Episode Seven: What Are You Thinking? ―August 2032―

I’m rather good at hiding my true feelings, so neither Suzuka nor Mum had ever seen through me.

And yet, despite usually being rather thick, or rather, impossible to read, Sensei noticed straight away. I found myself wanting Sensei alone to understand. It was the first time I’d ever felt this way.

　You see, Sensei. There are actually so many things I want to tell you, things I want to complain about, things I want to lean on you for. Words that threaten to spill out and overflow from my chest if I let my guard down.

“…Hey, Sensei. Would you stroke my head?”

“Why?”

“Sorry for being selfish. I just want to be spoiled, you see.”

“…All right. Tell me if you don’t like it.”

Saying that, the teacher stood up, came to stand beside me where I sat in my chair… and smoothly extended a white hand.

Gently, hesitantly. Yet, as if touching something precious. My head was being stroked by the teacher’s hand.

　My hair, combed by her slender fingers, my scalp, touched so gently, it seemed to rejoice with every sensation of her. Fresh from the bath, the scent of shampoo was strong, and my ability to think seemed to be numbed by touch and smell.

See, proof right there. I couldn’t say to her, “That’s enough, thank you.” I couldn’t move my body. My chest felt tight, and I couldn’t breathe.

　The word ‘dependence’ suddenly flashed through my mind.

Just as it’s hard for a smoker to quit, or for an animal raised in a zoo to stop being kept, I couldn’t shake the feeling that once I’d known this sweet touch, there was no going back.

Thinking that, the comfort turned into something else – a kind of fear.

“…Ah, thank you, Sensei.”

“I haven’t done anything to deserve your thanks.”

“No, you were stroking my head, weren’t you? …It’s alright now, you can stop.”

“Is that so?”

Her fingers withdrew, and I felt relieved that my heart wouldn’t be disturbed any further. Yet, more than that, I felt a lingering reluctance.

“I’ve gone a bit thirsty. I’ll get another cup of oolong tea.”

　Trying to shift my mood, I stood up, fetched some oolong tea from the fridge, and poured it into a cup. Taking a deep breath to hide it from the teacher, I returned.

Seeing the teacher had already sat down in my chair, I felt a little disappointed, but I added some extra macaroni salad to the teacher’s paper plate.

“There’s something I find rather strange, you know.”

“What is it?”

“I’ve never once felt like cooking for any of my ex-boyfriends before, so why did I want to do it for you?”

I do like cooking and I’m quite good at it, but even when asked by Kō and my other exes, the feeling of it being a hassle always won out, and I never made anything for them. Cooking for someone and eating together like this… you were the first.

“Is it because you seem utterly incapable of looking after yourself, and I worry about your health?”

“That’s an easy question. I know the answer.”

After swallowing her rice, Sensei picked up a can of beer. Then, to me tilting my head slightly, she pointed it out casually, as if it were nothing.

“Uehara-san, you don’t dislike me.”

“Wh-what?! Wh-what are you talking about?!”

“No matter how kind Uehara-san is, normally you wouldn’t deliberately expend effort on someone you dislike or don’t care about, would you?”

　Saying this, the teacher drank her beer, appearing to state the obvious.

I couldn’t deny the teacher’s conceited remark. Because, frustratingly, not a single word was wrong.

“…Would you be pleased if I liked you, sensei?”

“As a teacher, it’s better to be liked by pupils than disliked.”

The teacher probably didn’t suspect for a moment that I was unsettled.

　And certainly not the slightest hint of my state of mind – knowing full well what she meant by “as a teacher, I’d rather be liked than disliked by my students”, yet deliberately twisting her words to suit my own interpretation.

Fearing that if I met her gaze, unintended words might slip out, I turned my face away and looked at the beer in her hand.

“A-are you perhaps drunk? Shouldn’t you stop drinking for today?”

“This won’t get me drunk. If you were of age, Uehara-san, we could have had a drink together. What a pity.”

“…Yes, I suppose so.”

Truth be told, I have drunk alcohol before and know I’m not particularly weak to it. I’ve done it when urged by a previous boyfriend, or when swept along by less respectable friends during nights out.

　But I would never tell you, Sensei. I didn’t want you to know. Because… I didn’t want you to dislike me.

“When you turn twenty, Uehara-san, you’ll surely be a wonderful adult. I might not even recognise you if we passed in the street.”

Those words, spoken without thought, or perhaps meant as a compliment, stung my chest. I sensed that line again, that assumption that three years from now, I wouldn’t be by your side.

　Always, always, why does the teacher try to push me away? This person absolutely doesn’t understand how I feel each time.

I deliberately meet the teacher’s pure gaze fixed upon me, staring back intently.

The urge to ask is unbearable, impossible to resist.

Even knowing what would happen after I spoke, I couldn’t hold back.

“—What do you think of me?”

The instant the words left my mouth, a panic like I’d said something irreparable made my chest go cold.

I’d done it. Regret made me want to cry, and I simply couldn’t bear to look at the teacher any longer.

I bowed my head, trying to escape the teacher’s gaze like a coward. The teacher stopped what they were doing and watched me. Even without seeing her face, her bewilderment hung heavy in the air.

Just imagining what she might say to someone like me made me want to run away.

A silence descended upon the room. Eventually, I heard her draw in a breath.

“Uehara-san… you are one of my most important pupils.”

I found myself looking up. To me, who didn’t want to be treated like a child, she offered the bare minimum response, strictly as an adult. I sensed a hint of cunning from her.

I couldn’t accept that. I wanted things black or white, clear-cut.

“Um, well… I…”

Though that’s what I felt inside, I couldn’t form the words to continue. Because I was scared.

If I kept talking to her, if I pressed her further…

　Seeing the teacher smile made me happy too, seeing them look sad made me feel pain too. Just being together made my heart race, and I feared I might realise what that feeling truly was.

“…Did you eat the hijiki stew?”

So I made my escape. I asked a clumsy question that didn’t quite fit the conversation, but the teacher simply replied, “I did. It was delicious,” accepting it without question. I felt relieved.

“That’s good. It’s one of my specialities.”

The teacher didn’t press me further. Acting as if nothing had happened, they carried on as usual, calmly and matter-of-factly.

The teacher picked up their chopsticks, then slowly brought the hijiki stew to their mouth.

“The flavour really soaks in, so it might be better tomorrow or later.”

“That’s helpful. My meals will be a bit more substantial for a while.”

　I almost said that was an exaggeration, but knowing the teacher’s eating habits, it didn’t seem entirely untrue.

The thought that the teacher might open the fridge tomorrow, when I wasn’t there, and be pleased, didn’t feel unpleasant.

I wanted to leave my mark on the teacher’s house, on the teacher’s mind.

Holding onto this desire, whether born of pure feeling or calculation, I couldn’t tell myself, as the night deepened.