True Education: I Have a Life Simulator

Ichinose Honami began learning to write letters at the age of ten. While her peers were still struggling to craft picture-based compositions, she could already fill several pages of crisp, white stationery.

Whenever Honami sat down to write, her mother would pull up a chair beside her. Under the pale green lightbulb above their heads, their shadows stretched long across the room, one large and one small.

At first, Honami didn't even know the proper format for writing a letter. She mimicked what she had read, imperfect as it was. Just like nine-year-old Vanka writing to his grandfather:

"Dear Grandfather, Konstantin Makarich! I am writing to you. Merry Christmas. May God bless you."

Ten-year-old Honami wrote:

"Dear onii-chan, Kitagawa Ryo! This is Ichinose Honami. Two weekends have passed since you moved away. I'm very unhappy right now, so I hope you're not happy when you read this letter. If you're happy, then you won't understand how sad I am."

"Actually, what makes me even sadder is that when I feel this way, I can't just go to your house and tell you. Instead, I have to write a letter. By the time you receive it, I might have already forgotten why I was sad. And when you reply, I might have something new to say."

"I really don't like writing letters. I want to see your face. I want to look into your eyes and tell you these things."

Her mother never spoke while Honami wrote. She simply waited until the letter was finished, then reassured her anxious daughter:

"He will receive it. If he replies, I'll bring it to you."

"Ryo will definitely write back. He promised."

After the letter was handed off, Honami would return to her usual self. Though she had frowned and pouted while writing, she forgot all about it once the letter was in her mother's hands.

"Oh, he said he would."

Her mother echoed the child's words quietly. She had heard a thousand such promises outside the elementary school gates: promises to always be friends, to never reveal secrets, to give away treasured items. Did she believe them?

Of course she did. Why wouldn't she?

To her, a woman who had never believed in a man's promise had aged prematurely. Watching once-certain truths slowly decay was part of growing up. There was no need to interfere.

Still, a part of her clung to a faint hope. Seeing Honami eagerly ask about replies, she too became quietly expectant, as if reliving a regret of her own past.

But unlike her daughter, she knew what had happened to the Kitagawa family. After a terrible car accident, only the boy who used to play with Honami survived. Rumors said he had been adopted by relatives in the United States.

So unlike her daughter's firm faith, the mother mailed the first letter with half her heart already resigned. She had once reached out to someone too, even bore two children with him, but in the end, he was just a kite in her hands—held only by a thin string. When the wind blew, he was gone.

What if the address was fake? What if it never existed? What if he never cared about that promise at all?

More anxious than her daughter, the mother waited—both fearing and hoping—until, half a month later, a reply arrived.

"See? I told you he promised."

At that moment, she ignored Honami's clumsy grammar. Pulling the letter from the mailbox, she was overwhelmed by peace. Handing it over, she said with unconcealed joy:

"Go read it."

Their correspondence lasted four years.

In her first year of middle school, Honami's letters stopped reaching that address. She had seen the signs. In the last few exchanges, she asked for contact information—email, phone number, anything. But he had always dodged the question.

Then, like a moon sinking beneath water, he vanished. Honami reached out, hoping to grasp him, but found only the shadows of drifting clouds.

She didn't want to accept it. She remembered them crying when they parted. Kids don't cry like that all the time. And after growing up, it's even harder to cry so earnestly for someone. Could he really cry like that for every girl he met?

No way.

So she kept writing, clinging to a world without smartphones. Her mother stopped helping her send letters, but Honami had already learned to go to the post office herself. She memorized the faraway address—an ocean apart.

In the first year without replies, she wrote the most. One long letter every week. Her language grew richer, more expressive. She listed her days in vivid detail. The more she grew, the longer her letters became.

Writing letters became her weekly ritual. Daytime Honami felt like a ghost, drifting through school and home. Only at night, at her desk, did she come alive. If the moonlight was beautiful, she wrote about how they were under the same sky. If her little sister was noisy, she wrote about that too. But not too much. She wouldn't let other girls, even her sister, take up too much space in those letters.

Honami remained calm, more so than her mother expected. She didn't mind the letters being returned. She just kept sending more. Until a year later, her mother forcibly put an end to it.

Whether Honami still writes letters today, her mother no longer knows.

Watching her daughter make the same mistakes she once did, the mother felt both heartache and relief. Better to be deceived at fifteen than at thirty. A strange sense of camaraderie formed between them.

Her daughter would grow from this. That was something to be proud of.

But still, a faint regret lingered.

-------------------------------------

"Um, hello?"

Kitagawa Ryo, standing a few steps above, had no idea what this girl was thinking. Maybe he was in the way? He shifted aside slightly, then remembered his purpose.

"Wait, do you... know me?"

His eyes lit up.

Having lost his memory, he had worked hard these two years to learn how to navigate social life. But deep down, his emotions remained simple—like a child.

He bounded down the steps toward Honami, placed Hotaru on the ground, and leaned forward slightly.

"Onee-san, do you know me?"

In the countryside, he was used to affectionate nicknames. Most of the people he relied on were elders. In his mind, everyone his age was an "onee-san."

Besides, he'd never had any female friends his age. Even Matsuo Eiichiro, who boasted of a childhood friend, had only shown him two photos.

Ryo's gaze drifted. He thought no girl could be prettier than Matsuo's childhood friend—but this one... might be.

"...You."

"Me?"

"My name is Kitagawa Ryo. I only learned that recently."

He picked up Hotaru again, lifting her paw.

"This is my cat. Her name is Hotaru. I named her myself."

Then both he and Hotaru stared expectantly.

Honami looked into his eyes—deep, clean black, like polished obsidian.

"Wait a moment."

Still watching him, she rummaged through her bag and pulled out a photo.

"Here."

Her fingers brushed his as she handed it over. Two children stood holding hands in front of a large stone marker at the entrance of a park. Red letters spelled out "Park" on one side. Both were smiling brightly.

On the back, in elegant black ink: "Kitagawa Ryo & Ichinose Honami."

"Is this... me as a kid?"

He studied the boy in the picture. The features were familiar, but the memory was a void.

"Then you must be..."

He turned the photo over again.

"Ichinose Honami."

The name stirred something deep inside.

In her eyes, he saw himself reflected.

Honami stepped closer, searching for something in his expression.

"Do you remember now?"

He backed into the wall without realizing. Flustered, he turned his head.

"Ichinose Honami. Remember?"

Her eyelashes and nose brushed his chin. At this angle, he could see her chest. He shut his eyes.

Big mistake.

With his vision gone, his senses heightened. He felt the cool wall at his back—and something soft in his palm.

Her fingers laced through his. Her other hand rested on his chest. Her head leaned in.

Hotaru jumped to the railing, exiled.

"Ichinose Honami."

"Are you my onee-san? Or imouto?"

Surely only family hugged like this.

"No."

"I'm your long-lost girlfriend."

She whispered into his ear, lips brushing his earlobe.

It felt like electricity.

[CG Event: A Reunion After Years - Completed]