Four
I interpreted Living with Dying not as a journal, but as an account of her life; a record of the things she did and felt so they would remain after she was gone. From what I gathered, she’d come up with a set of rules, a framework for what she would and wouldn’t document.
The ones I knew were as follows:
First, she didn’t write in it every day. She only included days where something special happened, or when she felt something special; something she considered worthy of leaving a remnant behind.
Second, Living with Dying only contained written words. She seemed to regard things like pictures or graphs as being out of place in the paperback-like book. On its pages, she wrote prose in black ink and nothing else.
Third, she had decided to keep her book private until after her death. As long as she was alive, her writings were for no one’s eyes but hers—except for the single page revealed to me through her carelessness.
She instructed her parents to make the book available, after her death, to everyone who was close to her. Whatever her current use of the book was—whether she considered it a diary or anything else—if it was to be passed on and read after her death, then from my point of view, the book wasn’t a journal, but a memoir, or would become one after her passing.
While she was alive, her writings weren’t meant to impart an influence or be influenced by anyone. But just once, I asked her to change it for me.
I told her I didn’t want her to write my name anywhere in her book. My reason was simple: I didn’t want to be unnecessarily hassled or pried by her family and friends once they read it.
One day, as we were working in the library, she told me, “All kinds of people show up in my book.” When I requested she leave my name out, she said, “It’s my book, and I can write what I want.” She had a point, so I didn’t fight it. Then she added, “Telling me you don’t want me to just makes me want to do it more.”
I resigned myself to the hassle that would follow her death.
I thought my name might have possibly made an appearance alongside the yakiniku and the dessert buffet, but the two days that followed were free of that danger.
That was because, for those two days, we didn’t speak at school. There wasn’t anything weird about it, our typical routines just didn’t give us any cause to interact. If anything, the days where we went out to eat together were the anomalies.
I went to school, took my exams, and quietly went home. Every now and then I felt the eyes of her friends and her social group upon me, but I decided I didn’t need to let that bother me.
For two days, nothing truly special happened. If I had to, I could think of two minor incidents. The first was when I was sweeping the hallway at school in silence.
A male classmate, who typically never even gave me a glance, came up to me and said, “Yo, [Unremarkable Classmate], are you dating Yamauchi?”
His bluntness was almost refreshing. For a moment, I suspected he might be mad at me because he had a thing for her and misunderstood what was going on. But from his demeanor I surmised he wasn’t. His expression was cheerful, unclouded by any hostility. He seemed like a big ball of impulsive curiosity.
“No,” I replied. “Definitely not.”
“Really? But you guys went on a date, didn’t you?”
“We just happened to go out for lunch, that’s all.”
“What, really?”
“Why do you care so much?” I asked.
“Huh?” he replied. “Oh, you don’t think I like her or somethin’, do ya? No way! I’m into the quieter types.”
I hadn’t asked, but that hadn’t dissuaded him from blabbering away without a care. At least we agreed on one point: She wasn’t a quiet type.
He said, “So I heard wrong, then. The whole class is talkin’ about it, you know.”
“They’re wrong. Let them talk.”
Then he asked, “Oh! Hey, you want any gum?”
“No,” I said. “But could you bring me the dustpan?”
“On it.”
I thought he’d say no, seeing as he always slacked off when it was time to clean up, but to my surprise, he did as I’d asked with no fuss. Maybe he just didn’t get the general concept of our school cleaning time, and all he needed was to be told what to do.
He didn’t ask me any other questions after that. And that was the first unusual event of those two days.
Talking to that classmate hadn’t been a good or bad experience, but the second unusual event—minor as it was—put me in a slightly depressed mood.
The bookmark I’d inserted into my current book went missing.
Luckily, I remembered my place without it, but the bookmark wasn’t one of the free ones handed out at bookstores, it was a thin and plastic souvenir from a museum. I didn’t know when I’d lost it, but my own carelessness must have been at fault. I didn’t have anyone to blame, and for the first time in a while, I felt down.
And so, aside from feeling down about something that was ultimately trivial, those two days were normal. Normal for me was peaceful, which meant I didn’t have a dying girl hanging around me.
The prologue to the destruction of my respite came on Wednesday night. I was thoroughly enjoying my return to normalcy when the text message arrived.
Even after I read it, I didn’t realize the full extent of the disruption about to occur. Whether I liked it or not, I was a character in this new story, and the first chapter was coming. Only the reader could flip ahead and see where the chapter was set. The characters knew nothing.
This was the message:
We made it through the exams! No test and no school tomorrow! 😊 So… Are you free tomorrow? You’re free, aren’t you. I’m thinking we should go on a long train trip! ✌️ Is there anywhere you want to go?
I felt a little insulted she would just assume I didn’t have any plans, but she was right—I didn’t—so I had no excuse to turn her down.
I replied, “If there’s anywhere you want to go before you die, we can go there.”
Of course, that would come back to bite me. By then I should have known handing over all decision-making to her was a bad idea.
She sent me another message telling me when and where to meet her. The place was a major train station in our prefecture, a hub through which many lines came and went. The time was a little early, but I assumed she’d chosen it on a whim, and I thought nothing of it.
I sent back “OK” and her reply came back immediately. It was her last of the night.
You’d better not go back on your word, you hear?
I wasn’t the type of person who would stand anyone up—not even her—so I replied, “Don’t worry,” and set my phone down on my desk.
This may count as a spoiler, but the way she phrased it—“You’d better not go back on your word”—was a trap. Or at least, that’s how I came to view it. I thought she was referring to my agreement of going on a trip with her. What she was really referring to was the thing I never should have said in the first place—that we could go anywhere she wanted to go before she died.
The next day, when I arrived at our early morning meeting point, she was already there, wearing a large, sky blue backpack and a straw hat, neither of which I’d seen her wear before. She looked like she was about to go on vacation.
Before we’d even said hello, she noticed me, and her eyes widened with shock.
“Where are all your things?” she asked. “Is that all you’re bringing? What about your change of clothes?”
“My change of clothes?” I repeated dumbly.
“Well, it’ll be okay. We’ll just have to buy you clothes when we get there. I’m sure there’ll be a Uniqlo or something.”
“‘There’? Uniqlo? What?”
I started feeling unsettled.
Paying no attention to my apprehensive questions, she casually looked at her watch and asked, “Have you had breakfast?”
“Some toast, but that’s all.”
“I haven’t. You mind coming with me to buy something?”
I didn’t and said as much. She flashed me a grin and began walking briskly through the station’s shopping area to the place she had in mind. I thought she might be looking for a convenience store for a little snack, but instead we arrived at a place that sold boxed bento meals.
I asked, “You’re buying a bento meal?”
“Sure. We’re allowed to eat on the bullet train, you know. Do you want one?”
“Wait, wait wait wait wait,” I said.
She was happily gazing at the storefront display case where an assortment of takeout meals had been carefully arranged. I took her by both of her arms and pulled her away from the order counter. The old woman behind the counter watched us, seemingly finding us cute.
When we were face-to-face, I was surprised to see her expression—one of surprise.
I said, “That’s what I’m supposed to look like right now.”
“What’s wrong?” she asked.