Volume 1 Episode 08

It’s amusing how flustered Miyagi gets.

It might sound a bit mean to say, but the problem lies with Miyagi, who reacts as if she’s confessing to some sin.

“Stay still.”

I reach out toward Miyagi, who’s sitting across the table, reading a manga. But before my fingers can touch her, she lets out a suspicious tone.

“What?”

“There’s something in your hair. I’ll get it for you.”

When I explain why I reached out, Miyagi looks up from her book and asks, “Where?”

Leaning forward with my hands on the table, I stretch my fingers toward her neckline. As I touch her neck, it wasn’t a firm touch.

Just a light, fleeting graze, as if my hand slipped. But Miyagi recoils far more than necessary.

A few days ago, I fell asleep in this room and woke up because something tickled my neck. My head was still half-asleep, so I couldn’t tell if someone had done something to make me feel that way or if it was just my imagination.

Well, anyway, what I thought was a dream clearly wasn’t.

Miyagi’s reaction confirms it. That day, it was her lips that touched my neck. I tug at her hair, which falls just past her shoulders.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry, it wasn’t out yet.”

It’s obvious the hair I pulled wasn’t loose, but I say it anyway.

“That was on purpose, wasn’t it?”

“It looked like it was loose, so I just tried to help.”

She’s not wrong about it being intentional, so I don’t deny it.

I recall how things were when I entered this room today.

I was about to unbutton the second button of my blouse but stopped.

Just looking at Miyagi made her avert her eyes. She’s been acting strange ever since. Even now, she’s overreacting to a little teasing.

“Do homework already,” Miyagi says, sounding annoyed. She’s like a stray cat that seemed to be warming up to me but is now showing wariness.

Today, Miyagi feels like that kind of cat.

“No need to rush me, I’m almost done.”

“Do my homework.” That order, given about an hour ago, has become a bit of a hassle since we’re no longer in the same class. If we were, the homework would be the same, and I could just let her copy mine without much thought. But now, with different assignments, I have to do hers separately.

Miyagi’s grades aren’t particularly great, and she seems to struggle with some subjects, but they’re not terrible either. With exams coming up, she should take it more seriously.

In general, being in the “better” category gives you more options.

Being able to study is better than not. It opens up more university choices, and beyond that, more possibilities for the future. Of course, everything has its limits, and some efforts might be futile if they don’t lead anywhere.

“Have you decided on a university?”

When I asked her something similar in early April, Miyagi answered, “I don’t know.” This time, her response is similar but slightly different.

“I haven’t decided. If I go, anywhere I can get into is fine.”

“That’s too careless.”

What a waste.

I’m not about to suggest we go to the same prep school or tell her to study her hardest, but Miyagi’s lack of motivation is excessive.

She’s always so apathetic.

Yet that day, that apathetic girl took the initiative—or rather, touched me with her lips without asking.

I placed hand on my neck.

I don’t understand why she thought to kiss me there. I considered it might be an extension of wanting that leave a mark, but if that were the case, there would’ve been a hickey on my neck.

So what’s the point of just touching?

If it’s about getting closer as friends, as she denies we are, I wouldn’t mind. But her actions seem to be rapidly shifting our relationship into something beyond friendship. I’m happy she’s warming up to me, but if this keeps happening, it’s troubling.

I’m scared of getting too close to Miyagi.

I don’t want a relationship that’s too deep. A gray, not-too-white, not-too-black friendship is enough. Anything more, and I feel like I won’t be able to say goodbye properly next year.

Even so, I didn’t hate what Miyagi did to me.

This isn’t good.

I can’t explain why, but I know it’s not good.

I pick up an eraser and throw it at Miyagi.

The eraser arcs gently, passing over her textbook and landing beside her.

“You’re awfully quiet today. Something up?”

As I speak and unbutton the second button of my blouse, she averts her eyes unnaturally.

It’s irritating that I’m the only one caught up in these confusing emotions.

Miyagi should feel a little troubled too.

“Nothing,” she says curtly, immediately dropping her gaze back to her manga.

“Let’s talk about crushes, then.”

“No.”

I know.

She doesn’t seem like the type to enjoy that kind of talk. I thought she was oblivious to gossip, but I was wrong. She knew I’d been confessed to, so she must have some kind of network.

“Don’t you have a crush, Miyagi?”

“I don’t like that kind of talk.”

“Then why’d you bring it up the other day?”

She went out of her way to ask why I turned down a confession.

I won’t let her say she forgot.

“…”

She doesn’t seem inclined to respond, and I hear the sound of her turning a page in her manga.

“Miyagi.”

I press for an answer, but she doesn’t budge. Still, if you look closely, there’s a crease between her brows.

I lightly stroke my neck.

This is what happens when you kiss me there.

It’s her own fault—self-inflicted.

She should reflect on it.

I think that, but being in the same room as Miyagi, who’s ignoring me, is boring.

“Oh, right. Lend me a book during Golden Week.”

I change the subject, ready to let her off the hook.

“No way.”

“I knew you’d say that.”

This is the usual Miyagi.

I wish it could always be like this.

If things stayed the same, peaceful times would last longer. I don’t want an emotional rollercoaster. So, Miyagi’s unchanging response feels comforting.

✧✧✧✧

A quiet Miyagi isn’t exactly rare. She’s never been that talkative around me to begin with. Thinking about it, a quiet Miyagi is just her returning to normal.

It’s not exactly fun, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

Her mood isn’t something I can control.

I accepted this return to a standoffish Miyagi, but then Golden Week came, and we haven’t seen each other since.

Two days after the break ended, I haven’t seen Miyagi at school.

We haven’t even passed each other in the halls.

That’s just how it is when you’re in different classes.

I’m not lonely or anything. I have plenty of people to talk to, and I’ve made new friends. I don’t have any major complaints about school life. I’m doing reasonably well, and it’s fairly enjoyable. Some people in my new class call me a people-pleaser, but that’s trivial.

“I’m going to the next classroom for a bit.”

During the break, in the noisy classroom, Umina, sitting diagonally in front of me, suddenly announces this.

“What’s up?”

“Forgot my textbook.”

Umina says lazily, adding, “Maybe I’ll just skip class.”

Mariko immediately jumps in to stop her.

“Don’t. Didn’t they say you’d have to write a reflection if you skip again?”

“Hmm, a reflection’s not a big deal. But fine, I’ll borrow one from next door.”

Leaving a half-hearted comment, Umina exits the classroom.

She’s not exactly diligent and has a habit of skipping class. She’s been called out for it several times but hasn’t learned her lesson even as a third-year. Mariko, who was in the same class as her last year, used to skip with her, but now that graduation looms, she’s trying to reform.

Friend groups can be a hassle in times like this.

If one person’s bad, the whole group gets seen as troublemakers.

That’s why Mariko’s trying to stop Hanami this year, worried about her grades.

But isn’t it a bit late for that?

It’s better than doing nothing, I suppose.

I pull my textbook and notebook from my desk. Class isn’t exactly fun, but I’m not planning to skip. Maintaining a good image, different from my friends, takes effort.

“Oh, Hazuki, lend me your notebook later. I want to copy it,” Mariko says.

I nod, and a light voice chimes in.

“Got it.”

Umina returns, showing off a textbook in her hand before sitting down.

“That…”

I can’t help but speak.

The textbook for the next class, modern literature, isn’t anything unusual.

But there’s a crease on the cover.

“This?” Umina looks at the textbook, puzzled.

I clench my fist.

To think of “that” as something special—

I shouldn’t have said it out loud. But retracting it now would be weirder, and Umina might latch onto it with interest.

“It’s not Ruka’s, right? Who’d you borrow it from?”

Ruka is probably who Hanami meant to borrow from. But the textbook in her hand isn’t Ruka’s or anyone else’s.

It’s Miyagi’s.

I know because I’m the one who creased the cover.

“How’d you know?”

“Just a guess.”

I keep the reason to myself.

Umina doesn’t know Miyagi and I are close enough for me to recognize her textbook at a glance, and there’s no need to tell her.

“I was gonna borrow from Ruka, but she wasn’t there. So I borrowed from a girl I was in class with last year. Uh, who was it? The plain one with black hair.”

See, she’s trying to remember.

But I know Umina won’t.

So I answer for her.

“…Miyagi?”

“Yeah, that’s it! Hazuki, your memory’s insane. You never forget names, do you?”

Umina sounds impressed as she stares at the textbook, then bursts into laughter.

“But, like, Miyagi’s so plain, yet she’s got this textbook all creased up. That’s hilarious.”

Her laughter rings out until the bell drowns it out. Mariko hurries back to her seat as the teacher enters.

“Quiet down. Class is starting,” the teacher says, banging on the desk.

The noisy classroom quiets before the lesson begins. The teacher’s messy handwriting fills the board—letters like worms crawling out of the ground, hard to decipher Analytical and Reasoning Abilities: I glance at the seat diagonally in front of me.

Most of what I see is Umina’s back, obscuring the textbook.

I shift my gaze to the board, copying the notes. I have no intention of claiming the creased textbook as mine, but knowing Umina’s using it makes my arm feel heavy as I write.

The teacher’s hoarse voice grates on me, and I feel irritated.

*Snap.*

The lead in my mechanical pencil breaks with a small sound.

Umina doesn’t even remember Miyagi’s name.

I close my eyes. The feelings this textbook stirs are something I shouldn’t pursue. These inexplicable emotions will lead to trouble.

The textbook itself is trivial—not something worth agonizing over.

I open my eyes and look at the blackboard.

Listening to the teacher’s voice, I take notes, even as my mind is cluttered with needless thoughts. I keep repeating the same mechanical actions, and before I realize it, class is over.

Time passes quickly.

By the time I come to my senses, the afternoon classes are almost finished.

On days like this, Miyagi doesn’t reach out.

She should have contacted me today.

I grumble silently to myself.

“I’m coming over today.”

I’ve never sent her a message like that, but there’s no rule saying I can’t be the one to reach out first. It’s just that I’ve grown too accustomed to Miyagi always being the one to initiate. There’s no reason I can’t do the same.

The bell rings to signal the end of class, and I pick up my phone.

I stare down at the small screen.

“Waiting for a text? From a boyfriend or something?” Umina’s voice makes me look up.

“I don’t have time for a boyfriend.”

“You always say that. Let me set you up with someone nice.”

“Maybe after entrance exams.”

“Too serious. Do you have cram school today?”

Even after correcting her countless times, Umina still insists on calling it “cram school” instead of prep school.

“Nope.”

“Then let’s—”

She rattles off a list of places she wants to go, and Mariko, who has come over to join us, eagerly agrees. I slide my phone back into my bag.

Miyagi should be the one to contact me.

It feels wrong for me to take the initiative.

By the time homeroom ends, we’ve decided where to go, and we leave the classroom together.

✧✧✧✧

I’d expected her to contact me right after the holiday.

But Miyagi doesn’t reach out, and it’s only three days after Hanami borrowed her textbook that my phone finally buzzes.

I’m not bothered by it. Not even a little.

She’s the one paying, after all, so she can contact me whenever she feels like it.

I stop by a convenience store and buy potato chips and chocolate. Snacks rarely appear at Miyagi’s place, and since she probably won’t talk much today either, having something to eat might make the time pass more pleasantly.

Carrying a white plastic bag filled with snacks, I head to Miyagi’s apartment.

Looking up, I see the sky is utterly clear—a bright blue so flawless it feels artificial, as though someone had smeared paint across it. But even as the sun casts sharp shadows, part of my heart remains dark. My steps feel heavy on the path to her apartment, which should be familiar and comforting, but instead feels tinged with resentment.

Why do I have to feel like this?

I swing the plastic bag with an irritated huff.

Trying to shake off thoughts of Miyagi, I break into a jog.

It takes about five minutes—running just briskly enough not to lose my breath.

When I reach her building, I call her through the intercom. She lets me in without a word. I ride the elevator to the sixth floor, press the intercom beside her door, and it opens.

“Here.”

As I take off my shoes, she hands me five thousand yen with the same minimal attitude as always. Despite not seeing each other for days, she remains curt.

“Thanks.”

I tuck the bill into my wallet and step into her room. As I set down the bag of snacks, Miyagi slips out without a word.

Standing in front of her bookshelf, I notice her manga collection has grown considerably. I pick up a volume I haven’t seen before, sit down on her bed, and start flipping through it.

She soon returns, carrying barley tea and cider.

“Bought new books?”

“I was bored during the break,” she replies, offering an explanation without explicitly admitting she purchased them. After that, she falls silent.

The room hasn’t changed since before the holiday.

Neither has Miyagi’s distant demeanor.

I close the manga and point to the plastic bag.

“I brought these. You can open them.”

“Open them yourself,” she says, not even glancing at the bag, and walks toward her bookshelf.

Her defiant attitude—how she always responds with some grumpy retort—usually doesn’t bother me. But today, it grates on me.

“Shiori.”

I call her by her first name.

“…What?”

After a brief pause, she turns to me, her expression openly displeased. I say it again.

“Can I call you Shiori?”

As far as I know, all her friends use her first name.

If they can, why shouldn’t I?

We’re not exactly friends, but we do things ordinary friends wouldn’t. We share secrets no one else can know. So it feels natural to use a more familiar way of addressing her.

But Miyagi doesn’t agree.

“No.”

Her voice is cold as she sits down across from me, a book in hand.

“Stingy.”

I slide off the bed and sit on the floor.

I pull the chips and chocolate out of the bag, opening the chips first. I pop one thin, brittle slice into my mouth.

One, two, three.

I chew and swallow them.

Miyagi insists we’re not friends, yet she wants to know about me in ways only a friend would.

She asked about the boy who confessed to me and got sulky when I wouldn’t elaborate.

It looked an awful lot like jealousy.

Yet she won’t even let me call her Shiori.

It’s unfair.

I look over at her. She keeps reading, not once glancing up. She hasn’t touched the chips.

“Hey, Miyagi. Want me to feed you?”

I pluck a chip from the bag.

“No. I don’t want it.”

“No need to be shy.”

I bring the chip toward her mouth. Instead of taking it from my hand, she picks up a fresh one herself.

“I’ll eat it on my own.”

She opens her mouth and crunches it in one bite.

“What about this one?”

I hold up the chip that never found a destination.

“I don’t want it.”

She says it flatly, then grabs another chip and pops it in her mouth. I sigh and eat the abandoned one myself, then reach for her hand.

“What?”

Her tone is wary, but I ignore it.

I take her finger—the same one I’ve licked before, though it was always under her orders—and put it in my mouth of my own accord. Pressing my tongue firmly along the pad, I taste salt.

“Sendai-san, stop.”

She tugs at my bangs, but I have no intention of listening. I trace her finger with my tongue and then bite down lightly. When I apply a bit more pressure, her bone grazes my teeth, and she pulls her finger back.

“I said I don’t like that.”

Her voice is sharp, her brow furrowed.

Seeing her genuinely annoyed makes my heartbeat quicken.

“Keep making that face.”

She’d once said something similar to me when I was angry.

She seemed entertained by my irritation.

At the time, I didn’t understand her.

But now, I do.

Seeing her fling real emotion at me is electrifying.

“Miyagi, you taste like salt,” I say with a smile.

Her expression twists. “That’s just the chips.”

“You could say that.”

“What’s with you today? Stop doing weird things.”

“If you don’t want me doing anything weirder, then give me an order.”

Whenever I’m with Miyagi, a version of myself I don’t quite recognize surfaces. The me from not long ago would never have licked her finger without being told.

I never meant to get this entangled, but it’s too late for that now.

“I haven’t thought of one yet,” she mutters.

“Want me to do homework?”

“Sendai-san, you’re noisy. I’ll think of something, so be quiet.”

She doesn’t seem in the mood to order me to study today.

Miyagi sets her manga on the table and takes a slow sip of her cider.

She likes giving orders but hates receiving them.

Her face makes that perfectly clear as she rummages in her bag.

Feeling idle, I reach for the chips but stop, licking my fingertip instead. It tastes just like her.

“Sendai-san.”

Her voice sounds unchanged—calm, indifferent.

“Here’s your order. Hide this.”

“An eraser?”

I look at the small object she sets on the table.

“Yeah.”

“Anywhere?”

“Not anywhere. Hide it in your uniform. I’ll look for it later.”

“…Miyagi, you always come up with the strangest ideas.”

Hiding an eraser somewhere in the room could be an innocent game. But hiding it in my uniform changes the implication entirely.

“It’s not strange.”

“You’re definitely planning something weird.”

“What kind of weird thing do you think I’d do, Sendai-san?”

“Touch me somewhere weird.”

“You’re the one with the dirty mind. Pervert.”

“You’re the pervert, Miyagi.”

“I don’t care if I am. Just hide it already.”

I’ve already taken her five thousand yen, so I have no right to refuse.

Even if she touches me, it’ll probably only be over my clothes. It shouldn’t be a big deal.

I pick up the eraser and stand.

“Turn around.”

She obediently turns her back.

My blazer, my skirt, my blouse.

I stare down at my uniform.

Her order is to hide the eraser in it, but no matter how I think about it, the only real place is a pocket.

I could slip it in my sock, but she’d find it immediately. Tucking it under my collar would need tape I don’t have, and even then, it would be obvious.

There are hardly any hiding places.

Miyagi knows that, which is why this so-called game is rigged for me to lose. She probably just wants an excuse to touch me while pretending to search—to watch my reaction or see me get flustered.

Not that she ever called it a game.

And she never said there’d be a penalty for losing.

I slip the half-used eraser into the right pocket of my blazer. Since she’ll find it no matter what, I might as well make it easy.

“I’ve hidden it. You can turn around.”

When I call her, she slowly turns and fixes her gaze on me.

The pocket bulges slightly—she must know exactly where it is.

Her eyes linger there, but she doesn’t say she’s found it.

Instead, she walks over silently and begins patting down my blazer like some TV detective.

I knew it would be like this.

Her hands move methodically over my shoulders and back.

It doesn’t feel unpleasant, exactly, but I’m not magnanimous enough to find it entertaining to be groped. Still, with the fabric in between, it’s tolerable.

Her hands deliberately avoid my pockets and drift to my skirt. She brushes over my hipbone, taps my thigh as if genuinely searching.

Of course, it isn’t there.

Finally, her fingers find their way to my skirt’s pocket, brushing it lightly.

Then she moves behind me.

I start to turn, wondering what she’s up to, but before I can, her hand slips into my pocket.

Probably because it’s easier to reach from behind.

That makes sense.

But as her fingers move around inside, I instinctively grab her wrist.

“Don’t move your hand.”

The fabric of my pocket is thinner than my skirt, and though she knows perfectly well the eraser isn’t there, her hand keeps groping around as if she’s touching my bare leg. The sensation makes me uncomfortable.

“If I don’t move, how am I supposed to tell whether the eraser’s there?”

“You’d know the moment you reached in.”

“I don’t.”

Miyagi, feigning ignorance, tries to keep moving her hand. I forcibly pull it out of my pocket.

I knew it would come to this.

It’s probably payback—because I called her Shiori and licked her finger to tease her. Now she’s retaliating, and whatever she plans next, it won’t be pleasant for me.

“Can we stop now?”

“No.”

Miyagi answers curtly and steps in front of me, her hands reaching for my blazer buttons.

I’d expected her to refuse to stop. I’d even anticipated her unbuttoning my blazer. Still, my body stiffens instinctively. She spreads the blazer open, her eyes moving over my blouse, which she must realize doesn’t conceal the eraser. Her gaze drifts slowly from my collar to my hem. Then her right hand lifts, brushing against my side.

Her fingers roam, searching—or pretending to—and I swat her arm away.

It tickles.

I could tolerate it through the blazer, but the blouse’s fabric is too thin. Every movement of her hand sends a shiver along my skin. I don’t want to be touched like this.

The uniform should be a barrier between us. But like this, it feels as though she’s touching me directly.

This is just a game, I remind myself.

It shouldn’t feel like more.

But the blouse is too flimsy. Her body heat seeps through the fabric, tricking my mind into believing we’re doing something we shouldn’t.

I think it’s time to stop.

But instead of stopping, Miyagi presses her hand more firmly into my side. She pinches my skin as though tearing off a piece of bread, and my body jerks reflexively. Before I realize it, her left hand is sliding over the curve of my hipbone.

“Your side’s sensitive, isn’t it?” she remarks, amusement flickering in her voice.

“It’s not sensitive. It’s ticklish.”

“That’s the same thing.”

Her fingertips trail slowly upward, grazing the thin material of my blouse, sending another tremor through me.

She moves her hand to my back, her nails lightly tracing shapes I can’t see but can feel all too clearly.

I grab her wrist.

This touch feels different from before.

Her expression hasn’t changed, but the way she’s touching me is too intimate—nothing like the casual prodding Umina or the others might do.

If she were still being mechanical and impersonal, I could pretend it didn’t mean anything. I could keep telling myself it was just part of the game.

But this is dangerous.

“Stop. It tickles.”

If she keeps going, I’m afraid I’ll start feeling something I shouldn’t. I tighten my grip on her wrist.

“Then let go, and I’ll check somewhere else.”

“I’ll let go, but if you do that again, I’ll slap you.”

“Violence is against the rules, remember?”

Her quiet voice reaches me, reminding me of what I already know: I don’t really want to hit anyone.

“Just look somewhere else, okay?”

I stress the point before releasing her.

Miyagi doesn’t repeat the same gesture. Instead, her newly freed hand slips into the chest pocket of my blouse, mimicking what she’d done with my skirt pocket.

“You know it’s not there,” I protest, kicking her lightly in the shin.

I really don’t want to be touched through this thin fabric.

“Sendai-san, that’s against the rules. And I have to check to be sure you didn’t hide it there.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

Her voice sounds almost gleeful, which only makes it more irritating.

“It’s fine. I already know it’s not there, so I’ll check somewhere else.”

I have no idea what’s “fine” about any of this, but she finally withdraws her hand from my pocket.

“Let’s just end this. You already know exactly where it is.”

This has gone on long enough.

I knew from the start that continuing wouldn’t end well.

“Just play along a little longer.”

“There’s more?”

“I’m taking off your tie.”

“What?”

I blurt it out instinctively, but Miyagi ignores me and calmly undoes my tie. Her hand settles against my neck without hesitation, palm flat against my skin.

The sensation is completely different—warmer, somehow more intimate—than touching through the fabric.

Miyagi’s hand feels hot.

Or maybe it’s my own body that’s overheated; I can’t tell anymore. Her palm presses more firmly, and the boundary between us seems to dissolve, especially because this is the same place her lips touched before.

“Shiori.”

I call her by the name she forbade, laying my hand over hers.

“Stop calling me that.”

Miyagi peels her hand away from my neck, taking my hand along with it, and glares at me, her brow drawn tight in frustration.

Her sour expression somehow lifts the heaviness that had been pressing down on me.

She should feel at least a little unsettled, too. It isn’t fair that I’m the only one flustered.

“Want me to say it again?”

When I ask softly, the crease between her brows deepens. For some reason, hearing her name from me seems to bother her more than anything else.

“Be quiet,” she snaps, irritation in her voice.

Then she reaches for the buttons of my blouse.

“What are you doing?”

She doesn’t answer.

Instead, she unbuttons my blouse in silence.

The top two buttons were already undone, so she unfastens the third, then moves to the fourth. I push her shoulder away, startled.

“Hey!”

“What?”

“Stop it. Are you trying to undress me? There’s no need for that.”

I push her hand away and quickly refasten my buttons.

I know she probably wasn’t serious about stripping me. This was just an endurance contest, a test to see who would give in first. We both know there’s a line neither of us intends to cross.

“I just thought you might have hidden it inside.”

“It’s not there. And this is crossing the line.”

“The rule says no sex. It doesn’t say anything about undressing.”

“Then let’s add that to the rules right now.”

“I’m joking. I wasn’t going to take it all off.”

I know.

I know it was a joke—just another provocation to see how I’d react.

Even so, I find that kind of teasing in poor taste.

“You already know where it is.”

I stomp on her foot in protest. Miyagi sighs and finally reaches for the right pocket of my blazer.

“Here?”

“Correct. Game’s over.”

I declare it finished before she can propose another round. Retightening my tie, I mutter, “You pervert, Miyagi,” and sit down heavily on the bed.

“So…is that the end of the orders?”

When I ask, Miyagi answers simply, “Yeah, that’s all,” sounding bored. She lifts her cider and takes a slow sip, then sets the empty glass on the table before sitting down on the floor and leaning back against the bed.

I can’t see her face from this angle.

I have no idea what she’s thinking.

All she ever does is confusing, inexplicable things.

She closes the distance between us on a whim, only to discard me just as easily when she loses interest.

Her uniform brushes lightly against my leg.

The touch of her blazer makes me flinch, so I tap her shoulder.