Freja vs. the Konbini Egg Sandwich – Complete Defeat

The next day at school felt like a sequel to yesterday’s chaos, but with extra subtitles. I mean, Freja had only been here for 24 hours, and already the class was still buzzing like she’d dropped in from another planet. Which, technically, she had—Sweden might as well be a fantasy world compared to our Tokyo suburb. Daiki was already updating his imaginary “crush meter” on a scrap of paper, scribbling something about “Hibiki: 2, Freja: 5” after our konbini adventure. I ignored him, but deep down, I couldn’t deny that walking her home had felt… nice. Not date-nice. Just… helpful-nice.

Morning classes dragged on as usual. Math with its endless equations, history with dates I could never remember. Freja sat next to me, her notebook filled with precise, angular handwriting that looked like it belonged in a museum. Every now and then, she’d lean over and whisper a question in that formal Japanese of hers. “Hibiki, what is ‘Meiji Restoration’?” or “Why does the teacher say ‘desu’ so much?” It was cute—er, endearing. Like watching a puppy try to figure out stairs.

By lunch, the Three Girls Squad was trying to adopt her as their new member. Aiko was showing off her bento, Miko was giggling about Freja’s braid, and Yuko was asking about Swedish boys. “Are they all tall and blonde like you? Kyaa, imagine!”

Freja smiled politely, but I could see the overwhelm in her eyes. “Not all. My brother Noel has brown hair. He is… short for Sweden.”

The squad erupted in more “kyaa”s. I focused on my karaage, pretending not to listen. But then Freja turned to me. “Hibiki, yesterday’s konbini was fun. Can we go again? I want to try more things.”

Daiki choked on his rice from behind. “Again? Bro, that’s date number two!”

“It’s not a date!” I hissed, feeling my ears burn. Kisaragi Miu glanced over from her desk, her perfect eyebrows raised just a fraction. I wonder what's up with the class idol?

“Sure,” I said to Freja, keeping it casual. “After school?”

“Hai! Arigatou.” Her smile was like sunlight on a snowy day—bright and a little blinding.

After the final bell, we headed out under the budding cherry trees. The konbini chime greeted us like an old friend. Freja’s eyes lit up again, scanning the shelves. “So many colors! What is this?” She picked up a pack of Umaibo sticks.

“Snacks. Corn puffs with flavors. Try the cheese one.”

She nodded eagerly, adding it to her growing pile. We wandered the aisles, me explaining stuff like a tour guide. “That’s oden—hot soup stuff. Good in winter.” “Microwave bentos for quick meals.” “Magazines—uh, don’t look at those ones.”

Then we hit the sandwich section. Freja froze, staring at the plastic-wrapped triangles. “Sando? Like my lunch?”

“Yeah, but Japanese style. Egg salad’s popular. Want one?”

“Hai! Egg sando.” She grabbed one, examining it like an artifact. “In Sweden, we have smörgås with eggs, but open. This is… closed?”

“It’s for easy eating. Let’s buy it and try outside.”

I paid—again, my treat—and we found a bench near the school park. The air was crisp, with a hint of the sakura trees' scent. Freja unwrapped the sandwich carefully, her long fingers precise. She took a big bite, and… disaster struck.

First, the egg salad squirted out the sides like a volcano. A glob landed on her uniform skirt. “Ah!” She froze, mouth full, eyes wide.

I stifled a laugh. “You gotta hold it tight. Like this.” I demonstrated with my own onigiri.

She swallowed, nodding seriously. “Tight. Wakatta.” Second bite—better, but then she hit the crust. Her face scrunched up. “Chewy? Is this… bread?”

“Yeah, soft white bread. What’s wrong?”

“In Sweden, bread is hard. Rye. This is like… cake?” She poked it, and more filling oozed out. “Oh no!”

Now egg salad was on her fingers. She licked them absentmindedly—totally normal in Sweden, I guess?—but here, it looked… well, my brain short-circuited. Daiki would never let me live this down if he saw.

“Here, napkin.” I handed her one, trying not to stare.

“Tack—arigatou.” She tried to wipe, but smeared it worse. “This sando is fighting me.”

“It’s winning,” I teased. “Freja: 0, Egg Sandwich: 1.”

She pouted—a real, honest pout that made her look less like a princess and more like a regular girl. “No fair. Retry!”

She attacked again, squeezing too hard this time. The whole thing exploded—egg everywhere, on her chin, her braid, even a speck on my shoe. The bench looked like a crime scene.

“Complete defeat,” she declared, staring at the mess. Then she burst out laughing, a clear, bell-like sound that echoed throughout the park. I joined in, because how could I not? It was ridiculous.

We cleaned up as best we could, using all the napkins. “Next time, onigiri,” I said. “It's Easier to handle.”

“Hai. Onigiri is friend. Sando is enemy.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief.

As we walked back, she slipped into Swedish for a moment, muttering something like “Dumma smörgås.” I didn’t ask.

Daiki ambushed me at the station. “Saw you two laughing like idiots. Crush meter: Freja 10, Hibiki 5. You’re doomed, man.”

“Shut up.”