Chapter 27: A Heart Worn Thin

Across the endless, frozen sea, Tomori Takamatsu walked upon the ice. Above her, the Milky Way spanned the heavens, and the massive, dark shadows of whales glided beneath the frozen surface.

On the horizon of the ice sea, a gargantuan white moon was slowly rising. Half of the lunar disk had ascended above the ice, while the other half remained submerged beneath the waterline. The craters on the moon’s surface were clearly visible, and the ice reflected the shadow of the half-moon, completing a perfect sphere with the one in the sky.

Beneath the moonlight stood a multitude of figures. Without exception, they stood upon distant, towering slopes, looking down from on high. They were draped in black robes, revealing only beast-like, emotionless eyes. They were like a group of indifferent spectators; this ice sea was their Roman Colosseum, and they were patrons who had paid to witness a pulse-pounding, mortal combat.

Yet, Tomori’s performance did not satisfy them. She simply kept walking forward.

She did not know why she was here, nor did she know what she was seeking. A faint, ethereal female voice resonated constantly in her mind, speaking a language she could not comprehend. It sounded like the Sanskrit chanted by monks or the hymns of believers—solemn, mysterious, ancient, and weathered by time.

It said: Come, come to the side of the gods. Why bow your head in the ignorant mist? You were destined for solitude; no one can understand you, no one is your friend. The fate of an outcast is to shed the mortal shell, for only then can you cross the wasteland and race into the embrace of the gods.

For reasons she could not explain, Tomori felt an urge to burst into tears upon hearing these words. This sense of trust was entirely groundless, yet she felt certain that this person could understand her, that she was her friend. If only she could see her, all the pain she had suffered would be absolved, and she, who had strayed so far from the world, would find salvation.

She looked up. A faint blue ice sheet covered the mountains that pierced the sky, wreathed in misty, snow-white clouds. Faintly, she could see a colossal white dragon coiled upon the summit. Tens of thousands of spikes had pierced its body; it lay there quietly, its wings draped down to the foot of the mountain, and thick, pungent blood stained the entire icy peak.

Sensing Tomori’s gaze, the dying dragon actually offered a look of relief. Its ferocious, tuber-covered face softened, much like a merciful mother who had finally seen her wandering child return and wished to offer an embrace.

Tomori stared blankly at the dragon, her gaze gradually growing hazy, as if a layer of mist had veiled her golden pupils.

She remembered now: she had come to find the dragon. This was the gate to Takamagahara; as long as she could open this door, the White Emperor would once again rule the world.

"Tomori? Tomori! Takamatsu-san!"

In a daze, Tomori heard someone calling her name. She opened her eyes, feeling lost, and saw a familiar, pretty face. It was her classmate sitting in front of her, leaning over the desk with a look of concern.

"Are you alright? You were sleeping all afternoon, and it’s already time to go home. If I hadn't called you, I feel like you would have slept until the school closed."

The classmate reached out to touch Tomori’s forehead. "Are you sick? You’ve been so drowsy lately. If you’re not feeling well, it’s better to take a leave of absence and go home to rest properly."

"I... I'm fine, really. Just a bit sleep-deprived lately," Tomori said, waving her hands in a hurry.

"Is it the pressure of moving up a grade? It’s okay, don't take it to heart. As for studies, as long as you feel you’ve taken responsibility for yourself, there won't be any problems." The classmate put on her bag and waved. "Bye-bye!"

"Yeah, bye-bye."

The classmate turned and left. Tomori waved back, watching her disappear through the back door of the classroom.

For a full ten seconds afterward, the smile of 'thank you for your concern' remained frozen on her face, then peeled away layer by layer, dissipating until she was expressionless.

The classroom was empty. Truly, there was no one left. If it weren't for that kind classmate, perhaps Tomori would not have been discovered until the school security patrol came around. She really should thank her, but she couldn't... or rather, she didn't know how.

She had been this way for a long time: emotionally sluggish, always several beats behind others. She never understood why others cried when they were moved, nor why they laughed when they were happy.

Furthermore, her interests were different. Girls her age pursued fashion and were keen on socializing; their topics were star gossip, skirts, and makeup. They would always make plans in groups of two or three to go to dessert shops or karaoke.

However, she preferred strange things: small stones, feathers, pill bugs, and fallen leaves. She often collected them.

She remembered a girl she had made friends with back in childhood who also liked to collect maple leaves. Tomori had happily thought to share her own favorites, so she gifted her a box of pill bugs. It resulted in the other girl crying in terror, and Tomori’s parents were questioned about why she would do such a thing.

From that point on, Tomori gradually realized that she was somewhat incompatible with this world.

She began to study the expressions of others, observing why someone would laugh and pondering why someone would cry. Only then could she make the appropriate display at the appropriate time during group activities; otherwise, she would look too conspicuous in a group photo with a bitter face.

Doing this for so long, she sometimes felt exhausted, as if the human known as Tomori Takamatsu didn't actually exist—that she was merely a dummy she had hand-crafted and disguised herself as, and the real her was just a monster forcibly hiding within human society.

She had thought this not just once or twice, but had even come to believe it. Yet, there were family photos from her childhood—from the moment she was born to her first faltering steps, there was a photo for every month. Her mother had carefully recorded them, binding the photos into albums in chronological order, documenting Tomori’s growth. She was, without a doubt, the daughter her mother had brought into the world.

"Sigh..."

With a long sigh, Tomori rubbed her head, which felt swollen from sleeping too long, and turned to look out the window.

April, the season of cherry blossoms. Those little pink things had been holding back for a whole year and finally had the chance to show themselves. The Somei Yoshino trees, tall as the school building, were in full bloom. Those sitting near the window could pick them just by reaching out. Pink snow fell throughout the campus every day, and the girls often had tender pink petals stuck in their hair.

Tomori was in her first year of high school. Some said that entering high school meant one was no longer a child, that one possessed the maturity of a half-adult, but she felt she hadn't grown up at all. She was trapped in a certain memory.

Picking up the memo pad on her desk and slinging her bag over her shoulder, Tomori rose and left the classroom.

She paused before the shoe lockers at the entrance, walked to the lockers for Class 1-B, tore off a memo, wrote "I don't want to lose the encounter I had with Sakiko that day," tucked it into Sakiko Togawa’s locker, changed into her own shoes, and walked down the school stairs.

Several months had passed since the dissolution of CryChic. Although Sakiko had said the band could continue without her, Anon Wakaba had stopped coming to the rehearsal studio after that. The group of five had instantly become a trio, and it was impossible to sustain—CryChic had long been a shell of its former self.

What was even stranger was that Sakiko had transferred into Class 1-B, separated from Tomori’s Class 1-A by only a wall.

Adjacent classes shared many lessons, such as P.E. When everyone was playing tennis, Tomori would see Sakiko sitting alone in the corner in her gym uniform. She didn't participate in activities, nor did she seem to have any friends to talk to; she just wore her headphones and listened to music in silence.

Their gazes would often meet during these times, but neither would approach the other.

Tomori hesitated. That day in the rehearsal studio, she had said terrible things—about breaking legs and the like. Thinking back on it now, she felt so ashamed she could have exploded on the spot, but at the time, she felt like she truly meant it.

By the time she came to her senses, those bold words shouted without thinking had become things of the past—a past she couldn't undo. She didn't even have the courage to rush over now, grab Sakiko, and demand, "Did you really not want me anymore?"

Sakiko was always silent, too. She wouldn't come over, nor would she take off her headphones and offer one to Tomori, smiling and saying, "Takamatsu-san, would you like to listen with me?" Her eyes were truly like those of a stranger—devoid of warmth, like a wild animal seeing a human: afraid to get close, yet filled with vigilance, silently maintaining a perfectly judged distance.

Tomori didn't know how to face a Sakiko like this. She had never been good at socializing and always avoided interpersonal relationships. Now, they were strangers once again.

Recalling the time when they first met, how wonderful Sakiko had been back then—her smile so bright it seemed to exude sunshine, every sentence carrying the confidence of a young lady and the "desuwa" verbal affectation.

She would accompany her in singing, give her confidence, be moved to tears by her lyrics, and help her open up, standing with her on the pedestrian bridge, shouting recklessly, "I want to become human!" and then laughing out loud with pursed lips.

It seemed no shadow in the world could defeat Sakiko. Wherever she was, warm sunlight would shine; she was a ball of light, illuminating the darkness in Tomori’s heart.

But now, they could no longer walk together. Just standing on the playground and looking at each other was already difficult, like two reefs in the water.

There were so many people passing by, the girls' laughter and banter echoing under the blue sky. But they heard nothing, saw nothing. Everything else was as if it didn't exist; they only saw each other’s shadows in their eyes.

Some goodbyes are like this: no need to say a stiff "bye-bye," just silently cutting off contact. Time, that damned hand, would take advantage of every opening, slipping away silently day by day. Friends who were once so close they felt like one's own other half could only offer awkward smiles when they met again, unable to think of anything to say. Those little beautiful memories would blur like mist, and after an estranged exchange of pleasantries, they would part ways—and this time, it would be forever.

Tomori was truly afraid of becoming like that. Yet, the relationship between her and Sakiko was sliding in that direction, bit by bit, beyond redemption.

Given her personality, the only thing she could do was write memos. Only in this way could she speak to Sakiko.

One every day—either arriving early to be among the first at school or slipping it into Sakiko’s locker when there were fewer people after school.

She didn't know if it was useful, nor did she know what Sakiko thought when she read them. She just did the same thing every single day, like a drowning person who, seeing anything floating on the sea, would lunge at it and hold on tight, no matter what it was.

It was nearly dark when Tomori reached Ikebukuro. The sign for "Ring" was still brightly lit, and there were always girls with instrument cases coming and going.

In the past, Sakiko had paid for the rehearsal studio. After she and Mutsumi Wakaba quit, it was Tomori who paid. Renting it long-term was a bit expensive, but she could manage it with her allowance.

Taki Shiina was baffled by this waste of money and had advised her several times, saying, "Those two have already abandoned us, and CryChic doesn't exist anymore. Why do you still insist on this? Any money spent elsewhere would be better than here. Being immersed in the past is too pathetic."

Yes, why? Even though she knew it was over.

Perhaps there was still a tiny glimmer of hope in her heart? That the shattered dream might be restored, that she could push open the door and still see Sakiko, who would take her hand and say happily, "You're finally here! Everyone is waiting for you," and push her toward the mirror, saying, "This is our lead vocalist!"

*Hey, you really are an idiot,* Tomori thought to herself.

Pushing open the door to the rehearsal studio, the sound of a bass guitar hit her. Auburn hair shimmered in the mirror; the person inside stopped playing and turned around.

In truth, Tomori wasn't the only idiot, or she wouldn't have been able to keep going.

Soyo Nagasaki was here too. Like Tomori, she still came to check every day or two.

"Good evening," Soyo said.

Tomori nodded, acknowledging Soyo, then sat alone in the corner, took her notebook out of her bag, and spread it across her knees to write and draw. The lyrics for CryChic had been born from this notebook.

"No one came today, either," Soyo said, plucking a string, her gaze lowered.

The sound of the bass was naturally deep and somber. With only her playing and only her speaking, it sounded particularly lonely in the vast room, desolate and cold.

"CryChic... has already disbanded," Tomori said softly. "It’s only natural."

"No, don't say that." The hand plucking the strings stopped, and Soyo smiled with narrowed eyes. "CryChic hasn't disbanded. It’s just that no one is here."

Tomori didn't respond. She thought: *Doesn't "no one is here" mean it's disbanded? There are only the two of us now. Do you really think two people can be a band forever?*

"The withered heart, the trembling gaze; I was all alone in this world..." Soyo suddenly began to sing.