Tokyo Puts on Fake Smiles

THIRTIETH ACT: Imaginary Proposals

Conduction, convection, radiation

A future with Makoto. Walking down the aisle, waking up next to each other every day, and in our little cozy house in a residential area, starting a family. All of that were just illusions; recovering it was impossible.

At 22, my goal wasn't to live that boring suburban life, but to appear on the screens of Shibuya with my guitar. But then, Makoto came back, reminding me of what it felt like to be by his side. He, Takagi Makoto, destroyed my dream.

It wasn't the time to think about big stages. It was time to finally ask myself where my life was heading; where was I running to? What was I truly chasing after?

And I decided to chase after Kazuhiro.

I destroyed Nanako's dream. I packed everything up and ran after the enemy to burn ice in the other's lap. In the other's scars, under the snow.

☻☻☻

For the last four months of my life, I had been living with what I soon began calling a wolf. A loner, hunting night after night, preying on a different victim without fear of retaliation from his roommate. Yes, Miyazaki Kazuhiro, leader of Mystical Key, was one of a kind: rough, harsh, and arrogant, yet every now and then, he showed his more understanding and even vulnerable side. And despite having lived with him for so long, I couldn't say I truly knew him.

The only thing I was certain of was that, without a doubt, he would never walk down the aisle. No, Kazuhiro wasn't made for commitment. Yet, he had committed himself.

Sandwiched between burning bread, the heat aimed to leave red marks, third-degree burns, on my skin.

The moment I picked up the toast with my hands, I dropped it— "ouch!" I cried. Hurting, I blew on my fingertips.

Kazuhiro, chuckling under his breath, stirred his scrambled eggs.

Taking advantage of the fact that I had woken up a few minutes earlier than usual, I dressed and put on makeup quickly so I could prepare breakfast. Unfortunately, I ended up burning my toast, now a black chunk of pure charcoal.

"How can you make perfect scrambled eggs and not know how to use a toaster?" he asked, smiling mockingly.

"That's what I'd like to know," I mumbled.

He sighed, put down his chopsticks, stood up, and after rolling up his sleeves, flicked his fingers against my forehead.

"Hey!" I protested, rubbing it.

"Next time, instead of playing house, wake me up." He took my toast, walked over to the trash bin by the kitchen island, and threw it away.

He opened the cabinet, reached up for the bag of bread on the top shelf. Mesmerized by the movement of his arm, so well-defined, I followed the line to the nape of his neck, and as my gaze lowered to his t-shirt collar, I unconsciously reconstructed the image of his bare back.

"Ayumi!" I yelled at myself, shaking my head. "Focus, he has a girlfriend."

"Hey," he said, placing the slice of bread in the toaster slot and, after pressing the lever, turned toward me. "Do you know where we're meeting Manami and the others?"

"Oh," I swallowed. "I think in front of 109."

Indeed, this was the second day of Manami's wedding dress quest.

I recalled last night's conversation when Miyazaki Kazuhiro's girlfriend, the man most allergic to monogamous relationships on the face of the earth, practically threw herself at him, almost proposing marriage. A chill ran down my spine.