I know Miyagi doesn't Taste Sweet

 Episode 4

“I am home.”

As part of my usual routine, I call out toward the living room. Laughter drifts from the lit space, but no one responds. It’s so normal for my voice to go unanswered that I don’t even bother commenting on it anymore. Honestly, if someone did say “Welcome back” today, I’d probably find it more irritating than comforting. This silence—this absence of response—feels more natural.

I already ate a dubious dinner at Miyagi’s, so I’m not hungry. With no reason to linger in the living room, I head straight to my room.

Inside, everything I need is neatly in place. I change out of my school uniform and slip into loungewear. I’ve already finished my homework at Miyagi’s, so there’s nothing left to do tonight. Pulling out my wallet, I take the 5,000-yen bill Miyagi gave me and slip it into the piggy bank on my dresser—the one supposedly designed to hold a million yen in 500-yen coins.

I wonder how much is in there.

Once or twice a week, Miyagi gives me 5,000 yen. I haven’t kept track of how many bills I’ve stuffed in, but since we started this arrangement last July, it must’ve added up to a decent amount by now.

I have no intention of opening it to count, and I don’t have any plans to spend the money. Still, I can’t help but wonder how much of my time with Miyagi is packed inside that box.

When I shake the piggy bank, it rattles. Probably just the 500-yen coins I put in before I started saving bills—not exactly a meaningful measure of accumulated time.

I set the bank back on the dresser.

Miyagi pays me 5,000 yen for small tasks. For a high school student, that’s a lot of money—not the kind you hand out without a second thought. She insists she’s not short on cash, but the sight of those bills in the piggy bank always stirs a bit of unease in me. If the tasks felt worth the money, maybe it wouldn’t weigh on me so much.

Like today—when she shoved a pen in my mouth and I let my emotions slip—Miyagi said, “Keep making that face.” She looked happier than I’d ever seen her.

If that expression was what earned me 5,000 yen, I’m not exactly thrilled about it. Calling her a pervert wasn’t off the mark, and I’m not the type who enjoys doing things I hate. If anything, I’d rather she just ordered me around like a dog. Wanting to see me disgusted? There’s definitely something wrong with her.

“What the hell is she even thinking?”

I mutter to myself as I let my hair down. My phone buzzes—Umina sent a message.

“Did you see it?”

Oh, right. Today’s the broadcast of that drama Umina’s obsessed with.

I turn on the TV. It’s already in the final scene. I quickly reply:

“Was in the bath. Gonna watch the recording.”

Watching the whole thing now would take almost fifty minutes, even if I skip the ads. It’s a hassle.

It’s a romance drama—not a genre I hate—but Umina’s favorites never quite click with me. It’s not a total waste of time, but it’s not exactly a joy either. Still, since Miyagi rarely calls me over two days in a row, I’ll probably hang out with Umina and the others after school tomorrow. That means the drama’s definitely going to come up.

“If I say I didn’t watch it, Umina’s going to throw a fit,” I sigh.

If it were Miyagi, I wouldn’t need to worry about things like that. Lying on my bed, I stretch my arm toward the ceiling light and raise my index finger.

The bite mark Miyagi left on Valentine’s Day has long since faded. Not that I wanted it to stay. Back then, I was shocked when she bit me without hesitation, but the mark didn’t even last until morning. If someone had noticed, it would've broken the rules we set.

Maybe she was careful not to leave a visible mark. Or maybe bite marks just don’t last that long. I’ve never been bitten before, so I’m not sure.

I touch the spot where the mark used to be. No pain, no sensation. I brush my lips over it, trailing my tongue gently across the skin. Of course it doesn’t feel like anything now. From the second joint down to the base of my finger—that’s where she bit me.

It was disgusting when she licked it. But at the same time, something about it sent a strange sensation down my spine. Her soft tongue had teased my nerves.

Did I make the same expression as her?

I remember—I licked and bit her leg.

And I can still picture the look on her face.

If I made the same expression… I exhale a small sigh and sit up.

Guess I’ll watch the drama.

To save time, I speed up the playback and press play. I don’t like pain. I don’t like being treated harshly.

Still, Miyagi’s place feels more like home than my actual house. Maybe she’s poisoning me—mentally, emotionally.

There’s nothing especially deep about it, but licking each other’s skin might’ve blurred the lines between us. Not that I plan to change anything. Miyagi probably doesn’t, either.

I turn up the volume. The voice of the actor Hanami adores fills the room. I fix my gaze on the screen, even though I find the show painfully dull.

✧✧✧✧✧

“I want a boyfriend. A hot, loyal boyfriend. Boyfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend.”

At karaoke after school, Umina sounds like a broken record, repeating the word boyfriend like it’s the only thing she knows how to say. One of the girls in our usual group just got a boyfriend, and that’s what set her off. Ever since her breakup at the end of January, Umina’s been in this relentless, clingy mood. She’s exhausting like this.

I even watched that boring drama for her, but clearly, it wasn’t enough to lighten the mood.

“You’ve got it good, Hazuki. You’re so popular.”

When Umina says my name, I force a practiced smile. Popular—whether it’s true or not doesn’t matter. I already know how to respond. Don’t deny it too strongly, don’t agree with it either. Just steer the conversation back to her: “You’re way more popular than I am.”

Girls are like elaborately decorated cakes—pretty on the outside with colorful fruit and whipped cream. But just because they look sweet doesn’t mean they are. Sometimes, the prettiest ones are the most poisonous.

I deflect her comment with the usual balance of humility and flattery.

But today, Umina isn’t buying it. She scowls. “You left early on Valentine’s Day, right? You went to meet someone, didn’t you? Iida? Sasaki? Or some other guy we don’t know?”

“I’ve told you—my parents called me. And if I did have a boyfriend, you’d be the first to know.”

The truth is, Miyagi had summoned me on Valentine’s Day, and I left early to see her. The next day, Umina and the others jumped to conclusions. I thought I’d cleared up the misunderstanding, but clearly, she’s still bitter and using it to vent her frustration.

Umina is not a bad person.

If I’m feeling down, she’s the first to cheer me up. She just gets overly emotional. Still, managing her moods is exhausting.

In the karaoke room, one girl is floating in new-boyfriend bliss, another’s practically dead from Hanami’s passive-aggressive jabs, and I’m the only one left to manage the chaos.

It’s a hassle.

I wish Miyagi would text me right now.

Then I’d have an excuse to leave. A real one would be better than a lie. But, as expected, no message comes. Miyagi never contacts me two days in a row.

In the end, she didn’t reach out until the following week. This time too, we had another unhealthy dinner together.

The time after that, too—unhealthy again. She’s never once asked me to cook.

So today, when I saw her message while browsing in the bookstore, I stopped by the supermarket and bought chicken on the way to her place.

Bentos, cup noodles, frozen sides—this can’t keep going.

And, honestly, I just wanted to see what kind of face Miyagi would make if I did something she didn’t tell me to. I don’t owe any favors to someone who wants to see me make a face of disgust. Cooking dinner at my place or hers doesn’t make a difference to me. So I bring the groceries and head over.

“You were with Kino-san and the others?” she asks, handing me 5,000 yen like always, curious about why I’m late.

“Nope. Not today. Put this in the fridge.”

I take the money and shove the grocery bag into her hands.

“What’s this?”

“Ingredients for karaage.”

“Why’d you bring it?”

“I’m making dinner here.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

Her expression immediately sours.

Our deal is simple: I follow her orders. But there’s no rule against doing something on my own initiative. Until she gives a direct order, I’m free to act how I want—so there’s no reason I can’t make dinner.

Miyagi seems to understand that, because she doesn’t tell me to stop. She just frowns, visibly annoyed.

I’ve never understood people who enjoy seeing others uncomfortable. But somehow, seeing Miyagi irritated by my unexpected move is a little entertaining.

“I know you didn’t ask, but it’s a thank-you—for always feeding me. And I want to eat something decent for once.”

I give her a reason she can’t argue with and offer the bag again, but she refuses to take it.

“Put it away yourself.”

With that, she leaves the room—warm from the heater—and heads toward the kitchen.

I take off my coat and blazer, follow her with the bag in hand, and open the fridge. It’s ridiculously oversized for one person, but nearly empty.

“Seriously? Just juice? That’s wild.”

“It’s fine,” she replies flatly, like that ends the discussion.

Well, it’s her fridge. Not my place to judge.

Silently, I start putting the groceries away. I even brought flour and potato starch, assuming she wouldn’t have them. I glance at her.

“So, what’s today’s order?”

“Does it matter?”

“If you don’t care, I’m starting with the karaage.”

“I haven’t decided. Do whatever you want.”

 

Miyagi says something carelessly and starts to leave the kitchen.

"Wait. There's something I need you to cut." I take a cabbage out of the fridge and hand it to her.

 "I'm the one cutting it?"

 "Who else is here besides you?"

"You're the one who said you'd cook, Sendai-san, so why don't you do it all yourself?"

"Could it be... you can't do fine slicing?"

As I wash the cutting board and knife, a low, quiet voice reaches my ears.

"...I'll do it."

Can she slice finely, or can’t she? I’m not sure, but Miyagi places the cabbage on the cutting board. Next to her, I grate ginger and mix it into a blend of soy sauce and sake. I don’t add garlic since I’m not particularly fond of it. I toss the pre-cut chicken for karaage into the seasoning mix and stir it in. Glancing at Miyagi out of curiosity, I notice she’s not cutting the cabbage but is dangerously close to cutting her finger. That’s an exaggeration, perhaps, but I realize I’ve entrusted a knife to someone who probably shouldn’t be holding one.

"Miyagi, hold on. Isn’t that dangerous?"

 "What’s dangerous?"

 "Your hand, your hand! Make it like a cat’s paw."

"What’s a cat’s paw?"

"Didn’t they teach you that in cooking class?" You’re supposed to curl your left hand to hold the ingredient securely. That’s what I was taught. But Miyagi is pressing the cabbage with her fingertips, which looks risky. 

"I don’t remember," she declares, lowering the knife. The cabbage scatters on the cutting board, less finely sliced and more roughly chopped.

"That cutting style is going to get your hand, not the cabbage. And you’re raising the knife too high." It’s not quite a dramatic swing, but she’s bringing the knife down with a loud *thwack* from a considerable height.

"Sendai-san, you’re being annoying from the sidelines."

"Ugh, fine. Miyagi, just go over there."

Watching her is giving me chills.

I’d rather do it all myself at this point. But she doesn’t back down.

"I’m doing it, so leave me alone." The knife chops through the cabbage, and the cutting board resounds with a *thud*.

Asking her was a mistake. No amount of regret will take me back to before I asked her to slice the cabbage. In the end, I nervously coat the chicken with a mix of flour and potato starch while the sound of Miyagi’s chopping echoes. *Thud. Thud.* The noise is anything but the sound of someone slicing cabbage. Then, I hear a small groan from Miyagi. "What’s wrong?"

No response.

"Miyagi?" I glance at her hands and see red mixed in with the green of the cabbage.

"Hey, Miyagi, you’re bleeding. If you cut yourself, say so right away."

I wash the flour off my hands and grab her wrist. As I try to bring her hand to the running faucet, the water is suddenly turned off.

"Don’t they say you’re supposed to lick a cut like this?"

"You’ve read too many manga. Licking doesn’t heal wounds. You need to wash it well and put on a bandage."

"What about disinfecting?"

"Disinfecting can slow healing, apparently. Where’s the bandage? If you don’t have one, I can grab mine." The cut doesn’t look too deep, but blood is dripping from her index finger.

I wash it under running water, put on a bandage, and shoo Miyagi out of the kitchen. It should all be simple, but Miyagi resists every step. "Lick it to disinfect it," she says, holding out her cut finger.

"It’s bleeding, and licking isn’t disinfecting."

 "It’s an order."

"...Did you cut yourself on purpose?"

"No way."

Her finger remains extended in front of me, as if her order is absolute. Red, red blood flows, staining her finger. Just looking at it makes my mouth taste like rusty iron.

"Sendai-san, hurry up."

I’ve licked my own blood before, but never someone else’s. Does someone else’s blood taste the same as mine? I find out soon enough.

The blood on her finger, pressed to my mouth, is exactly as I expected. Blood, no matter whose, isn’t delicious. Miyagi’s blood tastes like rusty iron, just like mine did. I’ve never actually licked rusted iron, so I can’t say for sure, but it’s definitely unpleasant. Even cider, which I don’t like, tastes better. "Lick it properly," she says, pressing her finger harder, her blood wetting my lips. I instinctively close my mouth, but her finger pries past my teeth and into my mouth.

When her finger touches my tongue, the taste of blood is even clearer. Is it type A? Type B? Something else? I don’t know Miyagi’s blood type, but no matter what it is, it’s not something I’d willingly taste. My feelings don’t seem to matter, though, as her finger stays in my mouth. When I press my tongue to the wound, the blood’s taste grows stronger.

It’s no more delicious than my own blood was in the past. I’d only do this for Miyagi. Even if I had a lover who cut their finger, I wouldn’t lick their blood. It’s not tasty, and it’s not hygienic. Miyagi is the first and last person I’d do this for.

I swallow the blood in my mouth. The sensation of someone else’s bodily fluid sliding down my throat to my stomach isn’t pleasant. In protest, I press my tongue harder against the wound, and a pained breath escapes Miyagi. More iron-like liquid stains my tongue, and I swallow it again.

The blood doesn’t stop flowing. Of course, I’m not staunching it. Each time the blood spreads, it feels like Miyagi is invading my mouth, my body, giving me shivers. This isn’t good. It’s not a wholesome order. The very idea of someone giving orders and someone following them might not be wholesome, but I know what we’re doing isn’t right.

Even so, I bite down harder on her wound. My mouth fills with the taste of blood. I don’t want to swallow, but her blood slides down my throat. "Open your mouth," Miyagi says in a flat voice.

I ignore her, and she forcibly pulls her finger out, asking, "Does someone else’s blood taste good?"

The taste of blood lingers in my mouth. It feels like my mouth is coated in a liquid more unpleasant than soda.

"Maybe to a vampire, but not to a human."

"It’s iron supplementation," Miyagi says irresponsibly, laughing.

I don’t have a hobby of supplementing iron with blood. If I’m going to make something part of my body, I’d rather eat liver, even if I don’t like it. That’s right—Miyagi’s blood, now inside me, will become part of my body. The thought makes my stomach feel heavy.

"I’m borrowing a glass." Before Miyagi can respond, I open the cupboard, grab the glass I always use for cider, and fill it halfway with water. I gulp it down, trying to wash away the lingering blood.

I empty the glass and look at Miyagi. Her finger is still bleeding. "Give me your hand."

I don’t wait for a reply. I grab her wrist and wash the blood off her finger. This time, she doesn’t resist, letting the water run over her finger.

"I’ll get a bandage. Keep it there."

Even if I ask, Miyagi probably won’t tell me where her bandages are. It’s faster to get my own. I go to her room, dig through my bag, and pull out a slightly fancy bandage that’s supposed to promote healing. I hurry back to the kitchen, slippers flapping, and find Miyagi staring at her wound. "Here." I hold out the bandage.

"You’re not going to put it on for me?"

"You want me to put it on?"

Instead of answering, she sticks out her finger.

Spoiling her won’t do her any good. It’ll turn her into someone like Miyagi—someone who, even in high school, can’t put on a bandage herself. But this is probably part of her orders, so I put the bandage on her wound.

"Is there rice cooked today?" I ask, tossing the bandage wrapper in the trash.

"It’s cooked."

"Then go sit over there."

"What about the cabbage?"

"I’ll cut it myself." I’m not in a rush, but I don’t want to dawdle over something as simple as slicing cabbage, and I don’t want her cutting herself again. I shoo Miyagi out of the kitchen, fry the chicken, and slice the cabbage. I plate the food, set it on the counter table with the rice, and we sit side by side, saying "Thanks for the Meal" in unison.

Miyagi bites into the karaage with a sullen expression. One bite, two bites. Her face doesn’t change.

"Not good?"

"It’s good," she replies immediately. It feels nice to hear that something I made tastes good. But it’s the first time I’ve seen someone eat something delicious with such a displeased look.

"Sendai-san."

"Hm?"

"Why do you do this?"

"Like I said earlier, it’s thanks for all the dinners."

"You don’t have to do it anymore," she says coldly, despite calling it delicious.

"You don’t like karaage?"

"I don’t love or hate it, but you don’t need to make it."

At school, Miyagi doesn’t seem like the type to show negative emotions openly. Sometimes I see her chatting and laughing with friends, completely different from how she is with me. Maybe it’s because we’re at her place, her territory, but the Miyagi I see here feels incredibly unstable. That doesn’t mean she’s letting her guard down around me, though.

It’s exhausting to try to figure out what someone so hard to read is thinking. Besides, the only person I need to keep happy is Umina.

"Don’t you ever cook, Miyagi?"

I change the subject to shift the heavy atmosphere.

"I don’t need to, so I don’t."

"Want me to teach you?"

"I don’t cook, so no thanks."

"Got it."

As expected. I’m not desperate to teach her, so I drop it and bite into the karaage. It’s pretty good, if I do say so myself. Miyagi says nothing, silently eating the meal on the table. Dinner ends quickly compared to the time it took to make. In her room, she orders me to read a novel aloud as if to annoy me. I read the long passages out loud for dozens of minutes, naturally unable to finish. After spending about three hours at Miyagi’s place, including dinner, I leave her apartment.

A few days later, she calls me over again, but she doesn’t ask me to cook, and I don’t offer. We do eat together, though. We also eat together after White Day, but she doesn’t give me anything in return.

Today, too, Miyagi calls me over. After spending time together, I return to a quiet house with no one to greet me and put a 5,000-yen bill in my piggy bank.

What am I expecting from Miyagi?

I lift the piggy bank from the chest of drawers. It’s neither heavy nor light. Compared to midwinter, the heater is set to a lower temperature, but Miyagi’s room still feels hot. Spring break starts tomorrow, so it’s technically spring, and the heater could probably be set even lower. Yet Miyagi is reading manga without even taking off her blazer. She’s too sensitive to the cold. When two people with such different temperature preferences are in the same room, one has to compromise. Normally, the guest—me—would take priority, but I’m not treated like a guest. Miyagi’s preferences always come first.

That’s fine.

But I’ve already taken off my blazer, and there’s nothing left to remove. The top button of my blouse was already undone before I got here. I get off the bed and grab a cider. There’s also a bag of popcorn on the table, which is unusual since it’s usually just cider. I take a sip of the bitter carbonation and undo another button on my blouse. Then I grab two pieces of popcorn and pop them in my mouth.

"Going anywhere for spring break?"

I sit next to Miyagi, who’s reading manga, and ask, but she doesn’t respond. She’s been in a bad mood since I arrived. No, she’s been in a bad mood for a while now—ever since I made the karaage, to be exact.

If this is all because of that day, then Miyagi’s heart isn’t just narrow—it’s mouse-forehead narrow. Cat-forehead narrow doesn’t even begin to cover it.

I snatch the manga from her hands and flip open the cover, revealing a boy brandishing a sword. As I skim through a few pages, the sound of rustling paper fills the air—until a sharp voice cuts in beside me.

“What’s your plan, Sendai-san?”

“Hmm, maybe hang out with Umina and the others. And prep school.”

“Didn’t you already go during winter break?”

“Yeah, I did.”

Come April, I’ll be a third-year—an exam candidate. My path is practically carved out already: follow in the footsteps of my brilliant older sister. But deep down, I don’t believe I can pull it off. My sister, two years ahead of me, got into a university that only the brightest manage to enter. Naturally, my parents expect the same from me. Which means I should be at prep school or in tutoring right now. Instead, I’m wasting time, so attending during long breaks is the bare minimum to keep from being kicked out.

“You like studying, don’t you, Sendai-san?”

“Not really.”

I’m not sure how Miyagi sees me, but that’s the truth. I used to enjoy studying—until my parents turned it into a measuring stick between me and my sister. Since then, it’s lost its appeal.

“What about you, Miyagi? Not going anywhere?”

“Just hanging out with friends.”

“Utsunomiya?”

I mention the name of her usual companion—Utsunomiya, the classmate with the gentle eyes and long hair tied neatly in a ponytail. The kind of girl who blends into the background, just like Miyagi. If I hadn’t bumped into Miyagi at the bookstore that day and come over to her place, I probably wouldn’t even know her name.

“Yeah,” Miyagi replies curtly, reclaiming the manga from my hands. She opens to a spot just past the halfway point.

Conversation over. She doesn’t say it aloud, but her silence and laser focus on the page make it obvious. With nothing better to do, I reach for a piece of popcorn and pop it into my mouth.

Butter or caramel would be my preference. But the popcorn here? Just plain salted. So Miyagi. Plain and bland. Still, just to kill time, I go for another piece—when she suddenly grabs my wrist.

“What?”

“I’ll feed you.”

Here we go.

Even without saying the word “order,” the sly grin on her face says it all—the “order game” has begun again. And I already have a bad feeling about this one.

She grabs the popcorn bag and pours some into her palm.

“Here. Face me.”

She holds out her left hand, a modest pile of popcorn resting in it. I can already guess what she’s aiming for. Still, I pretend not to notice, turn to face her, and pick up a piece with my fingers, tossing it into my mouth.

“No hands. Eat like a dog.”

The order lands before I can even chew. Of course. So this is what the salted popcorn was for.

Being ordered to act like a dog is one thing. Actually doing it is another. But a rule is a rule—and an order is an order—so I obey.

I lean in, bringing my face close to her open palm, and pick up a piece of popcorn using only my mouth. One piece at a time. No hands.

Oddly enough, I feel less like a dog and more like a pigeon pecking at crumbs. I glance up, wondering if she’s even enjoying this, but Miyagi’s expression is unreadable—bored, maybe?

“Eat it all,” she says, tugging gently on my bangs to urge me on.

She clearly doesn’t plan on stopping, even if the game’s gotten dull. Dutifully, I continue, nibbling at the popcorn like a pigeon. Occasionally, Miyagi pats my head, as if to remind me I’m supposed to be a dog. It’s ridiculous. But I keep going.

Finally, I lick her palm. Her hand jolts, and she tries to pull away. You’re the one who said like a dog, Miyagi.

I catch her wrist and press my tongue firmly against her palm again, slowly licking from the base of her fingers to the center. It tastes like popcorn.

“Next time, make it caramel,” I say, licking her hand one last time before making my request.

“There won’t be a next time,” Miyagi mutters, grabbing a tissue from a box with a cartoon crocodile and wiping her palm clean. She crumples the tissue and tosses it in the trash. Then, with no warning, she grabs my tie.

I tense up, unsure of what she’s about to do—but in one smooth motion, she loosens the tie and slips it off. Before I can react, she unbuttons one of the buttons on my blouse. I immediately swat her hand away.

“Hey! That’s against the rules! I’m not trying to have that kind of relationship with you.”

Two buttons undone—my chest is now exposed thanks to her. It’s not like there’s much to see, but that’s beside the point. We’re not close enough for her to be unbuttoning a third.

“Untying your tie doesn’t mean anything like that. You’re overthinking it,” she replies, completely unfazed.

Still, with my tie gone and buttons undone, it’s hard not to suspect something.

“Then what are you doing?”

Her response is more forceful than expected. She undoes my braid and then suddenly shoves me. Miyagi lives with no concept of restraint. She bit my finger once—hard. Now, she’s pushed me hard enough to knock me to the floor.

“Ow!”

A bed would’ve softened the fall, but the hardwood floor slams into my back and arms. Before I can sit up, she straddles me.

“See? You do have that kind of intention!”

I try to push her off.

“No, I don’t,” she says coldly. Her face is calm—eerily calm. There’s no desire in her expression. No confusion either. So what is she planning?

Then she reaches for the table.

Wait—what?

She grabs the popcorn bag.

And then—

White kernels rain down on me.

“Miyagi!”

Popcorn covers my hair, my face, and my blouse.

What. Is. This?

“This isn’t funny!”

I grab her tie.

I take time to style my hair. I use expensive conditioner. A high-end ionic dryer. And now it’s full of salt and crumbs.

If it were just full kernels, I could deal with it. But the powder and crushed bits getting into my scalp? Infuriating.

“I’m not joking. I just thought I’d feed you some more,” Miyagi says matter-of-factly. She picks up a piece from the floor and shoves it into my mouth.

Frustrated, I bite down—hard—catching her finger along with the popcorn.

She flinches, then grabs a glass from the table.

“…You’re kidding, right?”

Cider sloshes in the glass—right above my face.

Miyagi gives a thin smile.

The glass tilts.

I close my eyes and let go of her tie, covering my face. Cold drops spatter against my hands.

When I open my eyes, the glass is empty.

“This is too much.”

My voice comes out low.

“You do get angry, huh, Sendai-san?”

Of course I do. I just usually keep it in.

“Who wouldn’t get mad at this?”

“You’re too nice.”

“Nice? Me? Where?”

“Your blazer, tie, and skirt are fine. Your blouse is washable. And spring break starts tomorrow. So no big deal, right?”

“…So you planned this?”

She doesn’t answer. Just stands up.

Free from her weight, I sit up and brush off the popcorn.

She’s right—only my blouse is soaked. But that doesn’t excuse dumping snacks and cider on someone. I have a thousand things to say, but before I can speak, she tosses a towel and a long-sleeved shirt at me.

“Wear that. Don’t worry about returning it,” she says, and leaves the room.

With no one to complain to, I sigh and peel off my blouse. I dry my hair and hands with the towel. The shirt is slightly oversized, but it fits.

I don’t want to wear it. Not after what just happened. But I can’t put my wet blouse back on either, so I reluctantly slip into her shirt.

The door opens.

“I’ll walk you home,” Miyagi says, holding a bag for my blouse—as if that somehow makes up for all this. But then again, Miyagi’s always been strange. Suggesting something like an “order game” to a classmate isn’t normal. So maybe I should stop expecting her to act like a regular person.

She does whatever she wants. Complaining won’t change her.

That’s the nature of it.

One gives orders. One obeys. The five thousand yen between us makes days like this inevitable.

Still, I can’t help but feel annoyed.

“Sendai-san,” she says, urging me along.

I put on my coat, and we take the elevator down together—same as always.

“Bye,” she says, turning before I can get a word out.

“I will return this,” I shout after her.

She soaked my blouse, but I’m not just going to keep her shirt because she says I can. What’s borrowed should be returned. Spring break starts tomorrow. I won’t see Miyagi again until April. Above me, stars dot the night sky. It’s unusually warm for March, with no wind.

If nothing had happened, I might’ve called it a nice night. But remembering everything from today, it feels like the worst night ever.

When I get home, a prep school pamph

let sits squarely on my desk. Not for a summer or winter session—but a long-term course from April until entrance exams.

My mood sinks.

I don’t want to go.

I let out a heavy sigh.