Source
https://kakuyomu.jp/works/2912051600327232539
You know those glowing sticks that the ground staff use to guide planes at the airport? Apparently, they’re called marshalling wands.
The captain relies solely on the movements of those two glowing sticks to land that massive hunk of metal precisely on the runway.
If the person waving those wands had a hopeless sense of direction, would the plane crash into the terminal building?
Or would the captain trust his instincts, thinking, “No way, that guy’s definitely lost,” and correct the course?
Is there really an invisible rope of complete trust connecting the pilot and the ground staff?
Standing right in the middle of the dome stage, I found myself pondering the safety management system of the aviation industry.
“Everyone! Thank you so, so much today!”
A bright, unfamiliar voice, an octave higher than my own, burst from my mouth.
In front of me were thousands of fans. In their hands, they held glow sticks, creating a sea of red, blue, and yellow light that undulated before me.
They were frantically waving their lights, guiding me—this airplane—saying, “This is a safe runway,” “Come this way.”
But I’m sorry.
My landing gear is already shattered to pieces.
“Shizuku-chan! Look this way!”
“We love you!”
From the front row of the audience, a deafening wave of affection comes flying at me.
I tilt my head at the perfect angle and throw back a beautiful, anatomically incorrect, perfectly symmetrical heart shape made with my fingers. A scream-like cheer rises from the audience.
So many people are affirming me.
So many people are shouting that they “love” me.
And yet, my insides remain as cold as cheap konjac left out of the fridge, not twitching a single muscle.
Even if I were to put this massive “I love you” through a blender and concentrate it, it wouldn’t stand a chance against the dull clunk of a 100-yen coin as he presses the button on the vending machine in the park at 2 a.m.
[You’re a nuisance.]
As the song’s intro blares, that ice-cold voice plays back behind my eardrums.
[Your very existence, Shizuku, has become a massive risk threatening my environment. Please don’t bring any more walking liabilities into my daily life.]
The back of my right hand, which he had pushed away, feels as hot as if I’d been burned.
I take a step. Right, left, turn. The “Traffic Control Fairy” who used to dance while scraping the asphalt is now illuminated by millions of yen worth of equipment and lighting, performing a flawless dance with not a single misstep.
Hey, Minato. Are you watching?
My footwork has been optimized—not just by three decibels, but all the way down to the realm of silence.
But no one’s going to throw a hundred-yen cocoa at me for it.
“—!”
In the midst of a fierce formation change, I suddenly found myself gasping for air.
The oxygen is thin. I wonder if the carbon dioxide concentration in the venue has reached lethal levels because everyone is breathing at once.
No, that’s not it. I’ve simply forgotten how to breathe.
Everyone just loves this perfect package of me, smiling cheerfully on stage, and doesn’t realize that inside, I’m just a lonely, lost soul with nothing left.
[Shizuku-san, you’re already a ‘public asset,’ right?]
No.
I don’t belong to anyone.
Yet, the only time I felt like “me” was when I was sitting on the edge of a bench in that dimly lit park, where one of the streetlights had burned out, sipping that sickly sweet 100-yen drink.
“And now, please enjoy our next song! ‘Starlight Promise’!”
I shout the title, just as rehearsed.
A huge cheer erupts, and the intro’s dazzling strings ring out.
I force a smile. I pull up the muscles in my cheeks, narrow my eyes, and construct the face of the happiest girl in the world.
—I can’t do this anymore.
Behind that smile, I heard a distinct crack—something snapped decisively.
No matter how many glow sticks they wave, I don’t know the coordinates of where I belong. That calm, unfriendly control tower that used to guide me to a safe landing has completely cut off all communication with me.
My throat is wheezing. The hand holding the microphone is shaking.
The intense light of the spotlight is burning my vision white.
I can’t breathe.
Help me.
Someone, please tell me the way back there.
◆
Apparently, the human body is made up of sixty percent water.
That’s why, when someone panics, people often advise, “Just drink some water.” But that is fundamentally wrong. In an emergency where sixty percent of the body’s water is already raging, adding more water from the outside is nothing but a flood. It will only hasten the collapse.
What you really need isn’t water. It’s a sturdy seawall to physically hold back the raging waves. To be specific: an overwhelming sweetness and the coldness of a can that slaps you in the face.
“Shizuku! Are you okay!? Breathe out slowly! Just drink some water—water!”
Behind the live house after the show. On a folding chair hauled into the sterile concrete hallway, I was gasping for air like a deep-sea fish just hauled from the depths.
The female manager pressed a plastic bottle to my lips in a frantic voice. I took a sip, but to my horror, it was room-temperature mineral water.
“…Room temperature won’t do.”
“Huh? Do you prefer it cold? I kept it at room temperature so it wouldn’t shock your stomach.”
“Humans are creatures who can’t realize where they are unless they’re startled. If you were stranded on a snowy mountain and someone handed you lukewarm kindness—saying, ‘Here’s some warm milk’—you’d feel safe, fall asleep, and freeze to death, right?”
“What are you talking about, Shizuku? Pull yourself together! You’re just hyperventilating a little!”
The manager is calling out to the staff around her, looking for a paper bag.
But I wasn’t really craving oxygen. What my lungs were craving was only that air from the park at 2 a.m., a mix of exhaust fumes and the smell of damp earth.
“Hey, Takahashi-san.”
“What!? Should I call an ambulance!?”
“I wonder how much I’d have to pay to turn a public park bench into private property.”
“Huh? A park bench? What are you talking about? Why are you bringing that up now…”
“If I called city hall, do you think I could get a permit to occupy it? Maybe I could rent it for about 200 yen an hour?”
“Shizuku, you’re completely out of it! Someone, bring an oxygen tank!”
The adults around us scrambled about in a panic.
I grabbed the armrest of a folding chair and slowly stood up.
My knees were shaking like crazy, but the sensation of the concrete beneath my feet was unmistakable.
“Shizuku, you can’t stand up!”
“I have to go.”
“Go where!?”
“To fix the bug.”
Without looking back, I broke into a run.
A massive stage costume, with layers upon layers of heavy frills, glistening and reflecting the light.
Dragging that absurd mass of fabric behind me, I ran down the concrete hallway with all my might.
“Wait, hold on, Hoshino-san!?”
A security guard holding a walkie-talkie stood frozen in place, eyes wide.
I slipped past him and practically body-slammed my way through the heavy iron door of the staff exit, bursting outside.
Once outside, the cold night air mercilessly seeped in through the gaps in my dress.
It told me exactly where I was—much more clearly than any room-temperature bottled water ever could.
I’d already remembered how to breathe.
[An idol out walking late at night? That’s impossible.]
That’s right, Minato.
I’m just a nuisance of a glitch.
I pretended to be part of the “idol” package and acted as if I were functioning properly, but my fundamental programming was missing.
A glitch can’t be fixed unless it returns to its source.
“…I don’t have any green onions, though.”
I muttered to myself as I headed toward the deserted nighttime sidewalk leading to the back entrance.
I kicked off my high heels and kept running, feeling the cold of the asphalt directly against the soles of my feet through my stockings.
I had only one destination in mind: that dimly lit illegal dumping site where the world’s most surly air traffic controller resides.
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