"Ryouta-kun, I really envy you. You don't have to think about complicated things. You're always smiling, always so happy… I hope you never change."
What kind of expression had Hitomi worn on her face back then?
Sumiya Ryouta couldn't remember.
No—that wasn't true. He didn't want to remember.
Because if he did, he'd have to face reality. He'd have to admit what he sensed even then: that she and he were going to become two parallel lines. Drifting apart. Walking separate paths.
But under Kuroba Akira's unrelenting prodding, that long-buried memory cracked open. And suddenly, the young Hitomi of his childhood stood vividly before his mind's eye.
Her face had worn a smile, yes—but it was a strained one, tinged with bitterness. And behind that smile… was sorrow, just barely held back.
That might've been his last chance to truly reach her.
So why hadn't he said anything? Why hadn't he done something—anything—to help her?
And now, all these years later, what was the point of doing anything at all?
She wasn't the same Hitomi anymore.
Ryouta stood frozen, like his soul had left his body. But Akira didn't give him the chance to wallow.
"You've known the class rep since you were kids, right? Then I'll just say it straight." Akira's voice cut clean through the silence. "Do you think she's the kind of girl who'd be taken in by smooth talk and cheap tricks?"
No. Definitely not.
Ryouta knew that better than anyone. Anri Hitomi was smarter than all of them.
Back when the five of them always played together, she was the leader. The one who came up with the games. The one everyone followed without question.
She was exceptional. Brilliant. It was like she could do anything.
"Or…" Akira went on, "do you just feel bitter because the one who 'won her over' wasn't you?"
"Gh—!"
Ryouta snapped his head up and glared at him with fury in his eyes. But Akira, unfazed, kept delivering blow after verbal blow.
"So what is it? Are you really worried she was tricked, and you're standing up for her? Or are you just hoping that's the case, because it would hurt less than admitting she chose someone else over you? That maybe… you're the fool in this story?"
"Shut up… Shut up already!"
Ryouta lunged and grabbed Akira by the collar. But Akira didn't resist. Hands still in his pockets, he stood there like Ryouta wasn't even worth the trouble of lifting a finger.
He just wanted Akira to stop talking. To stop forcing him to look at the ugly truth about himself.
Because now Ryouta finally saw it: back then, he'd looked away out of nothing more than insecurity.
Did I ever have the right to stand beside her?
If it's Hitomi… she can handle anything on her own, right?
She was just that amazing—strong enough that she didn't need help from anyone.
So seeing her treat someone else with kindness—deference, even—was unbearable.
"You don't know anything about her…! You don't understand her!"
Akira scowled and shoved Ryouta's hands off his collar.
"You're right. I don't. You understand her better than anyone. So tell me—what the hell have you been doing?"
"Gh—!"
"I can see it plain as day. You're in love with her, aren't you?"
Only an idiot wouldn't have figured that out.
"Why are you bringing that up now?!"
Akira scratched his head, his face twisted in visible annoyance.
"You being into her isn't my business. That's your own deal. But if you start picking fights with me because of it? That's just pathetic."
"You think showing off in front of her—insulting me, maybe even punching me out—is gonna make her fall for you?"
"Or do you think she's the kind of shallow girl who wants to see two guys throw down over her like she's a trophy?"
Ryouta couldn't say a word.
And then came the final blow.
"Tell me, do you love the real Anri Hitomi… or just the version of her in your head?"
"...!!!"
They hadn't even traded a single punch, but Ryouta looked like he'd already lost. Legs trembling, he stumbled back a few steps… then collapsed onto the ground, dazed and hollow.
"Tch…"
Akira clicked his tongue, irritated.
Now he understood why this whole thing had been getting under his skin.
Because Ryouta reminded him of his past self—headstrong, naive, and painfully self-centered.
Convinced his feelings were reality. That he was always in the right. Just a brat who didn't know anything about the world.
Akira remembered. He'd once had a first love, too.
A girl from middle school—his first crush.
She could draw beautifully. Said she wanted to become a mangaka one day. But she struggled with writing stories, so she'd asked Akira, who was good at writing, to help her.
So that summer after they graduated middle school, the two of them met almost every day—at school, in cafés, sketching storyboards, brainstorming scenes. Together, they completed a short manga and uploaded it online.
It flopped, of course. Nobody read it. Barely broke double-digit views.
But that manga marked Akira's first step into creative work. It set him, a science-track student, on the path of screenwriting and story planning—on a road that would later lead to his job in a game company.
She'd told him her drawing wasn't good enough—that she'd let his script down. Said she wanted to improve and was aiming for an art college.
So she enrolled in a special prep program. Moved away for training. And Akira… never confessed.
Time passed. Their messages grew sparse. School got busy. Then came high school. And before he realized it, three years had gone by without a word between them.
But the memory never left.
Even after entering university, Akira kept dreaming about her. Eventually, he decided he had to face it head-on. He found her contact info. Dialed her number.
He didn't expect anything. It had been years. Who confesses after all that time?
But deep down, he still clung to that faint hope… What if she still remembered? What if she'd been holding onto those memories, too? Could there be… a chance?
Even if not—he could at least bring closure.
Hands trembling, heart pounding, he made the call.
He didn't even get the chance to confess.
Because as soon as he said his name, her reply was:
"Sorry… I don't really remember. Were we classmates?"
And that was when Akira understood.
She didn't even remember him.
Those summer days, those shared dreams… They'd meant nothing to her. Three years was all it took to wipe him from her memory completely.
In this world, no one cares about you except your parents.
That day, Kuroba Akira let go of every last shred of naïveté.
And along with it, his need for anyone's approval.
He used to care what people thought. Used to get embarrassed. Blush. Worry about how he looked. His self-image mattered. His pride, too.
But that Akira had long since faded.
Now? He lived by his own rules.
Even if you ran naked down the street, all people would do was gawk for a moment, then forget about it by dinner.
The chance to leave a lasting mark on someone else's memory… was laughably small.
From a clueless teen to a self-aware adult—that's how Akira had grown up.
And now, it was Sumiya Ryouta's turn.