Just My Type [Daichi Sawamura x OC]

Prologue: In Which Books Have the Answer to Everything

Tohoku University liked to think it was one of those hip, progressive schools, despite of course, the irony of referring to themselves as "hip" outside of the 1970s. With its mix of flashy, contemporary buildings and ivy covered halls that resembled the foreign establishments of deep thinkers, the University's President liked to envision his domain as Japan's Harvard and NYU rolled into one.

To keep with this image, the University obviously had to have the trendiest places on campus for its students to gather; somewhere they could congregate in order to discuss the latest existential crisis or political scandals over a game of chess or billiards. In hopes of creating this space, President Takai spent a pretty penny of the school's budget on renovating the University's main student center. Two years and 450 million yen later, the student center was the school's pride and joy; large, open spaces with plenty of brand new (expensive) furniture for students to lounge in, as well as a plethora of entertainment options. A state of the art gaming center, pool tables, a Starbucks that also served beer and wine, even a bowling alley on the lower levels. President Takai spared no expense in order to create the perfect place for his students. The only problem was, it didn't seem to work as well as he'd hoped. Sure, the building was popular, and seemed to always draw a crowd no matter the time of day; but if the President had been hoping the newly renovated space would become the place where the next great thinkers gathered to solve the world's problems, he was sorely disappointed when it turned out to mostly be a place students used to crash for a few hours when their roommate had kicked them out of the room because they were getting lucky.

Hoping to rectify the obvious error in judgement, the University Board was quick to look for other ways to improve their school's reputation as a place of great philosophers. Instead of spending more money on construction, however, they chose a different route and acquired an already "hip" establishment. Hobbit Hole Books was one of the most popular places in north Sendai and about as "hip" as they come. Located just off campus, the small, hole-in-the-wall shop was easy to miss if you didn't already know where it was. Unlike the well-lit and spacious box stores, this used-book shop was dark, cramped for space, and seemed to have a constant haze of dust on everything. It's maze of twisting aisles stretched to the very back of the store with bookcases almost as high as the ceiling and so overstuffed with books it was a common occurrence to see large piles of them stacked at the ends of aisles. Some might call it messy, the owner of said establishment however preferred eclectic. This wasn't your normal bookshop. They had everything. Everything. A section of bestsellers? Obviously. Children's novels and manga? More so than most places. Raunchy romance paperbacks? Far bookcase in the corner next to the giant sarcophagus. Pre-Socratic Philosophy or Existentialism? A rather impressively large collection on the second floor. Anything a reader could imagine could be found somewhere in the dusty stacks of the Hobbit Hole. It was just a matter of finding it.

To help pass the time for its browsers, and to keep them in the store longer, a small coffee bar sat in one corner serving (slightly overpriced) coffee and tea for readers to enjoy. Many patrons would browse for a book while their drink was being made, then find one of the many cushy, mismatched chairs to lounge in and read the day away. Needless to say, it was exactly the type of trendy place the University was looking for. And so they made the owner an offer he couldn't refuse, and the Hobbit Hole was quickly rechristened as the school's official bookstore. Wanting to keep with the eclectic aesthetic of course, not much was changed about the store, except the addition of class textbooks that were shoved into every free nook and cranny that could be found, and perhaps a few more chairs clustered together to encourage more free thinking discussions amongst the patrons.

The true treasure of Hobbit Hole Books, however, was not the never ending novels or the philosophical atmosphere it offered. In fact it was something much simpler, and easily overlooked by most customers. In an unassuming part of the store there sat an old, blue gray typewriter, alone atop a rickety old desk. The poor thing looked like it had seen better days; some of the paint had started to chip and there was a questionable dent along the right side, like some inconsiderate typist had unceremoniously dropped it one too many times over the years. Yet despite its appearance, there was always paper in stock, and the keys were kept well oiled; ready to dictate the stories of whomever chose to write. Most of the time the students that stumbled across its path and were brave enough to give the old typewriter a try would only write the occasional silly remark or dirty joke, just for the joy of seeing it printed in the old fashioned typeface. Yet, if someone were to take the time and read through the list of notes written on the beat-up old typewriter, they would see there was someone who actually took it seriously.

At least once every other day, if not more, a genuine note would appear amongst the bawdy jokes. It was almost always some sort of quote from a famous writer or poet; but sometimes it was more personalized; the inner thoughts of their author printed out in black and white, but never attached to the soul they described. Every quote was selected carefully and with purpose, and if someone were to read the messages left day after day, they would have had a direct window into the mind of the typist. But alas, no one ever gave the old typewriter or its messages more than a second glance, which was just how the lone writer liked it. Her words weren't meant for anyone else but her anyway. Her, and the typewriter that was almost like a friend, helping express the feelings she otherwise wouldn't have been able to.

For almost a full year the writer would type out her inner most thoughts onto the blank paper without anyone once ever mentioning them. Where some might have felt discouraged at the lack of appreciation, this particular girl never seemed to mind; it gave her the freedom to write without reproach. That's the beauty and tragedy of writing it seemed; anonymity was both a shield and a cage, keeping the would-be appreciated from their admirers.

But fate has a funny way of playing tricks on the ones entwined in its threads. An otherwise regular customer of the Hobbit Hole, it was a stroke of luck that day that Daichi Sawamura wandered past the old typewriter and just happened to catch a glimpse at the words that had just moments ago been typed by a mysterious hand.

I hope that someday
when I am gone,
someone,
somewhere,
picks my soul up
off these pages,
and thinks,
"I would have loved her"

~Nicole Lyons