The smell of dinner greets me long before I reach the bottom of the stairs, warm rice and soybean stew curling through the house in gentle ribbons, wrapping themselves around the walls with the quiet familiarity of routine. My mother is already setting the last dishes onto the table, smoothing invisible wrinkles from the tablecloth as though every meal deserves the same careful presentation regardless of whether it's Tuesday or a holiday, while my father sits at his usual place with the evening newspaper folded neatly beside his plate, his reading glasses resting low against the bridge of his nose.
Everything looks exactly as it always does.
My father's chopsticks are aligned perfectly beside his bowl. My mother's sleeves are rolled back the same precise distance on each arm. The television murmurs softly in the background with the volume low enough to be ignored, and for one irrational second I wonder if perhaps the conversation upstairs never happened at all. Perhaps Nishimura Riki exists only inside school grounds, confined to hallways and classrooms and committee meetings, incapable of following me into the carefully ordered world waiting beyond our front door. The thought almost makes me smile. Almost.
I lower myself into my chair, murmur a quiet greeting, and reach for my chopsticks, determined to leave the evening exactly as peaceful as I found it.
For several minutes, the only sounds are ceramic against wood and the soft clink of serving spoons moving from bowl to plate, until my mother glances toward me with the gentle curiosity she reserves for moments when she already suspects the answer.
"How was the committee meeting?" She asks, pouring tea into my father's cup before filling mine. "You said it was for the school festival, didn't you?"
I nod, swallowing the bite of rice I'd barely tasted before answering that the teachers had assigned volunteers to different areas of campus, that I'd been placed in charge of organizing the recreational courtyard near the swimming pool, and that participation would be recorded as extracurricular involvement for university applications.
"They said students who take leadership roles receive additional evaluation points," I explain carefully, choosing my words with deliberate precision. "It looks good on academic records, and colleges like seeing consistent involvement outside the classroom." The moment the sentence leaves my mouth, I recognize it for what it is. A justification. Not an explanation.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, Niki's voice drifts through memory with infuriating clarity. Every hobby has to become experience. Every club has to become a line on an application. I tighten my grip around my chopsticks.
My father doesn't answer immediately. He sets his teacup down with measured care before lifting his eyes to meet mine, his expression impossible to read in the way that has always unsettled me more than anger ever could. "Who approved this?" He asks at last, his tone so calm that anyone unfamiliar with him might mistake it for simple conversation.
I blink, uncertain I'd heard him correctly. "The committee teacher," I reply. "They assigned everyone this afternoon."
He gives a single nod, though it isn't agreement so much as acknowledgment, before asking another question with the same unsettling composure. "And when exactly were you planning to discuss this with us before agreeing?"
The room seems to contract by invisible degrees. My mother's hand stills around her bowl. I stare at him for a moment before quietly reminding him that I hadn't volunteered on my own, that attendance had been encouraged by school. "I didn't think I needed permission for a school activity," I add, trying very hard to keep my voice respectful despite the pressure building beneath my ribs. "I'm the student. I should be able to make decisions about my own school life."
