Boy Meets Girl
“Oppa-bong.”
“What.”
“When’d you meet Manatsu?”
“The first day I went out running.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
What the hell? My sister hit me with this weird question while I was lying on the living room floor on a rare Sunday, scratching my belly like a lazy cat. For context, it was a rare Sunday because 1991 Japan had six-day school weeks—high school on Saturdays too. Second only to the lack of smartphones as the most annoying thing about this era.
Anyway, I had no good answer for her as she nudged my side with her foot, her face all pouty.
“You run into people when you’re out and about in town.”
“Like that fortune-telling granny?”
“Yeah, including her.”
I wasn’t some ladies’ man or anything, but compared to the middle-school kids and below who could get real immature, I stayed pretty calm. So I always had a few close female classmates. I wasn’t like those guys obsessed with poop and fart jokes. Plus, with our two-year age gap, she’d overlapped with me for four years in elementary and one in middle school, so she knew my social circle pretty well. Having girl friends shouldn’t surprise her.
“Manatsu’s athletic, cute, nice personality—super popular. Why with you?”
“You think I’m dating her? We just have the same hobby, see each other a lot, got close quick.”
“Hmm.”
Yeah, she was smack in the middle of that stormy teen phase. Puberty made it natural to see guy-girl stuff that way.
“You saw her this morning too?”
“Ran together, yeah.”
“Hmm.”
“Quit making that suspicious nose noise.”
“But it is suspicious.”
“If liking someone that easy happened between guys and girls, neither of us would be single.”
“I don’t need one.”
“Me neither, you brat.”
Her toes kept jabbing my side, so I sat up. She flinched, thinking I was mad, but relaxed with a little sigh when I just leaned back on the sofa. I wasn’t the type to yell or scold much, but she still peeked at my mood sometimes.
I got up anyway and grabbed a mug of instant coffee from the kitchen.
“And you’re not heading out at night anymore.”
“This neighborhood’s scary.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Means there are scarier things out at night than delinquents.”
I could play exorcist and spirit-banisher in peaceful spots, but I wasn’t dumb enough to mess around in Kanemachi City, where yokai and ghosts ran wild despite the massive spiritual vein and capable shrine maidens keeping watch. I’d go if Hanasaki called, but for now, I planned to lay low like a normal guy.
Lucky part? My family, Hiyori included, had zero spiritual talent. Low chance of getting dragged into weird crap. Nothing scarier than sticking my nose in something I couldn’t fix.
“Sis.”
“What.”
“Be nice to people around you, even if not me.”
In a world where grudges birthed dangerous bastards and bonds made reliable allies.
She tilted her head but didn’t argue. I rarely nagged like that, so she figured there was a reason.
Yawn. Perfect lazy Sunday afternoon stretch.
She called me ugly and flicked my forehead, so I got revenge by slurping down her pudding in one go. I bolted outside to ditch her pissed-off chase, then figured I might as well run the course some more.
* * *
Manatsu Aoba hated Sundays.
Her outgoing, clingy personality meant she could find friends if she wanted, but she had to visit her mom in the hospital—cause unknown.
A generational curse. Her dad, the dojo master and son-in-law via his last-disciple connection, was healthy, but Mom’s worsening condition made him increasingly irritable.
She could handle the brutal training. Didn’t mind not living like a normal girl. But watching her family crumble, terrified she’d end up the same? That never got easier.
“Made any new friends?”
“...Yeah.”
A wholesome, diligent guy two years older, and his introverted but friendly little sister—total opposites, but recent standouts. Especially the brother, Takuya. He kept this perfect, subtle distance that made hanging out comfy. No awkwardness.
She liked him overall, but his ease around girls made her wonder if he had a girlfriend. Not that handsome, honestly.
“Best expression I’ve seen on you lately. Glad.”
“R-Really?”
“Seems like new friends are helping.”
Aoba panicked as her mom coughed mid-sentence, eyes darting. Kid-Mom had been strong, confident—running the dojo, shaping who Aoba became. A total role model.
Now? One cough sparked disaster fears. Despair.
Aoba realized her breathing had gone ragged. Seeing Mom like that hurt, scared her—wanted to run. She slammed the emergency button, bolted when the doctor rushed in.
Why’s Mom like this? Will I end up that way?)
She ran blindly to their dawn training spot on the hill. Wiping tears, midway up, there was Takuya—doing bodyweight stuff he said he rarely did outside.
“Whoa, hey. Everything okay?”
Tear tracks? Expression? Or both—he’d noticed from afar, came over saying exactly what she needed before she could hide it.
“...P-Personal stuff.”
“No need to talk if it’s tough. Just chilling here might help.”
“I’ll talk once I sort my head.”
He draped an unused towel on the bench for her cushion, vanished, returned with cola and OJ.
“Make yourself comfy. Wasn’t planning a hardcore session anyway.”
“How’d you end up here...?”
“Sis kept teasing, ate her fave pudding, ditched.”
Pfft. Amid gloom, she nearly spat her OJ laughing. Calm and serious, but childish pranks? Innocent and cool at once.
Feeling self-conscious, she sniped pettily.
“You got a girlfriend?”
“Nope.”
“For real?”
“Why ask? Never had one.”
Too smooth for that. He grumbled lightly, sat quiet beside her. Not awkward—peaceful, relaxed. Safe enough for Aoba to share, voice shaky: the hereditary illness, her fears.
He listened intently, mouth opening and closing. Picking words? Sighed, looked down.
“Manatsu. You believe in the occult?”
“Not really, but Kanemachi’s got tons of weird stuff.”
“Truth is, I can do this kinda thing.”
Something invisible pulsed from his hand, tap-tap-ing the cola can mid-air.
She’d guessed special folks existed, but seeing it froze her brain.
“From what I know? Probably a soul issue.”
“Fixable?”
“Well... sigh. Hold on.”
Something there, but hard to say. He raked his hair, annoyed—rare expression on his usual mild self. Her heart skipped.
“Got an idea, but needs prep. Wait a bit?”
“Yeah. Got time...”
“Can I get your home number? I’ll call.”
“Sure!”
She scribbled on his paper scrap. He checked casually, back to normal.
“Feeling better?”
“Way better.”
“Good. Wanna stay, but gotta check something now.”
“It’s fine. Came out thoughtless—lucky it was you, Takuya... oppa.”
“Tsukino’s got a sis too, yeah. Anyway, call if you crash again.”
Half the paper now had his home number scrawled. She nodded; he waved, vanished down the hill.
“Mmm. Yeah.”
Good guy. Good friend. Felt like too little.
* * *
Most of these issues? Slam a grand route on the heroine, solved.
If the world followed my game knowledge, Aoba’s mom wouldn’t pass till end-term. Time left.
But one nagging thing.
No harem route.
Protagonist Sendo Yuuki? Probably a pure-love fanatic obeying Japan’s laws. Heroines: eight. Unsolved? Trauma, kidnapping, wasting illness.
One girl locks a route? What about the rest? Manatsu and Sendo team up pure-platonic? Unacceptable.
I knew these heroines as real, vibrant people. Hated seeing them suffer when I might help.
So.
“Phew. Here.”
Good I’d memorized the map. I climbed stairs—easily over 300—yelling at the blank-faced sweeper.
“Hanasaki Yui!”
“Oh? Tsukino. What brings you?”
“Teach me! I wanna learn!”
If I could help them—even a little—I wanted in.
