"Come to think of it, Narumi, you've never really wanted to date anyone, have you? Why?"
In a far corner of Yamada Ryō's distant memories, there was once a conversation like that with the curly-haired boy.
It was something that happened before she was accidentally dragged into this "parallel world."
"Because I don't have the energy or the resources to waste time getting to know someone who might turn out to be completely incompatible with me."
The boy, who was slacking off with her outside the livehouse venue, took a sip of canned coffee, then grimaced and stuck out his tongue.
"Ugh… this tastes awful. So this is what it's like."
It was his first time drinking canned coffee—he'd only bought it because Yamada Ryō liked it.
"Well, whatever. Bitter like my life… not totally unacceptable."
He chugged it down in a few gulps. Ryō, who was casually savoring her own drink, didn't react to his terrible joke at all—she simply raised an eyebrow.
"I get it. So, Kai, you're the type who goes, 'If it's not my soulmate, I won't date anyone.'"
"Yeah, that's… more or less right. But I'm not waiting for a soulmate."
"Oh? Then what?"
"I don't know if you've heard this term, Yamada. There's a concept used to describe relationships between people—it's called a 'twin flame.'"
He explained it in a surprisingly serious tone. To be honest, Ryō was pretty confused at the time.
"When you meet a soulmate, it feels like you knew them in a past life. But when you meet your twin flame, it's like you're looking at another version of yourself. Everyone has their own unique personality patterns, but with your twin flame, your souls intertwine."
"A twin flame is like a mirror. Through them, you can glimpse your own soul—you understand yourself, and the meaning of being human, better than ever before."
"You can forgive them easily, just like forgiving yourself. Even if they run away from the relationship, you know it isn't the end—it's something pointing toward a much more distant future."
He idly played with the now-empty can, his tone calm.
"That's the kind of relationship I long for."
Humans were just too troublesome. Complete mutual understanding was impossible—sometimes even a glance or a subtle expression could lead to misunderstanding.
"If you could be with someone that in sync with you, then even a short life would burn intensely, wouldn't it?"
If a "twin flame"—someone truly like another self—really existed in this world, then there'd be no need for long explanations or kind lies. You'd understand each other without saying a word.
"Feels like there's a rock song called 'Twin Flame' or something… huh. Can't remember."
Yamada Ryō drifted off into another topic as usual. The curly-haired boy just laughed it off—he was already used to that side of her.
From that day on, Narumi started drinking coffee more often.
Yamada would often spot cans of coffee on the front desk where he worked, and sometimes catch him slipping off to the vending machine during breaks.
Twin flames… sounded like a hassle.
Why go out of your way to search for someone who matched you so perfectly in every aspect, when you could live a perfectly fine life on your own?
Narumi didn't deny it outright, though. To him, a partner seemed like icing on the cake rather than a lifeline—and that might've been one reason he wasn't in a hurry to seek out a relationship.
All in all, Yamada Ryō initially felt neutral about the idea of "twin flames."
Until the moment she belatedly realized that her own twin flame seemed to have gone out.
That afternoon, Shimokitazawa police rushed to a residence after receiving an emergency call. In a dilapidated apartment at the reported address, they discovered the body of a teenage boy—along with a short-haired blue-haired girl quietly holding him as she waited for the police to arrive.
There were no signs of a struggle in the room. Aside from the person who discovered the body, there were no other footprints or fingerprints left behind. The police initially ruled it a suicide by overdose of sleeping pills, though a more precise conclusion would require further autopsy results.
Judging from the deceased's living conditions, the most plausible explanation was that a youth who had long lived in a decayed, chaotic environment felt rejected by society, spiraled into self-destruction through alcohol, smoking, and rock music, and ultimately chose to end his life after an emotional collapse.
Supporting this theory was a thick stack of notebooks, neatly placed at the center of the otherwise messy desk—positioned as if deliberately meant to be found. They appeared to be what he'd left behind in his final moments.
Because the notebooks expressed a wish to be made public, the authorities ultimately chose to respect that request, instructing reporters to summarize the contents without revealing excessive personal details about the deceased.
The pages were densely filled with his overwhelming sense of frustration upon reflecting on his life, descriptions of his family background, and his verbal hostility toward those around him during his muddled state of mind. Though none of it had been his true intention, the inner conflict and emotional tug-of-war always drove him to make the worst possible choices.
Nearly half of the notebooks focused heavily on his remorse over what could only be described as PUA-like behavior toward Kessoku Band's guitarist—Gotō Hitori.
In his writing, he admitted that as a third-rate bassist with mediocre talent, no amount of effort could let him catch up to true geniuses. Out of jealousy toward Gotō Hitori's ability, he had done many things that appeared excessively cruel to others.
Once the contents spread, public discussion shifted toward youth mental health for a time. Narumi's posthumous work also became a new source of inspiration for writers; newspapers covered the story extensively, and some authors even compiled and published books based on the notebooks.
Some criticized him as someone who brought it upon himself through a lack of ambition. Others emphasized the profound influence of family background and early educational environments on adolescents. Still others called for regular psychological counseling for youths. Overall, most voices expressed regret over the loss of such a young life—even those who had previously disliked him or been at odds with him.
After you die, the whole world starts loving you.
That saying wasn't entirely wrong.
Naturally, regarding Kessoku Band—mentioned in his writing—most people saw them as innocent bystanders caught in the unfocused rage of a lost youth, especially Gotō Hitori, who had long been subjected to his one-sided bullying.
The flood of public sympathy, outcries, and the sudden surge of attention left her struggling to breathe, especially since she hadn't even had time to process the news of his death.
No matter how decisively she'd spoken before, she had never imagined the ending would turn out like this.
Witnessing the death of a peer was not something kids their age should have to face. For a while, Bocchi's mental state was far from stable—she shut herself in her room for one or two weeks at a time.
She really had resolved never to see Narumi Tōru again—but she had never wanted to sever their connection in this way.
That one-sided conversation at his door might have been her final interaction with him. Was he still alive then? Had he listened to her outpouring, overcome with guilt, and then ended his life? Had she indirectly caused his death?
Gotō Hitori didn't want to think about it. She didn't want to think anymore.
She stayed at home until the day of the memorial, when she finally went out together with her bandmates.
The season was early spring—mourning death as all things began to sprout anew. In its own way, it felt like a kind of black humor.
"Bocchi, do you have a moment?"
Just as the memorial was ending and Gotō Hitori was eager to go home, Yamada Ryō—also dressed in a loose, black, androgynous suit—called out to her.
"There's something very important I need to explain to you… Let's talk somewhere."
She looked noticeably worn down. Her eyes were still calm, like a deep well—but compared to before, they seemed dimmer.
As if the flame that once flickered in those eyes had gone out.