Who Says Romcoms Aren't Real?

The world of romantic comedies is the ultimate paradise.

It's loaded with the hopes and desires that youth brings.

. . . Right?

What guy wouldn’t want to spend his school days goofing around and having a blast with adorable girls? There's no way someone would say they don't want to see that crush of theirs in a swimsuit, or that they don’t care about those lucky, accidental moments, right?

And how about attending school festivals with your best buddies or dressing up in a yukata and watching a fireworks display, or wanting to go on a trip to a hot spring at Christmas?

Fans of romantic comedies in light novels have definitely imagined what it would be like to have an awesome and exciting time in school at least once.

But reality is a far cry from your typical rom-com.

Because . . .

I do not have a little sister, nor do I have a close and endearing childhood friend. None of my classmates are idols. I've never met a mysterious upperclassman, or a particularly friendly junior—not even a clumsy but beautiful homeroom teacher.

I don't know anyone who acts like a violent tsundere or a cunningly cute devil in disguise. I don't have an older sister who pens her own light novels, or an angelic girl-next-door kind of neighbor. None of my friends have an annoying little sister—heck, I don't even have a best friend that's a guy.

I’ve got no complicated past drama with anyone, and I’ve never felt a spark for someone right away.

Moreover . . .

I can't write novels. I can't draw. I can't compose music. I can't perform. Designing games is out of the question—I'm not even good at playing them.

I'm not a complete introvert, but I'm also not good at starting or leading conversations like an extrovert. It's not like I hate studying or sports, but I'm far from being good at either of them.

If I had to say I excel at anything in comparison to other people, it would be that I've won a prize at a provincial research competition, and that I earn a bit more than my classmates doing data entry as a part-time gig. That's about it—I'm embarrassingly unremarkable.

Ultimately, my reality is that . . .

There is no charming high school drama. Even mundane scenes you normally see in a slice-of-life scenario don't often occur, let alone fan-service ones.

It's impossible for me to experience any sort of rom-com plot with a girl just by chance, coincidence, or convenience.

That's the reality I live.

I'm just one of the millions in the country who loves romantic comedies.

In the end, is it just impossible to have those youthful days like you’d see in a rom-com?

I refuse to accept that.

Anyone can be the protagonist in a rom-com, whether they're a delinquent, a loner, an otaku, a social outcast, or even the most popular kid in school.

A rom-com isn't picky about its main character.

So even someone like me, who has absolutely nothing going for him, should be entitled to a rom-com of his own.

And if reality says that a rom-com is impossible to experience?

Then I'll just have to make it possible.

◆

The April breeze is a bit chilly.

I climb the outdoor staircase of my school, deliberately placing each foot down with care.

After passing several landings, I'm confronted by a nearly six-and-a-half-foot-high iron fence-like gate with a small keyhole in its stainless steel doorknob.

I swallow nervously, then slowly turn the knob.

The gate makes a clanking sound and swings open without resistance.

It's just as the information I gathered indicated.

Much to my delight, the gate really was unlocked at this time of the day.

I cross the threshold with a spring in my step . . .

An empty rooftop stretches out before me.

A fiery red sunset sky dominates half of my field of vision.

No way . . . I've finally found it—the perfect youth spot!

Unable to contain my excitement, I shout towards the sky.

It's time to set my plan into motion.

Suddenly, the days leading up to my enrollment flash before my eyes, making them well up with warm tears.

During the time right up until I started high school—

I had spent nearly a year dedicating myself to planning.

Since I've always lacked the barest necessities to experience a rom-com in real life, I decided to instead relentlessly focus on what I did have—my research skills.

I compiled all available information into a database, learned analytical techniques to effectively utilize the data, and embedded everything into my body through relentless practice of becoming the star of my own story.

That was how I meticulously prepared to fight against fate.

There were many failures and countless times where I felt like giving up.

But I once came across a protaganist who said "Life is just a crappy game," and still faced whatever hurdle was thrown at him.

I learned from him that no matter how difficult the path may seem, if you persist without giving up, you can change your life as you know it.

Another inspirational quote came from a highly accomplished idol—no, a goddess—who said that "anyone can reach for the stars."

In other words, always keep moving forward, even if your dreams seem unobtainable.

I had persevered up until now with that resolve.

Despite all of the twists and turns, I finally made it here.

I'm no longer just an ordinary guy whose dream is to live a real-life romantic comedy.

I, Kohei Nagasaka, am now going to become the protagonist of one!

Alright, alright . . . Calm down . . .

I glance at the clock on my smartphone.

Just fifteen more minutes until she—my target—arrives.

My body trembles from the adrenaline coursing through my body.

Damn it, don’t be nervous, Kohei! This is going to be the first scene of your very own rom-com. You've gotta get pumped up! Wait, that sounds like a jinx—scratch that!

I pace around the entrance area to collect my thoughts while giving myself a motivational speech.

A monologue like this is quite fitting for the protagonist of a rom-com. It's standard for them to mutter to themselves whenever they're alone. Damn, I am doing one heck of a job—all of my practice is paying off!

Just as I start feeling better, something else makes my heart leap.

I hear the door behind me creak as it opens.

She's here earlier than planned?

I stand there, too frozen to move as the sound of footsteps steadily gets louder.

With every step, my heart beats faster and faster.

I shut my eyes and tell myself things will go well if I just do as I practiced.

I take a deep breath.

I slap my cheeks to psych myself up.

Reality says that a rom-com is impossible to experience.

At least, on your own it is.

They say that rom-coms can't happen in real life. But I'm going to prove them otherwise!

It's showtime.

The curtain rises on the plan I developed. It's time for Project Rom-Com Realization!

◆

Mei Kiyosato, I-I really like you! Please go out with me!

I turn around, shouting my confession loudly while bowing deeply.

All goes silent as my heartfelt confession dissolves into the air.

My heart hammers against my chest as I stand there, waiting for her reply.

It feels like it's about to burst.

The girl before me seems to hesitate as she stands by the entrance from which I came. After a few seconds, she finally speaks.

Um. Er . . . Sorry.

The crystal clear rejection in all its casually delivered glory echoes across the rooftop.

The chilly spring breeze passes swiftly between us. It feels colder than before.

Ah. So that's it, then.

The words leave my lips as a hoarse whisper.

My vision blurs, and I'm no longer able to see anything.

I just got rejected.

Mei Kiyosato is one of the most beautiful girls in my grade.

With her glossy black hair and a distinctive beauty mark under her eye, she consistently wears a radiant, gentle smile that suggests she has come straight from the heavens.

By chance, we often ended up taking the same bus home, eventually discovering our shared love for reading. We even liked the same books, which made us so engrossed in our conversations that we'd often forget to get off at our stops.

But there was one thing that truly attracted me to her.

Whenever we parted ways, she would wave at me, her petite figure against the backdrop of a town bathed in the warm colors of the sunset, and say . . .

See you tomorrow!

The first time she did that, I fell in love.

I dreamed of our future high school life together.

I wanted to see that smile all the time—I wanted to be the one who would make her smile that way.

That desire inspired me to slip a love letter into her shoe locker and call her up to the rooftop.

Everything—and I mean everything—was perfect.

Heck, this is the place for a touching and dramatic confession.

I'm giddy with excitement, but I know better than to lose focus now. The scene isn't over yet, after all.

I try my best to remember the first line of a monologue I memorized for this situation.

I look up at the sky, as if to hide the tears in my eyes.

I brace myself for this outcome.

Mei Kiyosato was kind to everyone; not just me. I knew that from the start.

Still . . .

I won't be discouraged by just one instance of rejection after voicing my feelings.

Sorry, that was sudden. That must have been annoying, huh?

Hey, hold on a second.

No matter how embarrassing or uncool it might seem, I want to be near her.

But I don't want all the time we spent together to be meaningless.

Sure, so as I was saying . . .

Maybe one day, she'll be able to look at me again. I know I have to cling to that tiny possibility.

I know it's selfish of me to say this, but I still want us to be friends. Is that too much to ask?

Can you just wait a minute?!

Come on, I was just getting to the good part!

Although, her reaction was not what I expected.

According to the data I collected on Mei, the expected response is supposed to be, "I understand. We can keep this between us, Kohei." Then she would flash her trademark angelic smile.

I finally looked up at my dream girl.

Her silky black hair, dyed red by the setting sun—no, wait. It seems a little too red.

Look at me when I'm talking to you.

I do as I'm told, and squint at the person in front of me.

I see a short skirt, a disheveled uniform, and hair that reaches down to her shoulders, styled in wavy, chestnut-brown curls.

The trademark mole under her eye . . . is nowhere to be found.

. . .

What?

You've got the wrong girl. And are you seriously planning on confessing to someone like that? That was way too forced and creepy.

Creepy?! That was supposed to be the perfect confession!

April has arrived, marking the beginning of spring during my freshman year at high school.

And it seems like reality isn't quite ready to let me live the rom-com of my dreams.

◆

Hey, why don't you go order something?

Her words snap me out of my daze as I sit blankly at our table.

We're at a burger joint, seated in the last booth at the back.

. . . Huh?

Don't 'huh' me. You're going to piss off the staff.

As she speaks, I notice her tray's been loaded with a shake, an apple pie, and a stack of pancakes.

Someone's got a sweet tooth . . .

Come on, hurry up.

Flustered by her waving hand, I quickly stand up from our table.

I try to gather my scattered thoughts as I head towards the sparsely populated cashier.

While doing so, I recall how I got here in the first place—

The confession scene I meticulously planned turned out to be a disaster. But that wasn't because of Mei Kiyosato, the girl I was actually interested in. Rather, it was because of a girl I had never met.

I panicked, and then tried to improvise.

But my explanation was a mess.

Can't you speak like a normal person?

I ended up being scolded for my rambling.

Then I grew even more anxious as the limited time we were allowed to stay on the rooftop was almost up.

This isn’t quite the right setting, but how about we chat over a coffee or something?

And that was how I bungled my way into making such a ridiculous invitation.

Now, here I am.

Oddly enough, when I checked Mei's shoe locker on our way out, not only were her shoes gone, but the love letter I placed inside it was also nowhere to be seen.

Maybe she just hasn't read it yet.

The situation I was in now confirmed the complete failure of my planned confession.

What an absolute mess.

While ordering a shake with some random flavor at the register, I question myself.

I'm sure I saw Mei returning to the main building after her club activities, and her shoes were in her locker when I placed the letter. I chose a time when no one would disturb us—my preparations were flawless!

But in the end, it doesn't matter. A failure is a failure.

Still, I have to comfort myself. "You gain experience points when you lose in life." Yes, powerful words to live by when playing the game of life, said by my perfect heroine. She thoroughly taught me that lesson. All I had to do is go with the flow and keep fighting without giving up.

I nod to the puzzled cashier who hands me my shake. Then, instead of going back to my seat, I hide behind a pillar and take a sip of my drink as I watch her.

The girl I shouldn't be eating out with in the first place.

I have to come up with another plan.

Sorry, I mistook you for someone else.

My simple apology ideally should have settled everything, but the mishap would've been really bad for me if word somehow got out.

After all, my thoroughly thought-out, full-effort confession was apparently—

Creepy.

I was dismissed by someone who clearly didn't appreciate the beauty of clichés. You know, the type who's prone to leaving reviews like "What a rip-off" or "How unoriginal" on social media or Amazon reviews.

If this incident were to spread to more people like her, then I'm sure my blunder will make me the laughing stock of the century.

And even if it didn't go that far, having a negative reputation at school would be detrimental to the Project. Given the fact that I'm a freshman who's only two weeks into the school year and with nary a solid network, I know I have to avoid this at all costs.

Thus, my priority now is to somehow keep the entire rooftop incident under wraps.

I peek out from behind the pillar to check on my target.

She's devouring her sweets with no hint of emotion. What is she, a robot?

More importantly, it's odd that she agreed to come here with me.

I think back to when she responded to my impromptu proposal.

Sure, as long as we don't stay out too late.

That was all she said.

It was obvious she thought I was the type of guy who would give a creepy confession to someone he had just met. Who in their right mind would think of grabbing food with such a person?

Could it be she actually has the habit of acting tough to hide her true feelings? I've read many books where calling someone "creepy" was meant as a compliment.

Then again, going out with a girl I'm not familiar with feels like the beginning of a dating sim!

This would fall within the realm of a romantic comedy, right?

You're getting excited again, Kohei.

Even if things seem to be progressing that way, it doesn't mean that girl will act like she's in a romantic comedy.

I'm not that delusional.

As if suddenly filled with determination, I straighten up.

Remember the basic principle, Kohei!

The first thing I need to do is gather information.

To do that, I'll observe her thoroughly.

When we spoke earlier, I was too flustered to think if we had met before.

Her hair is medium length, just past the shoulders, with wavy ends. It's brown, but it's hard to tell if it's been dyed or it's natural.

She's wearing a thin sweater underneath her blazer, and there's a bracelet on her wrist. Her skirt's slightly shorter than our dress code allows, and it looks like she's wearing some light makeup. She has a Valley-girl feel to her.

Her features are sharp and refined, and is more beautiful than cute. What stands out is her eye color, which seems lighter than I'd expected. They have a reddish tint to them—I assume she's wearing colored contacts.

Not to mention, the areas of her body that most boys would notice are rather slender. She could definitely be a model if she were taller, but she's about average height. She also seems to be lacking—er, modesty.

Her necktie is yellow, which indicates that she's freshman, just like me.

That's about all the information I can glean from her appearance.

It's now time to input everything.

I pull out my smartphone and tap on a familiar shortcut icon.

Then I quickly enter the information I gathered into a search box on the displayed page.

Hairstyle: Wavy perm / Hair color: Brown / Face: Diamond shape / Build: Slender / Chest: Small

Executing search . . .

The number of matches found is . . .

. . . One.

Just one.

I see. No wonder she didn't immediately beat me up. She's in Class 1-5, aiming to apply for national universities, C-rank.

Having confirmed all the necessary details in my mind, I tuck the smartphone back into my chest pocket.

I take a deep breath.

I don't have many cards left to play, and face-to-face interactions are not exactly my forte.

But I just need to remember all the effort I've already put in.

There is no way I am going to let this turn into a bad ending when I had just barely got past the prologue!

With that resolve, I grip the shake, now starting to sweat with condensation, and return to my original seat.

My target places her seemingly empty cup on the tray with a clunk the moment she notices my return, narrowing her eyes at me.

Took you long enough. I'm almost done eating.

Huh? Already?

I direct my attention to the tray, which is littered with leftover plastic containers and crumpled up papers.

Just looking at it makes my teeth hurt . . . but now I'm getting distracted.

Uh, sorry, there was a line.

It looks pretty empty, though.

I think they might be understaffed.

Sure . . .

She continues to stare at me, her face still devoid of emotion.

I can't let the pacing stop at this awkward moment. I need to keep everything under control.

As I calm my breath, I try to recall my own character sheet.

I'm not too flashy, and I'm not too dull. I'm friendly and easy to talk to, but also reliable and responsible—I am the president of my homeroom class, after all. My looks are exceedingly average, though my neatly groomed appearance is refreshing. All in all, I'm a slightly cool guy.

Well? Don't you have anything to say?

Well, here goes nothing!

I carefully chose each word to speak while piecing together the argument in my mind.

First off, I'm sorry I startled you earlier. I was really nervous, so I might have said some weird things. I want to make sure there are no misunderstandings between us, so please let me explain myself.

I drop my voice to a low, solemn tone, hoping it'll get through to her that I'm being very serious. Of course, I also make sure not to forget to cover up my previous blunder.

You might have figured it out by now, but I was there because I wanted to confess to a girl I like. I asked her to meet me at the rooftop. I was so nervous I couldn’t even look at her properly and didn't even realize I was talking to the wrong girl.

I shyly turn my face as I say my piece.

Confessing to a crush is nerve-racking for anyone, and it was hard to stay calm. Making a mistake like that is normal.

And I'll admit, my story is partly true. There's no harm in including a few white lies here and there so long as I admit what isn't false.

But I really am serious about her. I might've messed up this time, but I’m not giving up just yet.

I look directly into the girl's eyes as those last words leave my mouth.

I've emphasized how serious my feelings are, dropping a hint that this isn't something to take lightly, nor should she stick her nose in. I also inferred my plans to attempt another confession in the future.

That should set the stage.

Now comes the crucial part.

So, about what happened . . . I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about it.

I straighten my posture and slowly bow my head at a 45-degree angle—a gesture that's not too shallow, but not overexaggerated, either.

Please.

Throughout my story, I maintained the stance of being the one asking for a favor.

It was unlikely that someone would act dishonorably against me when I had taken such a serious tone and put myself in a lower position. A majority of people are often restrained by their conscience, after all.

In any case, my piece and the delivery of it has been perfect so far.

I had verbally covered all the necessary elements for my request, packing deeper meanings into my words while not sharing any information that could be detrimental.

If my understanding—of the data, of course—is correct, she should now fully understand me.

I sneak a glance while still bowing my head. I can't fully see her face, but she seems to be deep in thought with her arms crossed.

A long moment of silence stretches between us.

. . . OK. I think I get it now.

I mentally pump my fist in victory.

Crisis averted!

Oh, thank you. Then, I guess . . .

I'd like to say one thing, first.

I look up at her, wondering what she could possibly say at this point.

You mentioned something about a perfect confession scene. What exactly did you mean by that?

I sit there, frozen in place.

Uh, well . . . Um . . .

Damn it, out of all things I blabbed about, why does she remember that?!

Chill, Kohei. Don't panic. Not now.

Still, her inquiry is problematic. If she digs any deeper, things could get really messy.

I get the confession part, but why'd you call it a 'scene'? That's a weird thing to say, even if you're nervous.

Damn it! Nothing gets past her, huh?!

I need to come up with an excuse.

Uh, that . . . W-well, you see . . . It’s like, er . . . It was for a, uh . . . a play, yeah! It was a Freudian slip, I didn't mean to say it . . .

The girl continues to stare at me with zero change in her expression. Not even a twitch. The whole situation makes my stomach churn.

No matter how hard I try, I can't find any tells for what she's feeling.

Then, she lifts one eyebrow, her tone more pressing.

Alright, then. How about what you were saying earlier? Something about a rom-com?

What?!

No way! Was she listening to me talking to myself?!

I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but you were speaking so loudly that I couldn’t help but hear.

Her response is so on point, it's as if she read my thoughts.

Don't tell me . . . Has modeling my life after a rom-com protagonist finally backfired on me?

I’m not really familiar with rom-coms, but they’re a genre of books and movies, right?

Her matter-of-fact tone leaves me speechless.

Then it hits me.

Could it be? This girl . . .

And the way you strung all those fluffy words together . . .

Could she have known everything from the start? Had she just been watching to see how I would react?

I thought I was cleverly leading the conversation, but she saw right through me and let me flounder.

A chill runs down my spine at the thought.

You only see those kind of confessions in rom-coms. Now that I think about it, everything you said doesn’t seem like something someone serious about confessing would say.

My heart is racing.

Once more, she stares at me with those emotionless eyes of hers.

If you said that to a girl, she'd think you were pretending to be in some TV show.

My body tenses up, and I feel the blood drain from my fingertips.

What should I do?

How should I respond?!

Unless I'm wrong? Do you have a better explanation?

I need a counter argument. Something! Anything!

There has to be a plausible reason that can satisfy her!

Well, it's fine if you don't wanna tell me. But don't blame me for drawing my own conclusions.

My eyes dart left and right as I scramble for a response.

She added that last sentence to get me to break! Now she's got me cornered. Damn it, she's a ruthless one.

I know the longer I stay silent, the more it counts against me.

But my mouth is dry. Try as I might, I just can't find my way out of this.

The girl across from me releases a brief sigh.

. . . Guess you really don't have an excuse, then. Figures.

Her voice flat, she mutters something else that I'm too frazzled to catch.

This is bad.

It seems like she's already come to a conclusion.

I came here because I thought you did all of this for a more interesting reason, but if you're just that desperate then maybe you should just give up.

I stare, dumbfounded by how she could say that with a straight face.

If it were possible, I'd say she looks even more indifferent.

Seriously, doing this kind of thing at our age is just embarrassing.

Her statement comes off nonchalantly.

You need to wake up and face reality.

. . .

Wait a minute.

Did you just say . . . ?

. . . Huh?

She meets my earnest gaze with a slight frown, as if confused by my reaction.

I take a deep breath.

My life is not a romantic comedy.

I know that.

I've known it for a long time.

If you're going to go that far, then let me tell you something.

But using that as an excuse to give up?

I refuse to let my dream end that way, even if it kills me.

I'm wide awake, and I'm going to make my very own rom-com happen!

My declaration resonates with a sense of pride and self-assurance.

I'm not embarrassed, not in the slightest.

I know I can create my very own romantic comedy.

Huh?

Her stoic demeanor finally gives way to an emotion: confusion.

I can't help but feel a little victorious.

You're . . . you're serious?

Dead serious. I'm going to create a high-school rom-com. I plan to get the whole school involved, eventually.

My eyes, filled with unwavering determination, locks onto hers.

No, no, no. You have to be kidding.

I swear by the god of rom-coms, everything I'm saying is true. Do you have a problem with that?

Yes, I do. A ton of problems, actually . . .

Her gaze darts here and there, her once seemingly unfeeling self now in a state of restlessness.

She underestimated me. My determination is on a different level compared to your typical modern-day high schooler.

I'm not playing around. I intend on having the full rom-com experience. That means dramatically spicing up the school festival arc, have a filler beach episode, and even toss in a spicy hot springs side story!

Hold on, you lost me at the last part!

I said I'm going to toss in a hot springs side story!

Oh god, you're such a creep! And stop yelling!

She shuffles away uncomfortably in response to my outburst of youthful passion, but I couldn't care less.

I don't care about what anyone else thinks is normal. My god once said, 'It doesn't matter what others say; if you can be proud of yourself, that's all that matters.'

What? Which god said that?

Chitose, clearly! He's from a story that's a treasure trove of philosophical wisdom and a must-read for middle and high schoolers!

Never heard of it.

This is why I can't stand plebeians like her. They only hype up whatever gets turned into a movie.

In any case, my mind has already been made up, and you can't convince me otherwise. If anyone tries to get in my way, I'll fight them with all I've got! I'll shout 'Long live romantic comedies,' until my dying breath!

With that said, I strike a defiant pose, and the surroundings fall silent.

A tense silence hangs between us.

Beep-beep, beep-beep.

The timer for the fries goes off.

Ugh, what a way to ruin such an emotional scene. Now this just looks like some type of gag.

Riiight, OK. I guess I get what you're trying to say.

Recovering from a momentary pause, she covers her eyes with her hand and lets out a heavy sigh.

Has she been moved by my fiery speech? Did it make her so emotional that she's going to cry?

Can I say one thing, though?

Sure.

You're an absolute idiot.

How could you say that?!

Come on, this wasn't supposed to end with a cheesy punchline!

◆

After a brief silence, she looks at me intently.

I have a lot I want to say, but you're really serious about this, aren't you?

I already told you, I'm dead serious. This is getting repetitive.

Well, first of all, you've been going on about making a rom-com happen . . .

Hold it. I said rom-com, but I specifically mean a high school rom-com. While you get the meaning of the genre from the name itself, adding 'high school' to it specifically refers to young adult dramas—it brings a whole new definition to it.

So, you basically just want to be involved in some dramatic romance, is that it?

While romance is indeed the core element, it's not just that. If romance was the main focus, this would be a chick flick. Rom-coms celebrate youth in a lighthearted fashion with comedic elements. Some are even more focused on the high-school drama itself.

Fascinating . . .

Her tone is flat and totally unimpressed. It seems my detailed definitions matter little to her.

This is the problem with amateurs. If you fail to make clear distinctions, they'll end up leaving reviews like, "It was tagged as a rom-com, but there's no love or comedy. One star." Then they'd get embarrassed when they're inevitably proven wrong when someone else says, "This is not a lovey-dovey type of work. Try getting your facts straight." I would know, that was my experience schooling a pleb.

And you genuinely think you can pull this off? How?

It's quite simple, really. Just gather various pieces of information, analyze them to find the right people for the characters, set the stage with some prep work, and then nudge things towards the perfect rom-com scenario.

There's no way it's that simple. I mean, it's failing right now.

That's because I didn't prepare enough. The setup was perfect, though.

That's exactly the problem.

I don't want to hear that from you, cliché hater!

Clichés are clichés for a reason! They work!

As I seethe inwardly, she pauses to think for a moment, then shakes her head and continues.

OK, hypothetically, it might work out if everything went exactly as planned. But come on, this isn't something you can just half-ass.

I know that. That's why I'm thoroughly gathering information. I make sure there's little deviation from the planned scenario. The more data I have, the less likely I am to fail, and the easier it is to control.

Thorough data gathering, huh?

She flashes me an incredulous look as she twirls the straw in her empty shake cup.

She keeps underestimating me. Unbelievable.

Fine, if that's how she wants to be, then I'll show her.

Don't underestimate me, Ayano Uenohara of Class 1-5.

. . . Huh?

Her fiddling with the straw comes to an abrupt stop.

I pull out my smartphone from my pocket, and open the same screen as before.

Ayano Uenohara. Class 1-5, seat number 6. Born November 10. Went to Kyogoku Municipal North Junior High and was in the track-and-field team. Excellent in both academics and athletics, no noticeable weaknesses, consistently stellar grades in all subjects. Ranked 8th in entrance exams. Placed third in the 800 meters at the prefectural junior-high meet. Has a wide circle of friends, both male and female. Loves sweets, dislikes convenience-store bentos.

Now hold on a minute—we've never met before, have we?

Ayano, clearly taken aback, sits with her jaw hanging wide open.

Nope. Oh, and one of your parents is a university professor, while the other is a freelance systems engineer. Your home address is in Kyogoku City . . .

I'm calling the police.

Huh? Wait, don't!

She starts fiddling with her phone, but I grab her right arm to stop her.

Calm down! Just let me explain!

Hands off me, stalker!

I'm not a stalker! I didn't get any of that information illegally!

Who cares?! Why would you have all these details on someone you've never even spoken to?!

Haven't you been listening to me? I need to research my characters beforehand!

Ayano pauses. Then her eyebrows scrunch up in annoyance.

No, no, no, that makes no sense. Why am I a character? I don't get it at all!

Tsk-tsk. This girl. How has she not realized it yet?

Because you're beautiful!

. . . What?

I checked all of the girls in our grade. Admit it, you know you're pretty. If we were in a light novel, I'd tell you to go look at its illustrations and come back to me!

Ayano sputters, her eyes blinking rapidly.

Then she gives me a long, hard look.

Don't think you'll win me over with a few compliments, you weirdo.

No, I'm just stating facts. According to my research, you're ranked seventh in attractiveness in our grade. Out of 150 girls, that's something to be proud of.

. . . How the heck am I supposed to react to that?

After swatting my hand away from her arm, Ayano begins to wrap her brown hair around her finger.

By the way, the ratings are all quantified. Let's see, face score is a 4.3, looks are 4.7, chest is 2.8 . . .

Yeah, I'm going to have to report you.

Wait, just hold on a second!

I catch her left wrist.

I only shared that info because you wouldn’t trust me, and you're still treating me like a stalker! That's just harsh!

Nobody asked you to tell me about your freaky behavior. Obviously, that's only going to put me off. Can't you see how ridiculous that is, you idiot?!

Ugh, only real idiots call other people idiots, idiot!

This is just making you look like an even bigger idiot, idiot!

A silent staring contest ensues, the air around me and Ayano is heavy with tension.

Beep-beep, beep-beep.

God . . .

A loud, mechanical beep from the deep fryer shatters the tense moment, snapping Ayano out of her thoughts.

Having set aside her phone, it seems like she's decided against making the call for now.

This is so stupid.

She shakes off my hand and begins tidying up her slightly disheveled bangs.

I hope you now know how serious I am.

I know how insane you are.

So she finally admits it . . . Or wait, does she . . . ?

As I tilt my head in confusion, Ayano sighs and leans back into the chair.

Hey. About what you said earllier—do you do that to anyone else?

Huh? What are you talking about?

Are you collecting anyone else's personal information?

Well, yeah. There's quite a bit.

Let me see it. I promise I won't mess with it.

With that, Ayano reaches out her right hand.

. . . What are you planning on using it for?

I tightly clench my smartphone, my wariness intensifying.

This data is strictly confidential. It's not something to be casually shared with others.

No reason. I'm just curious about how much info there is.