“Every experience we have in life is purely by chance, be it favorable or not-so-favorable, extraordinary or mundane. So if every one of us is a protagonist, what are we to think of the people who meet tragic ends? Are we forced to accept that that’s simply how their story was meant to go? Suppose the bullying you endured in high school had driven you to take your own life. Would you have thought that was the only possible outcome for your story?”
“No, I wouldn’t have.”
“Of course not. Every person, including you, including me, is a faceless character who was perhaps a protagonist at one point. Likewise, a novel is merely a narrow slice of the lives of all its characters, not an excuse to choose one to bless with disproportionate fortune. In a world where so many choices are readily made for us by circumstance, luck, and other things beyond our control, I’m grateful that you’re still here today.”
“Could you maybe not pivot so hard into fawning all of a sudden? I never know how to react.”
“I wasn’t trying to fawn, but if that’s how you see it, perhaps I’ll make an effort to be harsher. The fact that you’ve only just noticed the absence of the word protagonist in my story would suggest that you have worse reading comprehension than the readers posting reviews online. What do you say to that?”
“Has no one ever taught you how to balance the bitter with the sweet?”
“I’m only a girl, after all.”
In response to her editor’s slightly exaggerated scowl, Nanoka giggled innocently. Since she was only a girl, she felt no qualms about asking for a bite of the woman’s pasta, at which point Kokubo flagged down the host to ask for a new fork and a serving plate.
Despite Nanoka’s intentions to eat gracefully, a single noodle drooped from the fork before it could reach her mouth, dirtying her face once again. By contrast, Kokubo elegantly savored her bite of omurice.
Though Nanoka had said from the outset that she didn’t want to talk about work, she soon found herself recounting a few ideas she was thinking of incorporating into her next story, and before she knew it, the time had flown by. Perhaps the pleasant softness of the booth seat was partly to blame. As they walked out of the restaurant, she could practically feel the season suffusing the air around them.
“Seeing as there’s still plenty of daylight left, I think I’ll spend it shopping. You’re free to return to your work.”
“Okay then, I’ll be heading off. Great work today, ma’am.”
With a dutiful bow, Kokubo turned away and walked off in the direction of the subway station. As Nanoka watched her go, she was reminded that no amount of friendly banter would change the fact that their relationship was strictly professional. During these moments of farewell, the loneliness set in quietly, but at the same time she kept her head held high, ever mindful of the optics.
Perhaps we should go for a walk in the city sometime. I wonder if even a stray would find these crowded streets perplexing.
As she thought of the black cat who came and went as she pleased, Nanoka walked up the gently sloping streets this district was known for, seeking a place with a bit more sun. With each step, the passersby grew more and more scarce, and at first she wondered if perhaps most people preferred to avoid the sunlight. She quickly realized, however, that it had more to do with the district itself being shaped like a basin.
Somewhere, in the liminal space between body and mind, Nanoka was humming. She felt it helped her seek out the stories hidden in the world around her. Granted, if she had been humming just a bit louder, or listening to music with her earbuds in, or chatting with Kokubo still, she might not have heard it, but…
“Are you…Ogusu…Nanoka-san?”
Someone was calling her name. And for that very simple reason, she turned to look.
There, she locked eyes with a girl wearing a school uniform—the sort of girl whose beauty was highlighted by the inherent imbalance of a dainty appearance that didn’t entirely conceal her growing maturity.
“Yes, I’m Ogusu Nanoka, but I don’t believe we’ve met. Are you a fan?” Nanoka asked, offering her estimation of the situation. If it was correct, then she predicted the girl would introduce herself and give some manner of opinion on her work.
From the outset, this girl seemed like the calm, collected type. She was wearing glasses, after all. But Nanoka would soon learn that her cold reading was entirely off-base.
“Uh, I…I…”
Before she could manage any meaningful sentiment, the girl whipped open the bookbag hanging from her shoulder, plunged a hand inside, and pulled out a single book. Nanoka didn’t need to scrutinize it to know that it was a paperback she herself had written.
“I…um…I, er… This book you wrote…”
Breathing hard, she held the book out with both hands, but Nanoka looked past it into her eyes.
“This book really…um…really helped me.”
The girl was so worked up, she was even starting to cry. Nanoka watched every last gleaming tear with rapt attention—not so much as a blink—and thought about how she would respond. What could she say? It would be all too easy to offer a simple thank-you, or to express some wild assumption about those tears. And yes, she knew doing so would surely make the girl happy.
“It was almost like…I mean, not to be weird…I could be wrong, but it was literally like, um…like you wrote it about me.”
Nanoka envisioned the girl’s barely-contained feelings spilling forth from the heart that held them, transforming into words and tears—the sort of lyricism that could only be found in the world of fiction. As the girl’s body shook, her bag slid off her shoulder and hit the ground with a heavy thump.
Meanwhile, Nanoka kept thinking about what she could give to this fan in return. There was so much she wanted to offer—heaps upon heaps of gratitude and other warm emotions. But none of it was a match for the girl’s radiance, so she hesitated.
“I always…you know, always wished for…um…that kind of story…”
Without a pen or keyboard—no, even with those things, an author was powerless. It was the girl’s words that filled this useless adult’s silence, inspiring Nanoka at last with both a response to these feelings and the courage to say it.
“Thank you, young lady.”
“Huh? No, no…”
“The thing is…” Nanoka took a step forward and gently placed a hand over the girl’s as she clutched the paperback. “I don’t think it’s possible for a story, or a novel, to help someone.”
She met the girl’s watery eyes with her own, prepared to accept whatever would rise up in them, be it surprise or even disappointment.
“Books cannot be eaten. They cannot slake your thirst, nor heal your wounds.”
This was the sort of common sense even a child might possess, but she chose to recite it.
“They cannot stop wars or shield you from senseless violence.”
This was something people realized at some point in their teenage years, but she wanted to revisit it.
“A story printed on paper cannot change the tragedies that happen around you.”
This was something every adult had resigned themselves to, but she elected to repeat it.
“I cannot ignore these things and claim that books help people.”
They held no nutritional value. They couldn’t counteract misfortune or disease. But like a little girl, Nanoka had once believed that stories and novels held the power to stop people from hurting and hating one another.
Back then, she would never have dreamed she would one day look at her life, at her creations, and feel so useless. Back then, she didn’t know the feeling of emptiness that would result from a single cruel word crushing her imagination and all its countless tales. But then she grew up.
“However…” She cupped the girl’s hands with both of her own. “If you insist that by some magic, some miracle, the novel I wrote truly helped you when you were in need…”
The girl had stopped crying. She looked even more beautiful now than the moment they first met, for Nanoka had witnessed her sparkle firsthand…and received a truly irreplaceable gift in the form of her feelings.
The girl had called it a wish, so as an author, it was only proper that Nanoka offer a wish in kind.
“I wish for this story to always and forever be solely yours.”