Tokyo Puts on Fake Smiles

ELEVENTH ACT: Cruising

A Lingering Taste of Bittersweet

Not everything was bad. One day could be sweet, another bitter; life was made up of achievements because misfortunes existed. Despite being accustomed to failure, and even though I tried not to fall more than I already had, I never closed the door to happiness.

If someone gave me a rose, I would cherish it; I wouldn't let the numbness of its thorns piercing my skin stop me. Even if I bled, someone would care about my wounds.

Kazuhiro also handed out roses, and his victims also fell into the trap.

☻☻☻

I never thought the day would come when I would forget about Makoto. Neither Miyoko, nor Reina, nor Minato had concocted any excuse, lie, or alibi to prevent Makoto from discovering that I was sharing a roof with one of the people he had grown to hate the most in such a short time span.

But not everything was lost. Kazuhiro still hadn't lost his composure.

"Hide your stuff?" I asked, alarmed.

He nodded. "If we sweep the place of all my things, like my clothes, my albums, the photos, and my music equipment, and hide them in my room, it should be enough, right?"

"But—" Miyoko interjected, "what if he comes in?"

"I'll stop him," Kazuhiro clarified and took a sip of his beer.

We exchanged glances, and after organizing ourselves, we got up and began the mission.

☻☻☻

Miyoko and Reina gathered all the photos and paintings from the wall, the furniture, and the shelves. Hideki and Kenichi went out to the balcony and packed Kazuhiro's hanging clothes into cardboard boxes, while Minato and Kento collected his shoes, records, and all his music equipment, including his guitar, amplifiers, and keyboard.

The apartment had been uninhabited for two years. And no, we hadn't gone crazy; Makoto was extremely perceptive, and if we weren't careful, our entire façade as journalist and professional target would be exposed.

Meanwhile, Kazuhiro and I continued cooking. Kazuhiro chopped the chicken into pieces, and I finished mixing the Karaage sauce on the other side of the kitchen. I couldn't stop glancing at him out of the corner of my eye—precise and quick, focused.

"You're a good cook," I murmured, approaching with the sauce.

"Unlike you," he said without even bothering to look at me, "the few times I've seen you cook, what came out didn't even look edible."

Insulted, I slammed the sauce down on the counter.

"I learned in high school," he continued.

His words caught me off guard. I listened attentively as he went on.

"One of the girls in the cooking club tangled me up into joining," he said, a small, mischievous smile forming on his otherwise stern face. "She was one of the worst in the club and needed to improve somehow, but she didn't want to do it alone."

"And you agreed? Incredible..."

"During those months, my father and I had to live alone, and he wasn't much of a cook either. We used to eat pre-cooked food and takeout, so I didn't mind learning to cook. In fact, I appreciated it." Kazuhiro stopped chopping, took the bowl next to him, opened the cupboard above him, and pulled out two packets of flour and cornstarch. "It's a pity it all ended badly," he sighed.