Chapter 3: Mitarashi Dango (Part 1)

The next morning, everything went back to normal. Or at least, the kind of normal I was used to. The fever broke when I woke up around dawn, and I was glad because I really thought that yesterday was my last day.

But thankfully, I didn’t.

I remembered everything. Kousaka-san, the golden bombshell, just barged into my room and played Florence Nightingale in Shonan High School uniform. We bickered over nonsensical arguments about who crossed borders first, ate meals until everything became blurry and I fell back to sleep. I had no idea if I took the medicines she brought for me before that, well, who knows. If I'm already doing well now, it makes the question answered.

There was nothing unusual that happened throughout, as far as I can remember. It was a straight deep sleep. I don’t usually experience that knowing that I don’t easily let my guard down. I’ve had enough stories about violence and burglary on TV to know that the best way to get cautious people like me was always through us sleeping.

My parents slipped out that way, right?

But that’s it—I slept really well in her presence, notwithstanding the danger it could possibly bring. By the time I woke up, the apartment was already cleaned up, and even the meals I didn’t finish yesterday were gone.

Garbage bags? Disposed.

Kitchen? Shining.

Furniture and items? Still complete.

Keys? In my pockets.

Her presence? Gone.

I tried checking the corners if she left something, a note at least, saying “thank you for letting me break into your apartment and insult your life situation.”, but there was none.

I just wanted to know what time she left or if she made it home safely.

The final train of thoughts led me to pull out my decaying phone and as expected, there were no messages at all.

“I don't have her LINE number…” as I shook my head.

Why did I even imagine that in the first place?

It’s not like getting something as divine as her contact number is easy. In my head, the plan is simple. Step 1: Walk over. Step 2: "Hey, can I get your LINE?" Step 3: Profit. But in reality, the physics of the situation are much more complex.

If I approach her, I’m initiating not just a conversation but a high-stakes gamble where the currency is my remaining dignity. If Kousaka-san says yes, I have to actually message her. That’s a whole new saga of "how many dots do I use?" and "is this emoji too aggressive?"

If she says no… well, I suppose I could always transfer schools. Moving to a different prefecture seems like a reasonable response to a mild rejection.

“…Right. Enough of that,” I muttered and dragged my feet to the kitchenette. I’m cleaning up instead to distract myself from these stupid thoughts.

I decided to knot the curtains and saw the sun finally out for this day. It drenched my room in a warm light, exposing the truth about my setup.

My apartment wasn’t clean. It was simply less dirty than yesterday. Kousaka-san’s insults weren’t that hard but it managed to echo today.

With a sigh of defeat, I rolled up my sleeves.

For someone who used to live alone for a long while, this was the state of living I have preferred. There wasn’t any need for anyone’s help with anything. I only cared about the primary chores, and the rest of my free time was put into more important activities. I never really got called out for it anyway so I didn't put much thought into changing it.

However, I didn’t realize how dreadful it was in the outside world. Now that somebody other than me bore witness to my way of living, I think I had to adjust accordingly.

Her presence brought me to consciousness, and the truth didn’t sit well with me. I had to do damage control—because the last thing I needed was for the girl who fed and took care of me to have the thought that I like living in a house of filth. She might raise the idea that I'm not independent, living alone but can't do any chores, worse yet—unhygienic—and that's unacceptable.

I started with the futon, throwing the old and damaged cover into the apartment dumpster. When I lifted it, it threw me to a hell of a coughing fit. The dust motes it released was more like a cloud of death and destruction.

I just said to myself that it’s much better than Kousaka-san actually doing it for me. I dragged it out in the open, dusting it off along with the carpets.

Next task, the floor beneath. I wiped them until no grime was visible. When it dried, I swept it with the broom I just borrowed from Mikoto-san, our landlady.

“Cleaning again, Itsuki-kun?” she said playfully, peeking over the door.

"Well… you can say that. I woke up earlier than intended and I just felt like it."

I didn't even say that there was a random Frenchwoman who slapped me with the unsettling fact I treated all along as normal.

"Oh...? That's unusual. Are you sure you're okay?"

Of course she couldn't be more worried about me, after having her own experience and getting used to my routines. But I couldn't help but feel a little embarrassed.

I smiled, "Yeah, I'm alright. I got a mild cold yesterday but I'm doing well now."

“Oh, boy. Don't overdo yourself, okay? You always said you weren't, but I can see it on your face.”

My tiredness, as it always surfaced on my face?

Oh, right. I remember looking at myself in the mirror yesterday and thinking, 'I have these bags under my eyes again...'

No matter how often I reassured Mikoto-san that this was the exact opposite of what she’s thinking, it will never be accepted completely. But hear me out, saying no to work is easy, but what if that’s the person’s only option? Their only source of income? Would they trade the bad chain reaction of having no money for a few days rest?

Of course not, at least for me.

So I conceded, nodding with a smile.

“I’ll try my best to save up energy, I think.”

She sighed softly.

“No worries, Itsuki-kun. I just don't wanna see you lose all of your youth just because you’re always overworking yourself."

I snorted quietly at her. Her worry was ridiculous, honestly. I'm not some weak little girl who needs someone to hold me on their lap 24/7. But then again, this is just Mikoto-san being herself.

The autumn wind picked up, a bit stronger than usual, and I heard a small thud just outside the hallway.

Mikoto-san’s eyes darted towards it, and given how she reacted, she seemed piqued by the sight as well.

…The freaking futon.

“…Um,” she began cautiously, “did something happen to your futon cover?”

I froze, and my face fell.

I threw it out in the hallway, and expected no-one to see it. A masterclass of logic, Shimizu.

“Oh… that.” I rubbed the back of my neck, suddenly fascinated by the shining floor. “It’s kind of… a bit older than me and reaching the end of its lifespan.”

“My, you're such a carefree young man, aren’t you?”

"Yeah, because I thought leaving it just rotting was acceptable before."

She laughed politely—one of those small, motherly “oh dear” laughs meant not to hurt my feelings. Not that I’ll take it personally though.

“If there’s anything you need, just ask me, okay?”

Yes, here comes the elephant in the room. Might as well ask now, before she tells the other tenants I slept on bare mattresses.

“Um, Mikoto-san,” I called out, voice dropping awkwardly low.

“Yes?”

“Do you—by any chance—have a spare futon cover? It's just temporary until I buy a new one.”

My eyes flailed left and right in embarrassment. She just smiled as if already expecting the question.

“Of course, dear. I have several since my nephews come over sometimes. What color do you want?”

“Anything that doesn't involve too cutesy or flashy designs, I guess?”

I don't want to see superheroes or whatnot below me when I sleep. It's just unsettling.

She smiled warmly. “Leave it to me. Wait here.”

As she headed back to her unit, I groaned into my hands. I couldn’t believe that I would ask others for such a simple thing like a futon cover.

At this point, if anyone else showed up to fix my life, I am just going to go back to bed.

***

Shonan High School grounds wasn't the exception of 'normal' too. I came earlier than everyone else.

No—I’m not trying to appear as a model student, if you’re going to ask me. Greeting my classmates in the morning was an energy expenditure I simply couldn't afford. Besides, I hardly knew most of them anyway. Memorizing faces was easier than memorizing formulas, but interacting with them was infinitely harder. I’d rather use my little social battery for what truly mattered: dealing with the afternoon rush at the dango stall.

That was the extent of my ambitions.

I went to my seat like a compass finding north. It welcomed me with its familiar creak, and I sat down, burying my face in my arms to avoid eye contact with the handful of diligent students trickling in. In no time, the classroom was filled with voices of idle chatter.

Like every day, I could feel the stares of some people boring into my back, and I shrugged off their attention. Technically, I was still a stranger to my classmates except for one. Aside from what I told them on the day we introduced ourselves to class, they have yet to get to know me, which is a little troubling considering I've spent the last two years observing them from afar.

"He's still not speaking to us, as usual."

"Hahaha. You don't need to mind. Shimizu's always like that, just like Kousaka. They're famous for it."

"You’re saying they're popular, huh?"

"In a bad way..."

"Fufufu, really. Even if it's true, they should be a little nicer to their classmates."

"Maybe he isn't comfortable with strangers around him?"

"Strangers? It's already the second semester..."

The hushed murmurs from the two boys next to me turned into chuckles and melted away soon enough. My head stayed buried in my arms for another moment longer before I lifted them to face the classroom, feeling a bit awkward after being the subject of a conversation.

Why would I need to speak to anyone? It's a question most of them probably might find audacious. Communication is essential for survival—at least that’s what every teacher since kindergarten has preached like gospel. Humans are social creatures. They need others. They thrive in conversation, in connection, in the vast and messy web of “being known.”

But that’s only half the truth. I’ve proven, quite thoroughly, that a person can live without it. Almost two years of school without talking to anyone? I did it.

Talking feels… unnecessary. Like adding decorative buttons to a coat that already works perfectly fine. Sure, it looks nicer, but does it keep you any warmer? Does it make the walk home any shorter? Does it cure hunger, or pay rent, or stop the decline of competency in the country?

If not, then what’s the point? What would I even say to them?

I tried to sigh to relax. If the universe sees isolation as a bad practice, then I hope that something happens that will change it once and for all.

And in the event I closed my eyes, heavy footsteps closed in from the front.

BANG!

Something slammed onto my desk with enough force to kick my soul out of my body for a full second. The classroom itself hushed, too.

When I opened my eyes, there was a figure towering over my desk: Yuuya Shoichi, glaring at me with those piercing eyes of his. He's our resident punk along with some of his lackeys. Ironically enough, even though he's most known for starting school-wide brawls and suspension, most of the girls actually find him as a heartthrob.

I can't blame them though, he actually possessed that sharp jawline, defining aquamarine eyes and a carefully bleached hair. For those who know his antics will call him out as a delinquent and problem child, and for those who don't, he might get mistaken for a classroom representative. He also excels in athletics, especially after his performance last year, where his gang of four nearly blew up the gymnasium during the PE competition.

“Oi, Shimizu,” he started.

He leaned forward, hand still pressed on my desk like he owned the wood it was made from. His foot tapped impatiently, his earrings jingling, mouth piercing glinting.

“What?”

His eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“That’s my line. Heard that you were selling dango at Yuenchi where Kousaka sits to draw."

Suddenly, all of the classroom’s eyes were on me.

Ah, yes. The big bully plays with his favorite victim again. For so long that we lived in that kind of routine, he picked the worst time to start questioning my life.

I sighed.

“We're just existing in the same place, nothing more, nothing less.”

Yuuya scoffed, incredulous. “Don’t play dumb, man. How could you restrain yourself from taking advances to a beauty of that level?” He waved his hand as if to dismiss my reasoning, before talking again with that venomous voice of his. “Especially now that you're someone who has the honor of standing right beside her.”

“…We have yet to exchange sentences, actually.”

“Enough crap!” he barked, slamming the desk again. “I’m serious, Shimizu. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

He leaned closer—his tall shadow swallowing my figure whole. “You, standing next to her? Sharing umbrellas in the rain? That’s practically dating, even if you asked these maggots around us.”

With such a loud declaration, the classroom started murmuring amongst themselves.

I'm already busted, I guess, and the rumors will start spreading like wildfire sooner or later. I wonder how I can defend myself though...

“I shared the umbrella,” I corrected, “because Kousaka-san would’ve frozen to death. And I didn’t want a corpse near my stall. Bad for business.”

His eyes twitched. “You think this is funny?”

“Not really. I’m just telling the truth. Besides, I’m sick of getting interrogated for breathing in public.”

For a moment, he seemed thrown off. My honesty had short-circuited his aggression.

“You piece of crap!” He grabbed my collar, yanking me forward. “You talkin’ back to me or what?!”

Wonderful. The classic delinquent approach. A timeless tradition passed down through generations of idiots. And now, I'm face to face with the leader of the said idiots.

“Listen here, you redhead.” he growled, lifting me slightly from my seat, “I’ve been trying to get close to Kousaka for months. And then you—you, the guy who hasn’t spoken five sentences to anyone since middle school—just wander into the picture?”

“Wrong,” I wheezed, “you’re wandering into my picture.”

His grip tightened. “You’re gonna tell me exactly what’s going on or I’ll beat you again to a pulp.”

“I already did. Nothing’s going on between us. If you’re that curious, why don’t you try talking to her yourself? Might work, might not. Gambling is healthy in small amounts.”

His face twisted like I’d insulted his intelligence—which, to be fair, didn’t take much.

“Don’t screw with me!”

“I’m not. I’m inviting you to try your luck, as a public service.”

“You—!” he began, cocking a fist slightly as if preparing to escalate.

Before he could decide whether to punch me or use me as a mop, a gust of cold silence swept across the room. It wasn't of some heroic teacher appearance, but because a golden trail appeared in the entrance.

Kousaka Akari.

Well, as usual, she walked into class fifteen minutes later than intended, headphones in, passing through our classmates with the same practiced indifference she wore like armor.

In the thawed atmosphere that settled, Yuuya froze. A bead of sweat slid from his temple.

“O—Oh! Kousaka-san!” he smiled, suddenly civilized. “Good morning!”

She didn’t respond. She also walked past us, slumped to her seat next to the window, and spun her chair around like a bored office worker—detached, uninterested and unreachable. She untied her golden hair with flair, and started scratching her sketchpad and put the walls on her domain.

But Yuuya didn’t get the hint. The man was biologically engineered to not understand that once she started sketching, she's already untouchable.

“H-Hey, uh…” He stepped toward her, puffing his chest. “About yesterday—at the park—I-I mean, you know, that thing—well, not a thing, but like, something happened that could have been a problematic matter, if, y’know, the timing wasn’t weird, because that loser over there didn’t decide to show up with his stupid dango sticks—”

The scratches stopped. And just by looking at Kousaka-san's sharpened eyebrows, I know that this won't go well for Yuuya.

She slowly turned her head just enough to look at him with an expression that could’ve frozen magma.

"Would you spare me some courtesy and shut up instead, mophead?"

"Uh… well… I'm just curious, you know?"

“…What about it? I didn’t give you the right to be curious about me.”

Yuuya flashed a forced smile. “I know… but you were so close to Shimizu. That’s not like you. You belong in the circle of bright and popular guys like me so… he, uh… he said it wasn’t anything, so I just wanted to confirm with you—”

“No,” she cut sharply.

He blinked. “No…?”

“Je ne veux pas d’insectes comme toi autour de moi.”

“Eh? And it means?”

“I don’t explain myself to strangers.”

A collective 'ooooh' resonated in the classroom, but as both of us turned to them, most of my classmates were already pretending to study. They wouldn't want to be caught in Yuuya's crosshairs.

“S-Strangers? We’re classmates!”

“Are you even my classmate? To me, you're nothing better than a cockroach.”

He opened his mouth, ready to fire back, but she didn’t give permission.

“In fact, talking to you right now is already more interaction than I’m willing to spare.”

Yuuya stood frozen like a statue carved out of embarrassment. But Kousaka-san wasn’t done. She stood up, took two steps forward, and delivered the finishing blow:

“And stop assuming you understand anything by watching from the sidelines. You'd misinterpret, of course. That's how the head works when someone doesn't have the brain cells to process raw information.”

Aw, that sucks. I felt that one from my desk even though I wasn't the target.

She huffed one last time, returned to her seat, pulled her sketchbook and drew again, perfectly composed throughout the process. Yuuya, on the other hand, was struggling to hold onto what remained of his pride.

He tried again. Because apparently humiliation hadn’t hit his daily quota.

“K-Kousaka-san… I just—I mean—I wasn’t trying to accuse you or anything. I just thought maybe we could—uh—hang out? Walk home or something?”

“Do I look unemployed enough to spend time on morons like you? Get a grip of yourself.”

That was it. Kousaka-san already verbally cremated a man twice her size.

He backed away, face burning red.

“Tch—Whatever. I wasn’t serious anyway, enjoy your little wallflower life.”

His frustration flared up as he kicked the leg of my desk hard enough to make my pens jump. “And I’m not done with you, Shimizu.”

Our eyes met for a brief moment before he stomped out of the classroom.

I finally let out the breath I’d been holding. It's not like I would be taunted inside school premises anyway. Even so, I wouldn’t let myself emotionally invest in his pointless tantrums.

I had better things to do.

***

Eventually, the first period started without a hitch, with our social studies teacher unaware of the unstoppable force and the immovable object clashing just earlier. I kept my eyes glued to the board, not daring to turn to look at Yuuya. If I did, I knew it wouldn’t end well. He’d probably just throw me off the classroom and scream at my guts, and I could only vividly imagine what kind of violence he’d do afterwards.

After that, our teacher handed out our respective assignments with little ceremony. The papers were distributed neatly to our desks by Kuroda Chiya, Tsurugi-san's vice. He was nice and all, but he wasn’t a particularly charismatic student. Or, at least, that’s how I saw it at first glance. He was probably just after Tsurugi-san's steps like an assistant manager.

"This is to be submitted next week..." as he pointed at the stack in front of me. I thought that ended there, but he placed another stack beside it. My eyes scanned the papers quickly out of curiosity, but contrary to my expectations, it was just the same thing.

"And..." he continued, as if mustering his courage.

I raised an eyebrow. “There’s more?”

He shook his head. “No, um—it’s just that… these are for Kousaka-san. Could you… pass them to her?”

I don't know if it was just the air conditioning or my body completely lost all of its temperature. I want to say nothing but 'Damn you, Yuuya!' for making this situation inevitable.

“Why me?”

"Um..." His eyes darted around the classroom, probably eyeing for someone to vouch him. However, the students that he landed his sights on visibly stiffened after the mention of her name. Others looked away entirely, it didn’t take a genius to read the mood.

“Well… you know how everyone is still a little…” He struggled for the right word, then settled on, “...uneasy. Not just about what happened earlier but you know, a month ago. After that, nobody wanted to bother her. Or, um, hospitalized.”

I could only stare at him as everything started to make sense.

“…I’m not exactly her common denominator, you know.”

“I know, I know,” he whispered hurriedly. “But out of everyone here, you’re the one she’s—well—not hostile to.” He gulped. “At least, not visibly.”

Denial won't do justice either. Chiya just gently nudged the stack closer to me like it was a cursed artifact he wanted to sever ties with immediately.

“So… if you don’t mind,” he said, forcing a hopeful smile, “could you help me out just this once?”

“I can't.”

“Please! I'm begging you!”

Another excessive use of that damned magic word. Sometimes, I think it sucks for humans to be obligate gregarious animals.

In my head, the variables of Politeness Theory began to map themselves out like a complex geometric proof. If I refused now, the social cost—the damage to my own 'negative face' as a semi-decent human being—would outweigh the sheer annoyance of the task itself.

It was an inefficient use of my emotional energy. It was a trap. And yet, the logic was sound.

I glanced toward Kousaka-san's direction.

Lucky me, the designated social sacrifice.

I sighed. “…Fine.”

The relief on Chiya’s face was so intense he nearly bowed. “Thank you, Shimizu! I—I owe you.”

“You owe me dinner, then.”

“Please remind me so I can cater to my promise. Not now though, I'm quite short on budget…”

“Noted.”

Then he scurried away like he had narrowly escaped a natural disaster.

I looked at the twin stacks in front of me. Now I was the postal service for a delinquent artist, great.