It's been 48 hours since the incident with Natsuki-sensei.
Forty. Eight. Hours.
I haven't recovered.
I haven't breathed properly since.
Every time I close my eyes, I see a blouse button flying in slow motion. Every time I try to sleep, her voice whispers, "Stop thinking about my chest."
How do you even live after something like that?
How do you go back to math class?
I stayed home today.
Okay, no, I pretended to be sick.
Look, I'm not a coward. I just need to spiritually reset before I enter the same room as her again. And also possibly burn my entire brain out of my skull.
Lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling.
Was I cursed?
Had I somehow awakened some kind of dangerous psychic pervert ability?
Because here's the thing: that button—it popped after I thought about it.
That's not a coincidence. That's anime logic. That's supernatural harem curse logic.
And I'd be lying if I said it was the first weird thing lately.
Two days ago, I had a passing thought—just a fleeting image—of my childhood friend Aya in a towel, storming into my room to yell at me for not returning her manga.
Cute, flustered, towel barely hanging on.
It was dumb. A tired brain imagining anime nonsense.
But guess what happened the next morning?
She came over. In a towel. Holding my copy of "Golden Pantheon: Legendary Heroic Men."
Apparently, her shower broke. She was staying over temporarily while her mom called a plumber.
Coincidence?
Ha. That word left the chat weeks ago.
So now I was on high alert.
No impure thoughts. No fanservice fantasies.
I even turned off my phone. Too dangerous. Too many waifu memes. I can't risk it.
I sighed.
Silence.
Finally.
That's when the bathroom door opened.
I sat up like a corpse in a horror movie.
Wait—what?
My apartment is a one-bedroom. No one else lives here. Not since my parents moved overseas.
So who—
"Kazuki?"
Her voice.
Her voice.
Aya.
Aya was in my bathroom.
I scrambled off the bed, tripping on my own blanket like an idiot, and stumbled into the hallway.
Steam wafted out of the bathroom.
Aya stood there, hair wet, wrapped in a white towel, holding her toothbrush like a tiny, angry sword.
"You forgot to buy new toothpaste again," she said, as if this was normal.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!" I shouted.
She blinked at me. Calm. Annoyed, even.
"You said I could use your place while Mom's fixing the pipes. I texted you."
I stared.
"Wait... that was real? That wasn't a dream?"
"I also said I'd be using your bath. What, did you forget?"
"No—I—yes—but—I thought that was, like, a brain fantasy moment—!"
She squinted. "A what?"
"Nothing! Absolutely nothing! Forget I said that!"
Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment, I saw death in her gaze.
"You weren't... thinking weird stuff about me, were you?"
I laughed. Loudly. Horribly. Like a criminal failing a lie detector test.
"Whaaaaat? Nooo. Who does that? That's crazy! You're like a sister! A wet, towel-wearing, very wet—no—NO—STOP TALKING, ME!"
She raised her toothbrush like a dagger.
I flinched and ducked.
She sighed and walked past me like I wasn't worth the effort to murder.
"Just stay out of the bathroom for twenty minutes. And throw out that toothpaste, it's fossilized."
She vanished into my room with the authority of someone who paid rent.
I stood alone in the hallway, heart pounding.
This wasn't normal.
This was escalating.
There was a pattern here.
Whenever I imagine a lewd or awkward situation—even just once—it somehow manifests.
But it's never exactly what I imagined. It's just close enough to feel like the universe is mocking me.
And the worst part?
The more I try not to think pervy thoughts...
...the more my brain doubles down.
I collapsed on the couch.
This had to stop.
I needed answers.
Science? A priest? Brain surgery?
No. I needed a plan.
Starting now: no thinking. No visualizing. No daydreaming.
Just pure, innocent, emotionless thought.
Like a monk.
A rock.
A perfectly neutral, non-hormonal teenage—
Knock knock.
A knock?
Who the hell?
I dragged myself to the door.
Opened it.
And froze.
There stood Rika Kurose, the class rep.
Hair tied back in a sharp ponytail. Glasses. Serious. Top student. Absolute ice queen.
Holding a wrapped bento box.
"I heard you were sick," she said flatly. "So I made this."
She handed it to me without blinking.
I stared at it.
Then at her.
Then at the memory I had earlier this morning—the one where I'd imagined what it'd be like if Rika, underneath that cold exterior, was secretly really sweet and desperate to impress me with her homemade cooking.
"Oh no," I whispered.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Are you going to take it or not?" she asked, still expressionless.
I took it.
The bento was warm.
So was my terror.