The memory, long buried beneath layers of defensive pride and willful ignorance, surged forth with painful clarity. Asato Hitomi's voice, younger, softer, echoed in the caverns of Sumitomo Ryota's mind.
"Ryota-kun, I really envy you. You don't have to think about complicated things, and you always seem so happy... I hope you can keep that up in the future, too..."
What expression had been on her face then? He couldn't recall. No—he refused to recall. Because to remember was to finally accept the dreadful premonition that had haunted him since: their lives were destined to run on parallel tracks, never to converge again.
Yet, under the relentless pressure of Kuroha Akira's probing, the mental dam broke. The memory materialized not as a vague feeling, but as a vivid scene. A younger Hitomi stood before his mind's eye, a fragile, wry smile on her lips, her eyes shimmering with a sadness she was desperately holding back. That had been his final, golden opportunity to step into her world, to understand the weight she carried.
And he had let it slip through his fingers. Why had he been struck dumb? Why couldn't he have offered a hand? What was the point of any of this now? The Asato Hitomi of today was a distant star, far removed from the girl of his past.
As Sumitomo stood there, soul seemingly vacant, Kuroha Akira offered no reprieve for melancholic introspection.
"Since you've known the Class Monitor since you were kids, you should have some basic understanding of her," Akira stated, his tone brutally matter-of-fact. "So let me ask you directly. Do you honestly believe Asato Hitomi is the type of girl who'd be easily deceived by smooth talk or cheap tricks?"
No. The answer was immediate and absolute. Sumitomo knew better than anyone. Among their childhood group of five, Hitomi had always been the undisputed leader, the one with the ideas, the quiet authority everyone naturally followed. She was too sharp, too capable, seemingly operating on a level they couldn't reach...
"Or," Akira continued, his words like a scalpel, "are you just irritated that the person who managed to get close to her... wasn't you?"
"Guh...!" Sumitomo's head snapped up, a fierce glare fixing on Akira, who remained infuriatingly impassive.
"Do you genuinely think she's been hoodwinked, and you're playing the gallant protector? Or is it that you wish she'd been tricked? Because that would be easier for you to swallow, wouldn't it? At least then you wouldn't have to face the fact that you just... fell behind."
"Shut up! Just shut up!!"
Driven by raw emotion, Sumitomo lunged forward, fists clenching the fabric of Akira's uniform collar. But Akira didn't fight back; he didn't even remove his hands from his pockets, his posture one of utter, disdainful disengagement. Sumitomo just wanted the words to stop—the words that were mercilessly exposing the pathetic, envious creature he'd become.
Because in this moment, the truth he'd suppressed with sheer force of inferiority came crashing down. Did he even deserve to stand beside her? The omnipotent Hitomi could solve her own problems. She was so brilliant she didn't need anyone... So why... why would she show favor to this guy?!
"What do you know...! What could you possibly understand about her?!" Sumitomo's shout was ragged, fueled by anguish more than anger.
Akira frowned, calmly prying the trembling hands from his collar. "You're right. I don't understand her. But you claim to. So what, exactly, have you been doing all this time?"
"Ugh...!"
"I can tell," Akira said, his voice dropping into a flat, diagnostic tone. "You like the Class Monitor. Don't you?"
It was a statement, not a question. Only a complete idiot wouldn't have noticed; it was written in every strained interaction, every possessive glare.
"Why are you bringing that up now?!" Sumitomo sputtered, his face flushing.
Akira scratched his head, his expression morphing into one of profound, weary contempt. "You liking the Class Monitor is your business. I couldn't care less. But you causing trouble for me because you like her? That's just laughable."
"Do you think putting on a macho show in front of her, insulting me, or even beating me to a pulp would suddenly make her fall for you?"
"Or do you think the Class Monitor is some shallow, shojo-manga heroine who gets thrills from watching two guys rip each other apart over her?"
Sumitomo Ryota had no retort. He stood, deflated, the wind knocked out of his rhetorical sails.
Then, Kuroha Akira delivered the coup de grâce, the final, devastating question that pierced straight to the heart of the fantasy.
"Let me ask you this. Are you in love with the real Asato Hitomi... or just the Asato Hitomi you've built up in your own imagination?"
THUD.
It was a psychic blow more potent than any punch. Sumitomo Ryota's legs gave way. He staggered backward, not from force, but from the sheer weight of the question, before collapsing onto the sun-baked gravel, his expression one of utter devastation.
"Tsk..." Akira clicked his tongue, a flicker of complex displeasure crossing his face.
In this moment, he finally identified the source of his own annoyance with Sumitomo. The boy was a mirror—a reflection of his own past, foolish self. That hot-headed, stubborn, painfully self-centered version of Kuroha Akira who believed his own perspective was the entire world. Just thinking about that former self was enough to stir a residual, cringe-induced anger.
Akira's mind drifted back to middle school. His first love—a girl with talent in her fingertips who dreamt of being a manga artist. She was weak at storytelling, so she'd asked him, the boy who wrote eloquent essays, for help.
The summer after graduation was a golden haze of shared creation. They met at school, in quiet cafes, weaving plotlines and sketching storyboards, finally birthing a short manga they uploaded to the world with hopeful hearts.
It flopped, of course. A pitiful two-digit view count was their only audience.
Yet, that collaboration was the genesis of Akira's own path, the reason a STEM-track student would later pivot toward the world of words and scripts.
Back then, the girl had blamed her own art, saying she'd wasted his wonderful story. She wanted to get better, she said, and left for a specialized art academy in another city. And Kuroha Akira, the boy choked by unspoken feelings, never managed to confess.
Time flowed. They drifted. Three years of high school passed in a blur of other concerns.
At university, haunted by persistent dreams of that summer, Akira finally mustered the courage to track down her contact info and call. He held no real hope—too much time had passed—but a foolish, youthful ember still glowed in a hidden chamber of his heart.
If she cherished that memory even half as much as he did...? If nothing else, this would be a proper farewell to that part of himself.
The phone connected. His throat tightened.
He couldn't confess.
Because after he stammered his name, the response that came through the receiver was polite, confused, and utterly final: "I'm sorry, I... don't quite remember. Are you an old classmate?"
In that instant, he understood completely. To her, that shared summer was a negligible footnote, forgotten. Three years had been enough to erase even the name of an 'old classmate.'
That day, Kuroha Akira shed the last of his naivety. He discarded the exhausting burden of caring too much about how he was perceived by others. The boy who blushed easily, who was painfully shy, deeply introverted, and fiercely protective of his dignity... that boy was gone.
In his place stood someone who understood a fundamental truth: even if you ran naked through the streets, onlookers would gawk for a moment, then forget. The odds of leaving a lasting imprint on another's memory were vanishingly small.
From a self-important hothead to a self-aware mortal who understood his own inconsequence—that was the journey of a boy's heart hardening into something resembling adulthood.
His gaze fell upon the crumpled form of Sumitomo Ryota, sitting in the dust behind the sports shed.
And now, Kuroha Akira thought without malice, but with a weary sense of inevitability, it's your turn.