The whole class, aware that the boy and girl shared the exact same name, once voted for class committee anonymously by writing "Tenei Ki Tenei Ki." The boys found it hilarious. For the girl, however, it was terribly embarrassing. She cried from the teasing.
The boy, irritated and ashamed, grabbed the ringleader by the collar. Tension ran high.
The reason was childish, but that was student life—filled with childish things.
To the audience, it was clear the boy lashed out in defense of the girl.
The voting results? Both Tenei Kis were appointed as library managers. They'd now have to spend time together nearly every day.
Library duties were simple: track check-outs and returns, shelve books properly. But most of the work was done by the girl. The boy slacked off.
His laziness created a classic moment:
In the wide, sunlit library, white curtains fluttered in the breeze like soft ocean waves.
Chu Zhi, as the male Tenei Ki, leaned lazily against the wall near the window, reading. Sunlight outlined his perfect features, the sculpted nose especially like a Greek statue—so breathtaking it looked divine.
It wasn't a planned "aesthetic shot." Director Oozu Etsushi had simply captured it in one go, thanks to the lighting and angle.
But that accidental scene was like an aesthetic nuke. Even in post-production, Dazuko was stunned. A two-second cut was extended to over ten seconds, intercut with the girl sneaking glances at him.
That quiet emotion—pure teenage affection.
"He may have used Tomoko as a substitute, which is awful, but he's so damn handsome."
"Oozu is amazing. This dreamy romantic atmosphere... Every girl dreams of a boy like him. Crisp white shirt, that clean vibe. I used to have a crush on a guy like that."
"Kinda sad. There was no Tenei Ki in my youth. No boy that handsome."
"That shot was perfect. When he looked up at the camera, I felt my heart skip—just like when I confessed to my first love."
People murmured softly. The movie continued, but the visuals had hit so hard that a ripple of whispered awe spread across the theater.
"Looks aren't everything," muttered Naoshige Kounai, a director seated nearby. "It was too deliberate, like a music video. A good film needs acting, not just faces."
Ryatsu Matsuzaka, viewing with a Hollywood lens, had another take. "Not classic Hollywood looks, but that mysterious Eastern charm? It'll work."
He was already thinking: What if I recommended Chu Zhi to...
Even Hisahisa Miura, one of the most beautiful men in the audience, murmured, "So Chu-san can be called a once-in-a-millennium beauty."
Koguchi Yoshihiro heard that and smirked, barely holding back.
"If Miura is once-in-a-millennium, then Chu-san must be once-in-two-millennia."
Director Dazuko, despite his rugged demeanor, captured youthful thoughts so well.
Like the scene where male Tenei Ki borrows obscure books no one ever checked out. Back when libraries used checkout cards, each person signed their name. So if a book was damaged, you knew who was responsible.
Tenei Ki would bring up 7 or 8 cards that said "Tenei Ki" and hand them to the girl, calling it "my Tenei storm."
Twisted logic. He was using her name to sign the cards, sneakily expressing affection.
She didn't get it. Thought it was another prank. Remembered him as annoying, smug.
Once she got a 27 on an English test—felt devastated. Later she realized it was a mistake: she'd gotten his paper.
Too shy to switch them back in public, she waited after school at the bike shed.
He strolled over slowly. She told him the mix-up. He didn't believe her. It was too dark to compare.
So she spun her bicycle pedal to power the light. He casually started comparing the papers, mumbling, "The past tense of 'break' is 'broke'..."
She snapped, "I'm not spinning the light for you to review grammar!"
It was obviously intentional. A kid who scored 27 in English wouldn't care about grammar. He just wanted to spend time alone with her.
As the girl wrote to Tomoko, she recalled this scene. Dug out the old exam paper from a dusty attic box. On the back, it was all scribbled over with doodles.
Tomoko listened to everything.
The boy had bad grades and a worse attitude—but he was so handsome.
No wonder he was popular.
She remembered classmate Oi Sana trying to act as cupid for Tenei Ki. He rejected her.
Then, after school, in a fit of annoyance, he slipped a paper bag over the girl's head to "show" he was mad.
"How did he fall for the other Tenei Ki with barely any contact?" Hisahisa Miura wondered.
"Did you have a high school crush?" asked his manager Miki.
"I was busy filming. I barely did homework. But lots of girls liked me. If I had..."
"So you didn't," Miki cut in. "Crushes happen easily when you're young. Shared names, shared tasks—that's all it takes sometimes."
Miura stayed quiet, feeling Miki was lowkey judging his lack of teen romance.
Shochiku Co.'s rep, a man in his 60s, wasn't into men. But even he could tell: Chu Zhi's looks might make the movie a hit.
Nostalgia is a trap. It pulls you deeper, like someone offering snacks during a diet, promising "just one bite."
She remembered more.
A month before Otaru's track meet, Tenei Ki got into an accident—fractured his left leg. He was the school's pick for the 100-meter sprint.
He couldn't compete. But he showed up anyway.
The camera showed him running on the grass beside the track. Rebellious, reckless, and a little dramatic. He tripped another runner, disrupting the race.
Why did he do it?
Female viewers thought he knew she'd be cheering, and wanted to run for her.
Male viewers thought he couldn't handle being benched.
Others said it didn't matter. We all have high school regrets.
She returned to campus, met her old teacher, and visited the library.
Younger students had found something—over 80 books with "Tenei Ki" signed on the cards.
To them, it was a sweet love letter: clearly the guy liked her.
She tried to explain: "Same name, not me."
But as always, she couldn't handle being the center of attention. Opened her mouth, closed it again. Didn't say anything.
Just like in school.
"Why doesn't she realize? All those cards were for her! Love letters!" Maki Hashimoto blurted.
Realizing she was too loud, she apologized to Chu Zhi and Yuriko Nakamura.
"Chu-san's screen time is less than thirty minutes, but every scene is unforgettable," Maki whispered to Chu Zhi. "Especially the fall scene."
Chu Zhi had NG'd that scene seven or eight times. It was hard to look both pitiful and stubborn.
"Really?" he murmured. His attention had been on Yuriko Nakamura playing both Tomoko and adult Tenei Ki.
"Incredibly strong," Maki insisted.
Yuriko chimed in, "Chu-san's role makes the film. Without him, it'd be good—but not dazzling."
Chu Zhi wasn't sure if they were serious. Maki was young. Easy to be starstruck. But Yuriko? A veteran in the Japanese industry?
"He'll be like the evening clouds," said Hisahisa Miura, "glowing red and filling the sky. If Chu Zhi was already trending, after this, he'll be the idol."
Miura had benefitted from his looks too. He knew exactly what that meant.