From the classroom window, the world outside looked like a living painting. Cherry blossoms stretched out their slender arms, each tiny flower a vivid splash of pink against the pale blue sky. Two baby birds chirped from their neatly-built nest, a gentle greeting to any daydreaming student.
Hiroki rested his chin on his hand, eyes following the peaceful scene. For once, English class didn't feel so heavy. Still, foreign languages had always seemed distant to him. He'd never truly prioritized them—only when international math problems or theoretical science books required it. His grades made it obvious: while he'd chased complex formulas and abstract graphs, English had taken a steep dive, often resting at the bottom of the class rankings.
But today, something kept his attention hooked. It was Yuna's voice, reading aloud from The Other Paris. She stood by her desk, words flowing smoothly from her lips.
"...In June, the city was suffused with a kind of light that promised things Paris could never deliver, not to anyone with their eyes open..."
Her pronunciation was clear, even musical, as if she were reciting a gentle melody just for him. She even handled tricky syllables with grace—something Hiroki had noticed not only in class, but also over the school broadcast system.
"June," Hiroki murmured, lazily sprawled over his desk, doodling aimlessly in his notebook. His mind wandered: he'd return to Mr. Takumi's bookstore this afternoon, cook something later, exams were coming, and this month was...April.
Wait. Was April "June"? No—April was April. June was June. And June, to Hiroki, felt oddly floaty, much like his current mood—the busy yet strangely dreamlike end,of,term days.
His thoughts drifted deeper, into June and into the name "Jun." He barely noticed the pencil in his hand still moving, its tip scratching soft whispers onto the page. That girl... was she born in June? Or did her name carry some hidden meaning? Maybe her love for music was why she borrowed that book...
"Ugh—!"
A sharp jolt of pain struck his head. Hiroki winced, clutching his skull as if doused with cold water. He vaguely remembered a loud smack, then the burst of laughter.
Everything muffled around him. Opening his eyes, he met a cold, stern gaze.
"Mr. Mamoru, enjoying your nap?" the teacher's icy tone cut through the room.
Hiroki felt a chill down his spine.
Standing right in front of him, the English teacher held the very textbook used to whack him moments ago. He picked up Hiroki's unfinished sketch.
"Let me see what you've been so busy with."
The teacher frowned, holding the page higher. "Sleeping and drawing in my class, huh? Impressive. Who is this? Tell me."
The room fell silent. All eyes turned to Hiroki. "Tell me, Mr. Mamoru."
He stared at the drawing: a small, round face, a straight fringe, oversized eyes—a chestnut squirrel, sketched with his idle pencil.
Words scrambled in his brain, his English failing him.
Students around him chuckled, some mimicking his punishment. Even Yuna, usually quiet, glanced back with a mischievous smile playing on her lips.
Hiroki bowed his head, eyes glued to the floor, praying for the nightmare to pass.
"I... I..."
"Enough. If you can't answer, take your notebook and stand outside."
Without a word, Hiroki grabbed his things and walked past the stares, the classroom door clicking shut behind him.
Outside, shame tangled with something else—a faint, unnameable warmth.
He leaned against the wall, accepting his punishment.
...
Later that day, Hiroki stacked books onto the shelf, carefully dusting each worn cover. The new arrivals from Mr. Takumi were sorted quickly. The store smelled of old paper and faint green tea from the corner table.
This morning's English class clung to his mind like a fog. Why was English so hard? Memorizing foreign words felt unnatural. Still, the thought of his plummeting grades and the teacher's stern eyes reminded him he needed to try harder.
That girl—Jun—kept appearing in his thoughts. He didn't understand why she left such a mark. It wasn't like with Yuna, or anyone else he knew. Somehow, Jun felt strangely...similiar.
He pictured her slipping quietly into the shop, small frame, clear eyes. The thought brought a flutter of something new, something unfamiliar.
The chime above the door rang again, its soft melody like the shop's own lullaby. Hiroki remained hunched over his tally sheet, scribbling figures onto the back of an old calendar. The store had been busier lately, thanks to popular novels and textbooks.
Footsteps padded softly on the wooden floor.
"Hiroki...?"
"Welcome—"
He froze mid,sentence. There she stood—Yuna, in her school uniform, eyes wide, mirroring his surprise. A ridiculous impulse to run flashed through his head, but he shoved it aside. He was staff now.
"Ikeda,san," he said, voice calm. "Looking for anything in particular?"
He gripped his pencil tightly, eyes lowered. Yuna glanced around, clearly taking in the workspace—his desk, scattered books, a stray pencil.
"Wow. I didn't know you worked here."
"..."
"Seriously? This is news to me."
"Just started last week," he mumbled.
"I come here often, you know. Mr. Takumi's been around forever. He used to be a teacher, right..." Her words trailed off as she noticed his distance. "I just wanted some old…novels. That way, yeah?"
She pointed right.
He nodded, still avoiding her eyes. But inside, old familiarity and a strange awkwardness churned together.
Hiroki tapped his pencil on the desk, gaze drifting toward the window. Outside, Mr. Takumi still sat on his wooden chair, newspaper in hand, tea half gone. He looked like he was waiting for something—quietly, patiently. Hiroki wondered if he too was waiting for something he couldn't name.
"How much for these?" Yuna's voice pulled him back.
She laid down three novels, her hand covering their covers. Hiroki eyed them: one had a faded girl,in,moonlight cover; another showed two figures under blooming cherry trees; the last read, in simple script: Waiting For You In the Rain.
Romance novels. All of them.
"Nine hundred yen," he replied. Yuna handed over the money, smiled awkwardly, then hurried out. She nearly bumped into the door like a clumsy kitten. Hiroki watched her go, then chuckled quietly.
Romance books sure were popular with girls. He made a mental note to tell Mr. Takumi.
As he picked up the bills, a small slip of paper fluttered to the counter. He counted the cash, then opened the note.
Yuna's neat handwriting summarized this morning's English class—vocab lists, grammar tips, even homework explanations.
He stared at it for a while, something tight and thorny blooming in his chest. Her thoughtfulness always stirred emotions he couldn't handle, because compared to his apathy... Hiroki always fell short.
The door opened again.
Jun.
Her presence shattered the calm. "I don't know, I don't know! I don't want to go back! You said they should leave me alone! I don't want to go!"
Her voice trembled, eyes red, emotions raw.
Hiroki froze. Confusion surged. Go back? Go where? What was happening to her today?
"Mr. Takumi is so unfair!"
Before Hiroki could make sense of anything, Jun had already disappeared behind the door leading to the back room. Everything had happened so fast. The outburst just now had shattered the image Hiroki had long held of her. She was not the quiet little squirrel tucked safely inside an oak tree anymore—she was a startled creature, suddenly provoked and defenseless.
He circled around the glass counter, where his gaze landed on a thick book lying on the floor. Bending down, he picked it up and took a closer look—it was the same music theory book she'd borrowed the other day.
Hiroki hesitated, unsure whether to place it back on the shelf or hand it over to Mr. Takumi, who still sat outside, staring blankly into the distance.
Eventually, he stood up and headed toward the bookshelf.
And yet, Hiroki found himself caught in a tangle of questions—ones that kept multiplying inside him, quietly, steadily, one after another.
….
The first half of Hiroki's second year in high school had been anything but uneventful. He was unexpectedly appointed class vice president by Ms. Sakamoto, a responsibility that signaled her deep trust in him.
Alongside that came a growing sense of connection with Yuna, and the quiet, fluttering feelings sparked by the mysterious "little squirrel" girl at the old bookstore.
But soon enough, life snapped back into its usual rhythm of study and preparation for the upcoming end-of-term exams. Hiroki's grades remained consistent—strong as ever in the sciences. In fact, he had just set a new personal record: four consecutive perfect scores in Chemistry, a feat worthy of a national team member, though he was only formally enrolled in advanced Mathematics. Since that guy Ryusei transferred away, Hiroki had become the top student in math across the entire grade level. For him, math wasn't just a subject—it was a master, a calling. Teachers pinned their hopes on him for upcoming competitions, urging him to reach even further.
To live up to all those dreams and expectations, Hiroki's high school life had become little more than relentless studying.
There wasn't much else to fill his days. He drifted through life like a leaf carried along an underground stream—always moving, always submerged, never resisting. His hobbies centered around reading thick, dense theory books, doing schoolwork, working at Mr. Takumi's bookstore... and occasionally tuning into morning radio. Outwardly, he seemed like a model student. Inwardly, Hiroki was a storm of quiet turmoil, tangled thoughts and unanswered questions, most of which he didn't even realize he had.
Even becoming class vice president had done little to change how distant he felt. Once a mere background figure, Hiroki now had a title—but his reticence made him unpopular with classmates. Many protested Ms. Sakamoto's choice, but she never once wavered, even though she likely knew Hiroki didn't want the role either.
Yuna, though—Yuna never complained. She continued to smile at him, helping fill out the class logs, collecting dues, attending club meetings, and handling weekly school duties by his side.
"Let's do our best, Mamoru,kun!"
"We should do it this way."
"Don't forget—you're the vice president."
He'd heard those words from her countless times—encouraging, urging, sometimes even scolding. She'd wave her hand in front of his face when he zoned out, tug gently at his sleeve when he looked ready to quit in the middle of a long student council meeting. Hiroki had made a quiet promise to himself: he would work harder—not just for the role, but for the kindness Yuna showed him. All while trying to maintain the distance he thought was necessary between them.
Still, he often wished someone could help him untangle the confusion in his heart. But then he'd remember: his life was already missing the people who might have. His mother—his source of comfort and love—was gone. His grandparents, with their years of wisdom, had also passed.
Their house stood modestly on a wide lot surrounded by tightly packed homes. It wasn't warm or full of laughter. It was average in size, with pale, peeling walls. The old wooden windows let in the cold during winter, and the entire place carried a lingering chill.
Coming home after another long day of school and work, Hiroki stepped out of his shoes at the entryway and walked inside. A breeze, light and almost unreal, brushed past him. Silence filled the dark house. His own voice felt small, almost unsure of who he was speaking to.
"I'm home."
The TV murmured faintly from the living room, along with the clinking of glass—maybe bottles, maybe cups. As he walked toward the stairs, Hiroki paused to glance into the living room.
His father was there, seated on the couch in front of the blue glow of the TV. His hair was unkempt and tinged with the same dull orange as his scruffy beard. Empty bottles lay scattered on the floor, and a sweat-stained white shirt hung limply off the couch. Hiroki moved on silently, climbing the stairs in darkness, too weary to turn on the lights.
That night, he went through the motions: a half-hearted shower, a quiet dinner.
There wasn't much in the fridge—just some eggs, a mackerel, a bit of dried peanuts, and several cans of beer on the top shelf. He found expired milk and a few dusty bottles of sake. The mackerel would be the star of tonight's dinner. His simple menu: saba shioyaki and a rolled omelet.
As Hiroki carried his tray into the living room, his eyes lingered on the slumped figure of his father.
The man stirred at the sound of footsteps and sat up with effort, eyes dull, glancing toward the table. The static-laced TV was still on, muttering vague commentary that filled the room with a kind of empty hum. The light from the screen cast long shadows on the wall.
Hiroki bent down to pick up an empty bottle and some crumpled papers, setting them aside. He placed the tray on the table, pressed his hands together, and quietly whispered, "Itadakimasu."
His father didn't respond. Instead, he reached under the couch, retrieved another bottle, and poured himself a glass. The sound of the liquid filling the cup was oddly rhythmic.
"Wanna drink with me?" he asked, slurring slightly, though his voice sounded more like a sob than a question.
Hiroki didn't reply, quietly scooping rice into two bowls. He had never touched alcohol or cigarettes, and he'd long since stopped paying attention to his father's drunken ramblings.
When Hiroki stayed silent, his father drained the glass in one go.
The boy divided the chopsticks. Through the soft drone of the TV, he heard a dry chuckle and a rasping sound—his father patting his chest before pouring another drink. Then, suddenly, came a voice that froze everything around it.
"Hiroki... Today is your mother's death anniversary."
….
The scent of incense stung Hiroki's nose. He placed the burning stick gently into the holder and stepped back. Pressing his palms together, he bowed his head and closed his eyes.
His mother's portrait above the small altar still wore that gentle smile, but her eyes looked different—more alive than they had been in her white coffin. He'd only been three years old at the time. Standing in a funeral hall beside his father.
His father now stood beside him, patiently letting Hiroki offer his respects to the woman who had once made their house a home. Deep inside, the man bled from wounds that had never closed.
Hiroki lit the two oil lamps flanking the photo. When everything was set, he gave one last bow, a silent farewell to the mother he could no longer reach.
Then he stood upright again. He didn't feel anything in particular. It was routine now—so familiar it hurt, so familiar it numbed. Behind him, his father coughed—a dry, rattling sound, like his throat had been hollowed out by years of alcohol and cigarettes.
"Are you okay, Dad?" Hiroki asked quietly. He moved slightly, but something held him back. His father shook his head and turned away, the coughing intensifying. Eventually, it subsided. He stared long at his wife's portrait.
Hiroki was about to leave when his father stopped him.
"Hiroki."
The boy paused at the sliding door, looking into the dim hallway. The two stood with their backs to each other, the silence between them heavier than words.
"I'm sorry..." his father said at last. His voice trembled, every syllable held back by something fragile. "If I had..."
"Don't blame yourself," Hiroki interrupted. His voice was tight, almost unnatural. "Mom's at peace now. Away from you. Away from me."
Footsteps approached behind him. He didn't turn around, though his whole body screamed to run—to escape this darkness and into another, quieter one.
"If I had been a better husband," his father continued, "if I had stayed by both of you... maybe things would've turned out differently. I know I can't undo anything. But I don't know who else to say this to. Hiroki, do you know how much I've been hurting? Your mom's gone. I lost my job. We survive off scraps, just enough to keep you in school... I'm sorry for becoming this kind of father. You're right—I've become a bad example. But when a man hits rock bottom, he turns to whatever helps him numb the pain. I'm sorry, Hiroki. Please, don't become like me..."
Hiroki didn't turn around. His lips pressed into a harsh line, hand trembling on the sliding door. His father's words stabbed deep, finding old wounds that had never healed. Was it just the alcohol talking? Was this who his father really was? He had never seen him like this before—not even at the funeral.
The man didn't cry. But Hiroki knew he was hurting too.
The one crying now—was Hiroki.
He hated weakness. But in this moment, he realized he wasn't strong enough to hate anymore.
Pain buried in his subconscious rose again, sharper than ever. His vision blurred. All that remained was a crushing sense of helplessness, his voice cracking under its weight.
"Stop apologizing. It won't change anything... And I'll never become like you."
The door slammed shut, slicing through the tension. Hiroki bolted to his room, fumbling through the suffocating darkness. The light had abandoned him—it no longer showed him the way. His eyes were wet with tears, warmth streaming down his cheeks. In that moment of nearly drowning, he whispered a name—again and again:
"Mom..."
It was a word that felt foreign now. A hand he could never grasp. A warmth he never felt in the coldest winters. A color he would never see again.