Chapter 29: Standing Between Confessions and Goodbyes

It was Christmas.

You, reader, how do you celebrate Christmas?

Cakes?

Wagyu beef?

House cleaning?

Paying debts?

It’s such a simple question to answer and some of us might have predetermined responses to it.

The more uncomfortable question though—what do you feel about Christmas celebrations?

Do you feel happier when you’re complete?

Or more content if you’re just alone?

I don’t consider myself as a victim of holiday blues, because I don’t really pay much attention about these kinds of events.

For me, it’s just another day to ask myself—do I survive tomorrow?

Ah, a mundane life, I guess.

“...”

I glanced down at the kotatsu’s worn-out blanket that still had the same melon bun crumbs from two nights ago. The sun rose lower than usual outside my window, casting warm light across the tatami floor, illuminating the untouched cup of tea that had long gone cold.

I sat cross-legged, shoulders hunched, pencil in hand, staring down at the creased notebook with more eraser smudges than usable space.

Balance remaining: ¥12,038.

If I skip breakfast and dinner alternately, that’s—let’s see—roughly 650 yen a day until New Year’s. The electricity bill was paid, but gas wasn’t. If I prioritized heat, I’d have to wash with cold water for a week. It was a simple trade.

A life made up of trades.

A sigh slipped past my lips.

Christmas, huh?

I pulled the kotatsu blanket higher over my lap. The small second-hand heater hummed softly beneath, warming my legs and almost tricking me into thinking this day was special.

The world outside probably shimmered with LED lights and overpriced cakes in bakery windows. Lovers walked hand in hand with matching mufflers. Little kids pointed at Santa-shaped balloons with the kind of excitement I hadn’t felt in years.

It must be nice—having someone to spend the holidays with. Even not romantically.

I remember my parents used to take me to a ramen shop every December 25. We didn’t have turkey or roast beef, but that bowl of soy broth tasted warmer than anything since.

They even promised to take me to a fantasy land park, but they left.

The past doesn’t usually visit me unless I’m stupid enough to invite it. But Christmas? Christmas doesn’t knock—it barges in.

I set the notebook aside, slumped backward and stared up at the ceiling.

“…Kousaka-san.”

Her name left my mouth without me realizing.

We weren’t exactly more than friends.

Yet there was something unspoken that remained between us.

It’s not a hidden contract, maybe just exclusivity.

We already walked together, sat beside each other, visited each other’s homes and shared silence.

Memories, even.

Then…something else that didn’t quite have a name yet.

If this were a normal life, I’d have bought her a gift.

But I wasn’t normal.

And twelve thousand yen wasn’t enough to pretend I was.

Still—I began to calculate.

Would a small hairpin be too weird? Or simple earrings? No, the gemstone propped in her ears seemed irreplaceable. A bracelet is a great choice. It’s simple, classy and customizable—I can choose a design that matches her golden hair and oceanic eyes.

But then—

Grrrrgh.

My stomach groaned in protest.

"...Right. Food."

So much for sentimentality.

I should fill my own stomach first before the wrists of others.

I grabbed my coat, slipped my cracked phone into my pocket, and trudged out the door.

The supermarket was unusually full.

A loop of holiday jingles played overhead, each one more annoying than the last. I stuffed earbuds in and opened the MeTube app, letting a cooking tutorial drone on as I skimmed shelves with the grace of a lost cat.

“Today we’re making classic French beef bourguignon! Perfect for winter nights and holiday tables!”

I paused.

Beef…what?

Borji…borgi…gwon?

Ah, I surrender.

“Rich red wine, tender stewed beef, pearl onions, carrots, bacon—slow-cooked to perfection!”

It sounded like something out of a foreign film.

Definitely not something my country’s tongue was used to.

Yet I was still curious what their delicacies taste like.

I pulled out my phone and stared blankly at the screen, watching the glossy pot simmer with herbs and red wine. My stomach twisted again.

These ingredients possibly aren’t even available in this market, but I pushed through.

For once, I wanted to experience her past—or at least, let her simmer her past.

This unpronounceable food recipe might have been on Amélie Fontaine’s recipe, and could’ve been in Kousaka-san’s dinner table before.

Not just on Christmas, but also on regular days her mother was present.

Stupid.

I knew it was stupid.

But my hands were already moving.

The carrots were thrown to the cart first.

I moved.

Beef shoulder.

Push again.

Everything followed soon.

Bacon slices. Tomato paste. Garlic. Red wine—well, red grape juice instead. It was close enough though a tenth of the original price. Mushrooms. Thyme. Bay leaf.

Each item felt like a risk.

Every clatter into the basket sounded like guilt.

By the time I reached the checkout, my hands were shaking. The bill flashed ¥3,612.

Almost a third of what I had left—for a dish I might mess up.

But I paid anyway.

I was stepping out into the cold with two full bags and a recipe I didn’t understand when someone stepped directly into my path, blocking my march with a clipboard.

There was a woman wearing a ponytail and glasses with constantly cheerful eyes behind it.

In my assumption, looking at her body proportion (should’ve been illegal) and face, she was around mid late 20s. She was quite stylish for a random office worker, seeing those leather boots and the scent of cinnamon and confidence.

“Hey, wait a sec—can I talk to you?” she said, tone casual, smile disarming.

“…Sorry?” I said, blinking.

She handed me a business card that read: Asahina Miyu, Seika Corporation Marketing Manager.

“I’m Asahina Miyu, a professional marketing and talent manager. We’re running a quick campaign for an energy drink brand and looking for faces that feel ‘real.’ Are you interested?”

I looked around, skeptical that it was just a stunt or worse, a prank.

No cameras, no extra lighting, no hidden microphones, just a DSLR hanging around her neck.

“…Are you sure you’re not mistaking me for someone else?”

“Nope,” she grinned. “You’ve got this tired-but-kind face going. Trust me, it’s perfect.”

“I think you’re overestimating me. I’m just—”

Before I could finish, she stepped forward and gently brushed up the bangs covering my forehead.

“See?”

She pulled a compact mirror from her pocket and held it up to me.

I stared.

For a moment, I didn’t recognize the reflection.

“…Oh.”

“Can’t doubt the expert. I’ve been in this field for nearly a decade.”

Without the shadows covering my forehead, I saw myself clearly. My jawline is sharper than I remembered. My hazel eyes—though half-lidded and dulled from sleepless nights—held a strange focus.

I can say that I look quite cool, not handsome.

Remarkable? Much more accurate.

“You’ve got good lines,” she said. “You just hide them. All we need is a shot of you holding the drink. We’ll do the lighting and editing.”

“…Why me?”

“Because people will believe you. You look like someone who works hard. That’s what sells now.”

Excruciatingly accurate.

She tapped the clipboard again.

“Just ten minutes. Talent fee’s ¥30,000.”

Thirty thousand.

My eyes widened slightly.

With that, I could buy Kousaka-san something more meaningful. Or afford a brand new space heater that didn’t wheeze every night. Or even get the real beef bourgie ingredients next time—maybe even wine.

I gripped the bags a little tighter.

“…There’s no catch?”

“None,” she said, her tone flat and honest. “Just hold the drink and look away from the camera. That’s all.”

A candid shot for a bunch of cash, in simple terms.

The part of me that wanted to disappear said no.

But the part of me that wanted to give her a gift, to eat something warm again, to stand up straight and not feel like I was falling apart—

“…Alright,” I said. “Let’s do it.”