True Education: I Have a Life Simulator

Kitagawa Ryo sat at his desk, writing a birthday card. His phone rested on the right, and a steaming cup of hot cocoa on the left. He held his pen in hesitation, while a tall stack of discarded drafts had already formed beside him. Each had a different opening.

It had been years since he last gave Ichinose Honami a birthday present. The last time was five years ago, when he gifted her an umbrella at age twelve.

Ryo and Honami had started exchanging birthday presents since they were seven. Over the years, they'd developed a peculiar balance—if one gave a handmade gift, the other would return a handmade one too. He still remembered when, at age eleven, he ambitiously tried knitting her a pair of gloves, only for it to turn into a fuzzy mess. Honami, for her part, had gifted him a scarf that was equally unusable. In the end, they unraveled both and gave the leftover yarn to Hotaru to play with.

Back then, they thought it didn't matter. There would always be another birthday. Once a year—plenty of chances to get it right.

Because they believed there would be countless "next times," they hadn't minded those early clumsy attempts.

Ryo tossed out yet another draft. He questioned the modern-day rationale of writing a handwritten card but scratched his head and began a new one anyway.

Karuizawa Kei sat beside him, folding paper cranes from his discarded drafts. She had suddenly taken a liking to the craft and folded all those sheets with scattered messages like "Happy Birthday, Honami-chan," or "I wonder what the last thing I gave you was" into flapping little cranes. The side with the writing was always folded inside—nothing was visible from the outside.

Ryo knew why he was so distracted. He was waiting for Honami to come. Even a call would do. He couldn't believe she wouldn't come back for her umbrella. But now it was already 3 PM, and the door hadn't opened again. His phone remained silent.

Out of some stubborn pride, Ryo refused to call her first. If Honami didn't call, he wouldn't either. He kept staring at his black-screened phone, hoping it would light up with her name. But it didn't.

Resting his head on the desk, he tapped his pen and slowly drifted to sleep. Sickness had made him more prone to naps, like his body was trying to catch up on all the lost sleep.

When he awoke, his expression was a little strange.

"What is it?" Kei asked.

She had just finished her last crane and was studying her results. Compared to the one she used as a reference, hers were a bit crude. Frustrated, she looked up to see Ryo's thoughtful eyes.

"I had a dream," Ryo murmured.

He recounted the strange dream. In that world, he and Kei barely knew each other. He occasionally saw news of school bullying on TV but had never personally met her.

"And Ichinose?" Kei asked, her lips pursing in dissatisfaction.

"...Just a newly moved-in neighbor. I only knew her name."

Ryo was surprised by his own dream. In it, Honami had no childhood friend named Kitagawa Ryo. On her younger sister's thirteenth birthday, she shoplifted a hairpin as a present, only to be dragged back to the store by her mother for a public apology.

It left a sick feeling in his stomach. A proper nightmare.

"It was just a bizarre dream. Doesn't matter," Kei said gently.

"In reality, every member of the Ichinose family got a hairpin because of you, right?"

"Yeah."

Her words reminded him of something. He suddenly knew exactly what to write on the card. Picking up his pen, Ryo wrote directly on the real birthday card:

"For Honami's sixteenth birthday, what I want to say is this:

Time may blur memories until they're almost forgotten, but that also proves those days we spent together were real. As our bodies grow and our minds grow with them, maybe you'll come to dislike the person you are now—but please remember: this isn't the end. We won't end here, as who we are now.

I know you don't like reminiscing. You always look toward the future. But I still hope you'll remember the feelings of the past:

The feeling of cherishing someone. The feeling of liking someone. Tenderness. Warmth. Happiness. Sadness. Regret. Pain.

I don't believe these things are meaningless. They make you who you are.

Even if they're trivial, I want those feelings to stay in your heart. I hope they become your will, your strength.

But more than anything, I hope you can become more real. Like any ordinary girl, I hope you can find happiness. You're gifted, Honami, but sometimes I wish you were just an ordinary person who could smile freely.

It's okay to cry, to be angry, to pout or be selfish—even if it troubles me.

I hope you can trust your heart and make your own choices. If a situation ever arises where you must sacrifice yourself to save others—don't. You're not some all-powerful angel, and you're not a sinner born with original guilt.

These wishes may be arrogant, but they are my truest feelings.

Happy Birthday."

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Ichinose Honami's birthday began with terrible news: her mother had collapsed at work from exhaustion.

For a moment, the timing felt so suspicious she almost wondered if it had been intentional. But she quickly banished the thought.

Honami splashed cold water on her face to force herself awake at 4 a.m. She rushed through the hospital's corridors—registering, filling prescriptions, consulting with staff and her mother's coworkers. By the time everything was settled, dawn was already breaking.

Finally able to rest, she collapsed onto a blue bench in the lobby. Her eyelids felt like they were weighed down with lead, her lips pale, her shirt soaked with sweat and then chilled again by the AC. She staggered home to have Ichinose Maki take over.

After explaining everything to her half-awake sister and watching Maki rush out, she finally relaxed. Rubbing her brow, she noticed her fingers were wet with sweat.

On the table sat a small birthday cake—Honami had requested the size herself, with only three candles due to its size.

"Shower first. Then sleep."

She murmured to herself and stepped into the bathroom.

Hot water cascaded from the showerhead. It ran down her hair and along the curves of her body. The difference in temperature made her shiver.

Just as she reached for shampoo, she realized the bottle was empty. After a futile attempt to shake out a few drops, she gave up.

"Oh well."

She wiped the steam off the mirror and stared at her reflection.

"It's fine. Things will get better."

She'd said that to others so many times, but for herself, the words barely worked. Her mirrored self gave a bitter smile.

The cool glass felt soothing on her forehead. She leaned into it.

"Growing up, huh..."

She murmured and changed into clothes. Even though she was exhausted, sleep wouldn't come.

[Go to his room.]

The thought surged in like a flood. Clutching a futon, she entered Ryo's old apartment.

As expected, just lying there brought her a sense of peace.

"Birthday... or a day of suffering for Mom?"

Ryo's voice echoed in her memory. She dragged herself back to the living room and stared at the cake.

She lit the candles and returned to Ryo's room.

"Now it's time to make a wish."

"Please... let Mom get better soon."

She blew out the candles.

...

When she woke up, her phone had several missed calls and messages—all from the same person.

"Hey, Ryo."

She didn't even check the texts. It was faster to call.

Despite her unsteady emotions, she hit dial.

"Honami?"

His familiar voice came through the receiver.

[What will he say? Ask about Mom? Check on me? Give a birthday present?]

"I'm at your door."

Not a question, just a simple statement.

"Eh?"

Stunned, she stammered, "I-I'll open it right now."

Outside, Ryo stood holding a black umbrella.

"You forgot this two nights ago. Didn't come yesterday either, so I brought it."

He looked at her in her neatly buttoned pink pajamas, a different kind of beauty.

"You're not feeling well?"

He reached out, then pulled back, already sensing the warmth and dampness on her skin.

"Aren't you coming in?"

Honami didn't answer. She seemed fixated on why he was still at the door.

"Do you want me to leave?"

She swayed slightly as if to step out.

"Uh, alright."

Ryo thought Honami was acting strange today. He stepped inside and took off his shoes.

The next moment, she pressed him against the door.

Her fully developed body leaned into his, their chests aligned. She rose on tiptoe and wrapped her arms around him.

Her hot breath brushed against his chest.

"Honami?"

Despite the intimate posture, Ryo's first reaction was fear. He looked down into her teary eyes.

Honami had always learned how to reassure her mother, so her crying was always silent.

Tears streamed down her face, soaking his shirt.

Some cry from fear. Others from sadness. Or joy.

But she was simply crying. Quietly. Wordlessly.

Maybe only now, at sixteen, she realized she was still just a child.

And once she started crying, she wanted to cry it all out—to fully be a child again.

In this home, it was just her and Ryo.

She began to speak, piece by piece—like a devout worshipper unburdening her soul before a kind priest by the warmth of the altar's fire.

She said she loved Hotaru. She was grateful Ryo took Hotaru in.

She said she loved him. That when she was twelve, every paper crane she folded had the words "I like you" written inside.

The candle flames flickered.

Beside the girl, the candles wept wax until one finally tipped over.

And beside it were dozens of paper cranes.