67. Romantic comedies can never seem to avoid the classic gym storage room incident. If this truly were a romantic comedy...

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Tuesday, September 15th.

At the break of dawn, Tsukimi Jinguuji and Yo Hitsujimiya were already waiting in front of the school gates. Compared to yesterday morning, there were fewer slovenly students, but still some whose appearance and attire did not meet regulations.

Today, Iwasaki and his group wore their uniforms properly; there was none of yesterday’s chaos. Thus, Tsukimi Jinguuji found no fault with them and secretly breathed a sigh of relief. The only thing that troubled him was a few first-year girls who brazenly came up to ask for his contact information, only to be chased away by Yo Hitsujimiya.

No wonder she’s the mascot of the first years—how convenient, Tsukimi thought.

“Honestly, what do they mean by ‘I want to have senpai all to myself’? Pah!” Yo Hitsujimiya grumbled, arms crossed, scowling at the retreating girls.

Suddenly, she remembered something, glanced at Tsukimi, and said, a rare touch of embarrassment coloring her cheeks, “Senpai, don’t take their words seriously, I’m not like that at all.”

“Hm? What did they say?” Tsukimi feigned ignorance.

“Ugh!” Yo Hitsujimiya huffed in frustration.

…

Back in the classroom of 2-A, Tsukimi Jinguuji, once treated as invisible, could now clearly sense the gazes directed at him.

“Jinguuji.”

He had just sat down when a girl approached his desk.

“Yes? Is there something you need?” Tsukimi looked up at the girl. He only knew her name was Hanamori—a member of the class’s academic elite among the girls. He had never interacted with her before.

It was only natural for a class to split into several factions—usually divided by gender, then further by academic achievement, athletic ability, shared club memberships, or interest in otaku culture. Any small group that included both boys and girls was generally considered the “in crowd,” dominating the class atmosphere.

“I’m from the Shogi Club. Could you get our club’s funding request approved sooner? There’s only a month left until the Culture Festival, and we’re counting on the school’s funds to buy new equipment for the shogi tournament.”

“Funding requests must go through formal review by the student council. Notifications are sent according to the order applications are received.”

“Aren’t you the vice president? Can’t you just make the call? I’m really in a hurry here.”

“Sorry, I don’t have that kind of authority yet.”

“Whatever.”

“Let it go, Hanamori,” a boy beside her joked, “as if the vice president would bother with small fry like us.”

Hanamori didn’t show annoyance, but returned to her seat expressionless.

And so, the surrounding chatter settled around Tsukimi like the corpses of fish washed up by the waves—left quietly on the shore.

Tsukimi Jinguuji sighed inwardly. He neither explained nor argued. He had no intention of engaging with them, simply sitting at his desk like a statue deaf to human speech.

“Tch, he doesn’t even react. Boring guy.”

When Hasebe entered the classroom and announced the start of the class meeting, such voices faded away. Yet, with his exceptional memory, Tsukimi Jinguuji could not silence the echoes—they lingered, even after the teacher’s arrival.

He glanced at the windowsill. Yesterday’s origami crane was already gone, perhaps flown to a place where no one could find it.

How nice, he thought.

…

That afternoon, gym class was held outdoors. Tsukimi Jinguuji sat alone under a tree on the field, eyes closed, quietly resting. Around him, the laughter of sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds rang out as they hurled themselves into the joys of youth. He tilted his head slightly, avoiding the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves.

With the upcoming sports festival, everyone was practicing for their chosen events. Sakura Sazakura was tied at the ankle with another girl, training for the three-legged race. Tsukimi knew she had signed up for many events; the weight of others’ expectations seemed heavy.

When gym ended, the teacher had Sakura Sazakura help return the equipment to the storage shed. From under the tree, Tsukimi Jinguuji watched her from a distance, with no intention of offering help.

But Sakura Sazakura wasn’t about to let him off so easily; she trotted eagerly his way.

“Hey! Jinguuji-kun.” She greeted him with a bright smile.

Tsukimi took a step back, glancing at the still-lingering classmates, who now looked at them in surprise. He frowned slightly, displeased by her approach.

“I told you not to talk to me where others can see. Do you want to know what it’s like to be ostracized?”

Immature, naive, and prejudiced—high schoolers always liked to divide people into groups.

You’re with him, he’s with them.

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They would even rank these groups, naturally looking down on those at the bottom, never realizing that each person is an individual.

Tsukimi Jinguuji considered this perfectly ordinary; after all, he was a sixteen-year-old with his own prejudices against the world, and he didn’t blame anyone for it. He didn’t care what happened to him at school, but Sakura Sazakura was his one line he would not let be crossed.

“I don’t really understand what you mean, Jinguuji-kun. I just can’t put all this equipment away by myself. Can you help me?”

Facing him, Sakura Sazakura wore an expression that seemed to say, “We’re not that close, really.”

Tsukimi fell silent. “Why not ask someone else?”

“I just feel bad bothering everyone else. But with you, well, it seems everyone actually enjoys seeing you in trouble.”

When Tsukimi Jinguuji didn’t respond, Sakura Sazakura turned and waved at a group of girls, calling loudly, “I’m having Jinguuji-kun help move things, I’ll be right there!”

And so, Tsukimi Jinguuji became her assistant. Some boys in their class laughed openly at the sight of him being made to do the heavy lifting.

They crammed all the equipment into the storage shed. Following the labels on the shelves, Tsukimi stood on a ladder while Sakura Sazakura steadied it and handed him the gear.

“Tsukimi, are you planning to take part in the sports festival?”

When it was just the two of them, she switched back to using his first name.

“Didn’t you read the rules? Every student has to participate, even the top of the year. Pass me the badminton rackets.”

She handed them up, and he placed them on the middle shelf.

“What about the team events? Decided on anything?”

“Dodgeball,” Tsukimi replied.

“Knew it.”

“That game turns into chaos as soon as it starts—perfect for slacking off.”

“What about individual events? No escape there, right?”

“Not participating.”

“Huh?”

“I’ve already arranged to take part in a special group event with the student council.”

“Wait… with the upperclassman?” Sakura Sazakura’s voice trembled with tension.

Tsukimi looked down at his childhood friend and said calmly, “No, with a first-year boy—the council’s treasurer.”

She visibly relaxed.

Once they finished storing everything, Tsukimi jumped down from the ladder, dusted off his hands, and brushed off his tracksuit. In the dim light of the shed, the swirling motes of dust seemed especially clear.

“Wait,” she called, stopping him as he was about to leave. He stood still, waiting for her to approach.

She raised her hand and gently brushed his black hair. “You’ve got dust all over your hair.”

“Mm,” he replied, letting her fingers ruffle his head.

“Don’t mess up my hair.”

“Messed up is better. I’d shave it all off if I could, stop you from flirting with girls everywhere.”

“I don’t remember doing that.”

“I heard a lot of first-year girls were after your contact info.”

“You know about that?”

“I saw it this morning.”

“I thought you went into the classroom early.”

“I saw it from the classroom window.”

“Then you must have seen me turn them down.”

“I did, which is why I’m being gentle with your hair now instead of pulling it all out.”

“Thank you, Miss Sakura, I’ll remember your kindness.”

“Smart mouth.”

Tsukimi Jinguuji knew: even if he exchanged numbers with those underclassmen, met them on weekends, hugged, kissed, or even did things more passionate for high schoolers, Sakura Sazakura would never lash out at him. At most, she would show him a sad expression when no one else was around.

He understood this was not a healthy attitude—he was endlessly exhausting her love for him.

He wanted to repay her in kind.

But, Tsukimi Jinguuji felt, he simply did not have it in him.

“Tsukimi…” she whispered.

“Yeah?”

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“Can I top off my childhood friend energy?”

“Here?”

“Here.”

When he fell silent, Sakura Sazakura withdrew her hand from his hair, giving him a goofy grin.

“Whew… ha… Tsukimi’s scent…”

She pressed her face to his neck, breathing in deeply. The warmth of her breath made him shudder, but he forced himself to remain calm.

After a while, satisfied, she murmured, “Actually, when I heard you were taking part in the special event with someone from the student council, I felt a little jealous.”

“…Yeah.”

“But because you said it wasn’t the upperclassman, I managed to hold it in and didn’t throw a tantrum.”

“Aren’t you throwing one now?”

“Silly, hugging your childhood friend doesn’t count as a tantrum.”

She squeezed him tightly, as if she wished she could melt him into herself.

“I want so badly to be close to you, but you keep going to her.”

“Do I seem like I’m going to her?”

“You joined the student council and spend every day with her.”

He couldn’t argue with that.

“I wish I could be alone with you every day,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling with longing.

“There are other people in the council too. It’s not like we’re alone.”

“But you laugh and talk where I can’t see you—how is that any different from being alone together?”

“Uh…”

He thought, she must have countless grievances, but she always put on a cheerful face for him, even trying to cheer him up with her smile.

Surely, there could never be another childhood friend like her—clumsy, lively, kind.

Even if he couldn’t love her, just being near her was enough to dispel the gloom inside him.

Unknowingly, her arms had wrapped around his neck, her toes rising as she leaned in, her breath warm against his jaw.

Looking at her first love, Sakura Sazakura’s eyes grew hazy, as if filled with sparkling, translucent liquid, glimmering like summer sunlight—sharp as it pierced the water, yet shimmering and scattered.

“Tsukimi… will you kiss me?”

She closed her eyes, eyelashes trembling, a flush rising on her not-so-fair cheeks—so vivid it seemed a touch would burst it, releasing a flood of cotton candy.

Sakura Sazakura was the kind of girl who made life taste sweet. Tsukimi Jinguuji felt that if he surrendered to her, he would drown in this sea of sugar.

He had kissed many girls—knew the most romantic ways, the words to say, the things to do.

But never once had he felt happiness or ease.

Only with this girl—his first kiss with her, three years ago, after school at dusk.

Their noses touched before their lips; teeth clashed awkwardly. The act itself mattered less than the new meaning it brought to them.

That was his most beautiful memory of love.

If he kissed Sakura Sazakura here, would that memory be overwritten? Would his sweetest first love become just another moment of indifference and deception?

He could not bring himself to do it.

Or rather, if he did, he would truly become someone beyond redemption.

Yet he could not refuse her—his first love.

He brushed aside her bangs and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

Sakura Sazakura opened her eyes. “What does that mean?”

“That’s the kind of kiss childhood friends share. Not satisfied?”

“Of course not. I even puckered up for you—how could you brush me off like that?”

He withdrew from her embrace and looked at her quietly.

She touched her forehead, wrinkling her nose in mock annoyance. “Fine, a forehead kiss will do. Can I have another?”

Tsukimi Jinguuji flicked her forehead, making her yelp in protest.

“Don’t push your luck.”