Itoha Hiiragi kept her guard up all day, right up until the moment she said good-bye to her friends on the way home from school. Even then she smiled and waved as her friends crossed the street and kept it up until they disappeared from view. She had to pat herself on the back. She’d done well. She was even a little proud of herself.
“I’m so tired,” Itoha muttered despite herself.
She’d driven herself hard—too hard—and she lacked the willpower to hold back her words. She realized her mistake right away, though, and forced her sociable front back up again. She hadn’t seen herself in a mirror, so she couldn’t say for sure, but she had a feeling that her expression just now had been very unpleasant. It was probably the same sort of expression she’d worn back when she’d only had one person she could truly call a friend.
Itoha straightened up and began to walk. She couldn’t let her guard down again—if she did, she’d end up staring straight at the ground with her back hunched. She had to be vigilant, but she was exhausted. She felt tired every day, but today had been especially bad.
At times like these, Itoha would go to a nearby park. It was a place she associated with some painful memories, but it was also a lush, verdant environment full of wildlife. Places like that suited her best.
A few other people were there that evening, but to Itoha’s relief, the bench was unoccupied. She sat down and gazed up at a towering zelkova tree that stood a short distance away. If she dug in the earth at the roots of that tree, she knew she’d find cicada larvae. She didn’t do that sort of thing anymore, of course. Digging for grubs wasn’t suitable behavior for a girl in her second year of middle school.
Itoha had thrown out all the butterfly, moth, cicada, beetle, and dragonfly specimens she’d collected over the years. She’d gotten rid of her field guide—a prized possession she’d dearly loved—and all the drawings she’d made of insects. She’d packed away the black and blue clothes that her grandmother had sewn for her, too. They didn’t fit her anymore, and she knew she never would’ve worn them again even if they had, but she couldn’t bring herself to throw them out. It would’ve felt like an insult to her grandmother. She wasn’t sure yet if she’d keep them after her grandmother passed, though. Just the thought of those clothes she’d worn back then still sitting in her house was enough to lower her spirits.
It was at times like these, when she was alone in this park so closely associated with a past she didn’t want to reflect on, that Itoha felt most at peace. It was the strangest thing. Eventually, though, she would have to go back home.
Itoha hated being at home, and when she was at school, she had to put on a front. Her grandmother took ill easily and was currently in the hospital. The doctors suspected she was showing signs of dementia, so it was possible she would never be discharged.
Itoha pulled out her phone—the phone her grandmother had bought for her. She unlocked it and tapped one of the apps. As she scrolled through her timeline, she lost the will to hold back.
“I saw Ryuuko Shiratama for the first time in ages. She’s nice and all, but talking with her was exhausting.”
Itoha didn’t have any reservations about putting up a post with someone’s name in it. By the time her message made it to someone else’s timeline, that name would be automatically censored.
In no time at all, reactions from other users came pouring in.
“Dealing with nice people is always so tiring.”
“Some people are so friggin’ overbearing!”
“The pressure to conform, it burns, lmao”
“Having to cooperate with people’s a bitch sometimes.”
Some of the replies were a little odd—like they’d missed the point of her post—but it was still a relief to know that somewhere out there, there were people who thought along the same lines as she did.
“Pretending to be someone else all the time is exhausting.”
Itoha posted the truth—the feelings that she could never open up about to anyone in person. Within seconds, someone replied.
“Of course it’s exhausting.”
“You did good! There, there.”
“Maybe you should try being a little more honest.”
“Just don’t push yourself too hard.”
“Your true self is what’s really important.”
“As long as you’re living genuinely, that’s all that matters.”
“Find your true self!”
“You don’t have to overthink this.”
“Just look inside yourself for who you really are.”
“Look for the real you!”
“Uncover your inner truth!”
“…I wish it were that easy.” Itoha typed up a post of her own.
“You can do it. I know you can!”
“It’s not impossible.”
“Just let yourself go.”
“…Let myself go, huh?”
In her mind’s eye, a butterfly spread its wings and took flight—and in that moment, without warning, her vision went dark. She felt like she’d very nearly had a heart attack. She was so shocked, she couldn’t even scream. Someone was covering her eyes from behind. Who was it? Who? Itoha was utterly terrified.
“Guess whooo!” a voice said into her ear.
Itoha knew that voice. She recognized it instantly. She just couldn’t believe it, and she couldn’t bring herself to answer. The hands lifted from her eyes, and their owner walked around the bench to stand in front of Itoha. Then she smiled.
“That’s right—it’s li’l ol’ Ruka! Long time, no see!”
Itoha was still in shock. Rukana Shizukudani stood in front of her. It couldn’t be anyone else.
“Hmm? Hmm?” Rukana leaned low to the right, then to the left. “What’s wrong, Itoha? It’s just li’l ol’ Ruka. I’m not a ghost, you know? I’ve been through all sorts of stuff, sure, but I’m still alive and well, you know? And you look like you’re doing just fine, too, right? Grown up a lot, haven’t you? Really matured, eh? I almost didn’t recognize you. Right? So what’s wrooong? Hmmm?”
“S-stop it!” Itoha shouted. She covered her ears with her hands, but she couldn’t close her eyes. The thought of not being able to see scared her. There was no telling what this girl would do to her, and no matter what she did, Itoha wouldn’t be able to resist. “Stop. Please. Just stop…”
Suddenly, Rukana froze. She stood as still as a statue. Even her eyes seemed fake and glassy behind the lenses of her glasses.
Now, Itoha thought.
She leaped to her feet and ran. She sprinted as fast as her legs could carry her, clutching her phone in her hand. She couldn’t drop it. She needed that phone. It was the one thing she couldn’t lose. She ran and ran, without looking back, until she was completely out of breath—and then she kept on running.