Chapter 3: Eightieth June

Shit.

That was the first fully formed thought in my head as the early morning sunlight clawed at my eyes like a set of finely sharpened knives. I’d forgotten to close the curtains when I stumbled in last night, completely wasted.

It was June 1st, 2019.

I was sprawled across my bed wearing nothing but my wrinkled, half-open white shirt and a pair of boxers. I hadn’t even bothered to pull a blanket over myself. The only warmth came from Roku, curled up on my chest like a living space heater.

My head was spinning, and nausea hovered dangerously close—just one wrong breath away from disaster. But I was pragmatic. I’d lived through this exact kind of morning a thousand times. Probably more. So I didn’t let myself linger in the misery. I got up, mechanical and numb, and trudged to the shower.

When I stepped out, towel around my waist, I checked my phone.

Still early. I’d barely slept three or four hours.

A dozen messages from my friends, some with blurry photos from last night. I didn’t bother opening them. I’d seen every version of those photos over the decades—different outfits, same jokes, same faces, same outcomes.

I set my phone back down on the bathroom sink and finished drying my hair.

A few seconds later, it started vibrating.

That was odd. The Sunday alarm should have gone off long ago, and even if not, I’d disabled it before passing out. I frowned and looked at the screen.

A voice memo in my calendar.

Right. I’d left myself a message. I couldn’t remember precisely why, but I remembered the feeling: this might matter. And after eighty years of almost nothing ever mattering… that alone was enough reason to tap play.

The audio was terrible. Just pounding club music, chaotic noise, and my own drunken mumbling. I cringed instantly.

God. Why did past me decide to immortalize this?

I was about to hit pause and delete the whole embarrassing thing when a familiar voice pierced through the chaos—loud, slurred, but clear enough:

“Naoki! Already talking to some chick? Leave some for the rest of us!!”

I froze.

That was it.

My friends were encouraging me to hook up with someone last night. That had never happened. Not once. Not in eighty repetitions.

It wasn’t just a random comment. It was out of character. Out of pattern. Out of script.

My pulse sharpened—just slightly, like a faint echo of the excitement I used to feel when life still surprised me.

Could it be an anomaly?

It had been decades—no, lifetimes—since anything unpredictable had happened. Eighty first days, eighty first weekends, eighty cycles of the same emotional collapse, the same world, the same everything.

But this… this was different.

I wasn’t stupid enough to feel hope. Not after all this time.

But I also wasn’t stupid enough to ignore the first crack in the endless repetition of my existence.

I knew how to meet women. Hell, after eighty years repeating the same life, I knew exactly which women I would meet, what they liked, what they hated, which jokes landed, which didn’t. I’d been able to charm almost anyone I wanted—just by using information I technically never should have had.

But that wasn’t enough anymore.

I’d done all that. Out of boredom, out of lust, out of ego, out of loneliness… dozens of times. Repeating it again felt pointless, like playing a videogame with cheats on after clearing it a hundred times.

If I wanted even the smallest chance at a different outcome, I couldn’t keep doing the same things.

And then it hit me:

Dating apps.

That’s what my friends had told me last night.

I’d never used one. Ever.

They’d been popular for six or seven years by that point—peaking, even—but I’d always been too busy. My first loop of 2019, I was drowning in the fallout of my divorce. And in every loop afterward… well, being trapped in an endless repetition of the same year tends to overshadow the idea of online dating.

Or maybe it was the opposite. Maybe I’d had all the time in the world to try it, and simply hadn’t cared.

But now? With the tiniest possibility—a microscopic anomaly—floating in my reality?

Suddenly the possibilities felt… well, not infinite. But less predetermined.

Alright, Naoki. Don’t get your hopes up. Stay grounded.

I told myself that repeatedly.

This doesn’t mean a damn thing. It doesn’t guarantee any change.

But I could try.

So I made a profile, picked what I hoped were decent pictures, and dove in.

Utter disaster.

Three weeks passed.

Sure, I matched with a few women, but I couldn’t connect with anyone. Not enough to even schedule a coffee. My conversations fizzled into awkward politeness. Nothing flowed.

Okay, I wasn’t a prodigy at talking to strangers through a screen—but I wasn’t that bad either.

Come on, I thought. I’ve literally courted royalty-level personalities in past loops. What is this?

Maybe I hadn’t found the right spark.

Maybe the “change” I imagined was just that—my imagination.

One morning before work, exhausted and fed up, I snapped.

Screw it.

I opened the app and swiped right on every single profile without even looking.

One after another.

Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.

Until I ran out of likes.

To hell with it.

What a stupid waste of time.

I’m deleting this crap, I decided.

But then my phone alarm went off, kicking the app out of view.

Shit—late for work.

I’ll delete it later, I told myself.

The day passed. I forgot about the app entirely.

Until I got home that night, picked up my phone from the counter, and saw it:

A new message.

From someone named “Maru.”

Maru… circle.

I almost laughed.

If this really was my last attempt to push the universe—just a little—

then meeting someone named “Circle” felt strangely poetic.

Fine.

If destiny wanted to play games with me, I’d play along.

I opened the message.