True Education: I Have a Life Simulator

[Day 719: You wake up from bed wrapped in a dense unease. The bedroom feels unfamiliar, the wallpaper displays patterns you've never seen before. You don't know where you are, or how you got here.

This place is unlike the home you remember. Even though your mind holds no actual memory of the past, you instinctively feel something's off. Could this be some kind of hotel?]

[A woman's voice catches your attention. You lift yourself up by bending your arms and spot a flat-screen television mounted on the wall—the voice was just a news anchor reading the morning headlines.

You rub your eyes. For sixteen years, you've always been proud of your eyesight. When other kids struggled to make sense of those leaning Es on the vision chart, you'd always say calmly: "Just show me the bottom row."]

[Your eyes adjust quickly. True to form, your vision remains sharp. To your right, a tall wardrobe catches your eye. Hanging from the handle is a black men's robe—sleek and stylish. You touch it with your right hand. The fabric feels high-quality. Judging by the size, it's definitely for an adult man.]

[On the left, stacked neatly atop the bedside table, is a pile of books. You pull out two—both are about early childhood education. Above the bed, a small reading lamp is fixed to the wall. You assume the owner lies back at night to read.

You open the first book. On the inside cover is a name you don't recognize:]

[Ichinose Honami.]

[You glance at the right side of the bed—the blankets are slightly disturbed, still warm. Someone was lying there just moments ago. You deduce it must've been the book's owner. Ichinose Honami—it sounds like a woman's name.]

[Wait. If your theory is correct, then you spent last night in the bed of a total stranger. And this place could very well be her home. Are you her lover?

After all, you're wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. In what world does that mean anything other than…]

[You rub your forehead in confusion. On your right ring finger rests a diamond ring. It fits perfectly—as if it was made for you. But you don't remember getting engaged or married.

Besides, who would marry a sixteen-year-old high schooler? Isn't that illegal?

You stare at the ring, troubled. Maybe it belonged to this home's real man of the house—Ichinose Honami's husband. Maybe he's out on a business trip… or dead. And she slipped his ring onto your finger.

Maybe it's just part of some twisted game?]

[You decide you need to leave. What if the real husband just finished working late and is headed home right now?

Still groggy, as if slightly drunk, you tread toward the door. You don't even stop to put on the black slippers by the bed.

But when you reach the door, you freeze. Embedded in the surface is a mirror.]

[You don't even have time to question why a mirror would be on a door—because all of your attention is instantly absorbed by the reflection.]

[The face staring back isn't yours.

Your eyes widen. The reflection mimics you—widening its eyes in sync. You blink your left eye, it blinks too.

You reach toward the glass. Your teeth clench, audibly clicking together. If you weren't worried about waking someone, you might've screamed. You lean in. Those black eyes almost press against your own retina.]

[You recognize them. They are yours. The man in the mirror is you—but older. Maybe five years? Ten?

Your lips are dusted with a neatly trimmed beard. Your nose is sharper, your features more defined. The good news? You're still pretty handsome.]

[But that small consolation can't drown out your terror. Who wakes up years older without losing their mind? You stumble back and yank the doorknob open.]

[As you opened the door, you sensed something terrifying trying to claw its way out of your body—like it wanted to split off, form its own flesh. It stirred within you.]

[Outside the door, a wall is plastered with dozens of photographs, most tinged with yellow, aged by time. At the center is the largest: a wedding photo.]

[The man is you. Younger than your current self. Older than your remembered self. The beautiful woman beside you, her long rose-gold hair cascading to her waist, wears a western wedding dress, no veil. Her smile is radiant.

She must've been the most stunning presence at that ceremony.]

[Kitagawa Ryo.]

[The name is written in black permanent marker beside the man—beside you. An arrow points directly to the suited figure in the photo. The name feels vaguely familiar, but your memory is foggy. You try to believe it really is yours.]

[Ichinose Honami.]

[There it is again. Another arrow, this one pointing to the bride. But beneath her name, another line has been written:]

[Your girlfriend. Your lover. Your wife.]

[You stare blankly, your throat constricted by something heavy and black. You can't breathe.]

[You scan the wall. Every photo is of you and her—from childhood, adolescence, to what appears to be your twenties. You're holding hands in front of a park stone, hiking, posing in wedding garb. Even recent shots—one where you wear that black robe you saw earlier.]

[You stumble back again. Your bare back hits cold tile. Memories rise like a sea monster breaching from a pitch-dark ocean—its eye staring straight into your soul. You're helpless before it.

That vast gap in your memory? A black-and-white static screen on an old television.]

["Ryo, are you awake?"]

[You hear footsteps approaching. Someone is walking toward you. You peek hesitantly. A single lock of rose-gold hair sways through the air.]

[The woman from the photo. If names and books aren't lying, this woman—wearing a pink apron, her hair in a simple ponytail—is Ichinose Honami.]

[Her sea-blue eyes shine with concern. She appears to be in her early twenties, in the prime of her youth. She sees your fear and anxiety, walks up naturally and embraces you, patting your back as if comforting a child from a nightmare.]

["There, there. It's okay. I'm here with you."]

["What… is going on?"

Warmth surrounds you—her body, her scent. Her hair blocks your vision. You catch the faint fragrance of citrus.]

["I'm your wife. You're Kitagawa Ryo. My husband."

She says it like stating a simple fact. Her tone is calm and practiced, as if she's said it a hundred times.]

["We've been married for three years."]

[You flinch. This truth—absent from your memories—hits you like a wave. You instinctively struggle, trying to pull away.]

[But she only watches you with her eyes. You feel like a wound on her skin. Every move you make seems to tear her apart. Eventually, you surrender. Your body sinks deeper into her embrace.]

["Ryo, you're twenty-three now."

This stranger smiles. You're not sure if you believe her, but she continues:

"You had an accident at sixteen. A car crash. You hit your head—and forgot everything."]

["What?" you murmur.

She thinks you're asking what you forgot. Carefully, she answers:

"Everything. Even your own name."]

[You shut your eyes. You want to deny it, but… you can't remember anything. Just that you were sixteen. A high schooler.]

["It happened when you were sixteen?"

"Yes. You were out with your mother and father. The accident left you alive—but without your memory."

She doesn't want to linger on it, but explains gently:

"At first it was just small gaps. Maybe your brain was protecting you. But later… more and more was lost. A month after our wedding, you forgot everything."]

["Even worse—you can't form new memories either. Every morning, you forget again. Even me."]

[She strokes your hair. It feels oddly familiar. You process her words and ask:

"Then why marry someone with amnesia?"

"Because I love you."

She kisses your forehead. It smells faintly of butter. She must've been making breakfast. You don't mind the kiss.]

["I…"

"Don't be afraid. I'm here. As long as I'm here, you'll remember everything someday."

Seeing you still undressed, she walks into the room, brings you the black robe and slippers.

"Trust me."]

[Her promise calms you. You get dressed and follow her down the corridor. Like a tenant touring a rental, she points at a room to the right:

"The bathroom is here. Breakfast will be ready soon, darling."

You don't know what to say. Should you call her 'darling'? Say her name? You can't act so intimately with someone you've just met. You nod and step into the bathroom.]

[Inside, the toothbrush and cup are a matching pair—sky blue and pink—leaning against each other. The cabinet beside the mirror is stuffed with cosmetics. Staring at your reflection, you still feel like a stranger.]

"Brush for two minutes, okay?" Honami's voice calls from outside. You respond instinctively, awkwardly pick up the blue cup, squeeze toothpaste onto your brush and start brushing.

But within a minute, your right hand switches the toothbrush to your left. With your right hand, you lift the right slipper.]

[From the start, you felt it was heavier than the left. Slowly tracing the sole, you find a distinct bulge. Using a razor blade from the sink, you cut it open. Inside is a small box. You don't know what it's made of, but it might answer your questions.]

[You quietly shut the bathroom door. One by one, you unfold the three slips of paper hidden inside.]

[First slip: "If confused, call the psychiatrist Sakayanagi Arisu." A number follows.]

[Second slip: "Meow meow meow meow meow." Utter nonsense. Maybe a secret code? The signature reads: "Hotaru."]

["Ryo, breakfast is ready! Butter cheese toast with fried bacon and ham." Honami's cheerful voice drifts in, humming a tune.]

[You unfold the third slip. The handwriting is unmistakably yours.]

["Don't believe anything Ichinose Honami says. —Kitagawa Ryo"]