Source
https://kakuyomu.jp/works/2912051600327232539
“You know, the ‘Recommendations for You’ algorithm on streaming services is kind of pushy, don’t you think?”
Shizuku said that from beside me.
“It’s like the algorithm analyzes your emotional tendencies based on your viewing history and then mocks you, saying, ‘I bet you’re looking for this kind of cheap emotional thrill right now.’”
“W-well, I wouldn’t go that far…”
It was 1:00 a.m. We were in a room in a high-rise apartment building, protected by multiple layers of automatic locks.
In the vast living room with the lights dimmed, bathed in the pale blue glow of the giant TV screen, we were pondering the arrogance of data science.
“…Hey, Minato. This scene where the protagonist runs through the rain to chase after the heroine—it’s so tear-jerking, isn’t it?”
Next to me, Shizuku, clutching a giant squid body pillow, stared at the screen with teary eyes while munching on popcorn.
I sipped barley tea from a plain mug and decided to state the cold, objective facts.
“No, this is clearly a failure caused by ignorance of modern communication infrastructure. It seems like the reason they missed each other was because ‘his smartphone battery died,’ but that’s a problem that could be solved in a minute by just going into a convenience store to charge it. Running pointlessly in the rain and wasting energy is utterly irrational.”
“Come on, stop being so serious! This is supposed to be about enjoying the bittersweetness of their missed connection!”
“Besides, the part where the heroine almost gets hit by a car and the protagonist saves her—that’s a psychopathic approach, intentionally aiming for the ‘suspension bridge effect.’ Using a crisis to create a false sense of romantic feelings? I have serious ethical concerns about that.”
“Shut up. Minato, just be quiet for a second!”
Shizuku gave my shoulder a sharp slap in frustration, then, as if to soothe the spot she’d hit, she let her head roll onto my shoulder.
Even though she was complaining, it didn’t seem like she really minded my nitpicking.
An idol, in her pajamas late at night on her day off, clinging to a giant squid while using the shoulder of an ordinary college student as a pillow to watch a B-grade romance movie. I had grown completely accustomed to this kind of situation.
Soon, the couple on screen shared a dramatic kiss in the rain, and the end credits began to roll to the accompaniment of a grand ballad.
The white text of the credits slowly illuminated the dimly lit living room.
“…Oh well. It’s over.”
Shizuku muttered quietly, her head still resting on my shoulder.
I thought she might be basking in the afterglow of the movie, but the tone of her voice was clearly different from the cheerful one she’d had just moments ago.
Just as alcohol evaporates, the calm atmosphere she had been enveloped in vanished in an instant, and in its place, I sensed a heavy, dark emotion—like muddy water—creeping slowly across the floor of the room.
“The heroine in the movie gets properly saved in just over two hours and gets her forever happy ending, doesn’t she?”
“That’s because the screenwriter designed the story that way. Real-life relationships don’t end in two hours, and the troublesome daily grind continues even after the credits roll.”
“…Yeah. I know.”
Shizuku’s fingertips slowly clenched the cuff of my hoodie with a firm grip.
“My happy ending only lasts as long as Minato is sitting on the sofa in this room.”
“……”
“Once Minato goes home, this place turns back into a suffocating, sterile room. What if, someday, Minato’s subscription… his regular visits to this room… were to be canceled?”
Her eyes, illuminated by the light of the end credits, slowly looked up at me.
What I saw there was neither a perfect idol smile nor the unguarded face that had been laughing at the movie just moments ago.
It was the painfully desperate clinging of a lost child, cut off from retreat, instinctively terrified of being deprived of oxygen.
“I might forget how to breathe on my own.”
The fact that she, now living in the light of the outside world, had become so deeply immersed in the drug I provided—my “mere, boring daily life.”
I exhaled softly and gently placed my hand on her head.
“…Unlike a streaming service subscription, I don’t have an auto-renewal system. But as long as my personal mug on the sink doesn’t shatter into pieces, I’m obligated to come check on you periodically.”
“…Really?”
“Yeah. Besides, even if you hold your breath and suffocate on your own, I don’t have a certification in CPR. I’d rather prevent that kind of hassle before it happens.”
“CPR!? You’d do it for me!?”
“I told you, I don’t have the certification.”
“I’ll create a national certification for you. The ‘CPR Certification’.”
“What authority do you have to do that…?”
The grip on Shizuku’s hoodie loosened just a little. The screen had already gone completely black, and the room was enveloped in total silence and darkness.
“…I won’t forgive you if you cancel the subscription, you know.”
Whispered in the darkness, that voice carried far more weight than any sweet line from a movie heroine, and possessed a gravitational pull capable of dragging my everyday life into a bottomless swamp.
I didn’t answer; I simply continued to accept her presence—along with the giant squid—in the corner of the sofa.
–
–
If you enjoy our content, feel free to donate, Thank you in advance !