」
[13] «헐, 이게 짜증나»