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Another crappy game just killed me.
I tossed the controller, now all warm and sweaty from my hands, onto the floor and glared at the credits, cursing at the people who helped make this trash game.
The grand orchestral music, booming through my fancy theater speakers, was apparently a live recording from an orchestra in Austria—not that I care anymore. This epic RPG had an incredible staff count and a massive budget, yet it still managed to reach such a pathetic ending.
That's it? That's how it ends?
This wasn't just disappointing—it was insulting. Honestly, this thing shouldn't even be sold as a game.
The story was all over the place, as if they just kept throwing in random plotlines until it turned into a mess and called it a day.
I mean, even all the big gaming sites were hyping it up—"The first big masterpiece of the Reiwa era!" "The biggest must-play of the century!" Don't tell me those reviews were all paid for . . .
Well, I guess it is a big title—crappiest game ever, I'll give it that.
Ugh, I can't stop ranting. My sleep-deprived brain was drowning in frustration.
Would filing a complaint with the Consumer Affairs Center make me feel better? Though their office isn't even open at this hour.
Wasn’t it a bit much, though? I believed even a cheap mobile game had tried harder than that. The half-assed storyline was so bad, I was worried some broadcasting ethics committee might have stepped in to investigate.
This can't be real. I don't want to believe it. Give me my time back!
No way those so-called tough critics really loved it before it even dropped, it should’ve been my first clue. But with all the media hype and flashy ads, I actually got excited.
Damn it . . .
I had such high hopes when they announced that this mysterious new development team was taking over! Everyone was talking about it nonstop, so I thought it had to be the real deal.
I thought this was going to be a masterpiece that would revolutionize gaming. I had been counting down the days until release.
This game was supposed to be absolutely perfect!
I held onto hope right up until the credits rolled. Since I was so convinced this would be a masterpiece, this crushing sense of betrayal and anger just wouldn't go away.
Honestly, isn't this just fraud?
Even Western games would be shocked at how different the marketing is from the actual game . . .
Based on all the previews, I expected something deep and serious, but who could have predicted it would devolve into the most generic overpowered protagonist formula where the hero solves everything with cheat abilities?
This was infuriating. My anger was boiling over with nowhere to go. The development team must have had incredibly thick skin to release something like this.
If I'd been involved in making this game, I'd be too embarrassed to show my face in public for weeks—that's how much of a disaster this is.
What happened to "an unknown fantasy world that overturns all common sense"?!
How dare they throw around taglines like "sends all RPGs back to the past"?!
This game is the absolute biggest pile of garbage ever!
I kept on hoping and hoping all the way through the end, even though I felt something was wrong with the story. I kept telling myself It’ll turn around, it has to. Now, I want to reject the past version of myself that held onto that belief.
If I think about it calmly, I was the one who was screwed up!
What's up with a major game company dumping massive funding into a creative team led by some unknown rookie scriptwriter?! Anyone would think it was a make-or-break blockbuster title.
Everything about this unfinished mess they hyped up with over-the-top ads just pisses me off.
A cramped, boring world.
A childish story built on cheap plot devices.
Character designs with zero personality.
And shameless fanservice revolving around the protagonist!
If the goal was to make a crappy game, they nailed it.
I wanted to march up to their headquarters and demand they rename it "Super Trash." Why did I let this garbage rob me of my sleep?
After fifty-three hours of gameplay, all I had to show for it is exhaustion.
Ugh . . . damn it . . . !
I collapsed flat on my back, letting out a sigh heavy with anger and defeat, the cold floor pressing against me.
Cardboard boxes from my recent move were still stacked around my tiny apartment. I weakly grabbed a throw blanket and wrapped myself in it. I'll just sleep here tonight—I'm completely wiped out, too drained to even crawl back to bed.
Haaah . . . what a waste.
Couldn't believe I wasted the entire night before my first day at a new school on that piece of garbage. Still lying on the floor, I reached for the power strip, plugged in my phone charger, and saw today's schedule on the lock screen.
May 6, 2022. The reminder showed "School Day."
New school . . .
It had been four days since I'd moved to Tokyo from the countryside. My new school life was supposed to start today, but thanks to that awful game, I felt completely hollow inside.
I had hoped that this school would be at least somewhat decent, though I doubted there was much difference between a rural private school and a Tokyo public school.
I’m not a dumb kid who falls for hype anymore.
Until last month, I'd attended a prep school notorious for its rigid academic policies. It was a private boys' school that combined middle and high school, with a pretty impressive academic reputation.
The kind of place with a high acceptance rate to top universities—the type where people would be impressed just hearing the name . . . and here I am, transferring to some mediocre Tokyo public high school in the middle of May, halfway through my second year.
The reason was personal.
I came from a single-father household and couldn't adjust to living with Dad's second wife—my stepmother—and my half-sister. After bottling up all my frustration, I finally let it all out and asked if I could live alone in Tokyo.
They actually granted this selfish request because they finally recognized all my efforts to be the good kid who never complained—not once in my entire life until now.
Pretty sure they just wanted to get rid of me, too.
It wasn't self-destructive. I just chose the option in front of me—the kind of choice you see all the time in RPGs.
My life, branching from my own decision, had entered the path of living alone. My stepmother tried to convince me to stay, saying we could finally live together as a family, but in the end, you never know what's really in another person's heart.
Dad granted my first real request ever, giving me just one rule while handling everything from the transfer procedures to all the arrangements for living alone.
Just be yourself . . . he said.
I still felt bad about making him pay those ridiculously high tuition fees all this time. That was exactly why I tried to take the first step toward living by myself.
Regret won’t change anything. So all I can do is keep moving forward.
Even though these grand words come easily, I still don't know what I should actually do.
The scent of the blanket I brought from home is oddly comforting on this makeshift bed of stacked cardboard boxes. If I close my eyes now, I'll wake up at the new school before I know it.
Will anything change from now on? Probably, nothing will change.
Should I have hope for this new life? Even though I know it's pointless?
Even so, it should be better than the hell I was in before.
Schools are all the same—only the background changes. I shouldn't get my hopes up. Even so, I pray it's not an environment where people try to assert dominance through test scores.
I closed my eyes while thinking about this hopeless restart.
1: Friday, May 6th
It was the morning of my first day at school, and I'd gotten barely any sleep.
Using a map app, I walked along the sidewalk and climbed the narrow stairs leading to Ueno Park. Uiharu High School, where I'd be starting today, stood at the back of the tree-lined avenue with its fountain in the middle of Ueno Park.
It looked familiar, probably because it resembled the red-brick Tokyo Station. After looking up at the school building, I straightened my collar and tugged at the hem of my uniform to make sure I hadn't forgotten to remove any loose threads, then headed to the faculty room to introduce myself.
***
Excuse me, I'm a transfer student starting today . . .
I peered through the faculty room door to see if there was a teacher I could talk to. I should probably ask for my homeroom teacher, but between the sleep deprivation and everything else, I couldn't remember the name.
A transfer student at this time of year was unusual, so I thought someone would surely notice me as I looked around the spacious room, but the various men and women of all ages seemed completely uninterested in me.
Well, I'd have to talk to someone to find my homeroom teacher. As I was scanning the room, a woman carrying a tray loaded with mugs came wobbling out from behind a partition covered with posted notices.
Whoa . . . that looks dangerous . . .
She was petite but probably a teacher. She had an oversized cardigan with a teacher's ID badge hanging from it, and the low-heeled pumps on her feet were wandering left and right beneath her wide-leg pants.
The tray the woman held with both hands was lined with mugs, and thinking that each one probably contained liquid, it looked quite heavy. Swaying left and right, wobbling back and forth, even as she tried to maintain balance, the overfilled mugs were clattering and bouncing around.
The female teacher, tottering toward me without looking ahead, was muttering to herself as she tried to keep track of everything.
Let's see, the red one is . . . tea without sugar? The green and brown and pink ones are coffee . . . oh, the pink one is oolong tea . . . um . . . the fish teacup has plum kelp tea and the cat mug belongs to . . . ahhh!
What's going on here?
It felt off, seeing her struggling while her coworkers didn’t lift a finger. If they wanted tea, they could’ve at least gone to get it—but none of the teachers seemed to care, and that just pissed me off even more.
Let's see . . . wait, there are two red cups . . . whose is this polka-dotted one . . . um?
The female teacher was concentrating so hard on her thoughts that her steps became unsteady, and she suddenly stumbled and lost her balance.
The mugs rattled wildly.
Ah! Ah, ah . . . oh no, wait, ahhh . . . hot!
Hot water spilled from the jostling cups and splashed onto her hands as she nearly dropped the tray. Dangerous! I was nearby and instinctively reached out to catch it.
Ah . . . that was close . . .
I just managed to catch it, but the weight hit my wrist hard. The female teacher, who’d been stuck carrying all that by herself, stared at me wide-eyed.
W-Whoa . . . that startled me . . .
Only after a student had stepped in did the teachers around us finally stand up and sheepishly collect the mugs from me, carrying them away.
They should have done that from the start.
I felt a surge of irritation, but maybe this was just normal in this faculty room. The woman with the teacher's ID hanging from her neck turned toward me with a relieved expression and thanked me again.
Thank you! Um . . . you are?
Is she trying to remember my name? That would be impossible. Since I just transferred in today, she couldn't possibly remember my face, even if she were the principal.
I'm Takara Shinomori, transferring in today. I'm looking for the teacher of Class 2-E.
Shinomori? Takara . . . Oh!
Huh . . . ?
That's me! I'm Ms. Shinonome, your homeroom teacher! You got here early! Did you have trouble finding the place?
A school right in the middle of Ueno Park wouldn't be hard to find . . . I looked at my homeroom teacher.
Yes. Sorry for the late introduction.
It's fine, it's fine! And thanks for earlier!
I figured I should at least offer a proper greeting and bowed my head.
I’m looking forward to being in your class.
And I’m looking forward to having you!
So what should I do next? I looked around the faculty room while waiting for guidance.
The way they still made a single young female teacher handle tea service for everyone—the same old-fashioned, seniority-based gender discrimination I'd seen at my previous prep school—made me sick.
Despite my blunt reaction to witnessing this familiar pattern, Ms. Shinonome seemed to think I looked composed and complimented me.
Hah . . .
Just give me a moment.
She fluttered her spring-colored cardigan and hurried to her desk.
Her fine, silky hair bounced softly as she moved.
Maybe it was her clumsy first impression, but Ms. Shinonome seemed younger than she actually was. Still, I noticed the light eyeshadow around her eyes, her glossy lips, and the faint peach color on her cheeks. She was clearly a working adult who knew how to do her makeup properly—I shouldn't underestimate her.
Her outfit was a simple cardigan with casual pants, and she wore strap pumps on her slender ankles. It was probably what you'd call business casual, but it didn't match the typical image of a teacher.
Even so, when she returned carrying the attendance book, I was reminded that she really was a teacher.
It's a little early, but let's head to the classroom.
Yes.
I could feel everyone staring, and nothing was going to happen if I just stood here.
After leaving the faculty room, we headed to the third floor of the school's main building, in what was called the grade-level wing.
She cheerfully said that she would introduce me during homeroom and I followed her into the 2nd-year Class E classroom.
Morning, everyone. I know it's early, but we have something special today.
The chattering classmates all turned to stare at the transfer student, and I couldn't help but frown at the uncomfortable atmosphere.
I guess it was natural curiosity, but I really hate being the center of attention. When Ms. Shinonome beckoned me up to the podium, even students who had been talking in the hallway came back into the classroom to get a look at me.
. . . I'm gonna throw up.
I knew the nausea was from the nerves of being a transfer student and the lack of sleep last night, but that didn’t make it any easier to handle all the curious stares. It was anything but pleasant.
Everyone take your seats. As I mentioned before the long weekend, this is our transfer student, Takara Shinomori. Please make him feel welcome.
Maybe trying to lighten the mood, the teacher gave me a small round of applause all by herself. This was completely new territory for me, so I didn't know what to do, but I figured I should at least give a self-introduction.
I'm Takara Shinomori. Nice to meet you all.
That was it, and I bowed my head. They probably didn't want to know about my hometown or hobbies anyway, so this should be fine. I didn't think there was any need to get all buddy-buddy just because we'd be in the same class for a year . . . but then—
Welcome to our class!
If you need help with anything, just ask!
And if you're looking for a club, come check out our Comic Art Club!
The newcomer was welcomed with applause and cheers. I was a little—no, quite—surprised. Back at my old school, survival of the fittest through academic competition was the norm, so when I was welcomed so warmly, I didn't know what to do . . .
Hehe. Takara, your seat is by the window in the back—where the textbooks are.
I guess my surprise had shown on my face. Feeling somewhat embarrassed, I wove through the students toward my seat.
I don't get how they can welcome someone just for being a transfer student . . .
But maybe this was normal. Maybe the people in this classroom were the kind who saw each other as companions learning together . . . I still wasn't sure.
I had no idea what kind of face I was supposed to make, so all I could do was nod and mumble a few replies to whatever people said to me, then quickly hurry over to the seat they’d prepared for me.
I sat down at my desk where the textbooks had been placed, and while I was shoving them into the drawer, the bell rang. Up at the podium, the teacher was getting ready to start homeroom.
Well then, it's Friday already.
At this obvious observation, a student called out.
That's right.
The students responded like they were on a variety show.
And yesterday was the end of Golden Week.
She piled on another obvious statement. Whether it was genuine airheadedness or not, the students started chuckling quietly.
Since I went back to my hometown for the first time in a while . . . I have souvenirs for everyone!
The classroom buzzed with excitement. They got excited about the word souvenirs, but souvenirs for students . . . for everyone?
My hometown is Hokkaido, of course. When you think of Hokkaido, what famous sweets come to mind? Yes! Miyaka Akizuki was fastest!
Like some kind of quiz show, a girl immediately slammed her desk and shot her hand up. Her name must be Miyaka, I figured.
Despite her twin-tails giving her a childish look for a high school sophomore, this girl had an oddly mature bearing as she enthusiastically answered the question.
That thing!
More specific . . . !
That . . . sweet!
Correct!
Are you kidding me?! The entire classroom burst into laughter at this comedy routine.
Everyone! The moment you hear about Hokkaido sweets, you start drooling, right?
She was really milking this . . . But the answer was obvious.
When you think of famous Hokkaido sweets, the first thing that comes to mind is those thin langue de chat cookies with white chocolate sandwiched between them. Hokkaido specialties also include butter candy, but handing those out one by one in early summer heat would just result in a melted mess.
So by process of elimination, it was probably some white chocolate thing. Individually wrapped and perfect for handing out.
So it's Genghis Khan Caramel! Just one each, but there's enough for everyone!
What . . . the . . . ?
A girl named Miyaka dramatically stood up from her chair and staggered while holding her head. Indeed, what the hell is Genghis Khan Caramel? It's a combination that just shouldn't exist!
While the classroom buzzed over the mysterious caramel, the teacher distributed them to everyone as if it were completely normal.
Anyone who wants to try it, do it secretly.
She called out as she went around.
The Genghis Khan Caramel was passed to me from the girl in front, but it's such a bizarre combination that I wanted to refuse it . . . As I frowned at the thing, a small girl quietly confided in me.
It is technically food, but if you eat it little by little, you might be able to get through it . . . maybe.
So it tastes bad?
Well . . . it has a really strange taste . . .
This girl seemed to have tried it before and was trying to help me out, but she kept looking troubled the whole time. Being told it has a "strange taste" without using the word "bad" doesn't really give me a clear picture.
The combination of salty Genghis Khan and sickeningly sweet caramel might actually be passable if you described it as "sweet-salty" . . . Maybe since it's a commercial souvenir, it's actually decent?
I decided not to eat it for now and stuffed it into my uniform pocket, but looking around, several students were eagerly tossing them into their mouths. I wondered what it tasted like as I watched them.
Gwah!
Blech!
Augh!
. . . Brief death cries erupted from various spots around the room.
Miss Nono, this does taste awful after all!
Miyaka gripped the Genghis Khan Caramel and denounced the teacher on the podium.
Yes! This is the famous Genghis Khan Caramel known for "taste animation collapse"!
She was clapping her hands and delivering this with a bright smile . . . could she be a psychopath?
So today we learned about one more hidden Hokkaido specialty! Knowing this taste means you know one more thing than your classmates!
With that, the homeroom teacher took white chalk and wrote "IDEA" in large letters on the blackboard. She drew arrows pointing to it and connected it to the words "KNOWLEDGE" and "EXPERIENCE."
Accumulating knowledge becomes the foundation for wonderful ideas. In the future, when you're creating or producing something, when you can't come up with ideas and you're struggling, when you're in a slump, when you're in trouble—remember the taste of this Genghis Khan Caramel.
I'm sure good solutions will come to you!
She wrapped it up like that, and I can't help but think remembering Genghis Khan Caramel in a pinch won't solve anything.
Besides, if you live a normal life, in this manual-filled modern world there aren't many situations where you need to come up with ideas yourself. Even creators are just a handful—no, barely a pinch—in Japan.
Even if you go to a specialized school, who knows if you can become an excellent creator. That's why most students get loaded onto the job-hunting wagon and shipped out to companies as corporate slaves.
Even the teacher up there laughing cheerfully probably chose teaching because it's stable work, right? In the end, stability wins. Ordinary people should just stick to the safe paths their predecessors paved.
Everyone wants to get through the RPG scenario of their own life without making waves.
Yawn . . .
I'm sleepy. I wasted mental energy on pointless things.
Alright, first period’s PE, so let’s get going. Have a great day, everyone!
And so our homeroom ended with the northern delicacy known as Genghis Khan Caramel.
***
The usual ding-dong ding-dong rang, and we all got ready for the first class.
First period was PE of all things. I'd practically pulled an all-nighter and, worst of all, forgot my gym clothes on the first day.
I could probably do PE in my uniform, but the problem was my physical condition . . . If I pushed myself this morning, I had a feeling it would mess up my afternoon classes.
If I can manage it, I want to sleep. I want to rest in the nurse's office with some believable excuse.
I asked the girl in the seat in front of me—the one who had talked to me earlier—to let them know I'd be absent and to tell me where the nurse's office was. Then I headed to the nurse's office on the first floor.
Excuse me . . .
Beyond the sliding door was a space with a clean, fresh scent. A small fabric sofa and a matching bench were placed on either side of a table on the wooden floor.
If you walked in without knowing it was the nurse's office, you'd probably think it was the cozy living room of someone's home.
As I stood at the entrance, I heard footsteps in slippers approaching from behind a partition.
Oh? Suddenly feeling sick . . . ?
I looked toward the voice, and who should emerge from the back but my homeroom teacher, Ms. Shinonome.
Wait, isn’t that Takara?! What's wrong? I mean, this is the nurse's office so . . . um?
Why is my homeroom teacher here? And when she asks what's wrong, it's hard to say it's just because I'm sleepy from lack of sleep . . .
Let's start by taking your temperature and having you fill out a medical questionnaire . . .
I don't know why she's here, but when Ms. Shinonome handed me a clipboard with a medical questionnaire and a thermometer, I felt a little guilty.
I took the ballpoint pen she gave me and wrote "sleep deprivation" in the symptoms section.
Oh my! Are you okay . . . ?
I should recover if I sleep.
I see! That's good!
The thermometer beeped to signal it was done, confirming that my temperature was normal.
Good, no fever. You can use the bed for up to two hours maximum—anything longer means early dismissal.
With practiced efficiency, she authorized my stay, writing down the normal temperature with a red marker and marking the bed rest with a circle.
Take off your uniform and put it in the clothes basket, and no telephones in bed.
Telephones . . . ?
. . . She means smartphones. She's using such an old-fashioned word nowadays.
I'll be here for the next two hours, so let me know when you're leaving.
It seems she's covering for the school nurse. At my previous school too, the nurse would sometimes be out for counseling sessions or business trips.
After completing the paperwork, I was shown to the other side of the partition where the beds were. There were six beds in total. On top of the futons wrapped in pure white sheets, softly colored blankets were folded in half and placed at the foot of each bed.
I immediately moved to the bed furthest back, closed the partition curtain, and took off my uniform.
Hm?
A caramel rolled out of my uniform pocket.
Since I'd skipped breakfast, I thought it would be perfect to have before sleeping, so I unwrapped it and tossed it in my mouth . . . completely forgetting until that moment that it was Genghis Khan flavored.
Ngh . . . ?!
Awful. Absolutely awful. I wanted to interrogate whoever made this monstrosity and ask them what they were thinking. The more I chewed, the more the meaty, salty flavors burst out, but I mindlessly kept chewing and swallowing.
Hah . . . hah . . .
I was in agony from just one small caramel, but even that wasn't enough to chase away my drowsiness. Right now I wanted nothing more than to sleep so deeply I'd lose consciousness, so I crawled into bed.
***
Unh . . . unhhh . . .
Someone's having nightmares. What's that sound? Someone in one of the beds must be having a bad dream. Poor thing.
Maybe it's me? I thought, but even though I could barely open my eyelids and check the curtains on either side of me, I could still hear that voice.
I sat up and pulled my smartphone from the pocket of my uniform, which was folded in the clothes basket, and discovered it was the middle of second period.
Unh . . . unh . . . !
There it is again. I don't know who it is, but if someone's having nightmares, someone should wake them up . . . Though maybe Ms. Shinonome isn't here.
I straightened my uniform and stepped out from behind the white partition to find all the beds except mine empty, and the nightmare sounds were coming from beyond the partition . . . from the office area.
Could it be a student who can't move because of a serious injury? Or maybe a teacher who fell seriously ill and couldn't make it to a bed? I timidly approached that area.
C-can't eat anymore . . . ohhh . . . I give up . . . mmph, zzz . . .
. . .
Slumped against the fabric sofa, tormented by nightmares, was Ms. Shinonome . . .
Uhhh . . . now there's dessert too . . . mmph, zzz . . .
. . .
She's sleeping surprisingly soundly despite having a nightmare about being force-fed to death, but if she has another nightmare it'll startle me . . . And more importantly, isn't she supposed to be working right now?
I called out to wake up the teacher, who was curled up on the sofa with her small body fitting perfectly into it, breathing peacefully in her sleep, so I could leave the nurse's office.
Ms. Shinonome.
She didn't notice. In fact, she was moving her lips and looking completely content. What kind of working adult can sleep this deeply during work hours? I wondered about this person while calling out again.
Ms. Shinonome!
I raised my voice quite a bit. The teacher didn't notice . . . No, she was actually rolling over with an "mmm" and grinding her teeth—that's how deep her sleep was.
What should I do? Since no one else is here, should I try calling out louder?
Ms. Shinonome! Wake up. Ms. Shinonome . . . !
She jolted upward, and one leg dangled limply from the fabric sofa. Maybe she heard my voice—her fingertips moved slightly in response.
No, that's not going to work.
When someone's sleeping this deeply, I'm beginning to think they might never wake up. If this doesn't work, I guess I'll have to use a close-range attack to wake her.
I tried poking her shoulder with my index finger. The teacher's eyebrows twitched slightly.
So would shaking her awake work? But still . . .
Even if she's a teacher, she's still a woman, and I don't want to touch her casually . . .
Even so, since things were going the way they were, both of us would’ve ended up late for the next class—so I braced myself and tapped her on the shoulder.
Ms. Shinonome, Ms. Shinonome, wake up, wake up, please wake up . . .
I tried shaking her gently, but she still wouldn't wake up.
Even a Sleep spell only lasts three turns . . .
Wouldn't I be forgiven if I just left her here and went back to class alone?
But still . . . she looked like a new teacher, and it would be cruel to let her pile up more mistakes.
So I knew I had to wake her up, but she was still a woman. Even as a student, I felt reluctant to shake her any more forcefully.
If I misjudge the force, it could lead to assault charges . . .
I was stuck. What should I do? When you don't know something, you look it up—maybe I could find a better way to wake someone up if I searched on my phone. So I typed "how to rouse a woman" into the search bar.
. . . !
That’s what I had planned to type, anyways, but autocorrect changed it into “how to arouse a woman,” making it something completely inappropriate.
No, no, no, no!
I wanted to excuse it as typical teen stuff—blushing just because I mistyped something. But when I searched again, all I got were sketchy articles about boy-girl stuff, which didn’t help me one bit.
So there I was—still just a sleeping teacher and a student who couldn't wake her up.
. . . Maybe I should just run away.
She's a high school teacher, so she should be able to handle the responsibility of being late.
. . . Hmm.
They say it's better to live to fight another day, right? RPGs even have a run command. I tried to rationalize it that way, but the pain in my chest was probably guilt.
Haaah . . . damn it.
If I'm going to feel guilty anyway, I might as well grab her shoulder and shake her while calling out a bit louder.
I figured the situation called for it, and I'd be late too if I didn't . . .
Bum-bum! Beep-beep-beep!
Bum-bum! Beep-beep-beep!
What?!
What's that sound?! An intense beat was coming from somewhere, like from a speaker.
W-Whoa, that scared me . . . !
The sound was coming from somewhere around the teacher. Startled by the melody echoing through the quiet nurse's office, I was even more surprised when the teacher shot up right in front of me.
Whoa—
That surprised me . . . she didn’t wake up at all when I just tried.
N-no, no, silent mode . . . it's not on . . . ! Wh-where's my phone?!
The moment she shot up, her hands moved quickly, frantically patting down the pockets of her cardigan and skirt, searching for her phone.
She searched everywhere for her phone but couldn't find it. Just as she was about to stand up and look more thoroughly, it tumbled out from a gap in her cardigan and fell onto the sofa.
Found it! Wait—AHHHHH!
The teacher let out a scream like a noisy Okinawa rail bird at dawn when she saw me.
How rude. I wanted to say I didn’t look like someone who’d make you scream, but honestly, the moment she let out that yell, I practically jumped straight up like a frightened cat myself.
Ms. Shinonome was startled by me, I was startled by Ms. Shinonome—we were both completely flustered.
The room filled with screams like those of an endangered Okinawan species and anime songs blasting at full volume from her phone.
T-turn . . . turn off the sound!
Oh right!
A beep sounded and the melody stopped. What a relief. Ms. Shinonome seemed to relax as she sank back onto the sofa.
I was surprised that a teacher was using a flip phone in the Reiwa era, but at least I'd cleared the quest of waking her up.
Um, Takara . . . that was your name, right? Did you sleep well?
I was dying to say "not as well as you did."
Oww . . . my eyes are itchy . . . my makeup's gonna run . . . ugh, eye drops . . .
She searched for eye drops with her eyes still closed. She really does whatever she wants . . . After finding the eye drops by feel and applying them to both eyes, she blinked several times and looked up at me with her still-moist eyes.
Takara, think you can go back to class?
Yeah, well, I'll head back . . .
Good, good, you seem energetic. Oh, Takara, come here for a second.
When I approached the teacher who was beckoning me over, she pressed her cool hand against my forehead.
. . . ?!
Mm-hmm. No fever, and you seem fine. Off you go.
Seeing me off in her usual carefree way, the teacher pretty much booted me out of the nurse’s office, so I went back to class.
***
The moment I got home from school, I collapsed onto my bed without even turning on the lights, and before I knew it, it was past midnight.
Driven by hunger, I went to the convenience store on the ground floor of my building to buy some soup and a sandwich, and on my way back to my room . . . I couldn't believe what I saw.
Waaahhhhh—
A drunk person . . . ? I'd stumbled upon a neighbor who was completely wasted, trying to jam a key into a door.
That's my place though . . .
The petite woman in a pastel cardigan and skirt was frantically trying to insert a key while rattling the doorknob.
Huh?! What the! The key's not working! Key! Come on!
Bang bang bang bang! She pounded on the door. The bell rang ding-dong ding-dong.
It won't open, it won't open! What's going on here?! Mr. Landlord!
Of course it won't open. It'd be a serious problem if it did. That's my home . . . The petite woman kept turning the key and pounding on the door, but what was I supposed to do . . . Actually, this woman looked way too familiar, making me want to pretend this wasn't happening.
People can look alike, but this person . . . no way . . .
I just wanna go back to my futon! Please open up!
This was awkward . . . Should I call 110 when encountering a drunk person? I considered various options while watching her back as she half-sobbed and frantically worked the key, but honestly, I really didn't want to deal with her.
The key's not working! Open sesame?! Come on! Key!
I definitely recognized this woman—she’d clearly just gotten the wrong room. I’d never had to deal with a drunk person before, whether I knew them or not, and I really didn’t want to talk to her . . . but if she kept yelling like this, it’d be a problem for the neighbors too.
Waahhh! Futon—please let me go back to my futon! Extra firm noodles with extra toppings!
As if that incantation would work. And now she'd started pounding with both hands.
Bang bang bang!
Hey! You're disturbing the neighbors . . . Ms. Shinonome!
Ugh, I hate this. Please don't let this turn into a mess . . .
Huh?! Let go! I'm going back to my futon!
This is my room.
Huh?! That's not true—this is my house! Hehe!
What was I supposed to do with this person? Unlike her daytime demeanor, She reeked of alcohol and had a dangerous look in her eyes . . . plus, since I knew her, I couldn't exactly call the police.
Female teacher at Uiharu High School. If she got arrested for pounding on a student's door in the middle of the night, that would be too stupid . . .
But why was she here? Since it was within walking distance of school, maybe she lived in the same apartment building . . . ? Assuming that was the case, I wanted her to return to the correct room, but I didn't know which room that was.
Ahh . . . I'm sleepy . . . I'll sleep here . . .
Wait, wait, this is my key. It opens properly . . . see!
I inserted the key and opened the door. The motion sensor light illuminated the room enough for her to see inside. Once she noticed this, hopefully she'd go back to the right place.
I'm hooome! Hehe hehe!
Ms. Shinonome staggered into the entrance. A perfect example of drunken stumbling.
. . . Hey! Wait, that's my—
Mr. Futon, I’m hooome! Ahhh, I missed you, my sweet loving . . . futon . . . mmm . . .
Without hesitation, she headed straight for the bed and flopped down with a thud.
Seriously? Wait, what? What am I supposed to do when my teacher just face-planted onto my bed? Her alcohol-scented breath had already settled into a steady sleeping rhythm as she started snoring away.
Mmm . . . zzz . . . shh . . . mmph . . . hehe . . . munya . . .
What kind of situation is this?
I was completely lost. My homeroom teacher got plastered, mistook my room for hers, and after I proved it was my room, she's passed out cold . . . ? What is this . . . ? There's no way something this ridiculous would actually happen in real life . . . right?
Zzz-shh . . . zzz . . . zzz . . .
What should I do . . . She's completely out . . . This is my place, but it's also a student's place—more importantly, it's a teenage boy's room.
Mmm . . . shh . . . mucha . . . mmm . . . hehe . . .
This situation. How am I supposed to handle this mess?
I'm getting a headache . . .
This was a nightmare. So much of a nightmare that I stood there for about three minutes still clutching my convenience store bag.
The instant soup I bought with my sandwich was probably getting lukewarm, and above all, I was starving . . . I guess I'll eat for now.
I turned my back on the sleeping teacher and laid out my sandwich and salad. The soup I'd had prepared at the convenience store had cooled to just the right temperature, so I ate in silence . . . but.
The presence behind me is intense.
I could hear not just her presence but even her breathing. I'd never invited anyone into my room, not even when I lived at home, so having someone sleeping in my one-room apartment was nothing but uncomfortable.
Mmm . . . mmmm mmmm . . . ow, mmm . . . mm.
I heard rustling fabric behind me, and the occasional slapping sounds made me wonder what she was doing, so I glanced back.
Ow, ah . . . won't come off . . . bra . . . braaa . . .
Huh . . . ?!
Maybe her tight underwear was making it hard for her to sleep, but don't take it off. Having her sleep even more soundly would be a problem, and taking off underwear in a place like this, even through clothes . . .
Mm . . . geez, mmmm mmmm . . . take off . . . just take it off . . . mmm . . .
I instinctively backed away when I heard "take off." The teacher, sleeping with her back to me, started squirming as she tried to unbutton her blouse.
No . . . don't! At this rate, she was going to expose herself! No no no, give me a break. Having her topless would be very bad.
I guessed she just wanted to relieve the pressure from her tight underwear, but if she undressed here . . . !
I'll . . . just unhook it for you . . . don't wake up . . .
I couldn't have her sleeping half-naked, and I didn't want to wake her up and cause a scene! That would be asking for trouble—a false accusation waiting to happen! For my own peace of mind, I approached her sleeping form and reached for her back while looking away as much as possible.
How . . . how do bras even work . . . ?
I'd never removed women's underwear before, and trying to unhook a bra without looking was extremely difficult. Calm down, think this through.
If I think of it as a bra I'll panic, but if I think of it as just a fastener . . . It's a hook, so it's a clasp mechanism—meaning I should pull the sides apart to release it!
. . . Gulp.
Her blouse rose and fell with her breathing, warm to the touch. Her shoulders moving with each breath were so small. Her back was . . . thin . . . Just to be safe, I whispered excuse me before . . . reaching for the underwear through her blouse.
Mmm . . . munya . . . mm . . .
I lifted the left and right sides of the surprisingly sturdy underwire and released the metal clasp.
Pop
With a light snap, the thin band separated inside her blouse.
Ahh . . . fwah . . . mm . . . hehe . . . mmm . . . zzz.
The outline of the loose underwear was visible inside her clothes. Why did seeing the distinctly feminine lines faintly showing through her pale blouse make me so self-conscious, causing my palms to sweat?
I thought I was pretty normal when it came to dating, but maybe there are just some things that trigger a guy's instincts . . . It's frustrating, but I'm realizing I'm right in the thick of adolescence.
Once the Ms. Shinonome's breathing quieted down, I left her to sleep and finished my meal. After that, I grabbed the leftover cardboard boxes from my move, bundled up the trash, and stepped out to throw it all away.
Alright . . . up we go . . .
I put the garbage in the trash room and waited for the elevator. When I returned to my room, Ms. Shinonome would probably still be sleeping . . . What should I do? What a mess.
She was so drunk that she got the wrong room—would it have been okay to turn her over to the police . . . ?
