Mission: Theoretical Effect

"So. Now that we’ve gone over the five basic psychological needs, there’s only one important question left: What happens when one or more of these needs go unfulfilled?"

Takeshi stood in front of the blackboard, his hand, as always, in his pockets, and looked questioningly at the class. Some students seemed to be seriously thinking, while others stared out the window. A few students leaned back in their chairs, pencils dangling between their fingers.

Someone yawned, muffling it behind a sleeve. Outside, a crow cawed faintly from the sports field. The smell of chalk and detergent still lingered from the morning cleaning. The only sounds were the rustling of paper and the scratching of pens on notebooks. His gaze paused briefly when it landed on Ayaka.

Looks like my effort wasn’t in vain…

In front of her lay the open notebook Takeshi had left on her desk the evening before. A glance into her bag revealed that she was using the other notebooks as well.

After a few seconds, one student, Daisuke Okuma, shared his thoughts aloud. By now, all the students had grown used to not needing to stand up or raise their hands to speak. What mattered was simply that someone said something. Takeshi was aware that this made him a bit different from other teachers.

It’s good they adapted so quickly. Raising hands and standing up only causes anxiety, in my opinion. Better they speak freely than not at all.

"Uhm… they become unhappy?" Daisuke said.

"That’s true in most cases, but not always."

Katsuo Minamoto, Daisuke’s seatmate, had an idea too.

"Ah! They die!" he said jokingly.

A few students chuckled, while others looked confused. Katsuo looked to his friends for validation, smiling proudly.

"Sometimes…"

Takeshi’s dry reply carried more weight than expected. The air suddenly felt heavy, and the chuckling stopped immediately. Even some who had been gazing out the window now turned their eyes to Takeshi. The room grew quieter, broken only by the occasional sound of pages turning. Takeshi paused to let the students reflect. Some seemed to be doing just that.

"There’s a process when a need is lacking. First comes denial, then frustration. Eventually, you reach acceptance and isolation."

"Katou-sensei, could you give us an example? I’m having a hard time grasping this," another student asked.

"Sure. I once knew someone who trained his whole life to observe, to focus, and to be precise. He considered it an art, not a job. But eventually, he just filled out forms and applications, and no one cared what he was really capable of."

I’d better not mention he was one of the best snipers. He spent a lot of time at the range years ago. He taught me a lot. We even trained together from time to time.

A few seconds passed and no one had a response. The warm spring light filled the room, dappled with shadows of tree leaves. Chalk dust floated weightlessly in the air.

Self-actualization… do these students even know what that is? They’re shaped so completely by societal expectations. Pressure to perform, to conform, to equate success with numbers. But there’s so much more to life than that. You just have to try.

"Imagine… you’re creative, you want to draw, to build, to create. But you end up stuck in an office, standing at a copier all day."

"You get bored," Akio said calmly.

"Exactly. But it goes even further. What happens when you do the same thing every day and never feel like you’re capable of more, or deserving of more?"

One of the boys laughed quietly, not sure why. Another kept staring at the blackboard, as if the answer might be written there.

Ayaka gripped her pen a little tighter and cast a nervous glance around the room. Her voice was hesitant, barely audible, but Takeshi understood it clearly.

"…You go numb," Ayaka whispered, eyes lowered.

Takeshi looked over at her. The pink pen with a floral pattern he’d seen often on Shizuka’s desk in her hand.

So, she really did go to Maki-sensei… maybe I’ll find out what excuse she came up with.

Takeshi waited a moment until the scribbling of pens quieted down. Even though he told them not to write too much, they couldn’t stop. Maybe it was indoctrinated. An automatism you couldn’t get rid of. So he stopped trying.

"Absolutely right. Very good, Ikehara-san."

A surprised glance from Ayaka, and for a brief moment, their eyes met. A fleeting moment in which Ayaka felt seen.

Looks like you studied the notebooks I gave you…

She quickly looked back down at her notebook and began scribbling something down.

"The thing is, at some point you stop living and start just surviving. You lose yourself long before you even realize it."

They’re all still at the beginning of their lives. The earlier they understand what it means to miss a fulfilling life, the better. They are students. Children. Formed by their surroundings, by parents, by school. Start thinking about yourself.

Takeshi’s words lingered in the air for a few seconds. No one knew what to say.

The silence was finally broken by the school bell, and the usual bustle returned to the classroom.

As the students packed their things, Ayaka stayed seated for a moment, staring at her notes. Her lips moved slightly, whispering a word Takeshi couldn’t catch. When she finally stood, the sunlight fell over her face, and somehow it was still carrying a shadow.

Takeshi slipped his hands back into his pockets and left the room. He never carried any teaching materials. He always looked like everything was improvised.

Which, in truth, wasn’t far from the reality.

The distant laughter of other classes echoed through the corridor, unreal in its simplicity.

Unfulfilled needs. They never even notice until it’s too late.

As he walked back to the staff room, he looked outside the window, seeing some students on the track field. Running, laughing, lively.

He wondered how many of them would still look that alive in ten years, or if they’d become one of those lifeless salarymen, just pretending to be happy until they spiraled into endless exhaustion.

He didn’t know, and probably never will.

A rush of soft spring air danced around his nose. The sky was clear, the mountains were visible in the distance.

Soon the bell rang again and a new cycle began.