Oh, LIt3R4te One
T4le of time unknown,
Of a d29tYW4=, a dHlwZXdyaXRlcg==, and YSBjbGllbnQ=.
Write me a letter dG8gbXkgYmVsb3ZlZA==,
Oh lit3rATe oNe!
CeL3br4t1on of youth,
A melting cG90IG9mIGNvbmZlc3Npb25zLg==
V29yZHMgZXNjYXBlIGhlciBsaXBzLA==
And v4Nish as 5oon as it comes.
VGhlIHdvbWFuIHNocmlua3MgYW4gb2NlYW4gb2Ygd29yZHMs
OnT0 a p13ce of condenSeD w#Od.
UGxlYXNlIGxldCBoaW0ga25vdyBteSBidXJkZW4s
Oh literate one!
MetaLL1c stamps ZGFuY2UgdXBvbiB0aGUgY3lsaW5kZXIs
SW5rZWQgbGV0dGVycyBzZWVwcyBpbnRvIHRoZSB3aGl0ZSBzdXJmYWNlLA==
SW1wcmludGluZywgZWxhYm9yYXRpbmc= her feelings.
Do you UNDErStand…?
The letter w4S done and s3nt.
Though the client bmV2ZXIgcmV0dXJu, she knew.
Wh3n w1LL y0u be trUE to y0urself,
Oh l!t3R4te one?
The gentle waft of caffeine, the ray of the sun that bleeds through the curtains, and the comforting voice from the girl beyond this reality; these are the pieces that made up my mornings, the little snippets in life that I've grown to love. Each time the alarm rings, my arm flails to reach for the button that grants me the promise of another five minutes—one that is never fulfilled by the interruption of a second, and a third. The second, a blistering screech from my cellphone that rests far at the other end of the room, plugged to a cable—charging. The third, a soothing 'good morning' from the emerald-eyed songbird, singing its days away with a smile, laughter, and cheer that transcends the barrier between us.
It's strange how well you start to notice these insignificant details in the absence of her voice.
"Good morning, Mo-chii."
"Good morning," she smiles politely, holding a cup in her hand. "Once again, Friday arrives like a storm."
It is also unsettling to know how surreal it is to catch the striking change of atmosphere, the secrecy and reticence concealed beneath layers of smile and laughter; and I hate it.
A week has passed, and lady luck has been generous with her blessings for once. Though the cutting pain that engorge my right eye still remains, my glasses are insured and was replaced on the following Saturday. Work hasn't been as much of a torment, and Kitamura has been keeping his distance—after all, I still have the incriminating evidence against him. The aftermath of the gokon left a black mark on his near-stellar record—not on public, mind you, as the entire incident was undisclosed to authorities and the school; at least, that's the official account—Ikari-senpai's gossiping was not. Who would have thought? When the faculties and student caught wind of it and asked about the bruise on my right eye, the little lie about 'falling down the stairs' works as well to my benefit as much as it is to suppress him; let's just say it ends up with my name smelling like roses and his reputation covered in shit—and that's putting it lighty. Ikari-senpai sure did cut my work short; humiliating Kitamura was the plan, but I never thought it would work this well.
I can only hope the same can be said about Monika. Where shall I start?
…
Saturday; the day after the incident sounds about as good of a place as any.
That day, Monika was…unusually proactive—at least for the first half. Whether it was out of concern or sympathy, she started with the usual 'good morning'-routine that caught me off-guard with a smile that—how can I put this? Forced? Suppressed? Let alone putting it in words, seeing it all unfold is like watching her carve her skin with a dull knife, one cut at a time, letting blood seeps out of the gash while my plea fell on deaf ears, helpless and out of reach. She smiles and giggles like clockwork, letting the blade do its magic to draw more of that crimson liquid that flows like a river across her arm and pretend. I chose to play along, afraid of straining the relationship further than it already was.
I left the apartment at noon and returned before supper; it was no different than it was in the morning.
On Sunday I invited her for a walk outside, hoping to worm my way to get her to speak; relationships are built on communication and trust, after all. That didn't work. Again, she replied with the uncanny expression that I began to loathe, a smile that reminded me of a tragedy that had hit her literature club before—and is now in a collision course to ours; an unstoppable train wreck that marks the end of 'act one'. I insisted—gently, of course—to take her outside, see the world and maybe discover something new, yet…
Yet she declined the invitation, reason being the pain and the chronic headaches—a late constant occurrence. I asked why, again she declined and hid behind smiles and laughter, giving me faux reassurance and telling me to 'go have some fun'. I was left to wander in Akiba the afternoon, alone and lost in the ever-present melodious cacophony of the arcade machine, entertained by a series of numbers and colors that I had long forgotten. Words that are unable to be conveyed and feelings that cannot be expressed, buried—a summary of the end of the week.
Then the weekdays rolled in.
Monday kicked like a bucket, loud and unceremonious both in its own approach and Monika's. I was certain then that something was being kept purposely out of my knowledge, whatever it is. My question about her 'headache' that plagued her the day before was swatted away, cleverly meandered through a series of trivia and conversations that leads to nowhere; again, I played along her charade and head to work. On another matter, it slowly became obvious to me about Mikawa's advances that grew bolder at each encounter—I may be inexperienced, but even a fool like me tend to catch the hints that were tossed carelessly, especially if it was tailored for me. From constant participation in classes, 'random encounters' in halls during lunch, or afterschool rendezvous on the guise of 'reports and corrections', it became apparent from the way she spoke to how she moved—teasing, seductive, and yet refined with hints of maturity that was unmistakably Mikawa. Thus, Monday ended with Monika keeping me at a distance and Mikawa vying for my attention.
There was nothing peculiar on Tuesday; Wednesday, however…
A scream echoed from the living room during my shower; one of agony. It was an unmistakable cry that was as difficult to forget as it was painful to remember. I rushed to meet the source and was convinced then; again, she deflected the subject and pushed me to the side, just before I left for work. It was stupid of me to force for details, more so when subtlety isn't part of my forte…
…
We had a fight.
It wasn't easy to bottle the thought under professionalism and smiles; not when you have an entire day ahead to tackle. Let alone teacher's briefings and homeroom, classes felt more like a chore than it already was—I censured one of my pupil over a pronunciation mistake—a pronunciation! It wasn't even that severe to begin with, and yet when emotions took greater control over facts...it was a recipe for disaster. I was deprived of the comfort, the little snippets that kept my morning and my mind stable; robbed by none other than Monika herself. But it was unfair—selfish, even—to push all the blame; I was in her shoes once before, I shouldknowthis! Which is why what came after was…difficult, even for me.
Around lunch time, Mikawa came and invited me over—and I took solace in her open hands. Even if it was a conversation over a simple sandwich that she made, it was a salvation that I couldn't refuse. She offered to come with handmade lunches next time—I declined, but complimented her efforts otherwise. The guilt that came after…I rather not dwell on it.
Even after I returned, we kept to ourselves for the entire evening; Monika on the piano, and I on a wa-puro. She practiced on a new musical note she recently had interest in and—despite numerous errors and mistakes, it was a stellar performance. No words were exchanged until the light fades as dictated by father time; we apologized unanimously the next morning. The topics about her health, the headaches, all glossed and sidestepped as if it was nothing; I left the house with worries on my shoulders and shackles on my ankles but nonetheless, the show must go on. There wasn't much to say about yesterday—students were running back and forth, setting up decorations, and some irregulars even opted to stay afterschool for the sake of their class. Thus it came as much of a surprise to me when Mikawa brought along homemade lunches—sandwiches, mostly—and invited me over hot coffee and final budget reports for both the literature club and class 3-2. Again, I couldn't refuse; not after all the effort she poured into that box.
Seeking solace from someone else…and I dare put myself on a higher moral ground than Kitamura? Hypocrite!
That was yesterday.
"You sure you'll be ok?" I ask, pulling my tie to its fixed position. "How do I look?"
Monika musters a soft smile and nods, "I'll be alright. You look perfect, JCcs4Fl."
...
The urge to ask, to push for answers are abruptly suppressed by her gentle expression that sends shockwaves straight to my core, silencing any uprising in an instant—the doubts of her claims that emerged from her sudden attempt to display a familiar demeanor. Attempt. It's difficult to ignore; the abrupt change of character, the cold shoulder before, and now the sudden warmth that oozes made a bleak call out to other fictional characters with a 'flag'; not in the literal sense, but more of an omen.
I simply. Can't. IGNORE IT!
I admit that I know little about you—not as a character, but as a person, Monika, but I'm doing what I can based on what I know! Help me to understand what the fuck. Is. Going. On! Why are you like this? What are you trying to hide? Was it something I said? I opened my door to you, yet you build a maze out of glass and kept your distance. Please, Monika…I need to—no, I want to know and understand…don't push me away like this...
…
But…
But whatever I'll say, you'll deflect it again, will you? You're going to keep acting as if everything is alright and it's 'Just Monika', smiling at my hubris as I fumble and orbit around you, the center of it all. I really shouldn't push all the blame on you and expect an answer—I may be a fool, but that doesn't make me a doormat. GODDAMN IT ALL! My mind drones like a typewriter without stop as it nitpicks the discrepancies in her behavior, causing me to sigh with harbored frustration, cautiously sipping my coffee to keep my nerves calm and collected.
"73nFHg?" She cuts, breaking my concentration. "Is there something bothering you?"
I set my cup down. "Nothing. I'll be heading off, Monika—if there is anything, use the usual, alright?"
"Okay. Take care…!"
With a smile that betrays her true feelings, she sends me off against the horrors of modern society, patiently waiting for my return. I glance over my shoulder to notice the spherical camera that tracks my movements, observant. I can only return a smile and a wave, knowing full well of my own deception.
…
This cannot continue…
"Hey, hey, did you know? They say that if you confess your love on the school rooftop at the end of the festival, your dream will come true!"
"Eeeh…but isn't the school rooftop closed?"
"That's why! It's a charm!"
And that is also why we, teachers, can't have nice things during festivals. Kids these days…
Indeed, the school's mood is in full-swing geared towards the big day. Talks about food booths, famous local stands and their offerings, camera-worthy moments to be had, and of course, the passing whispers of love and romance that comes with the 'charm' as a package; a popular gossip amongst the female population. It was a story that supersedes my enrollment, an old legend about a teacher and a student who went into an illicit relationship and committed a double-suicide as prove of their loyalty and love—morbid, I know. It's ironic; tales of suicide and death of the past can easily be translated into symbols of undying love and romance. We certainly possess a twisted sense of humor, as a society. It's also because of those old wives' tales that us, teachers, now have the responsibility to prevent young fools from doing the same—confession or otherwise. Aside from the stairs, the school rooftop is generally inaccessible and yet it doesn't stop some idiot from breaking the lock two years prior. As if the three meter tall fence wasn't enough…
"Sensei, are you ok?"
"Oh, y-yes…just a little distracted."
Earnestly accompanying to my right like a personal secretary, Mikawa smiles softly as her gentle address draws me back to reality, away from daydreams and contemplations. In my hand is a paper—arrangement of numbers, characters, and letters—a budget report of class 3-2 and the literature club that is to be finalized before the end of the day. With a glance, I see my reflection in her expectant eyes, waiting with bated breath of my approval—a praise of some kind—for her efforts on the documents that had occupied most of her time in the weeks leading to the event. A flush of blood rushes across my cheeks upon noticing the light makeup that accentuates her mature, feminine charm; barely noticeable to those less observant—admittedly, she does look stunningly innocent and cute in the way she presents herself.
…
To find myself thinking to such extent…it doesn't take a genius to see the errors of my thoughts; the taboo of the subject. It's…frightening.
I dart back to the paper at hand, glancing occasionally ahead while making our way to the school yard. Even during lunch time, students rushing back and forth with something related to the festival is becoming a more common sight than the usual idleness and carefree mood that is prevalent prior—indeed, for the third years this may as well be their last. Pouring what concentration to the task at hand, I have come to admire Mikawa's handwriting—neat and ladylike, very pleasant to the eye. The light strokes and brushes, sharp and clear, details the expenditures of the budget provided for our homeroom and the literature club which, despite receiving zero in sum, came through with the pooling of our own resources—and I dare say, it would be more of chore to read through everything if Yuuki's the one penning this.
"We spent almost six thousand yen yesterday for…?"
"Tea and coffee, sensei," she answers with confidence. "Sunohara-san doesn't like the product we tested previously and opted for another."
Must have been one hell of a tea and coffee set; I'll be sure to taste that tomorrow once the opportunity arises.
From the corner of my eye a figure approaches at a brisk pace, momentarily causing me to pause my steps, as did he. Glancing at the unexpected guest, a sly grin stretches across my feature as I meet him, Kitamura, eye to eye—Shiho Ariake loyally follows him from behind, using his build as cover. He clicks his tongue and hisses, avoiding eye contact when possible; I huff in response, raising my head a little higher than usual.
"Going somewhere, Kitamura?"
"Faculty office," he spits. "It's none of your business, and I see you're going somewhere with Mikawa?"
I chuckle derisively, "We're finalizing our class' and club's budget report—there's nothing for me to hide, after all."
"Now," I continue, "I sure hope I'm…mistaken to what you're—"
"—Ariake wishes to talk to me," he cuts, acid in his tone. "It's not of your concern!"
"Not if a student is involved," I reply. "Especially not with your…'reputation'; we are teachers, after all."
He huffs defensively, sighing in defeat as he glance at both Shiho and Mikawa who accompanies us, respectively, Gritting his teeth and answers as calm as he can muster. "It's a bullying case."
"Bullying?"
"Briefings tend to gloss over the matter—I don't believe this is a good time or place for us to discuss. Now, if you'll excuse me…"
I scoot and give way to the pair in question, gesturing as politely as I can be. With Shiho timidly behind him, I smile and amiably greet her with a nod; she bows meekly in return, replying with a 'good afternoon, sensei' in a voice that is barely audible to a whisper before following Kitamura again like a duckling to its mother. Sometimes, I can't help but wonder how a girl as innocent and soft-spoken as her could fall for someone as brash and arrogant as Kitamura. And bullying? Her? Why would anyone bully someone like Shiho? A girl as demure as wrens, aloof from her surroundings and often alone with her headphone over her ears, lost in a personal wonderland…why would anyone even pick her as a target?
Moreover, why hide behind Kitamura? I sense no ill will coming from her; there's no reason for…
"Sensei, shall we go?"
...
Hold that thought, Oogame.
My attention darts back towards Mikawa who, in her earnest, beckons to return to the schedule—time, after all, is a luxury we don't have. She takes a stride, her ponytail dances with the momentum at each extra steps, teasing and beckoning to match her quick—but brisk—pace. I shrug and sigh, following her footsteps that echoes across the ocean of uniformity and order as the silhouette of Kitamura and his pet is swallowed by the crowd while her voice—Mikawa's—becomes my guide.
I glance at the characters and numbers on the paper at hand. It still is a pleasure to look at.
Festival. When someone mentions the word, what is the first thing that pops into your mind? Fireworks? Colorful booths? Grilled skewered meat and squid? Games? How about toys? There may be many different translations or interpretations of the word, but none is as unique as its depiction in Japanese society that coincides with its popularization through pop culture. Since that of a child, we were exposed to it—the colorful booths, dances, sounds, music, attire, food, and everything that correlates with it from the most minuscule detail to the most common. Not to mention, each prefecture has its own tradition that are distinct from one another so there's always something new to discover. The same can be said about school festivals, although…
…I can't say I share the same enthusiasm. Not after the events of the game.
You see, the combination of literature clubs and school festival, to me, is like a ticking time bomb—an omen. It hasn't changed since then; the image of bright lights, colorful stands, and student-run stalls are like illusions of the past that died along with my childhood and naivety. That, however, is something I can't allow to remain—a mindset that needs to change that I'm positive she—Monika—would agree. As I watch the club members—Mikawa's—mingle and present their efforts of the last few weeks, I was reminded of Monika's circumstances and how she, if going by my knowledge of the events, has never seen or experience what a festival truly is or what it can be; the potential to draw your inner childhood and joy that lie dormant within everyone. These students of mine, overcharged with enthusiasm and liquid sugar even before the festival, brings forth a smile—a memory—of my own childhood and birthed a thought.
It may be an outrageous idea, but I'm sure it is something she would appreciate.
"Sensei, what do you think of this poster?"
Yuuki and Satsuki raise their designs up high to match my peripheral vision, displaying it in its full size and splendor. The placard, each belonging to Yuuki and Satsuki respectively, reflects the stark contrast of their creators yet delivers the same message and purpose of advertising Obase's cookies—one a simple, down-to-earth design while the other, decorative and colorful. Yuuki's design has his own hand-drawn character akin to a Sunday paperback publication, with speech bubble and all. Satsuki, on the other hand, utilizes a photograph of cookies and ornaments that borders the design reminiscent to Washi tapes—girlish, but it is to be expected.
"They look fine," I reply with a chuckle. "But I'm not the one making the decision—isn't that right, president?"
Mikawa giggles softly and beams, nodding, "Yes, I guess I have to agree with you, sensei. I'm fond of Satsuki's design, although…"
She pauses contemplatively as Yuuki celebrates his early victory. "Keep in mind we have to copy these and distribute them throughout the school's announcement board—and I don't think color prints are cheap."
"Hah! I win, you summer monkey!"
Satsuki sticks her tongue in retaliation, "Yuuki, you meanie!"
"Although…" Aki cuts, "Yuuki's design is too simple—and isn't the drawing could potentially mistake us as the anime research club?"
Admittedly, I do like Yuuki's design, but bias probably has a high factor in that decision; the vice-president does have her point, after all. In a form of a counter-attack, Satsuki quietly snickers and toss a mocking grin at her partner-in-crime. "Take that, you snow crab!"
Yuuki squints his brow in confusion and pushes his glasses' rim with his index finger. "A snow crab…? Really…? That's the best comeback you can think of?"
"Because you stay indoors during weekends! Like a crab! A hermit!"
A smile curls across my feature as the scene descends into the usual fashion that is a staple of thisliterature club—the manzai duo of Yuuki and Satsuki. Yet even in this occasion, my eyes and mind trails towards the window and unto an open world that lies beyond this classroom. Memories of my childhood, the thought about the festival…it had me thinking about Monika and her epiphany even more than before. To find that none of it is real—your parental figure, heroes, dreams, childhood, past—and were all just a construction of some guy's imagination and brilliance in writing and coding is a bitter red pill to swallow. If someone were to ask me if I could tell them a story of my childhood, it would be as simple as spelling the phonetics of 'a, i, u, e, o'; but if someone were to ask Monika the same question, would she be able to answer them confidently knowing that none of it is real? This reality I live in—this world that I've taken for granted—is a world that she is willing to die for; and I tried to run from it. That must have been an insult for her. For a simpleton like me who tries to escape what means the world for her…do I not want to appreciate her efforts to be a part of my reality?
…
With her, maybe…just maybe…we can make memories for both of us in this mundane, cruel, and exhausting life.
"Alright, everyone…!" Mikawa states as she triggers her signature clap. "Remember that we need to have everything done today! So, let's head over to the media room and finalize everything."
"I'll stay here," Obase follows quickly. "Someone has to watch the classroom with sensei—and I'll be baking the cookies later today, anyway."
"Don't you want to see the results? These are meant to advertise your cookies."
He shrugs, "Nah, its fine. As long as those are cookies displayed, it gets the message across…"
The club president sighs, crossing her arms and ponders. "—then I'll stay in the cl-"
"I think you're much more needed over there, prez," he quickly cuts. "I think Aki-chan could use some help finalizing, right vice-prez?"
Aki jumps slightly at Obase's quick 'toss of the bomb'—or for a lack of a better word, another one of Obase's attempt at dodging responsibility. Her response leaves much of a bitter taste, judging by Mikawa's reaction. "A-ara! Well, yes…I think we would appreciate that. Shall we go, Aya-chan?"
With a sigh, Mikawa smiles as she brings herself together with a quick 'tap' on her cheeks, nodding to her trusted right-hand woman and sends them off with a quick gesture from her hand. Silently I observe the exchange behind the covers of my book as the pair irons their differences and comes to an agreement of the situation—after all, Obase's technically 'idling' as usual.
"I'll send you the print out of the poems everyone wrote to you later," Mikawa starts sternly, if not disdainfully. "Make sure to cut them up and staple them to the agreed packages for the cookies!"
"It'll be fine, don't fret too much prez."
"If you're at least a bit more supportive like—" she pauses; a sudden chill causes my hair to stand. "—never mind. Just get everything ready tomorrow!"
"Roger, roger."
Whether it is in the way Obase delivered his opinion or his general take on the situation, Mikawa finally gives in and takes a few quick step towards the exit and slides the door with a force that—I dare say—slightly forceful. However, the negotiation is complete; with a sigh, Obase scratches his hair in relief before grabbing a seat and setting them the way he used to—with the back rest acting as arm support, facing me.
"So, about our conversation last time, sensei—and stop with that grin, please…"
Called it. Your club president would be proud. "I'm guessing 'keeping me company' isn't the reason why you decided to stay."
"No—but I think it's obvious enough," he returns with a nervous chuckle. "I'm here to ask you a…eh…favor."
Breaking eye contact, Obase sheepishly clears his throat to build his faltering confidence. Whatever it is, I'm starting to feel it is of personal value judging from the mix signals that bleeds profusely from his actions alone. "Sensei, you're familiar with the 'rooftop confession'-charm, right?"
…
I guess even the male population can't escape the allure of romantic superstition.
"And what if I say I am?"
"Well, before we get into that," he continues. "Do you know why I joined the club? Surely, you don't think it's because of my undying fascination towards poems and literature, right, sensei?"
"Considering how many times I've caught you asleep in my class, I'll say 'no'," I reply with a chuckle. Figures. "So, why is it?"
His mouth went ajar, yet not a single voice is audible to the ear—words, it seems, is working against him. He draws to retreat, concealing his doubt-filled expression with his messy bangs before raising his head and returns with confidence. "I like Mikawa, sensei."
…
Huh…why do I feel a sense of déjà vu? "So…you joined because, in a way, 'the club has incredibly cute girls'?"
"Yes—I know, stop grinning, sensei!" he retorts. Sorry, Obase; I can't help it. "Thing is, I understand that you're suspicious of her after our visit, sensei. But…just this once, can you…let it slide?"
I let the weight on my shoulder push me down on the steel support of the seat, furrowing my eyebrows at his lack of subtlety in covering for the club president. Something is amiss, from how Obase acts and speaks to how he shifts his eyes around, it's quite telling how…troubled he is. From his reactions alone, a simple deduction easily unfurls the puzzle and reveals the answer I am seeking—that indeed, Mikawa is responsible for the damage that is inflicted to Monika's humble abode. It's strange…I have the hunch that it has always been so, that there is without a shadow of a doubt that she was the one solely responsible, yet this revelation arrives like a summer downpour—unexpected and unwelcomed, abrupt. It isn't anger nor satisfaction that follows, but disappointment and disbelief—surely, there has to be a reason?
…
Well, of course there is, and I'm sure Obase probably knows that answer. Yet it isn't the problem of using my authority or position in the social hierarchy, but my will to do so; do I reallywant to know the answer? Even if it means distorting my perception of the club's president?
"And what does this have to do with the 'rooftop confession'-charm?"
"Well, uh…" he pauses. "I…want to wish her the best, you know? So maybe if you 'stumbled' upon her on the roof you could—"
"NO, I know you mean well, but if you do it once, you'll be tempted to do it again! I may be your friend, but let's not forget I'm also a teacher here; there are rules I must follow and enforce."
Else I'm no better than Kitamura—or worse, fired.
"Sorry, Obase. But regarding that little 'rooftop charm', it's still a 'no' from me."
The young man sighs and scratches his head, nodding affirmatively before slinking back to his laidback pose to rest. Guilt is reflected on the surface of my glasses, a thought that came as I observe Obase's defeated self and his attempt to recompose. We may be students once before, but as much as we despised it 'rules are rules'—and this is no exception. The long arm of the clock rests on the number six—just thirty minutes until the end of the period.
"It's worth a shot," he sighs. "But, regarding the other matter, I'm guessing you've figured everything out on your own."
He continues, "So, I want to ask you something, sensei,"
…
"Why are you still supporting us?"
'An old woman tells a tale of a lady who wanders Earth. The Lady who Knows Everything'; it's a line that derives from the first two stanza of Monika's own, a tale about her epiphany, about the horrors of realizing the definite truth of her very existence. The game, either by design of the script or due to her tampering, crumbles like a house of cards against a gale of wind, birthing the nightmare that has since been long forgotten in the annals of history—all because of one simple truth and the desperation of a helpless maiden. Many sympathized with her plight back in the day, while others wouldn't even spare a chance, flaunting a 'moral high-ground' that never existed—ironic, really.
We are no different.
The 'truth' is often bitter; painful, even to some. We live in a society that is used to consume information at a rate that exceeds our own capacity to understand, taking only bits and pieces to structure a narrative that suits our preferred view points in a way that often distorts the original—some, even, would outright conjure theories and bake 'half-truths' that is much easier to swallow, despite the evidence that prove otherwise and is displayed in all its galore. This 'half-truth' is what we often accept as an answer, a more preferable conclusion than the reality that is often far too bleak to swallow—the 'blue pill', if you will. In a strange way, it keeps us in line and in order, preventing us from tearing the seams of this reality in a fit of rage, anarchy, and desperation in hopes of finding happiness in another.
Sounds familiar, doesn't it?
As much as I am a teacher, I am also but a student in life. The conversation with Obase this afternoon, his quick deduction and sharp observation is indeed true—I do know the answer, the person who damaged her home. Question is, do I really want to seek the truth? Will I still be able to see her as my student then? Or as a friend? The same can be said with Monika if I am to ask myself four years ago the same question—will I still see her as someone I love if everything is nothing but fiction? The 'me' four years ago chose the 'half-truth', defied all manners of logic and wisdom, played 'god' in an attempt to turn 'fiction' into 'reality'—and I don't regret any of it. The 'half-truth' brought Monika closer to reality, saved me from my own demise, and has since become a part of my life.
Would the same be hold true if I am to accept the 'truth'? Will I still be willing to support Mikawa's literature club?
…
No…I probably won't. The literature club, its creation and my support, was the result of my own selfishness—my attempt to recreate Monika's reality. To see it crumble once more is a fate I wish to prevent—even if I never learn of the 'truth'. But that doesn't mean I'm unprepared; if the 'truth' comes on its own and shed itself before me, revealing all its ugliness to see, I will swallow it if I must—it would be an insult to Monika not to.
The same can be said about Monika's circumstances.
Do I really want to know what Monika's hiding? The secret that she adamantly tries to keep under lock and key? For a week, she offered the 'half-truth' for me to swallow—glazed it with a veil of smiles and laughter of months before. Again and again, I confronted her of the matter and repeatedly, she pushed me away—we even had an argument because of it. If I happen to know the answer to the question, will I be willing to accept them at face value? Well…if experience has taught me well, I'll be sure to accept them with open arms. Reality may have been unkind to you, Monika, and though I may be in the dark concerning your circumstances, I do know this: if I'm not in the know, then allow me to help you forget about your pain—to offer you my share of 'half-truth' for us to complete.
The door stands before me, locked by a key that I carry; a gentle music echoes from beyond. The tune, though imperfect and rough, has a distinct style of the song bird to this turtle.
"I'm home."
At the que, the music comes to an abrupt end. Even the time when she once gleefully play the piano without reserve has vanished behind the veil of deception. With a heavy sigh, I remove my loafers and slip into the indoor sandals, marching to the room where I am to be expected. I open the door that divides the hall with the living room and is greeted by the round camera that looks anxiously at my presence, watching my every move as I toss my bag, my suit, and my tie. Quietly, I take my usual seat and rest my pair of spectacles to her left before meeting the pair of green emeralds.
"Welcome home," she said with a soft smile. "How was your day?"
It is an expression that I've come to accept, the gentle smile and greeting that I've grown to love. Yet in these unknown circumstances, those comfort mutates to that of grief and heartache; a fortress of lies. A sigh escapes my lips, easing the growing tension that has inadvertently grew between, ignored for the sake of this façade. Monika keeps her emeralds trained, doing her best to maintain what is seemingly an eager, expecting expression. I've known it all along…seen through the deception, played along with hopes of returning to those days where we can laugh and smile openly without reserve—and I intend to take it back.
"Do you want to go to the school's festival tomorrow?"
Her 'joyous' expression melts to that of shock and anguish, frozen upon catching me eye to eye—she knows I mean it. As if her voice was robbed from her, Monika struggles to formulate a reply—let alone, speak. Each word seems to hold her in a chokehold as she struggles, stopping mid-sentences upon meeting my stern expression—at least, as 'stern' as I try to look. I've got her in the spot, cornered her against my resolution—this time, I'm stepping my feet down.
Finally, she speaks, "I…don't think that's a good idea, S29penVtaQ==. It's not that I don't want to, it's just—"
"I don't know what has gotten into you, Monika," I quickly interject. "Nor can I understand what you're thinking."
She sighs and shakes her head in denial. "S29penVtaQ==, please, can we not—"
"I know you're not willing to tell me and intend to keep me in the dark," again, I cut her mid-sentence. She jerks in a daze. "But you and I both know we can't keep this up."
Monika furrows her eyebrows—irritated, likely—and crosses her arms. I try to keep my cool, remembering the days of the past and the things she did—after all, I owe her my life and it would be a dishonor not to balance the scales. "If you're unwilling to tell me what it is, then allow me to help you forget about that problem."
"You don't have to tell me what it is; I'll try to understand," I continue. "So, just this once, listen to my selfishness and allow me to help you forget about all of it."
"Just as the way you have helped me."
She falls into silence, cupping her hands over her mouth that attempts to retaliate and fails spectacularly in an expression that I can't describe in words. The air lightens, the curtain rises, and finally, I can see the sun, peeking from behind the tempest—a genuine expression that I've longed; a smile accompanied by packets of tears that nests in the corners. She nods, struggling to formulate words and to contain the creeping joy that forms across her jagged lips.
"If you insist, then…ok." She answers meekly. "Please, do your best to help me forget. I'm counting on you…"
I smile in return.
…
"You can count on me. Always."
Author's Note
Just a light translation:
Wa-puro: short for 'wa-do purosessa-/ワードプロセッサー' or 'Word Processor'.