12 Not familiar at all.

The distant mountains stretched endlessly, tenderly cradling the crimson sunset. The sun had shed its glaring outer shell, revealing its tender, fleshy core, like a ripe red grapefruit.

I stood by the wall next to the Bamboo Sushi shop, gripping my school bag in both hands.

At first, Yamamoto had planned to go to the park, but I dismissed the idea, saying, “Just a few words will do.” He still stood two steps away, keeping a safe distance.

He raised his hand and touched the side of his neck. I noticed many boys do this when they feel embarrassed, much like some people suddenly shooting an imaginary basketball into the air while walking.

“This isn’t bad,” said Takeshi Yamamoto. “You came to talk about lunch, right?”

I nodded and bowed deeply, apologizing.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

He looked a bit surprised, but I kept my eyes on the shadow cast beneath me, pouring out the long-buried regret and remorse in my heart.

“I lost control of my emotions back then, acted impulsively, said awful things to you, and even laid hands on you,” I said. “The whole afternoon... until now, I’ve regretted it deeply.”

Yamamoto spoke, “You don’t need to—”

I straightened up and looked seriously into his eyes. “Yamamoto-kun, you have every right not to forgive me. I just want you to know I’m truly sorry. I shouldn’t have maliciously assumed you would spread the story and paint you in such a bad light... No, even if you did, it’s your freedom; I also shouldn’t have been hysterical, yelled at you, or pushed you. You don’t have to comfort me in return—I know no one likes to be treated that way.”

I had said it all.

Though slowly, I managed to say it in one breath, and as the last word fell, I finally felt a lightness, as if some dust had settled.

Lowering my voice unconsciously, I said again, “I’m sorry.”

After I interrupted him once, Yamamoto listened attentively to everything I said.

His expression was gently touched by the fading glow of the sunset. When I finished speaking, his usually serious, meticulous face softened; his brows pressed down deeply, yet the corners of his lips lifted slightly.

“Mm, I understand,” he said quietly, then furrowed his brows solemnly. “But even if you think that way, I don’t believe you did anything wrong... In that situation, it would have been normal if you had actually hit me. How to put it, although I’m not good at overthinking, I pondered a lot on the way back to class and asked Akatsuki many questions.”

I blinked.

Yamamoto was quick to explain, “He’s my friend, a good guy.”

“I know,” I said.

Surprised, he asked, “Oh, you know him?”

“No, but pretty much everyone in the grade knows you two are good friends.”

“Ahaha, really?”

I saw him squint and chuckle a few times, but soon he sobered up, recalling seriously, “Unfortunately, Akatsuki doesn’t have much experience. I asked him what to do if you make a girl cry. He was silent for a bit, then gave some advice—like apologize quickly, offer tissues, that kind of thing.”

...That sounded so familiar.

I said, “What if you’ve already done those things?” Yamamoto looked a bit troubled.

I was silent.

Then, suddenly enlightened, Yamamoto said, “Right! Just like you, Seiga, even your expression is very similar.”

Similar...?!

Upon hearing this, any urge to tease vanished instantly. Suppressing the impulse to pull out a mirror, I hurriedly freed one hand to cover my face, instinctively adjusted my expression, then tilted my head back and asked:

“Really? Now?”

“Huh? Just now, yeah, it was pretty similar...” Yamamoto seemed caught off guard by my question but still replied, “Wait a moment, let me see.”

As though facing a model interview, I raised my face and clutched my bag strap tightly.

Though I had no intention of targeting that classmate Sawada, whenever I passed by and saw him, his expression always looked like he was silently grumbling inside—somewhat pitiful, somewhat speechless, a bit resigned, like nothing really mattered.

But I, out in public, always controlled even my expressions carefully—there was no way I’d show the face I only wore in my bedroom.

Ah, speaking of Sawada.

I remembered that everyone except Kyoko knew he liked her.

If I had someone I liked at school, I would probably become even more stringent about my outward image. But Sawada didn’t do that. I’d heard he and Kyoko actually got along well, and some even saw them hanging out together on weekends.

Whenever I heard classmates talk about this, I always thought: how nice.

Truly nice.

Moreover, Sawada had been improving steadily since first grade, gradually shedding the rumors of being a loser. Everyone has their own way of striving. I admired him more for it.

A guy like Yamamoto being friends with him didn’t surprise me at all.

Thinking this, I maintained my usual calm expression, secretly nervous, and stared at the black-haired boy before me. He lowered his head, puzzled, studying me as if trying to solve an enigma.

The slanting sunlight was fading. I could feel the warm light softly, romantically, and deeply brushing my cheek and resting on his shoulder, the color of ripe persimmons.

Then, in this almost overripe orange-red, he suddenly froze.

Four seconds passed, then six.

What’s going on?

I tilted my head slightly, incredulous. “No difference?”

Next moment, Takeshi Yamamoto snapped back to reality, fidgeted awkwardly, smiled sheepishly, looked at me, and said, “No, not exactly.” Then quickly averted his gaze, glancing elsewhere—his expression disappeared, lips pressed thin, his sharp features now tinged with a subtle flicker of unease, as if frustrated and dodging, yet not truly regretful.

Finally, he turned back to me and scratched his cheek with his index finger. Then he laughed heartily but spoke softly, “I was distracted, sorry. Now it’s not like before.”

I secretly breathed a sigh of relief.

After giving his answer, Yamamoto put down his hands and strangely kept looking into my eyes in silence.

The sky shifted in light and shadow.

Street lamps lit up, shining pure white light in their lonely corners. The sun sank peacefully behind the hills. The pale gray-blue sky was cloaked by the descending night. At this moment, I always felt that dusk, rushing by so busily, made the night fall too quickly.

Yet even as the afterglow faded, it seemed to stubbornly leave a faint, warm blush on Yamamoto’s cheek and ear.

The instant I met his gaze, I sensed a change.

Even the air grew still.

...This is bad.

I was not unfamiliar with this atmosphere.

When Yamamoto bluntly asked if I would watch his match earlier, I had already sensed it. But that was before anything had happened.

Back then, I was one of the school’s notable figures—the honor student, Seiga Nishi, adorned with many genius badges. I wouldn’t find it strange if anyone liked me. On the contrary, it was natural for most adolescents, blossoming with feelings, to admire such a carefully polished exterior.

Even being confessed to by an upperclassman I’d never met before was common. My first reaction was usually annoyance and trouble.

But now it was different.

How could it be the same now?

Is Yamamoto an idiot?

Having witnessed that truth, endured such a desperate and clumsy outburst, how could he still show this expression? Is he a masochist? Or did my apology succeed in making him realize that what happened earlier really was an accident, so my reputation wasn’t completely ruined?

Suddenly, I felt an undeniable urge to retreat, to escape. But this was no place to turn and leave.

Suddenly, it was too quiet.

The guy who was usually so straightforward and lively—who could banish any awkwardness just by being there—didn’t speak either.

Why was he just staring at me?

“Yamamoto-kun,” I called.

He blinked. “Yes?”

“You didn’t finish what you were saying earlier, did you?”

“Did I? Ah, right.”

“But it’s getting late.” I gestured at the sky. Yamamoto looked up, surprised. “Yeah, it really is.” As he looked away, I picked up my bag with one hand and unclasped the buckle with the other.

Between my textbooks and stationery lay two bags of homemade cookies, wrapped in opaque packaging.

I took out the one tied with a blue ribbon and slipped it into his hand.

“What’s this?” Yamamoto reacted quickly, holding it firmly.

I was prepared. “Cookies. We made a lot for the event. These are the leftovers. If you don’t mind, consider it a small token of my apology... since I made them myself. If you like them, I’ll bake you a fresh batch properly.”

Yamamoto was delighted. “Really? Wow, today’s my lucky day!”

I smiled calmly. “I’m glad you like them, Yamamoto-kun.”

In truth, I didn’t want to have anything to do with him anymore...

“Thanks! But,” he shifted tone, voice still honest and refreshing, almost making me feel guilty with his sincerity, “I only need this bag. You didn’t do anything wrong; no need to bother making more. I’ll take it as a simple gift.”

“...”

The inner noise stalled, then receded like a tide. I shook my head. “No need to thank me, it’s the right thing to do. Today’s incident—I’m really sorry, and I hope you won’t mind.”

But Yamamoto seemed not to catch my meaning, curiously pointing at the other pink gift bag in my bag.

“Is that more leftover cookies?”

“This one?” I glanced down at my open bag, hastily clasping it back while explaining, “Yeah. After packing this tray, I found some were a bit burnt, so I set them aside.”

“You’re not going to throw burnt ones away?”

“Only a little burnt; I can’t bear to waste them—”

“Oh, I see. Can I try that bag too?”

“I was planning to eat them myself...” I trailed off, realizing what I’d just said.

Yamamoto raised an eyebrow and smiled at me.

“Wait for me, Seiga!”

He moved so fast that his words drifted away on the wind. I didn’t have time to stop him before his energetic figure dashed back toward the sushi shop with the cookie bag in hand.

I suspected I’d misheard, holding my bag in confusion and standing still.

I saw him burst into the shop, then shortly after, come rushing out again. He held a takeout box with both hands, pushing the noren curtain aside with his head, spiritedly hurrying back to me.

“This is my family’s signature small rolls—guaranteed delicious,” Yamamoto generously promoted. “Since I promised to treat you, I won’t go back on my word. It’s not much, but take it home and try it. If you like it, let me know; if not, also tell me, and any suggestions are welcome.”

Isn’t that just inviting me to criticize?

I instinctively took a half step back.

“Thanks, but no need—”

The takeout box in his hands was the usual red and black, with a rounded “Bamboo” character printed on the front. I stared at it, words unspoken, when his calm, earnest voice came down:

“This is also my apology gift.”

Night was just settling overhead.

“It’s late, but Seiga, I hope you’ll listen to what I didn’t finish saying,” he said. “I shouldn’t have acted like that then, sorry... stuff like that, you probably don’t want to hear, right? I thought about it a lot this afternoon—of course, I haven’t told anyone, not even Akatsuki, and I won’t. Don’t worry—basically, in the end, I realized I don’t regret doing it.”

I widened my eyes. Seeing this, Yamamoto quickly explained, “I’m not saying I don’t regret hurting you.”

If not, then what else?

Suddenly, a fluttering premonition of what he meant made my heart pound, weightless, and without reason, I felt cold in my limbs.

I wanted to hear it.

I didn’t want to.

I wanted to...

Opening my mouth, my voice rough, I said, “What do you mean?”

The streetlamp’s shadows gently framed his profile. Yamamoto looked a bit embarrassed, yet still serious, gazing at me.

“I don’t regret hearing you say you’re tired.”

“...”

“Nor regret hearing your honest words, and I don’t regret meeting you. Honestly, Seiga, I understand well that you don’t want others to see you cry—I’m much the same. But,” he smiled, “it’s better to say it than keep it bottled up inside, isn’t it?”

“Yamamoto-kun.”

“Hmm?”

“You’ve misunderstood.”

The black-haired boy blinked again, seeming puzzled by my words. I simply gave a practiced, apologetic smile and said helplessly, “Those words weren’t true. I just happened to be under some pre-match pressure, so I lost my temper and found an excuse to vent.”

Takeshi Yamamoto replied in surprise, “You still won’t admit it.”

I was silent.

I said, “It’s not about admitting or not... It never really happened.”

Hearing this, Yamamoto laughed heartily. “Alright, alright. You said you fooled everyone, but Seiga, you’re really not good at lying.”

Ha ha ha.

Ha ha.

Holding my bag, I smiled at him.

He held the sushi and smiled back.

Then, a wave of emotion far stronger than my midday breakdown—anger, embarrassment, incredulity—suddenly surged, choking me, making me think I might suffocate.

The smile on my face clouded over, then darkened, the corners of my mouth sinking without a trace of friendliness. That flicker of hope was tossed into hot oil, crackling into a humiliating mess. I bit my lips tight, glaring at him as if I wanted to bore a hole through his face.

How could...

How could someone still smile so naively at this point? How could someone not understand the obvious subtext of “Let’s pretend nothing happened”? How could someone so casually bring up someone else's... dark past that they never wanted to revisit?

Never mind whether they liked me or not—even with ordinary classmates, who would so casually poke at someone’s sore spots? Everyone praises him, says he’s considerate—they’re all fooled by appearances. Just a while ago, I thought he liked me, but it turns out it was nothing to do with me; it was just the most, most superficial layer! Feeling flustered over that made me a complete fool!

And isn’t that just how boys this age are? Gazing straight into the eyes of the opposite sex without blinking... inviting others to watch matches is just a tactic of these sunny popular guys.

Absolutely, I can’t have any further contact with him.

All my prepared gentle words were overturned. When I opened my mouth, my voice dropped low, sharp and fierce: “What exactly do you want, Takeshi Yamamoto?!”

“Ah... me?” He was caught off guard when I called his name, his expression suddenly changing to something like when he saw me crying—startled, flustered, like he’d just realized something terrible.

But I was too angry to care about his feelings. Besides, who told him to mess with me?

Anyway, I thought.

The worst already happened.

I kept a stern face, took the takeout box from his hands with one hand. Finding no free hand to open my bag, I gave the sushi back to him, then unclasped my bag and took out the burnt cookies.

The tall black-haired boy still held the box with both hands.

He stood close, looking like he wanted to know what I was about to do but didn’t dare disturb me; his back slightly hunched, awkwardly matching my height.

“Take these.” I placed the pink gift bag on top of the box.

“Oh!” Yamamoto quickly freed a hand and grabbed the cookies.

I took the sushi box back. It wasn’t big and just fit inside my bag. I closed the clasp, lifted the bag, and glared up at him with no patience, angry:

“If you want to eat them, then eat! I’m taking back this apology gift too, so now we’re square—” I remembered his Japanese grades and added, “That is, we owe each other nothing. Let’s pretend this never happened, we never met, and that’s the end.”

Unexpectedly, Yamamoto looked confused and asked, “What? What do you mean?”

I explained, “I won’t talk to you anymore, and you don’t need to talk to me.”

Yamamoto was shocked. “Whoa?! How could I do that?”

I got angrier. “Even if you can’t, you have to!”

Not wanting to be entangled with him any longer, I turned and walked away. But because I was angry and ashamed, and because I rarely did such deliberately hurtful things, my heart raced wildly and erratically. It thumped in my chest, under my collarbone, behind my ears—restless and pounding. I left his anxious calls far behind.

I stormed down half a street, then stopped.

I knew my face was burning red, ears flushed hot from embarrassment, so without hesitation I turned back and snapped, “What do you want?”

“Nothing!” Yamamoto, trailing not far behind, was startled. Holding the small pink cookie bag, he quickly admitted, “...I just feel that if I let you walk away alone now, I’ll definitely regret it.”

“Aren’t you supposed to help out at the shop?”

“My dad has other employees; he doesn’t need me.”

“Don’t follow me.”

“It’s not very safe after dark; let me walk you home?” Yamamoto tried to step alongside me.

“Don’t follow me.” I glared. He stepped back two paces, sliding sideways.

To keep him from following again, I stood my ground silently, arms crossed seriously, staring him down.

No matter what he said, I pretended not to hear, adopting an impenetrable stance.

His cheeks and neck reddened slightly. Helpless, understanding, and resigned, he walked back toward his family’s shop, glancing back every few steps.

His figure grew so small it nearly vanished, and only then did I relax my tense nerves and exhale—though I wasn’t sure why I sighed.

I lifted my bag, added another box of sushi—heavier now.

Right, I still needed to buy eggs.

I lifted my foot and turned toward the convenience store.

Don’t think about him. Don’t think about him.

Hurry home, eat, watch anime. That’s the real priority.

Though for now, it seemed highly likely Yamamoto was the kind of brutally honest guy who always said things that made me want to lose my temper, no matter what, it wasn’t hard to believe he was a decent person.

Yamamoto-kun probably really wouldn’t tell anyone about this. So as long as I completely pretended not to know him, even if we ran into each other at school, I could just act unfamiliar...

No, after all,

I wasn’t very close to him in the first place.