Prologue
Every now and then, a certain kind of character turns up in a romantic comedy.
The one who occupies the Main Character's Friend Position.
He's the guy who listens to the protagonist's relationship troubles, who picks up on the heroine's feelings when the protagonist himself is too dense to notice, and who, at the decisive moment, gives him that shove between the shoulder blades. When the protagonist does something stupid, he's right there to call him on it. When the mood starts drifting somewhere charged, he knows exactly when to make himself scarce.
In other words, he's the protagonist's closest ally — and, at times, the one who vents the readers' frustration on their behalf.
And characters in this friend position tend to share one particular trait.
They're usually just as impressive as the protagonist himself. Good grades, athletic, an easygoing personality, plenty of friends. Sometimes they're even better-looking than the protagonist, and for some reason they're uncannily good at relationship advice, doling out counsel of every kind.
Of course, they themselves usually have zero romantic experience.
...Well. That's romantic comedies for you.
I let those thoughts wander as I looked around, and a sigh slipped out of me all on its own.
"...This really does feel like a romantic comedy."
The scene unfolding in front of me was exactly that. Over there, a girl was handing a drink to a guy; beside them, two people walked side by side, laughing over something completely trivial. A little farther off, a pair who were obviously into each other were bickering — the only ones who didn't seem to realize it were the two of them. No matter where I looked, a faintly pink current hung in the air.
Throw in a soundtrack and it would have been perfect.
And as that thought crossed my mind, I glanced at the friend standing next to me.
...Come to think of it.
"You really are the protagonist type, you know that?"
"What's that supposed to mean, all of a sudden?"
He looked genuinely confused. Even that reaction was so protagonist-like it left me speechless.
If I had to start with the most important point: he was handsome. Taller than most kids our age, and pretty athletic besides. His grades weren't merely "not bad" — they were actually good. His personality wasn't just inoffensive; it landed firmly on the decent side of things. He was sociable enough to hit it off with complete strangers in minutes. Honestly, it was harder to find a single thing he wasn't good at.
And he had no idea. More precisely, he sincerely believed he was ordinary.
...Thinking about it was starting to piss me off.
"You."
"Yeah?"
"How many times have you been confessed to?"
"...Why?"
"Just answer the question."
He seemed to think about it for a moment, then started folding his fingers down one by one. I narrowed my eyes at him. He was actually counting.
"Thirteen?"
"...Thirteen?"
"Probably."
"Probably?"
"I don't remember exactly."
I was briefly at a loss for words. Not even remembering how many times he'd been confessed to — that was protagonist-like too. In the sense that it was incredibly irritating, anyway.
"And you're good at school, too."
"I'm just average."
"Ranking near the top of the entire school is average?"
"You're about the same."
"I work for it. You barely study and still pull those grades."
"Then you could be the protagonist. The hardworking type? There's plenty of those."
He said it with absolutely no malice whatsoever. I looked at him for a second, then let out a short laugh.
Sure. Maybe I should try being the protagonist.
...Except it was already too late for that.
No matter how I looked at it, that guy was the protagonist, and I was the friend standing next to him, throwing in the occasional jab. That role fit me perfectly.
Think about it. Handsome, tall, good grades, athletic, great personality. Popular with the girls, and he didn't even properly register that fact. When someone showed him special affection, he just figured they were a kind person and moved on.
It would probably keep going like that. Somehow he'd end up tangled up with a bunch of girls. Somehow one of those relationships would turn into something special. And he himself wouldn't realize it until much, much later.
And I'd be standing next to him, sighing, saying something like, ...You dense idiot.
Because that's the role the protagonist's friend plays in a romantic comedy.
I looked around again. A street steeped in that rosy atmosphere. Kids our age, soaking up their youth. And the protagonist-like friend standing next to me, oblivious to all of it.
"...Life really isn't fair."
"What isn't?"
"Nothing."
I gave a rough smile and clapped him on the back.
Yeah. If a guy like that isn't the protagonist, who is?
It sure isn't me.
I'm just the protagonist's friend. The one who stands beside him, watching his love life unfold, and does nothing but complain about it. That's my role.