"It might have started in March, or perhaps August. Honestly, I can't
pinpoint the exact moment. The only thing I know for sure is that Aoi
is fascinating. She is a puzzle I haven't solved yet.
Maybe I will never know the details. Or maybe, I will find the answer in the
third chapter of my life. But looking back, I realize one thing: my thinking
back then was flawed, but my feelings were real. And my actions? They were a
bit bizarre.
Hi, I am Haruto.
It has been about a month since we last spoke. But this whole story began
with a single impulse given to me by my friend, Kenji. Without
him, I never would have made a move. back in high school, I was seen as a
"nonchalant" guy—someone who didn't care much about anything. If
Kenji hadn't mentioned it, I wouldn't have known that everyone already knew the
name of my past crush.
To be honest, after hearing that rumor in June, I couldn't sleep at all that
night. It felt like my private strategy had been leaked to the world.
The Fall of the Hero
After school ended, everything changed. My body and my life—two things that
had always served me well—started to betray me. It is said that a hero must
endure pain, but this felt like the worst possible time for a tragedy. I broke
down. Many times, tears rolled down from my eyes.
By the second year, the diagnosis was clear: Depression. I
had to visit a neurologist multiple times for moderate doses of medicine just
to function. I felt vague, like I was losing my grip on reality.
But let me get straight to the point for you, my dear readers. I am a boy
known for my academics, my curiosity, and my "never give up"
attitude. That was who I was in school. After graduation, I kept my circle
small. I prefer small groups. Maybe it's because I grew up in a nuclear family
and rarely went outside with crowds since childhood.
The Departure
Then, the shift happened. My father moved us to Tokyo, the
capital. I hated it. I hated leaving my city. I had lived most of my life
there, but the city didn't leave me; it stayed in my memories.
Around this time, I broke up with my best friend. The reason was simple: he
wasn't growing. Even though I often played myself down to fit in, deep down, I
always aimed for the highest peak. That is my truth, even if it sounds
arrogant.
Moving into my first year in Tokyo, health and family issues dominated me. I
tried every method I could think of to save my studies, but I faced a temporary
defeat. The second year was pure destruction. My vital signs were low, and even
standing up sometimes made me dizzy. It was only with Kenji's help that I
started to socialize again, but only through the safety of the online world.
August 17th: The Strategy Begins
This brings us to August 17th. It was a peculiar day. I
felt a mix of excitement and deep sadness. But a thought hit me: I must
continue the plan she once thought of.
So, I initiated the conversation with Aoi. It went well. But as we spoke, my
mind—still recovering from sleep issues—started to calculate.
We decided to help each other study. It sounded like a casual suggestion,
but for me, it was a carefully constructed plan. Yet, I knew I could create
trouble.
The next day, I decided to reveal the full plan to her. My strategy was to
let patience and time work for me. I had read plenty of
psychology books, so I knew how to use patience as a weapon in the short run.
To make her feel safe, I used a reference point: my friend Ren.
I told her, "Ren and I did this study method for a month, and it worked
perfectly."
I needed to prove that my plan was logical, not emotional. I needed her to
say yes, not just for her grades, but because... well, I needed a reason to
keep going.
Quick check on my audience—did you ever make a plan just to keep someone in
your life?
Ah, let us continue.
In the earlier part, I focused only on myself. I wanted to show you—and
perhaps prove to her—that I was a creature of perfect consistency.
My life became a pattern: wake up, study, log the hours, report to Aoi, repeat.
I prided myself on this machinery.
But looking back, I was misinterpreting the data. My body wasn't running on
motivation; it was running on a critical alert system. You
know that feeling when you are so exhausted that you can't actually sleep, and
your brain buzzes with a strange, electric energy? I thought that was
"drive." In reality, it was my body screaming that it was about to
collapse.
I developed a ritual. Every morning, before the Tokyo sun fully hit my
window, I would check my phone. It wasn't just a habit; it was a reflex. My
friend Kenji used to do the exact same thing years ago. He
warned me once, saying, "Haruto, don't become a satellite orbiting a
planet that doesn't know you exist." I ignored him. And as you will
see later in this chapter, I was destined to end up exactly like him.
The Hypocrisy of Care
My focus shifted from my academic performance to her health.
It was unnecessary on my part, strategically speaking. But I couldn't help it.
Here is the bizarre part: Her story was terrifyingly similar to mine. We
compared timelines one evening, and I froze. The dates she fell ill—September
4th, October 12th—were the exact same dates my own health had
crashed in the previous year. It was as if our biological clocks were
synchronized in suffering.
I saw this data, but I hid mine. I became what we call a
"hypocrite." I would text her: "Aoi, you need to sleep 8
hours for memory consolidation. Eat properly." Meanwhile, I was
surviving on four hours of sleep and coffee. I was observing her carefully,
trying to be the "guide," but she had a weapon I didn't account for.
The EQ Trap
I always believed I had high Emotional Intelligence (EQ). I thought I could
read people while remaining detached. But Aoi? She was one step ahead. She
didn't just feel emotions; she navigated them like a grandmaster playing chess.
She took actions based on my emotional state before I even realized
what I was feeling.
It culminated in our first phone call.
I had prepared a script. I wanted to discuss the Physics syllabus and
establish a timeline. I wanted to collect data on her study habits. Instead, I
spilled everything.
The Call Log
"Hello?" her voice was clearer than I expected.
"Hi, Aoi," I said, keeping my voice steady. "I've reviewed
the chapter list. If we follow the Napoleon Hill method of organized planning,
we can finish Calculus by..."
"Haruto," she interrupted softly. "You sound exhausted."
"I am fine. My efficiency is at 95%."
"No, you're not," she said. It wasn't a question. "Why do you
sound like you're holding your` breath?"
I paused. My logical brain searched for a deflection, but my "bonding
loop"—that scientific part of the brain that craves connection—snapped.
The firewall broke.
"I... I don't like Tokyo," I found myself saying. "I feel
small here. The buildings are too tall. I miss the river back home."
"I know," she replied. She didn't ask why. She just knew.
"I feel like I'm running a race I can't win," I continued, the
words tumbling out. "My health... it's not what I told you. I get dizzy
when I stand up too fast."
"I know that too," she said.
The Aftermath
I hung up an hour later, staring at my wall. I had intended to be the stoic
mentor, the Aris (Aristotle) to her student. Instead, I had exposed my
weak points. My brain tried to cover it up, to rationalize it as "building
trust," but I knew I had messed up. I had opened the door to my
vulnerability.
In the days following, I noticed a peculiar shift. She started confusing me.
She would twist the conversation so subtly that I started taking accountability
for things that weren't my fault.
If she didn't study, I felt guilty for not motivating her enough. If she was
sad, I felt responsible for not cheering her up.
I disliked this loss of control. I hated being the one to say
"sorry" when I hadn't done anything wrong. But the terrifying part?
I did it anyway.
The Night of the Sabotage
The last conversation I had with Aoi's best friend, Emi,
was the prelude to my temporary downfall. I was already exhausted, fighting the
sleep issues that returned every time my anxiety spiked. I highly suggest to
any reader attempting a strategic, long-term endeavor: never engage in
critical communication after 11 PM. It is when the brain's frontal
lobe, the center of rational control, shuts down, and the emotional, impulsive
circuitry takes over.
I intended to talk to Emi purely for data collection. I
wanted to understand the ecosystem around Aoi—her friends, her routines, her
strength. Emi, naturally, opened up about their group's past. She shared
stories of their high school friends breaking apart after graduation. The
trigger, she said, was always the same: a single, short, emotionally
driven relationship that fractured the old bonds.
As a third-party listener, I processed this data immediately. Lack of
trust and visibility, Emi concluded, was the true killer. The
relationships failed because people tried to hide things or weren't open about
their intentions.
And then came the warning, delivered with the cold authority of someone who
had seen this drama before.
"Haruto," Emi typed, "Aoi has been through too
much. If you like her, don't do anything absurd. Don't add more pressure to her
life right now. Just be the stable study partner."
I should have stopped there. That was the Kiyotaka instruction: Minimize
risk, maximize stability.
The Strategic Miscalculation
But my emotional core, fueled by sleeplessness and the intense desire (the
Hill's energy) I had been transmitting, interpreted Emi's data incorrectly. I didn't
see her advice as a warning against acting; I saw it as a problem to be
solved.
The Problem: Lack of trust and visibility destroys relationships. My
Flawed Solution: I must establish maximum trust and maximum
visibility immediately to inoculate our partnership against the fate
of her previous friendships. I must confess my intentions, thereby proving I
was "different" and "transparent."
It was a catastrophic strategic blunder. I did the exact opposite of what
Emi intended. Instead of remaining the stable, detached constant, I became the
unpredictable emotional variable.
The Confession and The Verdict
The next day, I didn't wait. I decided to confess my feelings. I used my
usual structured language, talking about how her presence improved my
"system efficiency" and how my desire had evolved into a Definite
Chief Aim—the concept I was reading about in Hill's book. I used
complex words to cover up simple feelings.
The response was not anger. It wasn't confusion. It was surgical.
She waited until the late afternoon. Her text was short, perfectly composed,
and delivered the verdict with the precision of a calculated strike.
"Haruto. I appreciate the honesty. It shows courage. But right now,
my life is about stabilizing my own foundation. I cannot be responsible for
your feelings, and I cannot be the reason you are achieving your goals. I need
a study partner, not a motivation. I am sorry, but I reject your
feelings."
The message was a data point. It confirmed everything Emi had warned
against. I had turned my worth (my study consistency) into a conditional
currency tied to her acceptance, and she, with her superior emotional
intelligence, rejected the transaction entirely.
The feeling wasn't heartbreak; it was the cold, numbing sensation of a massive
strategic failure. The next chapter would have to be about Damage
Control and rebuilding the system from the ground up, starting with
the singular commitment that remained: the CUET 100% score.
Everything else was eliminated.