It might be in my best interest to stop entertaining her little jests. Every answer I give seems to serve as kindling for her relentless teasing.
Perhaps I should dive into some comedy books. The idea of becoming an expert in the craft is appealing; but then again, wouldn't that be a frivolous expense? What kind of comedian resorts to buy a joke book? It would feel like cheating—a fraud, even.
«It's perfectly fine to be a little sharp-tongued every now and then,» my mother quipped, «but hearing you say it so nonchalantly is oddly hilarious.»
«You're the one who brought up this topic; I was only trying to contribute to the conversation. I didn't expect you to find it funny.»
«Oh? I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?» She asked, her face adorned with a delicate yet unmistakably mocking smile.
That got me—just a little. It almost made me forget the pang of nervousness that had gripped me only moments earlier:
«Don't be ridiculous, Mom. I'm not that sensitive; in fact, I can't imagine myself whining or throwing a tantrum to deny something so trivial.»
«I never said you'd act like a child.»
«No, I'm just adding it—just in case you try to treat me like one.»
«Even after claiming you'd try to be intimidating? That, my dear, makes you sound a bit childish. Though, I have to admit, it was rather endearing.»
Childish, she says.
«Alright, I take it back. Saying that made me sound a little… immature.»
«Not immature, just… a touch fanciful. But honestly, I don't see it that way. I think being giving people a good menacing sensation could actually be quite dashing,» she suggested.
«What do you mean?»
«Well, don't you think being intimidating could be fun?»
«What? Even if it means people would avoid you? Having a fearsome demeanor—or even just the appearance of one—could easily be seen as a curse, don't you think?»
«Oh, there's no denying that some people find themselves in a state of, shall we say, dejection, because of social judgments rooted in conventional standards of attractiveness, right? And as a result, those around them might choose not to include them in their circle of friends. I sympathize with them, truly. However, I'm more interested in those who, despite being considered aesthetically pleasing, unintentionally unsettle others due to an innate, imposing presence. You follow?»
«Uhh… okay?»
Did she want me to agree? To argue? To nod along like a well-mannered son and pretend this was just another normal, everyday conversations? I mean, it's pretty random we're discussing about this.
If we summarize it, we might get this question: was this some kind of sophisticated way of saying, "It's tough being hot"? Because if so, I had to admire the sheer level of detachment required to frame it like a philosophical dilemma.
Let's just analyze: she wasn't talking about the usual outcasts, but the people who, despite fitting society's absurdly high standards, still managed to repel others simply by existing.
Ah, yes: a tragic plight! Having a face sculpted by the gods but suffering the unbearable burden of making us peasants uncomfortable. My heart bleeds, boo-hoo! Fuck you.
But I couldn't deny that there was at least something to it; so, that made me wonder: this guy—this perfectly curated, aesthetically eye-catching vessel I now have—fell squarely into that category?
If I connected it to what my mother had told me about Takumi—the way he kept his distance, spent most of his time holed up in his room, only ever going out with his friends to who-knows-where—then, hypothetically speaking, and assuming the worst-case scenario, this guy was… what? A walking contradiction? A social black hole in designer packaging?
Which meant he probably led a double life. How horrible.
In the game, none of that was obvious. You were just supposed to woo the girls and complete objectives; however, if you actually focused on personality, attitude, or their mental processes behind these characters, it would turn into a full-blown psychological game.
And trust me, I checked—there was no such tag.
Therefore, if I followed that train of thought, Takumi was a lethargic shut-in at home but a complete spectacle at school. People gravitated towards this guy without knowing what he was actually like behind closed doors.
But I was getting ahead of myself; these are just speculations.
However, given that position, It's not like you get a choice in the matter.
Considering the vast consumerism I had to Japanese content, and certain ardous complaints from a friend online, I think it's an unspoken social rule that dictated that people like me—like him actually—belonged on some untouchable pedestal, whether you like it or not.
If we talk about Takumi, then he is a young man to follow: Intelligence, athleticism, charm—the holy trinity of social perfection. And let's not forget the exotic factor: a foreigner who speaks their language flawlessly. That alone is enough to send some people into a frenzy.
Practically speaking, and methaporically, the boy of many dreams!
I've come to that conclusion before, but I did not categorize it as appropriate: That's idolatry.
Within religious dogmas and traditions, this action is the worship of gods—an offense so grievous that entire civilizations have been smote for it, or so the stories go. But in the modern age, we've swapped golden calves for something far more insidious: people.
We carve their images into social media feeds, chant their names in digital forums, and erect invisible shrines where their mere existence is dissected and revered.
And the worst part is? The ones on the pedestal never get a say in it.
They're hoisted up there, willingly or not, and expected to stay put, grinning and nodding while people project their expectations onto them: you cease to exist as an individual.
The moment they show a crack in the façade—that means, a natural vulnerability that every fucking human being has—the adoration turns into scrutiny, and scrutiny turns into rejection. The golden idol is either pristine or shattered, there's no in-between.
In that sense, what would happen if I ever gave off the wrong impression? If I seemed too cold, too distant, too intimidating? Then people would start whispering, analyzing, speculating, and ultimately leaving me high-and-dry.
Althought, I don't mind that, really.
Back in my old life, I was being overlooked—blending into the background, keeping my head down, purposefully making sure people saw just enough of me to acknowledge my existence but not enough to engage with it.
Therefore, experiencing those circumstances again but with a glamorously beautiful appearance wouldn't be all bad for me. As I mentioned before, I have no desire to be nice-looking, but if given the choice, I would pick it right away.
But when you think about it, isn't that just another form of ostracization? One group is shunned for failing to meet expectations, while the other is shackled by them. Both are isolated and eventually cast aside the moment they stop serving their purpose
Society loves to romanticize the lonely genius, the enigmatic beauty, the untouchable icon—but the second they step outside their designated role, they're either vilified or discarded.
It's quite ridiculous.
Either way, people don't see you; they see what they want to see. So what's worse? Being ignored or being idolized?
«But isn't that basically the same thing?» I inquired, and began to argue:
«People will perceive you as intimidating either way and prefer to keep their distance. I'd say we're subconsciously submissive; we avoid conflict or think, "Oh, they probably wouldn't want to talk to me anyway." And someone ask you: "Why?" "Because, they're tall, and I'm short, and probably won't talk to me for that reason." We always judge others based on appearances, even if it means degrading yourself either voluntarily or through your pessimistic thoughts.»
A convenient excuse, really. The world ran on first impressions, and no one had the patience to look past them. But was that really all there was to it? Was it truly just about fear or indifference?
«So, if we—if, uh»
I stuttered.
«You were saying?» My mother requested.
«As I was saying, even if we or some people do steer clear of you, being attractive doesn't change that. People have feelings, and they want to connect with others... I think.»
Honestly, I even doubt what I've stated.
To begin with, does it even matter? People interact for convenience, not availability. The charming ones get attention, the intimidating ones get distance, and the rest just exist in the periphery. That's how it works. That's how it always worked.
But now I'm talking like some wide-eyed optimist who thinks human connection is profound or inevitable—and taking pity on the privileged as if they did not have any more social advantages than others.
The words come out too easily it's unsettling.
I know the benefits of playing along, of maintaining easygoing personas. It smooths things over, keeps expectations in check; but, I don't care. Not really. Conversations are just transactions, and I've never been particularly invested in the exchange.
«That's how I see it. Besides, why do you think scaring people could be so gratifying?» I asked. «That's... I don't know, absurd. Sorry, no sorry.»
«Yes, I understand you. But, since we are only talking hypothetically, then why do you think it would be?»
«What? I-I don't think that, but…»
She caught me off guard. My gaze wandered aimlessly around the room as I shrugged and said:
«...I guess the simple act of scaring someone could be, I don't know... manipulative!»
«Don't change the topic.»
«I'm not! Even if I try to avoid it, intimidation, coercion, or pressure is a kind of manipulation. That's clear as water.»
«Then give me another adjective.»
In the end, my answer merely echoed hers:
«...Because it could be fun too.»
«Mm-hmm, yes. As I mentioned earlier, that could be one answer: because it's simply fun,» she exclaimed. «At least for some or the minority of people, I'll give you that; they enjoy entertaining others through casual conversation, but—let's change the word—making them nervous can just as easily serve the same purpose. Essentially, they might fluster someone to put on a little show for themselves, or perhaps to inject a bit of excitement into their otherwise mundane lives.»
«You're implying that other people's lives are boring. Was that your intention?»
«That's one way to put it. I think boredom in someone's life can push them to seek different ways to entertain themselves or even escape their reality.»
«That depends on how you look at it.»
«What does it depend on?»
«Well… claiming that someone seeks entertainment because they're bored might be a lie.»
«…Are you seriously suggesting that?» She asked, her tone laced with dry skepticism.
«Yeah, since boredom is in the eye of the beholder,» I declared boldly. «Most people assume that anyone leading a life that isn't objectively exciting must be secretly unhappy and yearning for change, which, to put it simply, isn't true. Many find contentment in their routines, and what might fascinate you could easily bore me. In consequences, resorting to scaring, agitate, or even upset others to satisfy personal needs seems unnecessary to me.»
«And alternatively, what scenario would you propose in your example?»
«Uhm, perhaps… picturing myself in my room, during seemingly idle moments, I'd just… go to bed.»
«Hmm. So, you see boredom as something comfortable? You are assimilating them.»
«What?»
«If boredom doesn't cause any irritation, it fails to serve its purpose of prompting change. As a result, you wouldn't seek entertainment and might simply languish in bed, since you'll be perfectly content with your sleep, Takumi. In fact, I'm surprised to hear you say that, dear.»
«Uhm? ...Why's that?»
She sighed heavely and then commented:
«I've mentioned this several times already. Takumi, you're acting strangely. Your behavior is more erratic, just now you were debating that point of view, your Japanese sounds noticeably rough, and—though I probably don't need to say it—you were visibly nervous just a few minutes ago. To the point that you actually startled me. And let me be clear, these kinds of mannerisms wouldn't go unnoticed; least of all by your mother.»
«....»
I remained silent, simply paying attention to her words.
«Listen, I don't want to pressure you into telling me anything. I respect your privacy and the effort you put into keeping things to yourself. That's why I'm limiting myself to just questioning your well-being and placing my trust in you—trust that will assure me you're not going through something serious. So, I'll ask again: are you really okay, or has something happened?»
Yes, actually something quite serious happened. I think I've speaking too honestly—more like myself and less like her actual son.
Damn, I claimed not to care much about the subject; that I'd maintain my own sense of self regardless of the situation; however, reality has a way of forcing concessions out of you. It's not about whether I want to adapt or not—it's about the inevitable backlash that comes from standing out in ways people can't quite put into words.
The misgiving impression and uneasiness of those around when something feels even slightly off—it's not something you can just ignore. The longer I let them linger in that discomfort, the more exhausting and annoying it will become.
Not for them—for me. And when avoidance stops being an option, the easiest route is to simply fold before they start forming actual problems. Thus, I have no choice but to give in.
What would Takumi even say in a situation like this? Do they even have these kinds of conversations in the first place?
«Sorry, n-nothing happened; I was merely… trying to see things from another perspective,» I attempted to salvage my earlier slip.
«You've done a rather professional job imitating it.»
«I have some classmates like that. I guess their way of speaking has just stuck with me.»
«Poor thing, they've gone and reshaped my little boy's mind…» She huffed, feigning dismay but seemingly satisfied with my answer. «Hmph, alright then, that'll do. So, do you want to continue our conversation, or should we leave it at that?»
«I, uh... sure, but I've already forgotten whatever point you were trying to make. Summarize it for me, if you can»
«Hahaha, fine. Let me make it clear to you once and for all, but in a different way», she said before continuing:
«When we experience fear, our bodies release a surge of adrenaline, which in turn triggers the release of neurotransmitters like dopamine. This "rush" can induce a sensation of euphoria, not unlike the effects of painkillers—a wave of pleasure. Did you know that, Takumi?»
«No... not in such a systematic way.»
«I see. Well, to continue—when we get scared, our bodies shift into fight-or-flight mode, or, in some cases, freeze. But despite our cognitive vagueness, our brains are remarkably quick at discerning that the perceived threat was nothing more than a harmless trick.»
From what I gather, if we're in an environment where we're given a "safe" scare, our brains will rapidly assess the situation and determine that we are in no real danger.
Once this realization settles in, anxiety gives way to relief, often triggering bursts of laughter—an instinctive reaction to the dissipating tension. It's a simple process to understand, and yet...
«The explanation you gave was mainly to highlight the underlying dynamics of it all, wasn't it?»
«Mm-hmm. And... I'd like to emphasize that this is an especially effective tactic when used on those closest to you—or on people you're particularly interested in. Speaking from experience, of course,» she added with a smug smile, as if concluding her statement with a flourish.
«No, yeah. I understand that's a form of like... non-verbal interaction. I'm not oblivious to social norms.»
«I know. But I wasn't implying anything beyond that.»
«Even so, why are you telling me this?»
«To be honest, I'm not entirely sure. But since the opportunity presented itself, I figured it might come in handy for you at some point.»
She leaned back slightly, musing for a moment before continuing.
«Back in my day, young men used to do this sort of thing with women all the time. They'd take them to horror movies just to create an excuse to be physically closer. But when that alone wasn't enough, they'd try to engage them in more zestful interactions—going to an amusement park, an aquarium, or something along those lines. Still, horror movies remained the most common choice.»
«I see… but don't you think that could end up being a little irritating? Both for others and for yourself?»
She tilted her head slightly before nodding. «Looking at it from that angle... yes, you'd have a point.»
«If that's the case, then I'm sorry, but I'm not particularly interested in trying it,» I replied, somewhat uncomfortable. «The idea of lurking in a corner, waiting for the perfect moment to scare someone, just for the sake of amusement, doesn't really appeal to me. I don't see myself doing something like that.»
How's that?! I used all my wits to rephrase my thoughts into softer tones of sucking, with the goal that this lady would not question my behavior again.
«There's more to it than just seeking attention or finding amusement in it. If I simply wanted attention, I'd just talk to people. Scaring someone elicits a genuine reaction—especially when, for a split second, they believe something weighty might actually happen to them.»
«Either way, I'd rather not do anything of the sort, thanks. Besides... is that how you flirted with my father?»
The absolute keenness with which she was trying to impart this knowledge of "frightening others" to me was growing increasingly difficult to wrap my head around.
The way she spoke about it with such certainty made me suspect she used to do it all the time in her youth. And, honestly, I didn't even want to begin imagining what Mr. Father of the Family must have gone through back then.
«Hmm…No, not necessarily,» she replied. «I was quite straightforward about my feelings for him. When I first saw him, I thought I had a chance—so I didn't hold back.»
«"Not necessarily," you say. So I am right, then?»
«Hmph…...May I?»
With a soft sigh, she extended her hand toward the plate of apples she had prepared, subtly gesturing for permission to take one of the slices.
I simply nodded, and with effortless grace, she picked one up and took a small bite. Then, speaking with her mouth half full, she continued:
«Yes, you're right as well. But I'd rather not have my own son picturing my younger self that way. It's embarrassing.»
«At least you're honest—»
«But, hem-hem!» She cut me off, clearing her throat. «Though there isn't much to clarify. No matter how you look at it, the conclusion remains the same—I was trying to get that person's attention. But back then, it was more than just that. It was a way to… leave an unforgettable mark.»
«...A mark?»
«Call it whatever you like, but it was, without a doubt, an indelible imprint—one he'd never be able to erase from his memory», she replied cryptically, finishing the last bite of her apple..
«So...Were you persistent with him?»
«Hmm, yes,» she admitted casually. «You see, when I was in college, my friend was hosting a study session with her classmates, and your father happened to be one of them. He was a charming young man, but I could tell he was rather… delicate. So, when I joined them, I made my introduction by catching him off guard—startling him from behind. He let out this ridiculous yelp—completely panicked. And after that, unexpectedly, we both just started laughing at how absurd it sounded. In hindsight, it was wholly unnecessary, but my young-self thought that without such an approach, he might never have spoken to me at all. Hence, in the end, the scare—along with the idea of someone flirting with him—worked to keep his attention on me.»
B-But...Isn't that just being a nuisance?! This woman is dressing up her youthful, cringeworthy antics with flowery justifications.
«And as I grew older, I came to understand that the art of connecting with others goes beyond fleeting thrills. It's about knowing when to steer a conversation into uncharted territory, when to subtly guide the narrative you create between the two of you.»
«"Guide the narrative"—wow. Was your past some kind of novel?»
«An individual's past can be seen as more of an art than a social science, much like history itself—less rigid than geography or political studies. And as for my own, I shaped it like cinema, because, quite simply, I wanted to live it as I pleased.»
Right. Someone cast her in the lead role of the next psychological thriller, please—she's got the monologue down.
«And when you know how to build an atmosphere,» she went on, «to craft a sense of wonder and moments designed with care, you can subtly influence another's thoughts and emotions, drawing them deeper into your world. Wouldn't you agree?»
That is precisely what I'm attempting, ma'am. My only obstacle—the one barricading my path forward—is, however, the looming possibility of being labeled a psychotic.
What would people think if I told them I came from another world? And yet, surprisingly, I've already begun to accept this reality without much resistance.
Perhaps it diminishes the story's realism, but do I truly care?
Returning to your point—could I ever persuade anyone, let alone a skeptical old woman, that I'm from another world? Is this what my mother meant when she spoke of persuasion?
No, I believe her advice was well-intentioned, something more along the lines of… youthful romance. It's just that I'm not naturally charming enough to pull it off.
Oops, haha, the irony! Considering I now have the looks and physique of a Dior model, it's hardly an anomaly.
But I'm quite certain, it's a fact that: from now on, I'll remain incapable of properly socializing with others, pretty face or not—because, at my core, I'm still the same outcast.
«Hmm… In the end, this is all about,» I mused, «crafting experiences and moments that leave uh, a mark on someone's life... right?»
«You're catching on. And it's those experiences, those moments, that forge bonds not easily broken.»
«Aha, I figured as much. Why are we even talking about this anyway?»
How many minutes has it been? I've lost count. What nonsense!
«I'm not quite sure,» she chuckled under her breath; «you chose to keep the conversation going, so here we are.»
«I didn't choose it quite directly; it just… came up naturally, I suppose.»
Still, I need to pivot away from this—veer off-course and shift my focus to something else, something of far greater significance.
And since we're already discussing how young minds entangle themselves within the social web of educational institutions, it's only fitting that I redirect the topic back to myself.
I must dig through the archives of my personal history, sift through the dust-covered recesses of my mucky brain, and unravel the enigma that now plagues me: what's the name of my high school?
Yes—I've somehow forgotten; completely. Because I don't remember a single damn detail of the game itself. A round of applause for me!
No, to be fair, I never cared enough to commit it to memory. I expected it wasn't relevant to the overarching story of the game; besides, we've already covered my selective approach to remembering things.
But now, the real question is: how do I subtly extract this information from my mother without outright admitting I don't know it?
«Uhm» I started, my voice trailing off. «So, changing the subject… uh, this might be a weird question, but… do you know what I'm like at school?»
I was resolute in my thoughts—my own conviction unwavering—but the moment I tested my boldness, I realized I had no idea how to phrase my question without unreservedly trampling on her maternal pride or implying that her son wasn't quite himself.
«…Yeah, that's definitely a strange question» she said, her expression tinged with confusion. «Shouldn't you be more aware of that than I am? Or are you planning to enlighten me on your own behavior?»
I screwed up. But there's no turning back now.
«Yeah, but… I feel like I'm not really "connecting" with myself, you know?» I explained. «Sometimes I do things without thinking, and apparently, I've done them rather unintentionally. It's almost like I've been experiencing some kind of derealization...amnesia, I don't know.»
«Amnesia?»
«N-No, not exactly. I just don't know how else to put it. Sorry.»
Truthfully, I hadn't come up with a better excuse.
At that moment, my mother's expression shifted. She regarded me with a hint of skepticism, as if testing the validity of my words:
«Honestly, I see what you mean. Right now—this is becoming redundant, and I'm getting quite tired of asking, expecting the same answer—you are acting a bit uncanny it's freaking me out,» she admitted. «It wouldn't surprise me if you went around making a fool of yourself without even noticing until hours later, but the fact that you're actually telling me about it? Now that's something else.»
«Ah, well…»
Yeah, this wasn't exactly working in my favor.
«If that's what you wanted to hear, I can tell you that you're definitely acting like one right now»
«W-What?!»
«Haha, I'm just messing with you,» she laughed right in my face. «I mean, why would you say that? But I guess that's just one of your little mysteries. So…In that case, do you know where the bathroom is, forgetful boy?»
Ah, damn it. Now I had to navigate this little mocking test of hers. Where would it be—downstairs or on the second floor?
«Upstairs,» I replied without hesitation.
«Oh dear, that sounds rather serious. Are you stressed again?» She remarked.
Fuck, I completely botched that. A pure gamble, and I lost.
«N-No, Mom! I was just playing around and asking for no particular reason, that's all.»
«Mm-hmm,» she hummed, squinting at me. «Don't joke around like that; you'll give me a headache.»
«Well, then I guess we're even. But do you actually have an answer for me?»
«For what?» She asked nicely.
«If you know how I'm at school.»
«I heard you. But to be honest, I'm not entirely sure how to respond.»
«Fair enough. Then at the very least, can you tell me what my favorite food is?»
«Is this some kind of quiz to gauge how close we are as a family?»
«Not really, just curious.»
«Well, I'm afraid I don't have a definitive answer for that either, son. You like way too many things for me to narrow it down to just one.»
Without realizing it, I had backed myself into a corner—or maybe it was just my own lack of judgment that had led me down this path.
In any case, my poorly conceived question had left me with nowhere to go—not to mention it had been way too rushed and incredibly stupid.
«Then… what about a dish I used to like as a kid?» I asked.
She sighed softly before murmuring:
«Hmm, well,» her free hand rose to her right elbow, gently wrapping around the joint as if anchoring herself in the moment. «I'd say… Takoyaki.»
«Ta-ko-y—Takoyaki, right! Yeah, yeah, yeah»
Takoyaki… what was that again? I struggled to remember; although the name sounded familiar, the image in my mind was frustratingly blurry.
If I focused a little harder… weren't they those little balls with octopus inside?
Yeah, I'm right. And just the thought made my mouth water—those delicious golden spheres, packed with succulent pieces of octopus, crispy on the outside and soft and fluffy on the inside... Pause.
«Yup», she said, her voice tinged with nostalgia. She tilted her head to the side, letting it rest in the cradle of her palm.
«I remember our trips to the summer festivals and how you used to tug at my yukata, pleading, "Mom, please, I need one." That was the first time I ever saw you so eager to eat something. You were quite the little glutton.» She chuckled. «And after making a complete mess of yourself just for that tiny indulgence, I kept debating how to scold you without looking downright evil.»
«Oh, really…? I don't remember,» I replied as sincerely as I could—conveniently choosing to ignore the punishment that young Takumi had no doubt been in for.
«Well, that was during our trip to Kyoto Prefecture, when the three of us stayed there for two months. You were just a little boy, about seven or eight years old. It's hard to remember every detail.»
«Yeah, you're right…»
«Do you want to hear more?» She queried breezily, picking up another slice of apple.
«Do I… want to?»
Yes. Yeah, I actually do. But—ugh! Come on, think, think. I need a game plan here. Open-ended conversations aren't exactly my forte, shit!
I glanced at the magazine I had been flipping through earlier, briefly debating whether to retreat behind its pages and dodge any further discussion. But no—that was a cop-out, and I knew it. I couldn't keep sidestepping genuine conversation.
If I wanted to handle this properly, I had to choose my words carefully. Mental note: next time, come prepared, because eight now I was completely improvising like an idiot. Perhaps, a sequence of small interrogations wouldn't be a bad idea—start small and build from there.
Should we talk about her life?
No, that wouldn't be my first choice. Not that I lacked curiosity, but at this moment, my priorities lay elsewhere. There would be time to uncover her story later. For now, the focus remained on me—on understanding my place within this unfamiliar world. Besides, she had already shared glimpses of her university days.
Okay, then what about our family?
That, however, was an even greater labyrinth. Our family—his family—could be vast, and given that Takumi was a descendant of two nations, it would be difficult to determine which branch to inquire about. Besides, who the fuck do I want to talk about: my cousins, my uncles? …Do I have a sibling?
I couldn't say for certain. And frankly, I wasn't about to put myself in the awkward position of asking, "Where is my lil bro?" only for my mother to look at me, bewildered, and inform me that I didn't have one; I'll just wait.
Then, her parents?
That would still be a subject within reach—though it would narrow the conversation down to just two individuals deeply connected to my mother.
Ah, yes, that could work! That seemed like an ideal starting point.
However, one crucial factor loomed over this decision: if she hadn't been particularly close to her parents, I would be adrift once more, left without any viable avenue to pursue. On the other hand, if their relationship had been warm and affectionate, she might have a trove of anecdotes to share, granting me the insights I sought.
A matter of fate, isn't it? Tch. To hell with fate—I detest it.
«What's the matter? You suddenly fell silent. Is there something on your mind, dear?» And just like that, she reclaimed my attention, pulling me back from my spiral of contemplation.
Feigning nonchalance, I replied, «Well, actually, yes…» I trailed off for a moment before continuing, «It just dawned on me that I hardly know anything about my grandparents here in Japan. I was wondering if you could tell me about them, given that, well… they are your parents.»
Now then—my grandparents here in Japan. Yes, the ones who, for all I knew, resided in somewhere I had yet to identify. Hence, my decision to ask my mother. Were they even still alive?
At once, her eyes sparkled with interest, an unmistakable glimmer of enthusiasm flickering to life:
«Oh?! Well now, that's an intriguing question. Lucky for you, my parents shared their stories with me when I was a child—tales that kept me captivated for quite some time. So, tell me, what exactly would you like to know about them?»
Ah, a stroke of luck. Whom should I thank for this fortuitous turn of events? God? Yes, let's go with that. Hallelujah!
As for her question… I certainly wouldn't want to start from the very beginning. The last thing I needed was an exhaustive chronicle of their births or their way of life, neither of which particularly interested me at the moment.
«Anything, really. What were they like? What did they do for a living? Because, well, considering how their influence has cultivated such a remarkably pedagogical intellect in you, it's clear they must have played a role in shaping your intelligence, Mother.»
That was the only thought that came to mind.
«Why, thank you!» She responded warmly.
«Don't worry, don't worry… So?»
«Let me reminisce for a moment…»
She gazed into the distance as if retrieving fragments of a long-buried past before refocusing her attention on me:
«My parents were pragmatic and industrious individuals, placing utmost value on diligence and discipline. My mother became a nurse at the tender age of eighteen—far too young, if you ask me—while my father served as a tax accountant at Kyno-Office's firm. And, well… as I grew up, I inevitably absorbed their steadfast work ethic and deep sense of responsibility. Nothing much.»
«Oh....!» I murmured, somewhat moved.
Certainly, It was evident that my mother had inherited far more than just material wealth from her parents: they had bestowed upon her the invaluable gifts of education and refinement, for everything about her demeanor exuded a cultured sophistication, one that spoke volumes of her upbringing.
«And what about you, Mom?» I pry, momentarily setting aside my prior doubts and discarded my empalened uncertainties. Once again, I'd returned to my habitual improvisation—what an absolute buffon I was. «When did you realize you wanted to pursue… the career you have?»
That lapse in judgment cost me. In my haste to feign familiarity, I'd overlooked a glaring issue—I had no idea what her profession was, nor did I possess the slightest clue about her academic background. My perception of her was based purely on her manner of speech.
«Hmph, I've always been intrigued by the field of communication and the intricacies of coordinating and managing others.»
Oh? Coordinating and managing others? Yeah, that tracked. There was an unmistakable air of dominance about her, an unspoken authority she wielded effortlessly, even without exerting any overt control.
Now then, what kind of profession would align with those attributes?
Clinical research coordinator? Director of education at a private university? Front-line supervisor for office personnel? Whatever the case, she undoubtedly seemed like the type to excel in a leadership position.
«Interestingly,» she continued, her lips curling into a self-assured, almost aristocratic smile. «During my high school years, I held the esteemed position of student council president—at the very same academy you currently attend. So, as you can see, my interests have been deeply ingrained in me since then.»
…Hold on.
«My what? My where? What High school?»
My brain scrambled to process the revelation, gears whirring as if I had just been handed a crucial puzzle piece in a game I didn't even know I was currently playing. Do I got it? Of course I got it!
«Honey, it's Seiritsu Academy, of course. Surely, you're not forgetting something as fundamental as that now, are you?»
I quickly composed myself and offered a sheepish smile. «Uh, no, of course not. I just... must have been momentarily distracted and misinterpreted your words, hehe.»
Smooth. Effortlessly executed. As planned.
…Or so I'd like to believe.
In truth, I had been inching dangerously close to outright asking for the name of my own high school, teetering on the edge of social suicide. But fate—or rather, my mother's reminiscence—had handed me the answer on a silver platter.
And now, I finally know the name of my school. Fuck yeah!
«In any case, that's something remarkable,» I declared with newfound enthusiasm, pushing myself up from my seat as if struck by divine inspiration. «I aspire to become a respectable student as well. Perhaps, one day, I might even consider joining the student council—just as you once did.»
For a fleeting moment, I expected some sort of proud affirmation, a nod of approval, or even a touch of sentimentality. Instead, she let out a soft chuckle.
«So fast, so fast. You're getting ahead of yourself, dear. Far too ahead,» she mused, her tone light yet laced with unwavering certainty. «Right now, I don't see even a shred of potential in you for such a role—and I say this with complete honesty.»
W-What the hell?
Her words landed with the impact of a well-placed gut punch. A mother's words are supposed to be nurturing, aren't they? Shouldn't she be my biggest supporter? Where was that gentle reassurance from before?
But then, just as my ego began to wither under the weight of her assessment, she smiled. Her tone like a lullaby:
«But don't worry. With time, you'll grow into the person you idealize yourself to be.»
Then, just as effortlessly, she shifted into something more composed, almost instructive. «However, do not delude yourself into believing that your worth inherently surpasses that of others.»
«...Okay»
And just like that, our conversation reached its conclusion. The final notes of our exchange carried a distinct bittersweetness—one that lingered in the air, though I suspect I felt it far more acutely than she did.
What had driven her to say something like that to her own flesh and blood? Even if spoken in jest, a mother's humor often springs from a place of truth rather than deception.
Regardless, once classes resume, I need to gather any information I can about this sunshine boy. Nevertheless, before I even begin that endeavor, I should first figure out exactly when we're supposed to return to the academy's hallways.
With a quiet sigh, I straightened up and declared, «Alright, I'm heading to my room.»
«Ah, ok,» she nodded, though her expression betrayed the slightest trace of concern.
Despite having just taken a jab at me moments ago, there was still that flicker of unease in her gaze. As if, beneath her composed demeanor, she couldn't quite suppress the innate worry she carried for me—her son.
What a contradictory woman.
But really, what else could I do in this situation? If anything, it was only fair to offer her a few reassuring words to ease her mind.
«Mom, I'll say it again—I promise you, I'm fine. What happened earlier was just me being a little overwhelmed. I won't pretend otherwise. It's true that there may be things I choose not to share with you, but when it comes to my well-being, I would never lie. That, I swear. Right now, I'm just going to rest in my room, alright? Maybe...read something too.»
For a moment, she simply looked at me—eyes filled with a blend of surprise and understanding—before her lips curved into a gentle grin.
«Alright, off you go! Go get some rest—shoo!» She declared, her hand sweeping through the air in a graceful yet dismissive gesture, as if swatting away an irksome fly.
And with that, I withdrew from her presence, ascending the staircase toward my room.
With an unhurried stride, I passed through the doorway I had so frantically dashed through earlier. My steps carried me to the bed, where, without the slightest ceremony, I surrendered myself to its luxurious embrace, collapsing onto it like a feather drifting gently to the earth.
My face, wearied by the so-called "efforts" of the day, pressed against the pillow. With resolute intent, I buried my face into it and rub against the soft fabric with a fervor that teetered on the edge of desperation.
However, after a moment of indulgence, a sense of restraint urged me to regain composure.
Then, as I languidly rolled onto my back, my gaze fixed itself on the ceiling, an instinctive impulse stirred within me, prompting to plunge my hand drifted over the mattress in search of certain object.
With practiced ease, my fingers stroking the cushion, locating for the familiar shape of the device. And, in the midst of my pawing and probing, I brushed against something hard and flat.
Intrigued, I traced its edges, my curiosity piqued and there was no mistaking it—it was none other than "my" phone.
I cradled the device in my palm, studying its sleek and polished design with mild fascination. Was it an iPhone? A Samsung?
Frankly, for someone my age, I'd never paid much attention to the nuances that distinguished one minimalist smartphone from another. My philosophy had always been simple—if it worked, that was good enough for me.
With a casual press of the power button, the screen flickered to life. No password, no pattern lock—just an unguarded invitation to access its contents. However, a notification popped up, prompting me to register a fingerprint. Was Takumi really this indifferent to the idea of someone else getting their hands on his phone?
As I navigated the device with a explorer touch, I found nothing out of the ordinary—just the usual lineup of pre-installed apps alongside a predictable trio: YouTube, TikTok, and the japanese Whatsapp: Line.
With an absentminded tap, and the first one that I saw, I opened the galery.
I glimpsed several neat folders with their respective designations such as: screenshots, outfits, Instagram, etc. Most of the images were the aforementioned outfits, meals with their recipes, some girls—but originating from a group chat—and there were also a few pictures of himself.
I knew it, I knew he was a narcissist!
However, a few screenshots had a logo that looked like it was taken from an application. Wh—What is this app? P-Pixiv? I saw it on the menu too, but I'll decipher it later.
Next up, it was the calendar. Why's the reason? Maybe, just maybe he wrote something in there, like an schedule.
To my surprise, a few entries were scribbled across its digital pages. But as expected, there was no shocking revelation awaiting me—just a predictable roadblock: everything was written in Japanese.
Yet, that didn't deter me. On the contrary, I was marveling once more at this inexplicable gift—the effortless comprehension of characters that should have, by all logic, eluded me.
One particular note caught my eye, dated February 14th: 「バレンタインデー!めっちゃ楽しみ!」Translated as: "Valentine's Day! Can't wait!"
…That's it? How childish; that woman was right.
Despite this fleeting glimpse of excitement, there were no other noteworthy entries—just a scattered mess of miscellaneous notes that drained my enthusiasm at the mere thought of deciphering them one by one.
Abandoning the app, I turned to the ever-reliable Google search engine, my fingers swiftly typing: Japanese high school academic calendar. My focus had now shifted to something far less trivial—returning to my studies.
Because, while today's date marked December 27th—the official center ground of the winter break—the more pressing question gnawing at my mind was: When does it end in here?
Delving deeper into my impromptu research, I navigate through an obscure, geek-oriented website. There, in meticulous detail, was a comprehensive list outlining the vacation periods of Japanese high schools.
According to the information at hand, winter break spanned from the final days of December through the first two weeks of January—after which classes resumed to conclude the academic year.
And, as I soon discovered, the new school year didn't begin in August, nor did it coincide with the end of winter break. Instead, it was scheduled to start in the second week of April.
Shit! From the looks of it, I would likely be forced to cancel a slew of meetings the real Takumi had arranged—so I extend my apologies in advance.
I also begrudgingly acknowledged another harsh reality: I'd be spending the rest of the year holed up within the confines of this house. My complete unfamiliarity with the local area made venturing outside a reckless and potentially disastrous endeavor.
Either way, I was already losing interest in attending high school.
What if some hidden code in my brain suddenly activated, and a faint cerulean holographic projection—visible only to me—appeared, assigning daily missions and rewarding me with experience points to level up or something?
Screw that. Home study sounds way better.