15 Run, Melas, Run

After that morning, I ignored Takeshi Yamamoto for three more days.

I didn’t go to our usual spot for morning exercise either.

It wasn’t because he had said something almost like a confession. After all, right after finishing his words, he cheerfully and straightforwardly added, “I want to be friends with Nishiga too, so please, give me another chance.”

Even though every sign clearly suggested that he was simply expressing his fondness, I looked at his open, honest face and thought back to past experiences. No matter what, I couldn’t interpret it as a genuine confession.

Takeshi Yamamoto was truly unfathomable, I thought calmly to myself.

He seemed not to be seen through the usual lens. Applying ordinary social cues to him sometimes worked, but more often than not, it barely had any effect.

For now, I assumed that he acted mostly on instinct—so trying to handle him with convoluted logic was pointless. Besides, anyone who could say such straightforward things wasn’t an ordinary person.

If he said he wanted to be friends, then perhaps he really just wanted friendship.

If he said he couldn’t bear not talking to me, then maybe he truly wouldn’t give up so easily...

On Friday, the teacher’s voice droned on, slow and hypnotic as he read from the blackboard.

I sat in the literature class, staring at the densely printed textbook, wanting to sigh deeply.

But then I remembered the thing he brought up again that morning, and my near-resignation instantly turned into irritation and silent disbelief.

That’s right.

I ignored him not for any other reason, but because after I asked, “Why don’t you know when to back off?” Yamamoto cheerfully, without any burden, smiled and brought up old grievances again:

“You asked so suddenly, I can’t really explain,” he said thoughtfully. “But it’s not that hard. I can still tell if you truly dislike me enough to reject me... It actually seems more obvious than before. It must feel better to vent once in a while, right? If you don’t mind, you can share your pressures with me anytime—hey? Going already?”

I swiftly turned my head and walked away. Yamamoto automatically followed, hurrying to keep up.

“Uh-oh, I still made you angry, Nishiga? Sorry...” He sounded genuinely helpless about my anger, his tone tinged with guilt.

I cut him off: “Stop apologizing so much.”

Though I was the one who asked, who would have expected him to dare bring up the past again?

Yamamoto eagerly admitted his mistake: “I promise I won’t mention it anymore!”

“Don’t follow me. I’m going home.”

“You just left a little while ago. Isn’t it a waste to go home so soon? Let me toss some balls to you.”

Going home is a waste?!

Already full of embarrassment and frustration, I was at my limit with his persistence. The more I tried to endure, the angrier I became, ready to explode. With my cheeks burning as if from heatstroke, I turned back and mercilessly threw a volleyball at him.

“If you want to play, play yourself! I don’t think going home is a waste. I’m nothing like you, a proper, well-adjusted person!” I shouted. “I’m going home, leave me alone, and don’t give me back the ball! I have some at home.”

Yamamoto reacted instantly; his expression suddenly became stern and solemn as he caught the yellow-and-blue volleyball. But after holding it firmly, he froze for a moment.

“A proper, well-adjusted person? What’s that?” The boy asked earnestly, eager to learn.

I had no common ground with this genuine sports guy who didn’t even know what “well-adjusted” meant. Angry, I shrugged him off and went straight home, showered, changed—since morning exercise was canceled, I simply climbed back into bed, too mad to stay awake, and took a nap.

As for the volleyball I’d thrown away, of course, I didn’t bother retrieving it.

And Yamamoto didn’t come back to return it either.

After all, I was the one who said to just give it to him and told him not to return it, so naturally, there was no reason to ask for it back...

Though I felt a bit defeated after calming down, I accepted it: this huge unexpected factor had suddenly appeared in my life, and having let it all out, I felt as if I was just beginning to understand myself—realizing for the first time that when I was at my worst, I too could speak recklessly without care.

Regret is regret; life is a continuous cycle of regrets... I really should adjust my mindset and stop letting it affect me so much.

Fortunately, I attended classes normally these past two days, helping the teacher and running errands whenever possible. After school, I went to club practice and then home—on the first day, Yamamoto even peered through the window of our classroom.

It was during recess. I sat at my desk, laughing and chatting with classmates who eagerly spoke to me. When he appeared, a sharp-eyed boy sitting by the window noticed him and greeted him warmly.

Even I, mid-conversation, couldn’t help but glance at this outsider.

The black-haired, brown-eyed youth leaned his elbow on the windowsill, somewhat distractedly chatting for a moment, then his gaze seemed to automatically lock onto my seat.

I had anticipated this, so I immediately frowned at him discreetly.

Yamamoto, sweating nervously, left.

Perhaps realizing I wouldn’t easily return his smile this time, he no longer lingered outside Group C. Even when I happened to pass by Yamamoto standing by Group A’s door chatting with friends, as long as I didn’t look his way, he wouldn’t stop me or greet me uninvited.

Besides always feeling his gaze shadowing me when I passed by, there wasn’t anything particularly troubling.

With that thought, I turned the page of the textbook as the literature teacher spoke.

“Well then, I’ll have a student read this section,” the teacher said, pushing up his glasses and glancing over the relaxed middle schoolers, naturally fixing his gaze on me. “Nishiga, please.”

“Yes.”

In the half-asleep, silent classroom, I held the book and stood up.

“‘I am now trusted by others. At this moment, I am being trusted. The devil’s whisper before was a nightmare, a bad dream. Forget it. It only visits when one is mentally and physically exhausted,’” I read aloud.

Outside the school building, the sunlight was perfect, clouds rolling by.

I heard myself enunciate clearly, reading at a steady pace. Some drowsy classmates perked up slightly, propping their weary heads as they looked over.

“‘Meles, you are not shameful. You are still a true warrior,’” I recited. “‘Zeus, please descend more slowly. Since the moment I was born, I have been a righteous person. Let me die generously as one.’”

—

The weekend passed, and Monday came again, stubborn as ever.

I got up early as usual, exercised at home (these days I hadn’t gone out running, just practiced ball control and simple fitness indoors), reviewed vocabulary and lessons, and prepared a lunch box for myself. After breakfast with my dad, we went to our respective schools.

Before the first science class ended, the teacher gave the class leaders ten minutes to speak.

“This, tomorrow at noon, there will be a chance to catch up on missed vaccinations for our grade,” the health committee member timidly stood at the podium. Nervously, he said, “If you missed the last one due to absence or other reasons, please raise your hand so I can count.”

After the teacher left, the classroom gradually grew noisy. Students whispered, chatted about fresh gossip, and laughed softly. Some boys in the back even stood up and tossed paper balls toward the front rows.

The health committee member’s voice sank to a barely audible murmur, as if buried under sand.

“Well...” He tensed up as if on punishment, “No one? Anyone needing the vaccine?”

“No one!”

“Isn’t class almost over?”

“I’m hungry, I want to buy bread.”

Amid the noise, I packed up my notes, pulled two forms from my desk, and quickly stood up to go to the front.

“Everyone, please wait a moment, bear with me.”

I stood beside the flustered health committee member and showed the class the documents, raising my voice: “With the recent season change and flu outbreak, please take care of your health. Those needing the vaccination should decide before the fourth period ends and then register with Ichikawa.”

My loud voice quieted the chatter somewhat. Several people called out “Okay.” With the room calmer, I continued:

“Also, on Wednesday, we’ll go with Group D to Bingsheng Park for volunteer work. Details will be given before school ends. This other form will be passed around soon. Please sign it, and the last person to sign, submit it to me today!”

The students responded in unison, “Okay!”

I smiled brightly: “If there are no questions, we’ll end class early.”

Middle schoolers shouted, “Hooray!”

As if on command, many lively kids jumped up and rushed out.

Still, the bell rang three seconds later. A few front-row students asked me about the event details. I leaned on the podium, bending down to explain individually. Then I handed the vaccination registration forms to Ichikawa, the health committee member beside me.

He gratefully took the forms, tears welling in his eyes: “Nishiga…”

“Ichikawa?”

“Thank goodness for you…”

I lowered my voice to comfort him: “It’s nothing, don’t worry. If I remember correctly, seven people missed the last vaccination.”

Ichikawa stared at the thin paper, shoulders drooping.

“Why not say so earlier…”

I smiled: “It’s okay. Some students are very afraid of injections and need time to decide.”

Ichikawa mumbled, “True.”

His cheeks flushed, and he glanced at me nervously. Then he leaned forward, holding the form between us: “Um, Nishiga, should I write today’s date here?”

I looked at the spot he pointed to and nodded.

“Yes.”

“Oh, okay. And the teacher’s signature here…”

“That date is for the teacher to fill in.”

“I see.”

Seeing him hesitate, clearly struggling to find words, I was about to say “Thank you for your effort” to end the topic when suddenly, a clear voice interrupted from outside the door.

“Nishiga.”

The classroom’s lively noise immediately quieted for two seconds.

I turned my head.

Takeshi Yamamoto stood at the classroom door, one hand in his pocket, the other leaning on the frame.

This usually well-behaved, non-intrusive famous guy seemed completely indifferent to how much attention his abrupt appearance drew. His face was expressionless, lips pressed lightly, eyebrows furrowed coldly.

Behind him stood a short, brown-haired boy, looking puzzled.

The health committee member near the door hesitated for two seconds, then stepped back, clearing the view. At the exact moment our eyes met, Yamamoto’s expression suddenly brightened, a swift smile blooming without reason at the corner of his lips.

He called out naturally: “The teacher wants to see you.”