Morikita Daichi—that blonde-haired, round-glasses-wearing enigma. He's been camping out in my mind for a while now. Since Maki wasn't spilling anything worthwhile, I figured I'd take a shot at getting close to him myself. Whether it's in the school library, where I 'accidentally' brush his hand grabbing the same book, or that time I strategically dropped something near him and played it off like it was his, or even that awkward moment when I slapped his back pretending he was someone else—yeah, none of these smooth moves pulled straight from Ayaka's manga stash are doing the trick. He just flicks me off like I'm nothing but a speck of dust floating in the air.
I mean, seriously. That time we both reached for the same book, he yanked his hand back and shoved the book at me instead. Before I could even play nice and tell him to take it, he'd already bolted. And that other time I asked if he'd dropped something I found on the floor? Just a curt 'no' before he peaced out. Oh, and the shoulder pat? He shot me this killer glare that might as well have had 'what the fuck' tattooed across his forehead, then just stormed off.
Maybe because he's a dude, I should hit him up shounen manga-style, hm?
I start flipping through the manga in my collection, one by one, until I hit the end of the stack, but nothing really clicks. I mean, all my manga are about sports, mostly basketball. And this guy? He's all about kendo. How in the world are our paths supposed to cross in some epic game showdown? It's not like I can just lob a basketball at him while he's swinging a bamboo sword, right?
Man, don't even suggest I dive into nee-san's stash of yaoi for tips!
What am I supposed to do? Pop up out of nowhere, chat him up with some alpha-male vibes, and then bam, yank him into some wild ecstasy trip where he gets hooked on me?
Ugh, hell no—!
There's no fucking way I'm rolling up on him like that without consent! And why the hell would I go to that extreme anyway? I'm not into guys, for crying out loud!
Ha-ha… hah…
This forced laugh drains me more than sprinting up and down the basketball court ever could. Wiped out, I flop onto my back, staring at the blank ceiling overhead. My mind's buzzing with images of that guy—his face won't fade. If I thought Sakamoto was a wildcard, this blonde-haired guy is a whole different league. He's got this intimidating vibe, but also looks kinda lost and hollow. It's like he's got a 'Keep Out' sign hung up, yet deep down, he's desperate for some company.
I can see it now—he's lonely, probably all tangled up in the mess of his parents' busted marriage and being left on his own while they chased their careers. And then there's the heavyweight of society's glare, blaming him for Horie-san's death.
Man, that's gotta be rough.
I wonder if his folks had been around for him more… if Horie-san hadn't met such a tragic end… if society hadn't been so damn harsh on him… what kind of guy would he be now? Would he be the kind of decent person that Horie-san fell for?
Before I know it, bam, it's the next day.
My routine doesn't skip a beat—just another day in the life of a high school student. Today, like any other, I'm scarfing down the breakfast Mom whips up before she dashes off to her bakery shop. Then, I'm on my bike, pedalling down the same path I've taken since the start of spring, while Ayaka and Dad stick to their usual trek to the nearby train station.
The breeze ruffling through my brunette hair is chill, way more refreshing than those cramped train rides to school I used to endure. As I hammer down on the pedals, my bike's wheels spin, slicing through the morning air as I weave from one junction to the next. Soon enough, I'm cruising into the heart of Shinagawa City, spotting a few students decked out in the same uniform as mine. But it's not just any of the uniform-clad crowd that catches my eye—it's one particular guy, standing alone behind the steel fence of a footbridge ahead of me, that really grabs my attention.
That blonde-haired guy…
I've been shadowing his morning moves for a bit now, and man, it's like watching a rerun. His routine? Predictable as hell, just like mine. Like clockwork, there he is again today, posted up, nursing a steaming drink from a paper cup while he gazes down at the bustling traffic. He loiters up there for a solid five minutes—plenty of time for me to duck into the nearby convenience store and snag some snacks. By the time he decides to finally head downstairs, I'm just stepping out of the store, making my way back to my bike parked along the pedestrian path.
It's like we're at the fork in the road where our paths split. He takes the pedestrian path along the road, walking under a canopy of blooming cherry blossoms, while I'm on my bike, pedalling past him like it's some unofficial race to the school gates.
As I'm cycling, a thought hits me. If I were him, I'd be soaking up the view of the stunning, reddish sun overhead, not drowning in the stress of the bumper-to-bumper traffic below. I mean, he's supposed to be in the Nature Art Club, right?
Unless… maybe he's bailed on the club.