Honestly, my life is pathetic. I mean, if "boring and invisible" were a professional career, I'd be the CEO by now. Name's Riku Hayami. Nineteen, virgin (for reasons that aren't mysterious, just tragic), and an expert in the fine art of jerking off to the same five AVs I've had downloaded since forever. People don't notice me. Bullies notice me, sure—they love a good punching bag—but actual people? Eh. I'm basically a ghost with bad posture and zero ambition.
Right now, I'm in class at some literature school I joined because my parents waved their authority and said, "Do literature, Riku. You'll find your soul." Spoiler alert: my soul is more like a soggy potato, and I haven't "found" anything yet.
The classroom's buzzing with something called "girl energy," which apparently is a legitimate force in the universe. Some of the female students are gushing about a boy band coming to the city. Their voices get so high-pitched I swear my eardrums filed a complaint.
"Yuki! Are you going?!"
"Of course! Who wouldn't?"
I glance at the crowd of squealing fangirls, feeling as relevant as a fax machine. Then my eyes land on her. Miyu Takeda. Blonde, fair skin, the kind of face that makes angels sigh and demons reconsider their career choices. She's quiet, clearly immune to boy band fever, and—oh God—there's a tiny beauty mark under her left eye that just makes her impossible to forget. Her figure's not exaggerated in any anime cliché way; she's just… pretty. That's it. Just… pretty. And just a few houses away from me. Which is cruel, because proximity apparently has no effect on a loser like me.
"Hey, Miyu, you're coming, right?" one of the girls asks.
She shakes her head. "Out with my parents."
I want to say, "Lucky them," but I don't. Instead, I just stare. Probably like a creep. Totally normal behavior.
Class ends, and I shuffle out like a rejected ghost. Hunger hits, and I stop by the local convenience store. Wallet check: 100 yen. Jackpot. Maybe I can buy… a single packet of chips. Big dreams, I know.
I grab a packet, waddle to the counter, and face the cashier. This guy could easily have his own stage drama. "Ahhh! Chips! THE FAMOUS CHIPS! But for 120 yen! Who dares challenge the price of chips in my realm of… commerce?!"
I try to explain. "I… I only have 100…"
"Impossible! You seek to conquer the divine price with mere mortal coins? Ha!"
Negotiation fails. Big surprise. Then, from out of nowhere, a woman materializes like some benevolent goddess. She slips 20 yen to the cashier, who clutches it like he's received the Holy Grail.
I look up, and it's Fujiko Kanemori. My neighbor. The only person in the world who doesn't treat me like a stray dog. She's—well, she's stunning in a "divorced, wise, knows what's up" kind of way, and yes, she's got big… you know. Soft. (I swear I'm not a creep; my eyes just happen to notice.)
"Thanks," I mutter, shoving the chips into my bag.
"No problem, Riku-kun," she says cheerfully, but I catch the flicker of sadness behind her smile. She hides it well, but humans are predictable like that.
We walk together towards our homes. Conversation is casual, like we're old friends. Or maybe I just pretend she's my friend in my head. Either way, it's nice. The kind of nice that makes you forget your life is a constant stream of mediocrity for a few moments.
Eventually, we reach our respective houses. She smiles once more, then disappears into her home. I step inside mine, chips in hand, and flop onto my bed.
Ah, night time. My favorite part of the day. Not because of deep reflection or anything, but because it's me time. You know, the ritual. The sacred ceremony of Riku Hayami, Professional Loser. Step one: flop on the bed. Step two: grab the same AV I've watched probably a hundred times. Step three: eat chips while… well, you know.
Yeah, it's an odd habit. But I'm an odd person. And it's not like I have a social life to ruin or anything. Multitasking is an art form, and I've basically mastered it.
Fast forward thirty minutes later, a minor miracle happens: climax achieved. Chips are empty, my body feels both victorious and tragic, and… wait. What's that?
Ping.
My phone. Delivery schedule. Today. Right now.
Ah, yes. My other life. The part where I get paid to pedal like a maniac delivering stuff nobody really cares about. I scramble off the bed, desperately trying to maintain some dignity while putting on my uniform. Step into my shoes, slap on my cap, and—bam—I'm out the door.
Bike check: good. Helmet check: questionably good. Adrenaline: max. Address: loaded. Let's do this.
I mount my bike like a knight on a very untrustworthy steed. Wheels spin, wind hits my face, I feel like a hero in some anime. Then reality hits.
Turns out, speed limits exist for a reason. Turns out, Riku Hayami has all the coordination of a drunken jellyfish.
Before I can even react, the bike wobbles, my front wheel hits something (I'll blame gravity), and—oh God—the world goes haywire. Time slows down. My arms flail. My lunch regrets resurface. And then… impact.
Blood. Everywhere. Or maybe just in my vision. Hard to tell when your life flashes before your eyes and your last thought is, "Well, at least I got my chips today…"
Darkness swallows me.