There was another gap in my memory because the next thing I knew, I was sitting on the train. It was the same train I took to work every day, and when I checked the time on my phone, I found that less than an hour had passed since I left the house. From that, I could only conclude that I must have gone to the train station in some kind of fugue state. Since no one was giving me funny looks, I must have seemed pretty normal.
What kind of half-assed breakdown was this? No rampage, no self-isolation, no running away—I was just doing my daily routine. Was this what he meant when he said I could do anything? I would have scoffed at myself, had any of it seemed real. Instead, it felt like half of my soul had simply wandered off somewhere else.
As the train jostled me back and forth, a thought casually crossed my mind: What if I quit my job today?
Now there was an idea. If Ushio wanted to make a bunch of one-sided decisions, so could I. “I’ll see you on TV,” my ass! What did it matter if I couldn’t see him too? Why bother working hard when I wouldn’t have anyone to brag to? Screw it—they’d have dozens of replacements lined up in no time. Plus, I had enough savings to play around for a while, and if I went back to being a regular guy, none of the dirt Wakamiya had on me would impact me much at all. Maybe then Ushio would take responsibility for his actions and be my sugar daddy.
This sounded better and better by the minute. In fact, my heart felt lighter. Was there such a thing as a breakup high? I knew my mind couldn’t possibly be thinking logically when it was half-dissociated from reality, but I greatly preferred mania over depression. Maybe I could even announce it on the air. Breaking news: as of this broadcast, I will be retiring from my post. That way, I wouldn’t get cold feet later.
Ushio may have wanted me to keep working, but I was under no obligation to grant the wishes of some guy who abandoned me. I’d sooner destroy it all to punish him. Then maybe he’d be sorry for what he did to me and come crawling back to apologize.
“Good morning.”
I arrived at my newsroom desk at the usual time. When Tatsuki turned up a short while later, he walked straight over to me.
“Kunieda-san! How’d it go yesterday?”
“How did what go?” I asked.
“The stuff with Tsuzuki-san…?”
“Ah.” Once again, I observed that smiles were far easier to create than any other human expression. “He really did break his phone. But he’s busy at the moment, so I suspect he’ll reach out later on.”
“I sure hope so.”
He didn’t seem fully convinced, and I found myself wishing he would just go away. The more I talked, the more likely I would let something slip.
“Kunieda! Got a minute?”
With perfect timing, the department chief waved me over. Relieved, I rose to my feet.
“Meeting Room D.”
“Okay.”
I didn’t pause to consider what this was about, but when I walked in, I realized all the bigwig execs were in attendance, just like last time—except Shitara and Asou were absent.
“Oh, there you are. Have a seat,” the news director said in an uncharacteristically amiable tone. The newsroom chief briskly pulled out a chair for me.
What’s with the warm welcome? Did I already submit my resignation during my fugue state? Are they trying to get me to stay? No. No, I’m quitting, most definitely. Don’t worry, I won’t go freelance.
“Kunieda, could we get you to sign this?” A sheet of paper was slid toward me. “It’s not that we don’t trust you, but…well, just think of it as reassurance, for both of us. You understand, right?”
The text on the paper was short and to the point, and I processed it in about two seconds. They wanted me to sign a statement saying I wouldn’t run in the election.
“You don’t have to think too hard about it. Oh, do you have a pen?”
See how stupid these people are? There’s no benefit to me sticking around here. I’m sick of everything and everyone!
With a smile rigidly in place, I began to speak. “I—”
“Coming throoough!”
Just then, the door swung open without warning, and everyone in the room looked past me to the unexpected visitor. Likewise, I hastily turned around.
“Sorry! Am I interrupting?”
“Shitara…” The news director sighed. “We’re in a meeting.”
“If it involves Kunieda, then I think I have the right to be present.” Shitara swiped the written statement sitting in front of me and waved it in the air. “This is your little meeting?” Despite his smile, he looked visibly angry.
“Some here at the station are still nervous about it. Kunieda’s young—I’m sure he doesn’t want to seem like he’s flirting with politics…”
“But he already denied it on the air.”
“And to some, that only added fuel to the fire. As I recall, he was told not to touch the subject at all.”
“Well, as the producer of his show, the authority is mine.”
Shitara’s unhesitating counter nearly made my heart stop. Whoa there, pal… No, wait, it doesn’t matter to me anymore. I’m quitting.
“Looks like you want him to sign a statement! Shall I have Asou mention it on the air?”
“Knock it off, Shitara.”
“So you admit it’s not something you want publicized. Of course not—if it was, it’d be an HR scandal. This scrap of paper isn’t legally binding whatsoever. You want him to sign it just to prove his loyalty? That’s unbelievably insulting. As a producer, it’s my duty to protect my talent. I’m not letting you make Kunieda sign this shit.”
He crumpled up the sheet of paper and left the room with it. With a sidelong glance at the scowls that filled the room, I hurried after him.
“Shitara-san!”
“Hmm?” When he turned to look at me, he was back to his usual lighthearted self. “Sorry about that. Some director must be getting paranoid. I’ll cover for you as much as I can, so just hang tight and tell yourself it’s proof of how much they wanna keep you.”
“…You don’t have to worry about me,” I said.