Chapter 27: Shadows of the Past

I have been called by names that were never truly mine. And since that day, I’ve learned that laughter can be a knife—gliding slowly, yet cutting with surgical precision.

The university park was deserted that afternoon. I sat on an old wooden bench, the green paint on its backrest peeling away like dead skin. My hands were still trembling. It wasn’t the cold; it was that sentence echoing through the hollow chambers of my mind.

“...I will destroy everything you hold dear.”

I let out a dry, mirthless laugh. It was ironic. I was the one who had been destroyed first.

The evening breeze brushed past, soft and indifferent. And as usual, the memories arrived without invitation. Reminiscence always behaves like a shadow: invisible when you're searching for it, but ever-present the moment you lower your guard.

Hoshikawa Junior High. The name sounded like a birthplace for stars. But for me, it was merely a three-story prison of long corridors and laughter that was never kind.

My real name is Mayonaka Nozomi. It means "Hope in the middle of the night." But in that school, my name sounded more like a punchline.

I remember opening the classroom door. Business as usual. "Look, she’s here," someone whispered. "Go on, call her." "Mayonnaise!"

The laughter erupted instantly. The back row cheered. A girl stood up, a small bottle of mayonnaise in her hand. She walked toward me, holding it high like a trophy. "Hey, is this your sibling?"

Desks were drummed. Chairs scraped. Laughter saturated the air. I stood at the door, my bag still over my shoulder. I didn't get angry. I didn't cry. I didn't retaliate. I knew one thing for certain: my reaction was their entertainment, and I was tired of being a free show.

Physical education was just another stage. The teacher divided us into groups. My name was always called last. Not because I was incompetent, but because I was a social liability.

"Nozomi-san," the teacher said softly, "are you sure you want to practice by yourself?" I offered a hollow smile. "It’s fine, sensei." A voice rose from the back. "Don't force her, Sensei! The whole team will just slip and slide!"

Laughter again. Always the laughter.

The volleyball court felt vast. Too vast. They played—shouting, high-fiving, kicking up dust. I sat on the bleachers, watching them like a spectator at a drama where I hadn't been cast. "Look at 'Mayonnaise' over there, just watching." "Leave her be. She'll make the court slippery."

I smiled. A vacant, practiced smile I’d learned from my mirror.

Then, one day, someone sat beside me. "Are you okay?" I turned. A girl. Her black hair was tied back, and her eyes were as red as garnets. "Yes," I replied. "You don't have a group yet, right? Want to join mine?" I hesitated. "Why?" She shrugged. "Because you're alone."

A simple sentence. But to me, it was a flickering light in a corridor that was always dark. Other students approached. "Mi-chan? Aren't you supposed to be cleaning the equipment shed?" "Done. I’m just asking Nozomi to join us." "Heeh... are you sure?" Mi-chan smiled. "Why wouldn't I be?"

For the first time, I ate lunch with someone. We discussed food, TV dramas, the trivialities of life. "Nozomi," she said. "Have you ever thought about changing your name?" I shook my head. "No. It’s the name my mother gave me." "What does it mean?" "Hope in the middle of the night." Mi-chan smiled gently. "Then I'll call you Nozomi."

Not Mayonnaise. Not a joke. Just Nozomi. And my name felt alive again.

But the warm seasons are always brief. Mi-chan moved abroad. On her last day, she hugged me. "Don't let them win." I merely nodded.

The next day, the class reverted to its natural state. "Eh, the 'Mayonnaise' is alone again." "Did her parents even think when they named her? It sounds like a sauce." Laughter. And this time, it hurt more. Because now I knew the weight of belonging—and the vacuum of losing it.

Then, one morning, the homeroom teacher entered. "We have a transfer student today." Whispers rippled through the room. The door opened. A boy walked in, his uniform neat, his bag slung over his shoulder. "Introduce yourself," the teacher said.

He stood tall. "My name is Harumasa Kengo." His voice was steady. "I transferred from the next town over. My hobbies are reading... and eating just about anything edible." A few people chuckled. He smiled. "Please take care of me."

The teacher scanned the seating chart. "The empty seat is next to... Mayonaka." Heads turned. The atmosphere shifted. He walked over, his steps devoid of hesitation. As he sat down, the whispers resumed. "Seriously? He’s sitting there?" "Poor guy. Hope he doesn't get stained."

He turned to me. "Hi." I hesitated. "Hello." "Is the chair comfortable?" A strange question. "...It’s average." He smiled. "Good. I’m pretty average too."

From the back, a voice called out. "Eh, Harumasa is sitting with 'Mayonnaise'!" Suppressed laughter. He didn't turn around. He didn't get angry. He didn't retaliate. He simply opened his book as if sitting next to me wasn't a problem—as if I wasn't a social risk.

For the first time, the seat next to me didn't feel like a forbidden zone. The long corridors of Hoshikawa Junior High, which once felt like a prison, suddenly had one small window.

The park breeze touched my face again. I opened my eyes. The sky was darkening. The shadows of the past never truly vanish. And perhaps that is why I can never accept defeat gracefully. Because from the very beginning, I was always the one left behind.

This time, I don't want to be the girl they laugh at. I don't want to be a shadow. I want to be the light. Regardless of the cost.