1 At what point do you stop being a child and start being an adult? The thought drifts across my mind sometimes. When I was little, I thought grown-ups knew a lot of stuff. They taught me how to solve problems in my homework that I didn’t get. They knew all kinds of games. I could rely on them, and I felt safe when I was with them. I guess the answer to that question depends on who the child sees as a grown-up—for me, it was my father. He was an aspiring film director, and as far as society was concerned, he was jobless. We were always together at home. He had a habit of saying, “Because I’m the grown-up,” and whenever I didn’t have school, the two of us would watch old movies all day long. At one point, my “grown-up” father started lying to me. Maybe he’d already been lying a long time before that, and I’d just been too little to see through his lies. If growing up meant being able to see through people’s lies, I wanted to stay a kid forever. But the grown-up in front of me kept right on lying. I loved him a lot. He was always gentle. He was important in my life, and I wanted him to be by my side forever. One day, he just disappeared. I was in elementary school. Before he left, he said, “I’m going out for a bit. I’ll be back before you know it.” He had that same pained look he always had on his face when he lied. It was August already. Two weeks had gone by since school let out for the summer. So much had happened since then—actually, it had already been hectic before summer break started. We hurried to revise our movie according to Tsubasa and Tsukishima’s new idea, and we somehow made it right in time for the submission deadline for the indie film competition. It would’ve been ideal to make movies with more wiggle room in our schedule, but sometimes we’d end up like this—especially if Tsubasa came up with something new—and we’d keep revising the movie right up to the deadline. But I knew that those last-minute ideas always made the film better. I’d never forget the time when the four of us made a movie in the summer of our third year of junior high, and we submitted it to a contest for junior high schoolers. That time, just like now, Tsubasa had proposed a change right before the deadline. We worked together to make it happen, and as a result, our movie won an award. I hadn’t thought I’d get emotional, but when we heard the news, I just couldn’t help myself. I’d discovered how thrilling it could be to work together with a team you trust to achieve a single goal. I got hooked on the creative process. Since then, we threw ourselves into filmmaking with even more fervor than before. Once in a while, Tsubasa would come up with a new idea right before the deadline, but I’d come to accept it as a sort of superstition. Whenever that happened, it always led to something good. So this time around, I had a hunch that the same thing might happen again. Maybe this movie would also turn out to be something special… “Now then, let me just say one more time—hey, Aoi, are you listening?” Tsubasa called out to me. I’d been lost in thought, sitting at the desk in our clubroom with my chin resting in my hand. I looked up at her. She was standing in front of the group, the commemorative plaque in her hands. “Yeah, yeah. I’m listening,” I told her. “Okay then, once again… Congrats to us for snagging the special prize at the indie film festival! We did iiit!” It was a pretty strange cheer, and Tsubasa thrust her fist into the air as she said it. Everyone except me followed her lead, raising their fists with a hesitant “W-we did it.” “Uh, you want us to all cheer ‘We did it’?” I asked dubiously. “Oh, would you prefer ‘We won’?” “That’s not what I meant, but that might be a little better.” “All right, then, one more time—” “Again?” “Why not? We can do it a hundred times. It’s something to celebrate!” In the summer indie film festival, anyone of any age or any level of experience could submit a film to be part of the public competition as long as they passed the preliminary selection. Almost fifty films were shown in a small theater over the space of a week or so. The audience cast their votes, and the top ten films were judged by a panel. Since there were so many films, even the most die-hard film lover would find it hard to watch every work in the running—which meant that the race had begun when the titles and blurbs were displayed on the festival website. Our film, The Girl Who Dies from a Rare Disease, got a special prize at the festival. We’d also passed the preliminary selection last year, but our movie had failed to garner enough attention and hadn’t got many votes. This year’s outcome was a major achievement. I should’ve been overjoyed. And yet… “All righty, then, let’s do this one more time. Congrats to us for bringing home the special prize at the indie film festival! We wooon!” We all chanted, “We won!” When I glanced at Tsukishima, he was grinning sheepishly with his fist in the air. Why was it that I couldn’t fully bask in the glory of our win? Probably because of this guy: Makoto Tsukishima. Just as I was shooting him a look, Tsubasa said, “We got the prize thanks to your idea, Makoto. Plus, you were the leading actor. You should be shouting the loudest!” “What? No, it was all of you—you let me be a part of the project, and I was just tagging along.” At some point, Tsubasa had switched to calling Tsukishima by his first name. And that wasn’t the only thing that had changed: As hard as it was hard to believe, they were actually going out now. Tsubasa, the same person who used to say she didn’t get what romance was all about, was officially going out with someone… Tsubasa and I have been friends since preschool, and we’ve been making films together since our fifth grade of elementary school. Our tastes are similar. What we consider beautiful or ugly align pretty closely. That’s why Tsubasa always counts on me to give her my opinion; whenever she comes up with an idea for revising a movie, I’m the first one she talks to. At least, that’s how it had been up till now. This time, I found out afterward that the new idea had come from Tsukishima. I’d assumed it was Tsubasa’s, so I was shocked, and it also kind of got on my nerves. “So, Director. About our next film,” I said a bit awkwardly, seeing the two of them getting along. “Oh, right, sorry. Our next movie. Let’s see…” Prompted by my remark, Tsubasa started describing her idea for our next movie. Ena was listening eagerly, all smiles, and Ichika was drinking in her words with the attentiveness of a diligent student. Ena had been one of us since junior high school. When Tsubasa and I were in second year, we got wind of a rumor that an incredibly cute girl had transferred to our school, so we went to ask her to be in our movie. “Why are you making a movie? What’s the point?” Ena had said. Back then, Ena never smiled; she was surly and ice-cold. The gossip around school was that her father was a VIP at some famous company and that he’d recently gotten remarried. “There’s no point. The meaning is in the making,” Tsubasa answered without batting an eye. “That still doesn’t make any sense,” Ena said frostily. “Of course it doesn’t. You’re not trying to get it,” Tsubasa said. Ena had turned us down at first, but Tsubasa didn’t give up. It hadn’t been easy, but with Tsubasa’s persistence, Ena eventually gave in. Even so, I had the feeling that Ena had only pretended to begrudgingly give in; I think she secretly wanted to make something with Tsubasa. Back then, Tsubasa was the only person Ena would talk to. Ena had put up thick walls all around her, shutting everyone else out. Only Tsubasa, with her carefree attitude, could march right through those walls as if they weren’t there. Later on, I came to understand that Ena hadn’t locked herself up in her shell because she’d wanted to. There was a reason why she had to be that way. One time, she’d suddenly showed us her weak side. “My father…wanted a son, not a daughter,” she told us. For her, saying that out loud must have been like sending out an SOS. She must have wanted to call for help so badly. “But Mom couldn’t have any more children… He was fine with it until I got to junior high, but it turns out he just couldn’t give up on the idea. He’s a piece of garbage. He arranged the divorce and got himself a new wife before I even knew what was going on and told me I shouldn’t see my mom again.” Losing someone you love, your parents getting divorced—things like that happened in movies. I already knew firsthand they were both part of real life, too, though. Like me, Ena couldn’t live with both her biological parents. She seemed especially close to her mother, so it was hard for Ena to be separated from her. We were just junior high kids. There was nothing we could do to help Ena—or so I’d thought. One day, when we didn’t have school, Tsubasa had called Ena to come out for a film shoot. Ena didn’t seem to know what to make of Tsubasa’s sudden suggestion, but we made her get on the train with us, and we headed for the town where Ena used to live with her mother. Happiness comes in all sorts of different forms; that’s another thing I learned from movies. Both Ena’s parents and mine must have parted ways because each person had different ideas about what happiness is. “I don’t know about all the complicated stuff…but it’s obvious what makes Ena happy, don’t you think?” Tsubasa mused as we waited for Ena in a café in the unfamiliar town. When Ena had seen her mother again, she’d cried. The three of us had been walking toward Ena’s old house. Tsubasa had been stopping Ena from turning back, and just at that moment, her mother had come outside. She noticed Ena and stopped in her tracks, shocked. Then she started running toward her daughter. I’d watched scenes like that in movies before, and once again, I was struck by the fact that films really did reflect reality. “Mom,” Ena murmured in a daze. Her mother pulled her into a tight embrace, and Ena sobbed loudly. “I’m glad you could see your mom again,” Tsubasa told her. Then we had left Ena and her mother alone and gone into a café nearby to wait. Tsubasa was sitting there with her big, carefree smile, so I told her what I thought: Happiness comes in different forms. And that had been Tsubasa’s answer: It’s obvious what makes Ena happy. Ever since that meeting with her mother, Ena started to change. While Tsubasa and I were waiting at the café, Ena had talked with her mother for the first time since her parents’ divorce and told her everything, including how much she still loved her. We didn’t hear the details, but it sounded like her mother had taken a step back after the divorce so that Ena could get used to her new stepmother sooner. It was clear that Ena’s mom still loved her daughter from the bottom of her heart—we’d seen it in the way she ran over and hugged her tight. Ena’s mother had given her the name, written with the kanji for smile to express her hopes for her daughter. Ena said she wanted to be true to her name and never forget to smile, no matter what happened in life. That way, she could remember what her mother wanted for her, even when they were far apart. And that’s how she became the Ena she is now, always holding on to that positivity. “Ena looks more comfortable in her own skin than she used to,” Ichika had once said. Ena stood out at school, while Ichika, on the other hand, was fairly nondescript. Tsubasa and I had been friends with Ichika since we were little. She tagged along with us everywhere, so when we started making movies in fifth grade, she helped us out as an actor. We knew that Ichika had a pure soul and that she was more earnest and hardworking than anyone else. So that was how we became a team: Tsubasa, the genius type, bold and impulsive, who knew how to get things done; the beautiful Ena, who was actually the wisest of all of us; Ichika, who never skimped on her efforts and gave her all to everything she did; and me, who had no special talent to speak of but at least knew a lot about movies. The filmmaking club was just for the four of us. As soon as Ena and Ichika entered the same senior high school as Tsubasa and me, we registered as an official club, and luckily the school approved our application without a hitch. They even gave us a clubroom and a small amount of funds for our activities. This room was a castle for just the four of us. At least, it had been for me. But now… “Aoi? Are you listening?” Tsubasa called out. I snapped out of my reverie and replied calmly, “Sure. We’re submitting to the Eiga Koushien Competition again this winter, right? It’s going to be a medium-length film, so it’ll take time to shoot it. Ideally, we should settle on the concept during the summer break and start filming once school starts to stay ahead of schedule. So, if we have ideas about the story or anything else, we should speak up anytime. Does that about sum it up?” Tsubasa nodded, looking pleased. “Oh good, you did hear everything I said.” “I’d never miss a single word you say, Tsubasa.” “Can you say that again? I wanna film you. It was a nice line for a ‘trusted partner’ kinda role.” “Sorry, what? I didn’t quite catch that.” “What happened to you hearing everything I say?” We had a brainstorming session about our next film after that. We were lucky enough to have an AC in the room, but it was an old one, so it didn’t work so well. We were practically sweating as we sat around the laptop. The sky we could see from inside the room was a deep, bottomless blue. Cicadas chirped furiously outside, as if they knew how short their lives were. During the meeting, Tsubasa spoke freely, and Ichika diligently offered her own opinions. Sometimes Ena joined in with a sharp observation. When Tsubasa asked him for his thoughts, Tsukishima responded thoughtfully. As for me, I organized everyone’s suggestions and got them back on track when the discussion seemed to veer off course. The whiteboard was filling up with all kinds of ideas. But at some point, the ideas dried up and we started talking in circles. “Hey, Tsubasa, how about we take a break?” I said. Since we’d run out of drinks, someone had to go get more. We played rock-paper-scissors to decide who should go. Tsubasa and I lost, so it was on us to go to the vending machine. As soon as we stepped out of our clubroom, we were swallowed up by the heat. It felt like a sauna. “Whoa, it’s so hot. Sure feels like summer!” Tsubasa exclaimed happily. She wasn’t faking it; she really did seem to find the fun in any situation. We walked side by side, just as we’d always done. Tsubasa had her phone out to take footage of the summer scenery, but this was just business as usual, so I didn’t mind. I’d gotten used to it by now. Do people just get used to everything, given time? Would I get used to having five people in the filmmaking club? The vending machine was right by the gym. We stepped into the shade where it stood. Tsubasa put a few coins in and pressed the buttons for the drinks that everyone had requested. It was then that I finally realized we were by ourselves. This was my chance to say something. “Hey,” I blurted out. “Hmm?” “Why are you going out with Tsukishima?” I wondered how my quiet voice could echo so loudly with the shrill chirping of the cicadas all around us. Tsubasa looked back at me. “Huh? ’Cause I like him,” she said casually. “Do you…mean that?” “Yup. We went on a date to the zoo last week, and I was like, ‘Ah, I really do like him.’” “Oh yeah? What stole your heart, then?” “I feel like there’s darkness hiding inside him.” “What? He’s not a movie character, you know.” “I’m kidding. I mean, that’s how it started…but now I feel really peaceful when I’m with Makoto, and my heart starts racing—you know. There are all these little moments when I can tell he really cares about me. I guess he made me realize I’m in love.” “Whoa. Seriously?” “What else? He’s super kind. He has this air about him that’s actually a bit like your dad—” Noticing my grimace, Tsubasa stopped herself. “Like who?” I said. “Uhh, sorry. Never mind.” “You’re paying for my drink, Tsubasa.” “Aww. Oh well, guess I gotta suck it up. What do you want? Black coffee?” We got a can for everyone; Tsubasa carried three, cradling them in her arms, and I carried one in each hand. “Brr, they’re cold. Let’s hurry back,” she said. When we turned around, we found Tsukishima coming toward us. “What’s up, Makoto?” “Oh, nothing. Just thought maybe you’d like a hand with the drinks.” He took two cans from Tsubasa’s arms. “Ooh, thanks. Makoto to the rescue.” “Well, they’d be easier to carry if I hadn’t joined the club, so I can go get the drinks from now on.” “I wonder how many you can hold.” “I don’t know, I guess I could handle five at least, if I tried.” “Hey, Tsukishima,” I cut in. When he turned around, I shoved two more cans in his hands. “Then you take these, too. You better not drop any.” He looked taken aback, but then a wry smile crossed his face. “Oh, okay. Sure thing.” Tsubasa giggled at how obedient he was and took one of the cans for him. 2 In the end, we didn’t make any big decisions about our next film that day. But we kept discussing the direction we wanted to take, and eventually it started taking shape. We thought of having Ichika play the lead role this time. Having Ichika as the protagonist sparked our discussion: What kind of film would work well with Ichika as the main character? What kind of story would draw out compelling dialogue from her? Little by little, we built up our vision for the film. Apparently, Tsubasa and Tsukishima were going on dates after every club meeting. I happened to hear about it because Ichika was eager to ask them how things were going. Tsukishima couldn’t come to the clubroom sometimes because he had errands to take care of at home, but otherwise, he was a steady presence at our meetings. One weekday in August, I stumbled across Tsukishima at the hospital. Both my mother and stepfather have regular jobs—my mother, who remarried when I was in sixth grade, works as a nurse. The day I saw Tsukishima, I’d gone to Mom’s workplace to bring her something she’d forgotten at home. Back before my parents divorced, my jobless father and I used to go to the hospital together to bring her things. My father had dreamed of becoming a film director. He was a kind man, but he had trouble making a living. In the end, he never managed to become a professional director, and when I was in fourth grade, he wandered off somewhere and never came back. He left quite a few things behind for me: a whole lot of DVDs and books about movies, some filming equipment like his old camera, and a sort of sixth sense for detecting lies. My father had lied to me a lot. He told me that he was so close to becoming a professional director and that things were going well between him and my mother. From little white lies to blatant falsehoods, he told them all. Before I knew it, I’d picked up this weird knack for seeing through people’s lies. I learned how their tone or attitude changes, how their eyes look when they’re not telling the truth. On the day he disappeared, my father had said, “I’m going out for a bit. I’ll be back before you know it.” As soon as he said it, I knew he was lying. And I was right. He never came back. This skill of mine comes in handy, though. When a group of girls are making movies, people try to cozy up to you when you’d rather be left alone. One guy had told us, “I genuinely like the movies you make, Tsubasa. It’d be great if we could make something together.” That was a lie. He’d only been interested in getting close to Tsubasa. Another guy said, “You really do make interesting movies. Can I have your numbers? I’ll introduce you to a producer I know.” That was a lie, too. He wasn’t talking to us because he appreciated our filmmaking skills, but because he liked how we looked. Thanks to my father’s example, I could pick out lies from truths. I’d been doing my best to protect everyone in the club because the three of them were really important to me. Now, back to the day I saw Tsukishima at the hospital. I was sitting in the café in the building, watching people pass by while having a cup of coffee. There was a branch of a popular coffee shop just inside the front entrance of the hospital. So many people came and went at a hospital. Countless lives intersected in a place like this, and so much was happening underneath the surface, invisible to strangers. I was gazing at the flow of people absentmindedly when I spotted a familiar face. That was a surprise—it was Tsukishima. He was walking toward the exit with a woman, probably his mother. She looked somewhat downcast, and he seemed to be trying to cheer her up. I worried if something had happened to them. I almost kicked myself for worrying about Tsukishima. He glanced at the café. I thought it’d be awkward if we saw each other, so I looked away. Apparently oblivious to my presence, he led his mother into the café. “So, what are you having, Mom? How about something sweet?” “Hmm, maybe I’ll have a donut. Would you halve it with me, Makoto?” “Sure. Um…cheer up, Mom. If you’re worried about the sickness, I’m sure it’ll be okay.” “…Honestly, I should really pull myself together or your father’s going to tease me for making you cheer me up.” “Dad always jokes around, though.” “That’s true. He really does.” The two of them got in the line leading to the counter. It wasn’t my style to eavesdrop, so I got up quietly, put away my tray, and left without Tsukishima noticing me. Though I’d tried not to listen, I couldn’t help guessing that Tsukishima’s mother might be concerned about her health. And her son was being attentive to her, trying to take care of his family as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Just as Tsubasa had said, Tsukishima was probably a nice guy—though I didn’t particularly want to know anything like that about him. I didn’t tell anyone that Tsukishima’s mother might be ill. It looked like Tsukishima hadn’t told anyone either. Tsubasa seemed unaware of anything troubling him as she happily taught him about filming techniques and how to edit footage. Since Tsubasa asked me to, I taught Tsukishima the basics of scriptwriting and the filming process. Ichika was interested in writing screenplays, too, so I taught them both the methodology behind it. One day, before the Obon festival in mid-August, Ichika, Tsukishima, and I were in the clubroom by ourselves. Tsubasa and Ena, full of energy even in the scorching heat, were out location-scouting and getting some fresh air. Ichika seemed to have just as much energy as well. “Ooh, I have an idea! How about we put a plot twist using a smartphone into the script? The dates you see on a messaging app are actually linked to the device itself, so—” “That’s the trick you were telling Tsubasa about before, right? Movie scripts are different than novels; it’s best to keep them as simple as possible. The key is not to try to cram too much in,” I explained, borrowing the words of a director I’d read about somewhere. Tsukishima and Ichika were listening closely. Ichika had always had a preference for literature; she was a big fan of romance and mystery novels. It turned out that Tsukishima had also used to read a lot when he was in junior high, so the two of them got along well. They were quickly becoming fast friends. I finished my lecture on writing scripts, and we decided to take a break. Ichika went to the restroom, leaving Tsukishima and I alone in the clubroom. He was staring at the tabletop calendar in his hand, lost in thought. “Hey,” I said. It wasn’t that I couldn’t stand the silence. Nor did I have any intention of saying anything like “Take good care of your family” or “Count yourself lucky that you’ve still got both of your parents with you.” But somehow, I found myself overstepping a boundary, and I asked him something that was no business of mine: “Did you have any troubles over summer break?” “Oh…” Tsukishima’s eyes widened a little. He put the calendar back on the table. “Why do you ask?” “Sorry. I just can’t keep quiet when something’s bothering me, so I thought I’d ask. You know my mother’s a nurse, right?” When I mentioned her workplace—the same hospital we filmed at last term—Tsukishima’s expression grew solemn. “I took her something she’d forgotten at home the other day, and I saw you with someone. I’m guessing she’s your mom. She looked like she was feeling down…so I wondered if something bad had happened to her.” I could tell Tsukishima was tense, but as I explained, he suddenly looked relieved. “Ah…right. I see. Sorry for making you worry,” he said. “No, I’m the one who was apologizing. I know I’m digging into your private life.” “Still, I feel kinda bad. Um…my mom’s fine. She’s perfectly healthy.” For a moment, I suspected that Tsukishima had lied to reassure me—that his mother actually did have some sort of serious illness and that he was covering it up to avoid making us worry. Except I couldn’t detect any trace of a lie in Tsukishima’s words. When people tell lies, they try to make it believable to convince other people that it’s true. To do so, they tend to talk a lot, or make gestures they don’t usually make, but Tsukishima showed none of those signs. “Okay. That’s good to hear,” I replied. “Yeah.” If nothing was wrong with his mother, why had she looked so down? Had they been visiting someone? Maybe an acquaintance of theirs had a deadly illness… “By the way, how long are you planning on being with Tsubasa?” I’d been on the fence about asking this question, but I knew I’d gone too far. It wasn’t my place to ask something like that. “I mean, you didn’t even think you had a chance with Tsubasa in the beginning, did you?” It might’ve been because I was trying to make it less awkward, but my tone took on a sarcastic sting. Ugh, I’m so awful. How do I become a better person? I thought, but I couldn’t stop myself. “You said you didn’t come here to get closer to her, but look at you now.” I noticed that Tsukishima had gone quiet. “Yeah, I know… You’re right,” he said hesitantly. “I’m surprised, too. I didn’t want to go out with her, and I didn’t think I could, either.” He smiled weakly, as if he didn’t know what to do about it. At the same time, he also looked kind of lonely, and as I wondered why, he went on. “But it’s all right. When the time comes, I’ll break up with her. So don’t worry.” “Huh? Wait, what do you—” “Oh, but that doesn’t mean I’m not completely serious about going out with her now. I want to make her happy and protect her in my own way, so…” “That’s not what I was asking about,” I said, but before I could press him on what he really meant, Ichika opened the door. Tsukishima and I both looked up at her. “I’m back,” she said. “Um, is everything okay? What’s up, Aoi?” She seemed puzzled by the sudden intense attention. I was still frozen in place when Tsubasa and Ena came back from scouting, saying stuff like “It’s sooo hot out there. The AC feels like heaven” and “I feel like my makeup’s melting off my face.” In the end, I didn’t get to ask Tsukishima what he had really meant. Judging from my interactions with him so far, I knew he wasn’t the kind of guy who said whatever popped into his head just to placate whoever he was talking to. Besides, I didn’t sense any lies in anything he’d said. That meant that what he’d said about Tsubasa must’ve been the truth: “When the time comes, I’ll break up with her. So don’t worry.” Just what had he meant by that? 3 Three days later, I texted Tsukishima: “Can we meet up? I want to ask you about the other day.” I’d been thinking about our conversation, but I still couldn’t make heads or tails of it, so I’d come to the conclusion that I should just ask Tsukishima head-on. If I could get him to talk to me face-to-face, I could tell when he was dodging my questions or lying. It was the middle of August. Since it was the Obon season, our club was on holiday, too. “Would it be okay to talk over the phone? Or text?” he wrote back. “I want to talk to you in person.” “Okay. When’s good for you? How about today?” “Can’t today. Are you free tomorrow?” “Tomorrow? Hmm…” “You’ve got plans? The day after tomorrow works for me too.” “No, nothing in particular.” “Then let’s do tomorrow.” I wrote the time and place before he could get out of it. “Don’t be late, okay? And don’t even think about canceling on me.” Maybe I’d been too forceful. His reply didn’t come immediately. There was a pause, as though he was unsure about something, and then he wrote, “Got it. See you then.” The next day, I waited for Tsukishima at the meetup spot—my favorite café. Though the place was usually crowded, it was quieter today; people were probably traveling to see their families for the Obon holiday. Tsukishima showed up five minutes before our meeting time. He looked slightly nervous, probably because he thought he was in trouble. We ordered drinks and chatted a bit, then sometime after our order came, I brought up the question I’d been waiting to ask. “So, about what you said the other day. What did you really mean?” “What did I say…?” “That you’d break up with Tsubasa when the time came.” Tsukishima fell silent. He seemed to be struggling to find the words. Eventually, he braced himself and looked me straight in the eye. “I meant exactly what I said,” he answered. “To tell you the truth, I have to transfer to another school in the winter because my family’s moving. It’s really far away.” “What?” I murmured. Sometimes the most important life changes struck you from out of the blue. He took me by surprise, and I couldn’t help showing it in my reaction. But it wasn’t just what he said that startled me; it was that this was unprecedented. Tsukishima had never once lied to me in the time I’d known him. But for the very first time, he’d just lied straight to my face. At least, that was what I’d sensed. “When did you find out?” I asked. “Over summer break. I didn’t expect it, either. I was shocked.” He laughed with a helpless shrug, trying to lighten the mood. I didn’t know how to respond to his behavior, but I moved the conversation forward anyway. “So does that mean you’re breaking up with Tsubasa because you have to move far away with your family?” “Yeah. I guess that’s about the long and the short of it.” “And…Tsubasa doesn’t know about it, does she?” “Sorry. I know I have to tell her sooner rather than later, but I haven’t found the right time yet.” “Why? What are you waiting for? You should tell her as soon as possible,” I pressed, swallowing back the rest of the sentence that crossed my mind—if what you say is really true. Tsukishima clammed up again. Eventually, he replied, “Because this, right now, might be the happiest time of my life… Maybe you’ll laugh at me if I say something like that.” His face twisted into a pained grin, as though he was trying but failing to laugh his sadness away. This time, I was the one to go quiet. I couldn’t get a read on him; I was even more confused now. Why did he laugh like he was about to cry? If he was so happy, he should look for a way to stay here at the same school. It might be difficult, but there had to be a way. And even if that failed, it wasn’t like he had to break up with Tsubasa. Lots of couples kept going long distance. So why did he make a face like that? Why did he give up so easily on his own happiness? I didn’t get it at all. I had so many questions whirling around my head. “Tsukishima…can I ask you something? That story about moving, is that really—” Just as I was about to confirm whether my intuition was right—and if so, why he decided to lie—something even more bewildering happened. Tsukishima turned pale, the blood suddenly draining from his face. He seemed to notice the change, too, and there was fear in his eyes. It hit me that he’d been acting a bit odd since he’d arrived at the café. “Sorry. I-I’m not feeling so good today,” he blurted out. “What? Wait, you okay, Tsukishima?” What happened next looked like an act. Tsukishima thumped both arms down on the table and slumped over face down. “I’m really sor—,” he murmured. The next moment, his whole body went limp and he stopped moving completely. I called his name, but he didn’t react. I reached out to touch his arm. It was cold, but he was sweating at the nape of his neck. Something was really wrong. I asked a waiter to call the ambulance right away, while Tsukishima was slumped in his chair, unconscious. 4 The ambulance came within ten minutes, and the paramedics urged me to ride with him. I wondered whether I should let Tsubasa know, but I called the school first on the way to the hospital. I talked to a teacher on duty, who told me he would alert Tsukishima’s parents and that I should wait for them at the hospital. The nurse assured me that Tsukishima was safe, but he didn’t wake up. Tsukishima’s parents came in no time: his kindly mother, who I’d seen before at the hospital, and his father, who looked like a generous, good-natured man. They looked frantic as they rushed to his bedside. Since it was the first time I’d met them, I briefly introduced myself as the vice president of the filmmaking club that Tsukishima was a member of, and I apologized to them for making Tsukishima meet up with me at the café. His parents seemed surprised to hear that Tsukishima was involved with the filmmaking club at all. Apparently, he hadn’t told them much about it. When I answered their questions—that Tsukishima had just joined last term and that he’d been acting in our movie for us—they seemed even more taken aback. “So that’s what he’s been up to,” his mother said. “He did tell us he joined a club, but making a movie…? He must be new to everything—I hope he hasn’t been making things difficult for you.” “Not at all. In fact, it was our president who dragged him into it in the first place… And I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but thanks to his hard work, we even won a prize in a summer film festival.” I was surprised at my own words recognizing Tsukishima’s contributions to the club. I wasn’t just saying it because I was talking to his parents, and it wasn’t out of guilt for pushing him too hard, either. I was simply telling the truth, explaining Tsukishima’s presence objectively to a third party. Whether I liked it or not, that prize wouldn’t have been ours if not for him. “A prize? He didn’t tell us anything about that…,” his mother replied with a wry smile while I was still reeling from my own admission. At first, I hadn’t really thought Tsukishima resembled his parents much, but looking closer, his mother’s facial expressions were just like his. I could see traces of him in his father, too. All three of them had a gentle, kindhearted air about them. They asked me not to tell Tsukishima that we’d had this conversation about his club activities, since they didn’t know why he’d been keeping them a secret. Tsukishima was still lying in bed, unconscious. “Um, by the way—does he have some kind of chronic illness?” I asked. “He said he wasn’t feeling well today just before he blacked out.” His parents looked at each other. After a slight pause, his mother turned back to me and told me gently that he used to get sick often when he was little, but it wasn’t something you’d call a chronic illness. “Don’t worry, he’ll wake up in a jiffy,” his father added with a smile. “He’s…perfectly healthy. There’s nothing to worry about.” My thoughts went still hearing his father’s words and seeing his reaction. I wondered why. There shouldn’t have been anything to suspect in what he said. But even as I told myself that he must be telling the truth, all the lies I’d heard and my finely honed sixth sense were sending me signals. I can’t stop myself from sensing what’s left unsaid. I can feel it in my gut. That’s why it hurts sometimes—it’s always been that way. “I see. I understand. I’m sorry for asking about something so private,” I said. After chatting with his parents a little while longer, I went back home. I couldn’t bring myself to ask them about Tsukishima’s story about transferring schools. 5 Tsukishima didn’t wake up while I was at the hospital, but he sent me a text that night, apologizing for putting me through all the trouble. He explained that he’d fainted because he was anemic. He also asked me not to tell Tsubasa anything about his collapse or his move in the winter. I agreed, but after that incident, I found myself observing him through a different lens. I had a feeling that he was hiding something. Tsubasa had joked that one of the reasons she’d fallen for Tsukishima was because there was a darkness inside him. I could sense that shadow, too—hidden behind his faint smile or in his eyes as he gazed silently off into the distance. I felt it even when he sometimes told us casually that he couldn’t come to club that day because he had to run some errands at home. I mulled over what he’d said before he passed out: “Because this, right now, might be the happiest time of my life… Maybe you’ll laugh at me if I say something like that.” What was Tsukishima hiding? I stumbled across the answer to that question when I least expected it. It was ten days before the end of summer vacation. The organizers of the indie film festival had turned the prize-winning films into commemorative DVDs, and Tsubasa had received our set in the mail. We decided to watch them all the way through to reflect on each film’s strengths and weaknesses, so we gathered in the clubroom. Of course, our own work—The Girl Who Dies from a Rare Disease—was among them. We went through the films one by one, and eventually it was time to watch ours. Everyone was in high spirits; Tsubasa was teasing Tsukishima, and Ena and Ichika were grinning together. The scene in the nurse’s office appeared on the computer screen, with Tsukishima’s lines: “It’s easy to lose hope. Giving up won’t change anything, though. You’d only make the people around you and yourself miserable. So…you should get angry.” I was stunned. For the others, it was just another scene in a movie. But for me, it was completely different. Everything made sense now. What was Tsukishima hiding? I couldn’t believe the answer had been staring me right in the face. “You’re going to die,” Tsukishima said to the heroine on-screen. “You’ve got six months left to live? How can you act so normal? Why are you pretending to give up on life? It’s not that easy to let go. You should want to take it all out on people. You should hate everyone going on with their ordinary lives. And that’s going to make you hate yourself… But even with all that… You should want to live longer and keep fighting right up until the end.” At the time, I’d wondered why Tsukishima had gone in that direction. Some actors can turn into a character as if they were possessed, but those kinds of actors are rare. Before shooting that take, I had told him to be himself instead of trying to act, but I figured he’d thought more deeply about who the protagonist was, and that was what he’d come up with. But maybe I’d had it all wrong. Maybe Tsukishima really was just being himself. Those words might have been based on his own experience, which meant he was going to… When we finished watching all the prize-winning films, Tsubasa and Ichika were excited, ready to dissect each work from every angle. Since we had coupons for a family restaurant in front of the train station, we decided to discuss it over lunch. Everyone was chatty as we ate, Tsubasa most of all. I was the only one who was quiet. We stayed there till sunset, then headed home before it got dark. I parted with the others, telling them I wanted to stop by a bookshop. But instead, I went to a park nearby and sat down on a bench. After a little while, a text message pinged on my phone. “I’m alone now. Where should I meet you?” It was from Tsukishima. While we were still at the diner, I’d secretly texted him that there was something important I wanted to talk to him about, and I’d asked him if we could meet one on one later. I messaged him where I was and waited. Soon Tsukishima came by himself. He had a serious look on his face. He noticed me on the bench and walked over to me. I got up, and we stood face-to-face in the empty park. “So,” I said. “What’s up?” he replied. The sun was dipping below the trees. “Tell me…are you going to die?” Tsukishima froze. His face turned to stone; he didn’t betray any emotion. I’d wavered about whether to pry into his personal affairs, right up until the words actually left my mouth, but I just had to ask. It was important to know for the future of our club, too. He was silent for a while, taken aback by my sudden question. “Where did you get that idea? Are you still worried about what happened the other day? I just passed out that time—no big deal.” He laughed, apparently trying to turn my question into a joke. I didn’t say anything. I knew what silence could do in situations like these. “Besides…everyone dies,” he said. “True.” “Seriously, what’s gotten into you?” “How much longer do you have to live?” Tsukishima’s face stiffened again. “The protagonist in our movie—that was about you, wasn’t it?” A breeze drifted through the park. The sky was a violent red, as if the whole world was on fire. After a long pause, he said, “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His acting was terrible, and I think he knew it, too. I gave him a brief version of how I’d come to my conclusion, leaving out the conversation I had with his parents. I told him about my hunch that he was lying about moving, my assumptions about his collapse, and how the movie we’d rewatched had clinched it. Tsukishima listened without saying a word. He neither interrupted nor refuted me, nor did he try to laugh it off. He seemed to accept reality, and when I finished my account, he had an awkward smile on his face. “I thought lying would be so simple…but it’s harder than I imagined,” he said, turning his gaze to the sunset. I stared at his profile as he narrowed his eyes a little, as if the light was too bright. Or maybe he was in pain. “But I’m a bit relieved, too, somehow. I guess it’s because I don’t have to keep lying to you, at least… It’s a funny feeling.” Tsukishima did look somewhat relieved; the shadow hanging over his face had cleared. I didn’t sense he was hiding anything, in his expression or his words. “If Tsubasa were here, she’d wish she’d filmed you saying that,” I joked to relieve the tension. He smiled back. “She’d probably pull out her camera and ask me to say it again. And I’m an idiot, so I’d say the same thing all over, even if I felt embarrassed.” “Yeah, probably.” “…Hm? Which bit were you agreeing to?” “What Tsubasa would say, and that you’re an idiot.” We burst out laughing. I realized it was the first time we’d laughed together like this. I felt so open and unreserved in that moment. One thing we had in common was that Tsubasa Minami was precious to us. That was the pure and simple truth, and that was enough to help us understand each other. Tsukishima’s smile faded, and he looked straight at me. After a moment’s hesitation, he told me the name of the illness he had: a long, difficult name that I’d never heard of. “I found out back in March this year. They told me I have one year left.” He spoke as quietly as falling snow, and I could feel a chill on my skin even in the summer heat. That snow swallowed up all the sounds of the world. All of a sudden, I didn’t know what to say or think. Even in my confusion, even in that strange silence, everything he’d said was coming together in my head. “I want to ask you something…,” I said. “Why did you make up that excuse about moving?” “I was going to break the news to everyone eventually,” Tsukishima replied, his gaze still fixed on me in the gathering twilight. “I’m sure it’s sad when someone close to you passes away—it must come as a shock. I don’t want you guys to experience that. So I’ve talked to my homeroom teacher and the nurse at school, and when I get too sick to go to school, the official story will be that I had to transfer to a different school on short notice…and I’ll just disappear.” “And Tsubasa doesn’t know?” “Like I said, I haven’t told her anything about that yet.” “What about your illness and how much time you have left?” Tsukishima averted his eyes. “She doesn’t know that, either,” he said, his voice heavy with regret and grief. Before I knew it, I’d stepped forward and grabbed him by the collar. It was a cliché straight out of a manga or TV show, but here I was, playing it out. “Why did you start going out with Tsubasa, then?” I snapped before I could stop myself. “It’s obvious she’s going to be miserable when that happens. She really likes you now. She’s always said she doesn’t get a thing about romance, but she genuinely likes you. So if you just go off and disappear—if you die—she’ll be a wreck. Can’t you see that?” As soon as the words tumbled out of my mouth, I regretted it. I knew it was just about the worst thing I could’ve said to him. I let go of Tsukishima’s shirt and apologized, lowering my eyes to the ground. “Sorry,” I mumbled. “I know you’re the one who’s hurting the most… That was awful, what I just said.” “It’s okay. It’s normal to care about your friend.” I raised my head. Even at a time like this, he still wore a smile on his face. But a moment later, his expression became more complicated. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep my disease a secret from Minami. I promise I’ll make sure she never finds out. And once we break up because of me ‘moving,’ I’ll just become a blip in her past as time goes by. If we end it like that, she won’t be hurt too badly…I hope.” Even though he was talking about something so serious and sad, Tsukishima still forced himself to sound positive. “Really, don’t worry about it,” he went on. “I’ll keep everything hidden till the end—both my illness and my death. According to my doctor, I’ll pass out more and more often and for longer stretches of time as my illness progresses. And eventually, I’ll pass out one last time, and I won’t wake up anymore. But I can usually tell when I’m going to black out. If I don’t miss the signs, I can keep it a secret. The fainting started only recently, during summer break. I hadn’t gotten the hang of it yet when we met up the other day—I’d told myself I was going to be okay, and I ended up passing out in front of you…but from now on, I’ll make sure that won’t happen. So…” Tsukishima trailed off. He’d been keeping the cheer in his voice as best he could, but the smile he was trying to give me now was a failure. “Or do you think I should just disappear from Minami’s life right now?” he asked. “I could pretend I have to move before school starts up again. And I could go without saying good-bye to her…” It hurt to see Tsukishima like this. I knew that face well; Tsukishima reminded me of my father whenever he thought his dream of becoming a film director would always be beyond his reach. Memory pulled me back, and the image of myself as a small child flashed through my head. The one who’s left behind waits for the one who went away, hoping against hope that he might return someday. It didn’t matter to me that my parents had divorced; I still thought that my father might come home. That we could all live together again. But as time went by, and I began to understand, I realized that would never happen. And what about Tsubasa? If Tsukishima disappeared, would she wait for him? Would she chase after him? In time, would he become a part of her past, as my father had for me? At what point do you stop being a child and start being an adult? “Don’t you dare,” I said. Even if they can see through the lies of a grown-up, it makes no difference: A child is still just a child. They should only fix their eyes on their own happiness. They shouldn’t have to sacrifice themself or give up on what’s important to them. I realized I was angry. I’d probably wanted to rage at something for a long time. I’d wanted to fight back against the injustice I perceived—what had made a child become an adult at such a young age, that had left her with no other choice but to grow up. “I’m sorry…for what I said back there,” I told him. “I know why you’re going out with Tsubasa—it’s obvious. It’s because that’s what makes you happy. So you just reached out and seized your chance at happiness. That’s what people are supposed to do.” Right now, Tsukishima was living as normally as possible and spending time with the girl he liked every day—something he wouldn’t trade for the world. He was keeping his illness a secret because he truly cared about Tsubasa. Even though he was just a teenager, he was acting like a grown-up because he didn’t want to make her grieve. “I want you to hold on to that happiness for as long as you can,” I said. “You’re going to die, Tsukishima. You know that? You really might not have much longer to live.” I couldn’t stand it that he was prepared to throw away his chance at happiness. Tsukishima should be more selfish in the way he lived his life. He should be happy by Tsubasa’s side before he lost that chance forever. I was sure that was the right thing for Tsukishima to do. Besides, it wasn’t just Tsukishima who cared about Tsubasa—she was also my best friend. I could help take care of Tsukishima. I could help him keep his secret. “People who don’t have much longer to be happy shouldn’t be so quick to give up on that happiness. I’ll help—not for your sake, but because it’s the right thing to do for a fellow person. And for Tsubasa so she won’t have to grieve.” Tears were streaming down my face. I didn’t understand why—it wasn’t just because I’d seen my past myself in Tsukishima. I didn’t even really care about him. Or so I’d thought. Until now. Maybe somewhere deep down, there was a part of me that did care about him. I knew by then that this boy standing in front of me was kindhearted. He spared no effort in doing the things he set out to do. He was honest and loyal. And that was why I’d come to accept him as the fifth member of our crew. “You’re one of us, Tsukishima. Promise me you won’t let go of your own happiness. Okay?” Tsukishima was speechless, probably surprised to see my tears. The silence stretched on. He seemed to hesitate but finally responded, “Okay. I never knew how kind you were, Hayami.” I slapped him lightly on the arm and promised that from now on, he could always rely on me. 6 When people open their eyes, they can take in so many things around them: light, the scenery, a town, the people. The macro and micro goings-on of everyday life. But there are some things you can never see, no matter how hard you look, like the inner lives of the people around you, their anxieties, and their illnesses. At the park that day, I asked Tsukishima to tell me all about his disease. I needed to know to be able to support him, so I wiped away my tears and got ahold of my emotions. In his current condition, he would lose consciousness about once every few days. The onset would be sudden, but it would usually happen on a day when his body temperature was low in the morning. I told him that he shouldn’t push himself too hard on those days and that he should stay home and not come to the club. I assured him that I’d cover for him as naturally as possible. There was one problem, though. It was easy to come up with all kinds of excuses during the summer holidays, but once school started, that would get a lot more difficult. We needed to come up with a strategy while we still had time. Tsukishima had an idea, so we talked it over in depth. Four days later, Tsukishima was absent from the club, saying that he’d caught a summer cold. Everyone was worried about him, but since it was just a cold, they weren’t too anxious. I was the only one who knew that Tsukishima had actually blacked out. The next day, in the evening, Tsukishima sent me a text. He said he’d been out cold for about thirty hours—from the previous morning until just then—but he said he would come to our club meeting after school the following day. So far, his bouts of unconsciousness had happened at irregular intervals and never on consecutive days. Just as he’d said, he showed up at the clubroom that afternoon. “Oh, you’re here, Makoto. How’s your cold?” Tsubasa asked. She didn’t seem to suspect anything. “Sorry for making you worry. I’m all right now.” “Want me to come over next time you’re sick? I’ll take real good care of you.” “Uh, that’s okay. Don’t wanna spread it around.” Tsukishima was his usual self, too; he didn’t betray any signs that he’d just had a blackout. When I saw my chance, I delivered the line that Tsukishima and I had agreed upon beforehand. I was secretly nervous, but it was important to say it so we could handle things better in the future. “Come to think of it, you’re pretty pale, Tsukishima—is your health okay? I don’t think you’ve mentioned anything…but you strike me as one of those guys who used to get sick a lot when you were little,” I said, trying to make it sound casual. “Oh, um, well… I’ve mentioned this to Minami before, but I used to have a bit of a weak constitution back in elementary school.” Tsukishima’s mother had also told me about this, but it seemed to catch Ena and Ichika off guard. “Really? Are you all better now, Makoto?” Ena asked. “Uh, yeah, I’m fine. That’s all in the past. But it’s been extra hot this summer, so my parents are getting a bit overprotective of me… I might have to miss school or the club sometimes to go to the hospital—just to make sure I’m not getting sick like back then. That’s why I was away a few times during the break, too,” Tsukishima explained apologetically. His response was natural; I would’ve been surprised if anyone could see through the lie. Besides, it was a private matter, so the others didn’t want to be too inquisitive. “Make sure you get plenty of rest, and don’t push yourself too hard, Makoto. And let us know whenever you need to take time off,” Tsubasa reassured him, having already known about his condition. That gave Tsukishima and me the cover he needed to keep up his normal life. When summer vacation came to an end, the club held a discussion about the filming schedule for our next movie. I was ready to present my idea. “So, about our next film—I want Tsukishima to assist me instead of being an actor.” We’d included him as an actor during the planning stage, along with Ena and Ichika. However, as the screenwriter, I could suddenly decide to cut him from the script. This way, if something happened to him, he could miss club without feeling any pressure. It felt a bit forced to suggest such an idea, but we’d thought about that as well. “About that, Aoi—I’m all for doing the shooting without pushing Makoto too hard, but I still want all three of them in the movie, now that he’s part of the crew.” Tsubasa was reluctant to leave Tsukishima out; if we shot the film just with Ena and Ichika, there was a good chance that we’d end up making movies just like the ones we made before. “Let’s do that next time. We have to brush up on our skills first. You know it’s gonna be hard to win a prize at the Eiga Koushien this winter. Besides, you always go for the more artsy ideas, Tsubasa—the same thing happened when we were brainstorming for this movie. That’s not gonna improve our chances.” “Well…I guess you’ve got a point…,” Tsubasa mumbled, not totally convinced. “That’s not all,” I added after a pause. “We’re a crew of five now. Isn’t it better for Tsukishima to get a feel for different roles in filming, not just as an actor? It’ll be worth it in the long run, when we make more movies together.” A momentary hush fell over the room. Tsubasa, Ichika, and even Ena were all staring at me, wide-eyed—I’d practically given Tsukishima my seal of approval as a member of the club. “What happened to you, Aoi? Did you eat something weird?” Ichika blurted out. But when I shot her a look, she got flustered and didn’t say another word. I let out a sigh. “Anyway, that’s my thinking. Let’s have three actors for our next movie after this one, and in the meantime, we’ll improve our skills as a crew.” I could sense Tsukishima’s eyes on me. “Hmm…” Tsubasa gave the idea some thought, but after a little while, she seemed satisfied. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” she said with a laugh. “That makes sense. I’m sure we’ll have a lot more chances to make movies together next year—and even when we’re in college. From now on, we’re a crew of five.” Tsubasa beamed at Tsukishima, never doubting for a second that the five of us would keep making films together in the future. Tsukishima smiled back. “Yeah, I’m sure we will,” he said. I must have been the only one who could sense he was hurting inside. At some point, the cicadas’ intense chirping had quieted, and a cool breeze occasionally blew in through the open window. Summer was quietly fading away for each of us.
Chapter 2
53 min read