Recalling that bear from the springtime.

September 22nd, Tuesday.

Rain again.

It could not be called a torrential downpour, nor a gentle drizzle—just the kind of rain that, upon seeing it, makes one sigh, “It’s raining.”

After entering the school building, he folded his umbrella, set it upside down in the rack by the shoe lockers, changed into his indoor shoes, and walked to class. He took a seat by the window. The boys around him were grumbling about the weather, discussing the upcoming sports festival.

Tsukiya Jinguuji felt the urge to complain as well; on rainy days, turning the pages of a book always gave him the illusion the leaves had stuck together, making them hard to flip.

But if there were a fireplace set in the wall beside him, flames dancing and crackling, harmonizing with the sound of rain outside—if he could read in that kind of setting, for someone like Tsukiya Jinguuji, it would be nothing short of “happiness.”

Conclusion: everything has two sides; good or bad depends on circumstance.

“Jinguuji.”

A voice at his ear pulled Tsukiya’s thoughts from that unknown manor back to reality. He looked up.

It was a girl named Hanamori, from the shogi club.

“Thanks for before.”

Before?

Tsukiya looked at her, puzzled, but didn’t dare respond carelessly. She was rather attractive; someone in the class might like her, and he didn’t want to draw unnecessary trouble.

“The budget’s been approved. I heard from Yamada in the first year that it was thanks to you—otherwise it would’ve taken much longer.”

To think she would talk to someone isolated in her own class just for this—was Hanamori perhaps unusually thick-skinned?

With an unreadable expression, Tsukiya nodded slightly. “I was just doing my job according to the student council’s standards. If the application meets the requirements, it doesn’t matter who submits it.”

“Well, thanks anyway. That’s all.”

Hanamori waved her hand nonchalantly and returned to her seat. Some girls leaned over, exclaiming things like, “You actually dared to talk to Jinguuji!”—their tone unmistakably warning her to read the room.

She replied, utterly unruffled, “It’s not like he doesn’t talk,” leaving the girls astounded, as if she were some creature from another age.

Tsukiya thought, perhaps not everyone was willing to conform, then be swallowed by conformity.

Though insignificant, this incident allowed him to see another side of these high schoolers, who so carelessly celebrated their youth.

It was such a simple thing—why had he never noticed it before?

And the catalyst was nothing more than mechanically fulfilling his student council duties.

Tsukiya suddenly remembered what the student council president had told him that day: “Value your connections with others; the important relationships between people are built upon these repeated encounters.”

At the time, he’d thought such words could only be spoken by someone enjoying a vibrant high school life. Anyone ostracized by their classmates would never think such things.

If he hadn’t been recruited into the student council, his high school life might have passed without ever intersecting with anyone else. The same held true for Kudou from the drama club—he never would have had the chance to talk freely with him.

Even now, Tsukiya still believed ninety-nine percent of the president’s words were just pretty talk. But if there really was a remaining one percent, perhaps it was possible.

At lunch, Tsukiya received a message from Kudou. Normally, he would ignore it or wait until after classes to meet. But Hanamori’s encounter seemed to have affected him. Though trivial, it made him reflect.

In the end, he was still just a sixteen-year-old boy, subject to the moods of those around him.

The meeting place was the school courtyard. Tsukiya stood by a bench under a tree, still slick with morning rain and wobbling slightly.

Not long after, Kudou came running from the first-year classrooms, clutching a stack of A4 papers. From a distance, his voice rang out, shouting Tsukiya’s name—embarrassingly loud.

“Jinguuji-senpai! Jinguuji-senpai!”

Breathless, Kudou stopped in front of him, thrusting the script at him with eager eyes, not even pausing to catch his breath.

“These are the scripts for Acts Three and Four, all revised as you instructed, senpai.”

“Couldn’t you have just given them to me after school?”

“I’m really sorry!”

Though he was apologizing, his eyes sparkled with expectation. Was this what youth meant? So dazzling.

Resigned, Tsukiya accepted the scripts. “I’ll find time to read them. I have student council work after class, so you’ll get my feedback tomorrow. Is that alright?”

“Yes! Thank you for your hard work.”

“Relax, you don’t have to be so formal with me.”

“That won’t do—senpai is senpai.”

“As you wish. I’ll be off.”

“Alright, senpai, take care!”

As Tsukiya left the courtyard, he glanced up at the second-floor classroom windows. Several students quickly ducked out of sight.

Kudou’s voice really was too loud.

When Tsukiya returned to Class 2-A, what had been a lively chatter only a moment before instantly quieted, though not entirely. The voices simply dropped to a murmur, intentionally or not.

Yet, to Tsukiya, every word was clear as day, and would be remembered forever.

They must have been perplexed to see a first-year student not only interacting with Tsukiya but also treating him with respect.

How could anyone willingly associate with someone as shameless as Tsukiya—surely Kudou must be the same kind of “scoundrel,” they decided, even if they had no idea who Kudou actually was.

Just as he sat down, a girl from the front row stood up and, under the gaze of the entire class, walked slowly to his side.

Tsukiya didn’t dare move, barely raising his eyes, afraid to speak.

He worried about her state of mind, fearing she might throw herself at him in front of everyone and kiss his neck.

If things developed that way, he really would have no choice but to transfer schools.

“Jinguuji.”

His heart skipped a beat; he was even ready to jump out the window if necessary.

It was only the second floor, after all, and below was a flowerbed. With his slightly system-enhanced body, he could probably land unharmed.

Sakuraoji Sakura smiled faintly, her voice calm. “You’re the only one who hasn’t handed in the sports festival entry form.”

“…Eh?”

“So, the form. You haven’t given it to me yet. I am, after all, the class representative for the festival.”

“Ah… I see.”

He quietly breathed a sigh of relief—if it was just this, could she not have said so privately? Why must it be during lunch, in front of so many classmates?

Tsukiya fumbled theatrically in his bag, then said, “It seems I’ve lost my entry form. Could you give me another?”

That sheet had long since been folded into an origami crane and sent who knows where.

Sakuraoji smiled and nodded, retrieving a blank form from her desk and handing it to him. Tsukiya thanked her politely.

This small gesture seemed to delight her, and she skipped back to her seat.

Around them, the boys whispered, “No surprise—Sakuraoji is kind to everyone, so cute,” their words dripping with double standards.

This was all thanks to Sakuraoji’s image in the class: lovable, devoted to club activities, polite and kind to all the boys, universally well-liked.

Thus, someone like Tsukiya existed only to accentuate her radiance.

If they’d both been the class’s “runner-up,” it might have become a dramatic tale of unrequited love. But as each other’s first love, their special bond was like a chain, not easily broken.

…

The first afternoon lesson was home economics. Tsukiya made his way to the nurse’s office as usual, but today something was off.

At the door, he saw two girls from his class. One seemed to have cramps and was about to lie down; the other had come to accompany her.

Under the circumstances, Tsukiya couldn’t bring himself to feign illness and quietly took a spot on the neighboring bed.

Resigned, he returned to Class 2-A. The others had already gone to the cooking classroom, except for Hanamori, who still sat at her desk.

Tsukiya glanced at her briefly, then turned away, looking out the window, searching for the cloud that last time had looked like a chicken breast.

“You’re skipping home ec again?” she asked.

He tilted his head, surprised. “Are you talking to me?”

“Aren’t you Jinguuji?”

“I am, but I mean, you’re not supposed to talk to me.”

“Why?”

Tsukiya considered, then replied tactfully, “I’m not a good person.”

“Boring.”

With that, Hanamori left the classroom without another word or a backward glance.

Tsukiya was left speechless, mulling it over before coming to a conclusion.

Simply put, it was an excess of self-consciousness.

And in this case, it was his own.

Perhaps, except for a few people, most didn’t actually care about Tsukiya. Whether he was a womanizing scoundrel or the top student in the year, it didn’t matter.

To put it plainly, they couldn’t be bothered to find out what sort of person Tsukiya really was. High schoolers had no time to focus on someone who didn’t intersect with their lives.

Hanamori was a perfect example.

She hadn’t spoken to him until now because there was no need, no interest.

But if there was a reason to talk, she wouldn’t hesitate or hide it.

Tsukiya thought, if most people were like her, high school life would be far more pleasant for many students.

The sliding door rattled open, and another girl appeared at the back of the classroom.

“I knew you’d still be here,” she said.

She walked in, closed the door, and approached Tsukiya.

Of course, it was Sakuraoji.

“What brings you here?”

“I heard Wakayama went to the nurse’s office, so I guessed you wouldn’t want to fake illness there, and might still be here. Looks like I was right.”

“As expected of my childhood friend.”

“Hehe, praise me more.”

Tsukiya smiled, looking out the window. The sky was gray; the teru teru bozu they’d hung that day seemed to have lost its magic.

“Class is starting soon,” she said.

“Hmm.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

He didn’t answer, staring out the window.

Sakuraoji stood silently for a long time, then left without a word.

A strange restlessness welled up in him, likely because he saw her hesitate to speak, only to leave quietly.

That was always how his childhood friend was—at crucial moments, she kept her words to herself.

Perhaps it was her way of indulging him.

Yet, at that moment, what came to Tsukiya’s mind was the curry he’d eaten that day at lunch.

The suddenness of the thought surprised even him.

He recalled the girl who’d abruptly declared she wanted curry, and the bear from that spring.

Somehow, the clouds drifting outside had transformed into slices of potato, carrot, and blocks of curry.

But where had the chicken breast gone? He couldn’t find any cloud in a similar shape.

Tsukiya sighed. Rather than brooding, he might as well get moving.

Though he sometimes agonized over things, before being broken by the system, Tsukiya had considered himself a decisive person.

At the very least, he should try to reclaim that lost quality, and not remain so indecisive.

It wasn’t just a whim. As the top student in his year and vice president of the student council, skipping class all the time really wasn’t admirable.

If he’d known, he wouldn’t have agreed to be vice president, nor gone with her to make curry.

He stood and walked to the door, muttering, “Honestly, it’s all President Hoshinomori’s fault…”

Outside the classroom, his childhood friend was leaning against the wall—she hadn’t left after all. Tsukiya’s muttering came to an abrupt halt.

Sakuraoji looked at him, her expression gentle, though he couldn’t tell if she’d heard.

“Come on, let’s go to the cooking class.”

Today’s eight thousand words have been updated.

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Special thanks to “Hayama Shu” for becoming the book’s first alliance leader—there will be bonus chapters in the future.

(End of chapter)