Tokyo Puts on Fake Smiles

SEVENTEENTH: The Ego, I, Myself, and Me

The Disguise of Courtesy

Years ago, I used to fight insomnia with music. I'd sift through my records or listen to my old MP3 player. Sometimes, I even composed with my old guitar, careful not to wake my aunt.

Insomnia vanished as soon as I moved to Osaka. It became a luxury; I needed to sleep well to perform effectively at work.

And then, as if by magic, it returned. It stopped being "Makoto" and started being "Kazuhiro."

We sang together. We danced together. We laughed together. We ate together. We dined together. In the same mirror each morning, we prepared to go out and work, together.

Kazuhiro and I were friends, the kind who slept in each other's laps.

Over time, night became an inhospitable yet comforting place, a limbo where I got tangled in Kazuhiro's fingers.

He always liked my long hair.

☻☻☻

With a sweet and endearing smile, that was Ichimura Nanako. Though intimidating due to the number of piercings she wore, her cheerful expression enveloped her in a unique light.

Beautiful. From head to toe, Ichimura was the beauty I had expected to find, only much more of a punk. The image my mind had built of her—defenseless, vulnerable, shy, and reserved—did not match the girl who had just opened the door.

The surprise paralyzed me.

"Can I help you with something?" she asked again.

I blinked, took a breath, exhaled, and nodded. I rummaged in my jacket pocket and extended my contact card to her, bowing in respect. "I'm Kougami Ayumi, a journalist from Cinderella City magazine," I straightened up, "I'm currently in the middle of an investigation on Miyazaki Kazuhiro, vocalist of Mystical Key."

"Miyazaki..." I heard her murmur, taking the card from my hands.

"I'd like to ask you a few questions for my article."

Her expression, troubled, darkened beneath her bangs. But I noticed the blush on her ears. It spread discreetly across her cheeks.

Embarrassed, she nodded, bowing her head, "Please come in," and moved aside from the door.

Getting her to enter her apartment was much easier than I had anticipated. For a moment, I doubted the decision I had made to come.

☻☻☻

As soon as I entered her apartment, I noticed the huge collection of guitars that decorated every wall, along with framed records and vinyls of various bands. Her attire wasn't a façade. That girl lived and breathed rock just as I once did years ago, I was sure of it.

After preparing tea, she served it in a cup for each of us, left the teapot on the table, and sat down next to me on the living room sofa.

I took out the recorder from my bag and, without hesitation, pressed the button. "What is your relationship with Miyazaki?"

Shocked, she swallowed hard and, coughing, placed the cup on her lap. She cleared her throat, "A-are we starting the interview now?"

"I don't see why we should beat around the bush. So, what about it?"

She sighed, "I... well, he and I, at this moment, have no relationship," she spoke quietly. Her shoulders relaxed, and, trying to avoid my gaze, she fixed her eyes on the gentle ripples in the tea. "I lost contact with him about four years ago."