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A First Goodbye

Kiriko and I became penpals when I was 12 years old, in the fall. 

That change of schools turned out to be the opportunity that made Kiriko and I get together. 

My last day of school was at the end of October. I would be leaving town that same night. 

So I was left to spend the day alone. 

At the send-off party four days earlier, I’d gotten a bouquet of withering flowers with messages that all read the same way. And every time a classmate saw me, they gave me a look as if to say “Huh? You’re still here?” 

I wouldn’t be losing anything from this. In fact, it would provide me with new experiences and people to meet. 

I’ll fare better at my next school, I thought. If I turn out to change schools again, at least two or three people should be torn up about it next time. 

My last class came to an end. After putting my papers away in my desk, feeling like a boy left behind in a lonely classroom on Valentine’s Day, I went pointlessly rummaging through my backpack. 

She wore a blue pleated skirt and had skinny legs. I looked up, trying to conceal my nervousness. 

It wasn’t Sachi Aoyama, who’d secretly had my fancy since third grade. It wasn’t Saya Mochizuki, who tilted her head and smiled at me whenever we met in the library. 

She was shy, only ever talking in a whispery voice, wearing an awkward smile she looked ashamed to be having. Her grades were average, too, so she really didn’t catch anyone’s eye. 

It was a total mystery why she, who had almost never held a conversation worth calling a conversation with me, came to talk to me today. I was secretly disappointed that it hadn’t been Sachi Aoyama or Saya Mochizuki. 

I didn’t know what we could possibly talk about, either. What’s someone who’ll be out of here tomorrow supposed to say to someone who’s hardly even an acquaintance? Not to mention, I’d never walked home together with a girl my age before. 

I shyly waved at Kiriko and turned to grab the doorknob. Then at last, she seemed to muster some resolve and grabbed my hand. “Wait.” 

I scratched the back of my neck, as I’m wont to do when I’m uneasy. “I mean, I’ll listen, but… I’m changing schools tomorrow. Is there anything I can do for you?” 

“I’ll write you letters, and I want you to reply to them. And then, um, I’ll reply back to those replies.” 

“Y-Yeah. That’s the word,” Kiriko confirmed bashfully. 

“Well, you can’t send a letter to someone who lives nearby, right? That’s boring. I’ve always wanted to send letters to someone far away.” 

“Then we’re even. Good luck to us both,” she said, shaking my hand up and down. 

And getting such an earnest request from a girl my age got me so excited that I wasn’t about to turn her down. 

Didn’t even say goodbye. Clearly, her interest was in the letters I’d write, not the flesh-and-blood me. 

As soon as I’d transferred to my new school, her letter came right away. 

It was a bizarre thing - separated ex-classmates only now introducing themselves. But it wasn’t as if there was anything else to write about, so I went along with the suggestion. 

After some time being penpals with Kiriko, I made a discovery. 

Early in our teaching, we both enjoyed rethinking everything from the basics like that in an attempt to give adults pause. 

That description really stuck with me. A class reunion of souls. 

And when I graduated from there and moved on to middle school, then began a truly lonely existence. 

She told me how she’d made countless wonderful friends. How she’d stay late every day with her club friends talking about something or another. How she was chosen for the culture festival executive committee and could go into normally inaccessible rooms at the school. How she’d sneak onto the roof with her classmates and have lunch, then get scolded by the teachers. Etcetera. 

I felt it would be awkward to respond to these letters with plain descriptions of my miserable circumstances. I didn’t want to cause her any worry, and I would’ve hated to be thought of as weak. 

So I wrote lies instead. My letters told of a fictional life of mine, so perfect and fulfilling so as not to be bested by hers. 

Initially, it was no more than a bluff, but it gradually became my greatest joy. I suppose I had a love of acting that only needed awakening. 

When I was writing letters to Kiriko, that was when I could become my ideal. 

In spring and summer and fall and winter, on sunny and cloudy and rainy and snowy days, I would write letters and deposit them in the mailbox on the corner of the street. 

A terrifying situation came up five years after we became penpals, the autumn when I was 17. 

“Some things, I just can’t bring myself to say in letters. I want us to look each other in the eyes and hear each other talk.” 

This letter troubled me. Of course, I’d had the same desire to meet in person cross my mind. I would have loved to see how she’d changed in five years. 

I regretted, all too late, not having just lived a decent life all along. 

In trying to think of a clever excuse to turn her down, weeks passed, and then a month. 

As it happened, it was approaching exam cram season. So I resolved to give up on our relationship of five years, so quickly that it even surprised me. 

But I didn’t even open that letter. As expected, another one came a month after that, and I ignored it too. It pained me, certainly, but it was the only thing I could do. 

The week after I gave up on our correspondence, I made a friend. Maybe I’d grown too reliant upon Kiriko and it got in the way of forming normal relationships, I thought. 

Time passed, and I got out of my habit of checking the mail for her letters. 

It was my friend’s death that led me to write to Kiriko again. 

In the summer of my fourth year, Haruhiko Shindo, who I’d spent most of my time at college with, committed suicide. 

Ever since I met him, Shindo had longed for death. He smoked three packs a day, took straight swigs of whiskey, and went out on his motorcycle night after night. 

Shindo, too, probably never thought of talking with me about his problems. No doubt, all he wanted was to have some ordinary days full of laughs, and then vanish from them just like that. 

The problem, then, was that I was still here. Shindo not being there was a serious blow to me. 

If I forced myself to leave, my heart would start pounding, and I’d get dizzy and hyperventilate. At its worst, my limbs and face would go numb and cramp up. 

Holed up in my room with the curtains closed, I’d drink and watch the movies Shindo adored. When I wasn’t doing that, I slept. 

If only he’d gotten me involved, I thought. If Shindo’d invited me, I’d gladly dive into a ravine with him, laughing. 

The cicadas died off, the trees turned red; autumn came. It was the end of October. 

There was a mountain of cigarette butts in the ashtray that looked like it’d collapse with a single touch, so I placed empty cans beside it, neatly-aligned like bowling pins. 

Our ears were hurting from the buzzing of cicadas perched on the telephone pole near the window. Shindo grabbed one of the cans, went out on the veranda, and threw it at the cicadas. 

“Wish you would’ve gotten curious before they told me anything,” I implied. 

“Yeah.” 

“Nope. I’m not doing anything. My job hunting’s gone on summer vacation.” 

“High school teacher. Told you that a bunch of times.” 

“Now, though? Me shooting to be a teacher seems as implausible as a one-armed guy shooting to be a pianist.” 

Shindo spoke the truth; he definitely didn’t look like someone suited to be a teacher. Don’t ask me what kind of occupation he would be suited for, though. 

“Eh, maybe. So what did you wanna be?” 

“Liar,” he accused, prodding my shoulder. “Grown-ups will make kids think they have dreams, at least.” 

“We have a point!”, a commentator exclaimed. 

“Hey, weren’t you on the baseball team in middle school? Pretty well-known in the area for your pitching?”, Shindo asked. “Heard about it from a middle school friend. A southpaw by the name of Yugami, only a second-year, but he could throw one hell of a precise pitch…” 

“Got an injury or something?” 

“Yeah.” I smiled bitterly. I couldn’t blame him for that. Even I was incredulous every time I thought back on it. 

“Despite not having many friends at school and hardly standing out, that day made me a hero. It felt incredible. Except… That night, when I lied down in bed and thought about it, I felt this intense shame.” 

“Yeah. I was ashamed of myself. I was like, what do I think I’m getting so happy about?” 

“I guess.” He was right, there wasn’t a single reason not to be elated then. I should’ve just embraced it. But something deep in my mind crawled up and denied it. My mood instantly sank, like a overfilled balloon popping. 

“Anyway, as soon as that happened, the whole thing started to seem ridiculous to me. And I thought, I don’t want to embarrass myself any more. So two days later, the day of the finals, I got on the early morning train and went to a movie theater, of all things. And I watched four movies in a row. I remember the air conditioning made me so cold, I was rubbing my arm the whole time.” 

Shindo laughed heartily. “Are you a moron or what?” 

“No doubt,” I agreed. 

The game on TV had wrapped up. It ended with the last batter doing a clumsy grounder to second. 

Once the first track had finished, he remarked, “Sounds like you were never a "kid” at all. Gross, man.“ 

As I was thinking of something else to say to change the subject, he spoke. 

“But you enjoyed writing letters, didn’t you?” 

Shindo was the only one who knew not only that I’d been penpals with Kiriko, but also that I’d told nothing but lies in my letters to her. I happened to let it slip at a beer festival last year, while drunk and annoyed by the sunlight. 

“Yeah, I guess I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy that.” 

“Kiriko Hizumi.” 

“Hey, Mizuho. You oughta meet Kiriko Hizumi.” 

“Go meet Kiriko, huh,” I sarcastically repeated. “And then apologize for what I did five years ago? Say "forgive this poor liar”?“ 

Shindo shook his head. "Not what I’m trying to say. It doesn’t matter if what you wrote is lies or not. ‘Cause that, uh… "mingling of souls” you mentioned, it’s not just anyone you can pull something like that off with. You and this girl could be pretty damn compatible, so have some confidence. I mean, just look at your names, it’s like fate. Yugami and Hizumi, they both mean “distortion.”“ 

"Either way, it’s way too late.” 

I’ll go meet Kiriko, I decided. I wanted to honor Shindo’s suggestion, and I was lonely after losing my best and only friend. 

But as much as I looked for them, I couldn’t find those last letters that I’d never opened. I wondered where I could’ve put them. 

Taking in the nostalgic smell of my room, I reread the letters one at a time. There were one hundred and two spanning five years, and I went from the last letter backwards. 

There was a lot I wanted to tell her, but feeling it would be best to say it in person, I made the letter brief. 

With only those few sentences, I put the letter in the mailbox. 

I had no expectations. And I intended to keep it that way. 
 


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