Volume 3 Extra 1

Back then, I thought it suited Sendai-san.

But now, after some time has passed, I’m not so sure.

That day, when I was sent shopping for cultural festival preparations, a necklace I saw at the mall stole a fragment of my memory—and it lingers even now. Yet, I can’t picture Sendai-san wearing it.

In my empty room, I slump over the table, buried in homework.

I want to erase the necklace from my mind.

For a mere necklace to squat in the corner of my thoughts is too audacious. Normally, I would forget it, but it creeps back during study breaks or before I go to sleep, like a persistent zombie.

—A silver chain with a small charm dangling from it.

It caught my eye while I was carrying bags for the festival. More accurately, it leapt into my vision. The shop was a trinket store I’d usually pass without a glance, one that never suited me. But that day was different. I stopped in front of it.

I don’t believe in fateful encounters, but I couldn’t look away from the moon-shaped charm, and it somehow connected to Sendai-san in my mind.

It’d suit her.

That ridiculous thought flickered in and out. The festival ended, and I don’t even know if the necklace is still there. Yet my mind refuses to let it go, replaying its image every so often.

There’s probably only one way to banish it from my memory.

Confirm that it’s gone from the shop.

If it’s sold out, I can’t buy it—and it’ll vanish from my thoughts. I lift my head, close my textbook, and grab my phone from the table.

It hasn’t even been an hour since I started homework.

There’s still time.

The mall is still open.

I haven’t called Sendai-san today, so there’s time, and I can always finish my homework later.

Checking that the necklace isn’t there is simple.

It must be sold out.

It’s been a while since that shopping trip. There’s no way it’s still there. Normally, confirming something’s absence would be pointless, but for me, it matters—because if it isn’t there, I can finally let it go. Better to know than to let a nonexistent thing haunt my thoughts. If it’s gone, I’ll feel relieved. If it’s still there, I’ll figure out what to do. Either way, it’s better than being stuck obsessing over something I saw before the festival ended.

I open the curtain. The light outside is fading. I put on a cardigan.

Just in case, I toss my wallet into my bag and step out.

It’s a bit late to head to the mall, but I walk slowly.

No need to rush.

I just want to confirm it’s sold out. The necklace isn’t necessary for me—or Sendai-san—so there’s no reason to hurry.

I walk through the dim streets, enter the mall as I did for festival shopping, and make my way to the shop.

Step by step, unnaturally slow, I approach the spot where the necklace was.

“…That’s not right.”

It should be sold out.

There’s no reason it should still be there for me to buy, yet it is.

Words I didn’t want to think of surface.

What now?

I hadn’t planned to hesitate, but I do.

I have enough money in my wallet to buy it.

If it were gone, I could let go cleanly. But since it’s here, I’m starting to think maybe I should buy it. The reason is clear: if I leave without it, I’ll return to days of obsessing over it.

This doesn’t happen often.

Buying an accessory for Sendai-san is probably a one-time thing.

It’ll likely never happen again, so maybe it’s okay to indulge this once. Besides, buying it doesn’t mean I have to give it to her. There’s no rule saying I must. I could even keep it for myself.

I reach for the necklace, then pull back.

I exhale softly.

I’m not buying it because it suits her.

She’d probably make anything look good. Cheap accessories would seem expensive on her, and something tacky on me would look cool on her.

For something to give her, the design doesn’t matter.

I’m buying it to clarify our relationship.

Lately, Sendai-san’s been too full of herself.

Calling me out at school, kissing me.

Not following the rules.

It’s like she thinks breaking them is normal. The summer break blurred the boundaries, but it’s been over a month, and it’s time to set things straight.

A necklace—a chain—will bind her, reminding her who gives the orders. It’ll make her recall that spending time together requires five thousand yen.

A tangible necklace, something she can always wear, is perfect for that.

Unlike a piercing, it won’t leave a mark, but it will keep her bound until graduation, and I won’t have to keep thinking about it.

I pick up the silver chain with its small charm.

The shop is full of cute, pretty things, making it hard to head to the register.

I wish Maika and Ami were here, but if they saw me buying an accessory I don’t usually wear, their curiosity would spark, and they’d pry.

It’s fine.

Paying is all it takes, like buying instant ramen. I steel myself, take the necklace to the register. I want to leave quickly, but they ask about gift wrapping. I don’t care. It’s not a gift. But if I give it to her, it’d have to be, so I choose a ribbon and wrapping paper, pay, and leave.

I exit the shop, the mall, and step into the street.

The sky, dim before, is now completely black, the sidewalk illuminated by streetlights.

I trudge back the way I came. 

It’s chilly, unlike earlier when the sky was brighter.

Summer’s gone, and it’s deep autumn.

Daytime clings to summer’s remnants, but night holds no trace of it. Seasons turn—summer, then autumn, then winter. And with winter comes spring and graduation. I can’t live in autumn forever. My already slow pace slows further.

The small box I just bought is meant to tie us together until graduation.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

When graduation comes, our paths will split and never cross.

Going to different universities means that. Our days won’t overlap; we’ll fade from each other, and memories will slip away.

That’s natural. That’s how it should be.

I’ll go to university and study, but studying doesn’t mean I’ll end up at the same one as Sendai-san. I never planned to. I don’t want to label my memories with her, and the future shouldn’t change. I’ll stick to my decision.

The necklace is only to reinforce the five thousand yen. That’s enough.

It’s just right for us.

But even with a reason to buy it, I have no reason to give it to her.

From July of our second year, when she started coming to my room, to the third-year cultural festival, I still don’t know her birthday—a potential reason to give it. I move my feet slowly, slowly forward. The bag feels heavy, though there’s nothing heavy in it.

I shouldn’t have bought it.

A sigh threatens to escape.

I swing the light but heavy bag.