My Youth Romantic Comedy Is Going According to Plan! (Volume 11)

I had a dream. Or perhaps it was a memory, some recollection that had sunk deep beneath my subconscious. For some reason, the area around my chest felt tight. The lingering sense of loss, like I’d been deprived of something precious, still hadn’t fully faded. I tried to pull myself together, but today of all days the room looked unusually blurry. It was unavoidable. It seemed I’d unconsciously let slip my fear in my sleep—the dread that I might never recover what I held dear.

“Ha.”

Letting out another short sigh, I slowly took in the view outside the window where the early dawn still glowed blue, then muttered in hollow resignation.

“What the hell? Give me back my real life.”

Whether it was possession or dimensional travel, today marked the tenth day. I was still trapped inside this romantic comedy world.

The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠past ten days had been more than enough time to sort through the tangled mess inside my head. If I’m being honest, the closest word for how I felt was resignation. Anyway, I heated up a convenience store bento in the microwave and picked up my phone.

I tapped it.

“Still only 94%? Japan really does have slow internet.”

I miss South Korea. Or more precisely, the South Korea I used to live in. In any case, the mysterious power of this app wasn’t limited to simply tossing me into a romantic comedy world. Shockingly, the higher the sync percentage climbed, the more I became “synchronized” with this world. It felt like my very existence was being forcibly uploaded into it.

On the first day I opened my eyes at a crosswalk, the moment the percentage broke 15%, I immediately realized this was the world of the novel I’d read—My Youth Romantic Comedy Is Going According to Plan!

When it passed 45%, I suddenly remembered my house and list of assets in this world. (This damn app reached 45% on the second day, so until then I’d almost been forced to sleep on the streets.)

Fortunately, the money in my account was exactly the same as in reality, and although the house had been remodeled in Japanese style, the interior was close enough to my original home to bring some mental stability. The most useful part was that I could now understand Japanese, even though the only words I used to know were “yamete,” “mecha kawaii,” “chikusho,” “aishiteru,” and “irasshaimase!”

However, that didn’t mean I could speak it fluently. If I had to compare it to Korean, my vocabulary was barely at the level of “annyong.” Since then, there hadn’t been any other major changes. Oh, and one more thing—I’d been rolled back from twenty-three to the appearance of a seventeen-year-old. Strangely, my age was listed as nineteen in international years, or twenty in Korean reckoning. I decided to believe it was thanks to the blessing of censorship. After all, this was a work with an unusually high number of service scenes. Thanks to that, I’ve been freely sampling every kind of Japanese beer.

I had a gut feeling that something big would happen once it hit 100%, but that was outside my control. While I waited for the download to finish, I was treating it like I’d come on a nice, long trip to Japan for the sake of my precious mental health.

“Let’s have yakitori today.”

No helping it. If you’ve been swept away, you might as well enjoy the ride.

The bento I picked today was a total miss. After forcing down something that didn’t suit my taste at all, I stepped outside to find the sun fully risen, brightly illuminating the spring scenery.

Nice weather.

My feet carried me, as if on autopilot, toward a familiar alley near the house. Admiring the streetscape that felt so distinctly different from Korea, I arrived at DaDa Cafe. It was the only place in the neighborhood that served something close to a proper Korean-style iced Americano.

I came here for the coffee, of course, but there was one more reason.

“Welcome to DaDa Cafe!”

The cheerful chime of the bell and the voice greeting me blended together like a harmonious melody. It was the kind of voice that could have made her a successful radio DJ.

“One iced coffee, please.”

I handed over my card and looked at the part-timer in front of me. Even in the early morning, her face showed no puffiness. Her jawline was elegantly sharp, and her skin was so pale that her lips looked vividly red, as if she were wearing bold lipstick. Her gentle eyes, which somehow calmed my heart the moment they met mine, were framed by long hair neatly tied back, reaching all the way to her waist.

She probably saw me as nothing more than an unfriendly Korean tourist, but I knew her very well.

Her name was Hoshimiya Hana. She was a main heroine of My Youth Romantic Comedy Is Going According to Plan! In other words, she was the character who suffered the most damage.

“Thank you.”

The coffee came out quickly. I sat by the window overlooking the parking lot and began sipping it at a leisurely pace. I had first “found” Hoshimiya Hana when the sync rate broke 51%. The thought that she would be at this café suddenly felt completely natural. Since then, the coffee suited my taste and I got to watch the main heroine, so I’d been stopping by at least twice a day.

Around this point, I started thinking. It seemed like the transcendent app that had suddenly dumped me into this world expected me to play some kind of role. Otherwise, it made no sense that Hoshimiya Hana would just happen to work right near my house.

Where’s the coincidence in a situation like this?

I fished my phone out of my pocket and checked the update progress.

At this rate, it looked like I would be “completed” sometime today or tomorrow…

What exactly do you want from me?

I tapped the irritating phone a few times. Naturally, there was no response. Meanwhile, my coffee had steadily disappeared and was now empty. Just as I was about to return the cup—

“Hoshimiya-senpai!”

A bright, cheerful male voice rang out. I naturally turned in that direction. There stood a boy with spiky hair, wearing baggy jeans ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that looked like they might slip off at any moment, waving his hand enthusiastically.

Tatsuya Yuta.

Just like when I saw Hoshimiya, I realized this work had been adapted into reality with almost no gap between illustration and real life. A flashy t-shirt that clung tightly to his body—unlike the loose pants—a gold chain necklace with half the plating worn off, and arms so thin they looked like they’d never lifted anything heavier than a ballpoint spring in his life.

“Huuuh…”

Is that seriously the male lead of a romantic comedy? Isn’t the current trend more toward gentle, shota-type looks…?

The sparkling eyes that should have held the lively energy typical of boys and girls his age were nowhere to be found on that face. If I had to describe them, they were filled with arrogance, lewdness, and misplaced confidence.

I’d figured I might run into Tatsuya eventually since he frequented the café where Hoshimiya worked, but I hadn’t expected it to happen like this. She let out a long, familiar sigh when she saw him.

“I told you not to come while I’m working, Tatsuya-kun.”

“Even though we’re so close, senpai?”

“We may be senior and junior, but this is still my workplace. The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠closer we are, the more we should respect each other’s daily boundaries, Tatsuya-kun.”

She was saying something perfectly reasonable and obvious, Hoshimiya. But did she really think that would work on Tatsuya? To him, the world’s standards and common sense were whatever he decided they were. In a way, his meta-awareness was actually pretty good. After all, he really was the protagonist.

Tatsuya gave an awkward laugh and glanced at me for a moment. Then he looked me up and down. He smirked, apparently not intimidated by the fists of a Korean guy who had wandered in from outside the romantic comedy.

What’s with him?

Don’t tell me you’re seriously under the delusion that Japan’s famous public safety will protect you before your cheek gets slapped, Tatsuya?

“So what brings you here today, Tatsuya-kun?”

“Ayy, I just missed you, senpai!”

“Haa… That’s exactly why I keep telling you this isn’t a place you can just come to because you miss me. If you’re not ordering anything, leave.”

“O-one strawberry latte and… one iced coffee, please!”

“Don’t you usually have trouble drinking coffee, Tatsuya-kun?”

Tatsuya glanced at me again.

“For some reason, today feels like a coffee day!”

“Got it.”

Hoshimiya muttered, “You’re so fickle today, Tatsuya-kun,” and began preparing the drinks. Tatsuya stared at her back with a sleazy grin.

“Fuck.”

What the hell am I even watching right now? A sudden wave of self-loathing hit me. Why was I watching that disgusting sight with such interest? But I couldn’t help it—the live-action version was too much to resist. I quickly returned my cup, which now contained only clinking ice.

Tatsuya kept sneaking glances at me. When I stared straight at him, he immediately pretended not to notice and turned to speak to Hoshimiya.

“Senpai, you said you dislike men with bad faces, right?”

That’s not something that should be coming out of your mouth.

“No. I said I like upright people.”

“That’s basically the same thing! Physiognomy never lies!”

“Well, I suppose that could be true. But judging someone based solely on first impressions is arrogant, Tatsuya-kun.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Hoshimiya-senpai.”

And then Tatsuya looked directly at me and sneered.

Aha?

I’d bet anything on it. This guy must have been stalking Hoshimiya and noticed me coming here every day. What a crazy, diligent bastard. Jealousy was one of Tatsuya’s pathetic traits. Let me repeat—one of his traits. Even though neither I nor Hoshimiya had ever had a single private conversation. The only thing that happened was a little incident on the first day caused by my clumsy Japanese.

I genuinely hadn’t known that “mecha umai desu” wasn’t something people said in everyday conversation. The look on Hoshimiya’s face when the air turned awkward that day is still vivid in my mind. After that, I just started ordering in English. Maybe he saw that moment? From his perspective, it must have looked like Hoshimiya gave a huge reaction to some complete stranger that she never gave him.

This is ridiculous.

When I read it from a reader’s perspective, it was just “Why is he acting like that…?” But experiencing it firsthand made me feel way worse than I imagined. I was used to getting provoked. In fact, I was practically an expert at it. I was probably ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the only one among my peers who got slapped by a senior on the first day of unit assignment after being told, “The fuck you staring at, you piece of shit?” (At the time, I was mentally pumping myself up with, I want to get along well, sunbae!)

So normally I would have just brushed it off thinking, My face really is unfortunate… But the stress of suddenly being possessed into a romantic comedy, combined with knowing exactly why Tatsuya was wary of me, caused me to react in a way that wasn’t like me at all.

After putting the cup in the return bin, I walked over to Tatsuya.

“If you keep picking fights like that, I’m going to steal that girl from you.”

“……?”

Tatsuya looked like he hadn’t understood what I muttered as I passed by. Of course he hadn’t. I’d said it in Korean. I could understand Japanese, but I couldn’t read or speak it properly. I just wanted to say the thing he would hate most right to his face. I had quite a bit of pent-up resentment toward him, after all.

“…Huh?!”

“Senpai, are you okay?!”

From behind the counter came the sharp sound of a cup shattering.

Even Hoshimiya makes mistakes sometimes.

With that thought, I stepped out the door.

And that evening, the self-loathing hit me late.

“Fuck, what the hell did I just say?”

This is so fucking embarrassing. I must have caught the romantic comedy disease. Anyway.