Utsukushii Koto: Volume 1 - Part 1

T.N: I adjusted the name order to First Name Last Name from the original Japanese format, which is Last Name First Name. I retained some Japanese terms and included a link to their explanations. While you may already be familiar with these terms, I’ve provided their English definitions for those who may not be.

1. さん (san): This is a general, respectful suffix used to address or refer to someone. It's similar to "Mr.," "Mrs.," or "Ms." in English. It's commonly used for people of all ages and social statuses in both formal and informal contexts.

2. 君 (kun): This suffix is often used for addressing younger males, or in a more familiar or casual setting. It can be used with people of the same or lower status, and it's commonly used among friends, students, or in professional settings where there is a clear hierarchy (like between a superior and a subordinate).

3. 先輩 (senpai): This term is used to refer to someone who is senior to you in a particular context, like in a school club, workplace, or other organizations. It's used to show respect to someone who has more experience or has been in the organization longer than you. The opposite of senpai is 後輩 (kōhai), which refers to juniors or newcomers.

TOC Next

At 8 p.m., the izakaya near the station was crowded with people in white or pinstriped short-sleeve shirts. The air conditioning should have been working, but due to the sheer density of people, the heat of the day—when the highest temperature of the year had been recorded—still lingered inside, making the place muggy. Sweat beaded on foreheads, and the drinks went down easily.

The interior décor was as plain as the owner’s lack of friendliness, making the atmosphere ill-suited for dating; there were no men accompanied by women. Just a scattering of what appeared to be university students here and there.

“It’s not fair…” muttered Fukuda Takeshi as he pulled a grilled chicken skewer off with his front teeth. He clicked his tongue at Yosuke Matsuoka seated across from him, then waved the now-bare skewer like a conductor's baton. The Gucci watch on the cuff of his suit sleeve swayed with the motion.

“See, when I look at that guy, it seriously stresses me out. But he doesn’t even realize it. I’m the only one getting all irritated, and that just feels really unfair.”

Matsuoka brought his glass of chuhai, soaked with condensation, to his lips and drained it to the last drop of melted ice. Just before 7 p.m., as he was returning from a sales visit, he’d gotten a message on his phone. It was from Fukuda, a colleague who joined the company the same year, inviting him out for drinks. There was no soccer match on that night, and eating alone didn’t sound appealing, so he replied with a simple “Sure.” He hadn’t expected to be subjected to a one-sided torrent of complaints.

“When I got promoted to General Affairs Chief, that guy smiled and said, ‘Congratulations,’ you know? Even though someone younger like me had overtaken him and he’d been made my assistant. If he’d looked frustrated, at least I could’ve thought, Okay, he’s still got some pride left, but the guy was seriously smiling—like, that’s zero motivation right there.”

“I get it, I get it. That kind of thing happens. Ah—excuse me, one lemon chuhai, please.”

He flagged down a passing staff member and placed another order before facing Fukuda again.

“Don’t let it get to you so much. The more quickly you climb the ladder, the more you’re gonna end up with older subordinates who aren’t up to scratch.”

Fukuda muttered seriously, “That’s… low-key kind of true,” and Matsuoka let out a short laugh.

“People like that—supporting-role types—just ignore them. The world’s built on natural selection. The useless ones get weeded out eventually.”

Grinning, he glanced at Fukuda, who shrugged. At twenty-eight, already a section chief in General Affairs, Fukuda clearly found clumsy older subordinates irritating in every possible way.

“Half-decent guys are actually the hardest to deal with, aren’t they?”

“You mean the guy who got assigned as your assistant? If he’s a decent guy, isn’t that a good thing?”

Fukuda sighed, not even trying to hide it.

“You don’t get it, huh. Personality doesn’t matter when it comes to work. Even if someone’s an ass, if they do their job properly, I’ve got no complaints. What matters is whether they can or can’t get the job done. I’m not going to the office to make friends—I’m there to work.”

The sermon-like tone rubbed Matsuoka the wrong way—Why the hell do I have to sit through a lecture from you?—and to top it off, Fukuda even muttered, “Must be nice being in sales, like you.”

“Sales isn’t all desk work like General Affairs. You get to go out, slack off a little and no one notices, and on top of that, it’s a good way to refresh your head.” Fukuda continued.

“Right, yeah…” Matsuoka replied with a forced nod, but inwardly, he was seething. ‘Refresh’? Seriously? He wanted to show this guy just how brutal it was to meet the monthly quotas. Walking until your legs went numb, skipping lunch like it was nothing, and still ending the day without landing a single new client—the frustration of that. The struggle against bosses who demanded the impossible, barking “Just do it!” as if that solved everything. At the end of a month when he barely scraped by, his cheeks would cramp from all the fake smiles, his stomach would churn with stress, and he needed meds to keep it from eating itself alive. He even knew guys who had coughed up blood and collapsed from it all.

“You know,” Fukuda said, “you’re actually kinda good-looking, so if your client’s a woman, I bet you land contracts just on your looks, huh?”

If I could land contracts with my face, life would be a hell of a lot easier, Matsuoka thought, but smiled pleasantly instead.

“Well, I just make the best use of what I’ve got, you know? Oh—look at the time. Sorry, I’ve gotta head out.”

Fukuda pouted. “Seriously? It’s only nine.”

“Yeah, but my girlfriend messaged me before I came here. She’s supposed to come over after her coworker’s farewell party wraps up. Sorry, man.”

He coaxed the reluctant Fukuda out of the bar, and the moment they stepped outside, the heavy, humid summer night clung to his skin.

“There’s something easy about talking to someone from our year. I always feel relaxed when it’s you,” Fukuda said.

Fukuda’s words were pleasant, but Matsuoka, even in his slightly tipsy state, knew the truth. Fukuda just couldn’t complain to his colleagues in general affairs.

“You’re pretty good at listening, huh?”

That was a skill honed in sales. The key was to nod at whatever the other person was saying. And not just any nodding—there was a technique to it. Never deny anything, no matter how ridiculous. Keep nodding, keep agreeing, and the other person would start to think, Ah, this guy really gets me.

“Let’s grab drinks again sometime.”

They parted at the subway stairs, Fukuda heading one way, Matsuoka stepping onto the opposite platform. The moment he was alone, a wave of exhaustion slammed down on his shoulders. Man, if I knew it was going to be all complaints, I wouldn’t have come out at all, he thought, regretting it already.

Venting might leave the speaker feeling refreshed, but for the one on the receiving end, it only piled up. That accumulation of negativity clearly wasn’t good for anyone’s mental health.

“Aaah, I’m beat.”

He shook off thoughts of his whiny coworker. Tomorrow was Friday—finally, Friday. That was way more important. What should I wear? What kind of makeup should I do? Just thinking about it made him giddy. Matsuoka let a grin tug at his lips, eyes lowered in quiet delight.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

Of all the steps in his makeup routine, what Matsuoka liked best was choosing the color of his lipstick. From among seven shades, he picked one depending on his mood that day. If he wanted to project the aura of a mature woman, he’d go for a red tone. If he felt like presenting a demure, proper young lady, then pink it was. Tonight, he was aiming for a beautiful, sensual look—so he went with a deep red.

He carefully painted his lips just slightly beyond the natural contour on a face already covered in foundation. Makeup, to him, was like painting a picture. What mattered was the balance of the entire composition.

His glossy lips, like freshly picked cherries, shimmered in the mirror. He leaned in, pulled back, scrutinized the result, then smiled. Perfect. He looked far, far prettier and cuter than any of the girls at the office.

Once his makeup was done, Matsuoka stripped and pulled a bra from the back of the closet. He stuffed it with pads and put it on. Slipped his arms into the blouse, pulled on a black skirt and a pair of dark stockings. Once he set the wig—long, flowing down to his chest—in place, the transformation was complete. He ran his fingers through the hair in the image of an office lady fresh off work, grabbed his handbag, and struck a pose in front of the mirror. Even he was mesmerized. From head to toe, he looked like a flawless woman. As a final touch, he spritzed on perfume and stepped outside.

People turned to look as he passed. He’d been hit on more than once or twice. Those moments only fueled his confidence.

He’d started cross-dressing last year. Work had gotten busier, and the late nights became constant. Eventually, the girlfriend he’d been with for three years broke up with him. They’d been living in a semi-cohabiting state, and after she left, a hollow loneliness had taken root in his chest.

Some time later, once he'd grown used to being alone, he began clearing out the belongings she’d told him to “just throw away.” Inside one of the bags were piles of clothes and makeup. Moved by nostalgia, he picked them up, and while looking through them, thought, Hey, some of this might actually fit me. He tried one on. The waist was a bit snug, but he could just barely get it on.

The simple black sleeveless dress looked surprisingly good on him—and that came as a shock. Half for fun, he applied some lipstick. The vivid color looked stunning against his pale skin, giving him the appearance of a porcelain doll. It suited him too well—it was fascinating. He experimented with foundation and mascara, too. And what he saw in the mirror when he was done was a version of himself he didn’t know. A version of himself so beautiful, even women rarely looked that good. There stood “Yosuke Matsuoka,” the stunning stranger.

He became deeply, rapidly addicted to this “other beautiful self” who existed in a separate world. He started ordering clothes, lingerie, and cosmetics online. He studied makeup techniques in magazines. Since his job in sales didn’t allow him to grow his hair, he used wigs. When he transformed from head to toe, he could forget the “everyday” version of himself. Turning into a beauty who made strangers look back at him brought a rush—it was the perfect way to blow off steam.

He was fully aware that it was an unsual hobby, which is why he’d set a rule: he’d only cross-dress on Fridays. Limiting it to once a week only heightened his anticipation and excitement.

Friday nights were for meticulously grooming his body and becoming a woman. At first, he was satisfied just walking around the apartment, but little by little, the urge to go outside began to grow. Unable to hold himself back, he finally stepped out into the world, dressed as a woman.

On the street, everyone turned to look. The attention was exhilarating. Immersed in the thrill of being more beautiful than women, he scoffed at the men who stared at him with lustful eyes—mocking them from deep inside.

Now, as he sat on the nearly empty train heading into Tokyo, he wondered with excitement just how many men would approach him tonight.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

…And finally, the rain began to fall. Matsuoka crouched at the corner of an alley on the outskirts of a busy nightlife district, unable to fight the nausea welling up inside him, and vomited. The stench of what he’d thrown up triggered another wave, and he heaved again. When he was finally empty, he staggered to his feet and tried to walk, but after only a few dozen meters, his stomach turned again and he sank back down.

He’d been repeating the same cycle for a while now. The brand-new blouse and black skirt were soiled, and the makeup he had so carefully perfected was ruined with tears. It was the worst. No, it was worse than the worst.

He had barely arrived in the district when a man, probably in his forties, approached him. Normally, he would’ve brushed someone like that off—but tonight, for some reason, he smiled and followed. He recognized the man from a sales call. It had piqued his interest when he noticed how the colleague in charge of that account always seemed to be bowing and scraping before this man. Curious, Matsuoka had asked a friendly coworker, “Who is that?” and was told: That’s the sales director of Takashima Trading.

Takashima Trading was a company he really wanted to establish a connection with. He had tried more than once, but they always turned him away at the gate. He couldn’t talk business tonight, but if he could get a glimpse of the man’s hobbies or preferences, maybe it could become a foot in the door. That opportunistic hope was what made him go along.

The man took him to a cocktail bar inside a luxury hotel. Matsuoka accepted the drinks offered and made harmless small talk.

“You’ve got kind of a husky voice,” the man said.

For a second, his heart stopped—but he quickly covered with, “I’ve got a bit of a cold.” No matter how perfect his appearance was, his voice was beyond his control. The fear that he might be found out made him go quiet. To fill the awkward silence, he kept drinking. He usually only had beer or chuhai—he wasn’t used to cocktails. It didn’t take long for them to mess him up.

“Ughhh!!”

The man’s shout snapped him awake. When he came to, he was lying on a double bed in a hotel room. He felt an unusual sense of exposure around his crotch—his skirt had been pushed up, and his lace panties pulled down to mid-thigh.

“Y-you’re a guy?!”

All the blood drained from Matsuoka’s body. He frantically pulled his panties back up and tried to get off the bed—but his legs gave out, and he crumpled to his knees.

“You tricked me, you freak!”

The man’s face turned red as he lunged. He straddled Matsuoka, grabbed his blouse, and slapped him across the face. When he yanked his hair, the wig came off. The momentary surprise gave Matsuoka the chance to shove him away.

He grabbed the wig off the floor and bolted from the room. He fell twice before reaching the elevator. Gasping for breath and shaking with fear that the man might follow, he finally made it to safety. A middle-aged woman who happened to be in the elevator gave him a shocked look when she noticed the long wig in his hand. He hurriedly put it back on, but without a mirror, he had no idea if it was on straight.

He left the hotel and stumbled down the street, trying desperately to walk. Nausea hit him, and he crouched down to vomit over and over. Every time he remembered the man hitting him, his back shuddered.

He knew what he was doing wasn’t “normal.” But never—not once—had he imagined being treated like that. That he could become a target for violence.

All he wanted now was to get home and take off these clothes. I’m never doing this again, he told himself. Never cross-dressing again for the rest of my life.

His handbag—with his wallet inside—and his high heels were still in the hotel room. His apartment key was in the dial-lock mailbox, so he could still get into his place, but without cash, he couldn’t take a taxi. The last train had already left. Even if he tried to call a friend to bring money, he’d left his phone at home today of all days.

And besides… Matsuoka gave a dry, bitter smile. Could I really show myself to a friend like this? The thought of being called a “pervert” again—just like that man had—was unbearable. He’d rather die.

Even crouched in the alley like this, no one spared him a word. When he’d been walking with confidence, people—men—had followed after him. But now… now he realized painfully: this appearance was nothing more than a fragile illusion.

A group passed by in front of him. Amid the sound of footsteps and voices, a familiar voice reached his ears, and Matsuoka instinctively lifted his head.

In the middle of a group of seven or eight men and women, there was Fukuda. Maybe they’d gone out for drinks after work—he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and a navy tie. Fukuda glanced in his direction, but then quickly turned away and kept walking.

It would have been a disaster if he’d been recognized. But being ignored like that… it still hurt.

Still, Matsuoka couldn’t blame him. If the roles were reversed—if he saw some drunk woman crouched by the roadside—would he stop and say something? Probably not.

It’s better this way, he told himself. If Fukuda had spoken to him and realized it was him, he’d no doubt be disgusted. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he might go blabbing to the others in their cohort. Sure, they grabbed drinks now and then, and they were friendly enough at work—but Matsuoka had never trusted him fully.

A short while later, the rain softened. He heard the sound of raindrops pattering against an umbrella. When he lifted his head, he saw a man standing there, holding an umbrella over him.

The man looked to be thirty-four or thirty-five, with a bland haircut and an unremarkable appearance. Even his tie was crooked, slightly askew to the right. He looked familiar—maybe he had been with Fukuda earlier?

“Are you okay?”

Matsuoka was about to say he was fine—but held back. If he spoke and gave himself away as a man, this stranger might start looking at him strangely too. So instead, he just nodded.

“I noticed you earlier, and, well… if you’d like, I can walk you home?”

It was more than he could have hoped for. He nodded vigorously. The man extended his hand, and Matsuoka took it. It was warm. But even as he felt that comfort, suspicion crept in—Is he just pretending to be kind so he can take advantage of a drunk woman later?

“What happened to your shoes?”

The man had noticed his bare feet. He couldn’t exactly explain that he’d left them in the hotel, so he just shook his head. Then, right there, the man took off his own shoes.

“You probably don’t want to wear these—they’re not exactly stylish—but better that than stepping on something and getting hurt, right? I’ve got socks on, so… here.”

No, I can’t accept that, Matsuoka thought, frantically shaking his head to refuse. But the man didn’t put the shoes back on. In the end, Matsuoka gave in and slipped his feet into them. Too big for him, they flopped awkwardly as he walked. Under the tiny umbrella, the two walked side by side, and Matsuoka kept his gaze on the ground the entire time.

When they reached the taxi stand, he ran into a problem. He had no money. No matter how many times the man encouraged him to get in, he couldn’t take the first step. Eventually, someone behind them snapped, “If you’re not going, then move aside,” forcing them to step away.

“Don’t you want to go home?”

The man asked, looking troubled. Matsuoka shook his head.

“You haven’t said a word this whole time…”

Matsuoka reached out and took his hand. The clear plastic umbrella slipped from his grip and hit the wet asphalt. On the man’s palm, Matsuoka slowly traced words with his finger:

I can’t speak.

The man stared at him in surprise.

I don’t have any money for the taxi.

He retrieved the fallen umbrella, then gently took Matsuoka’s right hand and led him to the back of the taxi line.

“Can you write down your address for me?”

He handed him a notebook and a pen. Matsuoka wrote down his home address. When their turn came, the man helped him into the taxi first, then gave the address memo to the driver.

“How much will it be to get there?” he asked.

“Probably just under five thousand yen,” the driver replied.

The man opened his wallet and took out everything inside—six thousand yen and some change—and handed it all to Matsuoka.

“She can’t speak,” he told the driver. “If anything happens, have her write it down.”

Then, turning back to Matsuoka, he gave a warm smile.

“I’m headed the opposite direction. Please take care getting home.”

He stepped away from the taxi. Matsuoka wanted to thank him, but he couldn’t speak. He was about to write something in his hand again, but the door had already closed.

The taxi began to move. Clutching the money tightly in his hand, Matsuoka kept looking out the window, watching the man’s figure recede into the rain.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

On Monday afternoon, Matsuoka forced himself to return to the office from his sales rounds and headed toward the General Affairs department. It was just before the end of the lunch break—the perfect time, when most employees who had gone out to eat were already back.

“Oh? What’s up?”

Fukuda immediately noticed the presence of someone from outside the department. “The section chief asked me to check on something,” Matsuoka lied, while casually scanning the office, searching for the man from Friday night. Since he’d been with Fukuda, chances were high he was from General Affairs. …There—he spotted him. Sitting at the farthest desk was the man who had lent him the taxi fare.

“Who’s the guy at the desk in the corner?”

Fukuda leaned in the direction Matsuoka pointed. “Oh, that guy? You need something from him?” His tone turned abruptly curt. The change in attitude was jarring.

“Don’t need something, exactly…”

As Matsuoka tried to sound casual, Fukuda grabbed the sleeve of his suit and pulled him in close.

“That’s the guy,” he whispered.

The way he said it made everything click. Could this be the older subordinate Fukuda had complained about at length last Thursday?

“That’s him?”

Fukuda furrowed his brow and nodded deeply.

“Yeah. His name’s Hiromatsu. He pissed me off just being in my line of sight, so I had him moved to the corner.”

As they talked, the clock ticked past one. Afternoon work was starting. Hiromatsu rose from his seat and began walking toward them. Cold sweat beaded on Matsuoka’s forehead—he was terrified the man had recognized him as the woman from Friday night. But Hiromatsu didn’t even glance his way. Instead, he stopped in front of Fukuda.

“I’ve finished compiling the documents you asked for.”

Fukuda snatched them out of his hands.

“Didn’t I say I needed these first thing this morning?”

“My apologies.”

Hiromatsu bowed his head.

“This isn’t the first time, either. You’re always late. If you can’t meet the deadline I give you, at least say so. I’ve got my own schedule to manage.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Just don’t let this happen again.”

Hiromatsu didn’t try to justify himself—just kept his head lowered, bowing repeatedly before quietly returning to his desk. It was hard to watch someone be reprimanded so one-sidedly.

“You know,” Matsuoka murmured, “even if he’s your subordinate, he’s older than you. Can’t you go a little easier on him?”

But Fukuda waved it off without concern. “That’s the only way to handle him. Guy’s so slow, anything you say takes forever to even reach his brain.”

Matsuoka couldn’t just loiter in General Affairs forever, so he returned to Sales and went back out again. He visited clients and dropped off brochures at new prospects, hurrying to finish his rounds. It was nearly 6 p.m. when he got back to the office.

It would’ve looked suspicious to keep visiting General Affairs, and by this time, Hiromatsu probably hadn’t left yet anyway. So instead, Matsuoka stepped out of the building and sat beside the shrubbery near the neighboring building, pretending to check his phone while waiting for Hiromatsu to appear.

It was past 7 p.m. when Hiromatsu finally exited the front entrance alone, walking off in the opposite direction from where Matsuoka sat. Careful not to be noticed, Matsuoka followed from a distance. It made him feel like a detective—and the thrill of it made his heart race.

Hiromatsu got off at a station fifteen minutes away by train, on a line going the opposite direction from Matsuoka’s neighborhood. After walking for another five minutes, he entered a four-story apartment building and went into unit 306 on the third floor.

I didn’t need to follow him all the way home, Matsuoka thought. But once I started, I couldn’t stop.

On the ride back, he couldn’t stop wondering—Hiromatsu had given him every last bill in his wallet that night. With the last train already gone, how had he gotten home? Had he used a credit card or electronic payment to take a taxi?

That thought wouldn’t leave Matsuoka alone.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

Matsuoka spent a long time agonizing over whether to meet him dressed as a woman or as himself. If he went as himself, he wouldn’t want to admit to cross-dressing. Which meant he’d have to invent “someone else” who had been dressed that way. He even considered lying and saying it was his sister—but if Hiromatsu ever talked to Fukuda, the lie would fall apart immediately. Fukuda knew that Matsuoka only had a younger brother.

In the end, he decided to meet him dressed as a woman. He would pretend to bump into Hiromatsu by chance at the station and return the money and shoes. Since he’d already told him he couldn’t speak, there shouldn’t be any deep probing into his personal life.

The next day, Matsuoka booked a business hotel near the office. He left a bag containing women’s clothes and makeup with the front desk before going to work. The moment the workday ended, he rushed back to the hotel and changed. After doing his makeup, he wrapped a dark blue scarf around his neck to conceal his Adam’s apple. Today’s theme was “graceful young lady”—a summery white dress completed the look, turning him into a vision of refined beauty.

From the top of his head to the tips of his toes, he was perfectly coordinated. He headed outside and waited on the platform where Hiromatsu’s train would arrive.

The day before, Hiromatsu had arrived around 7 p.m., but tonight it was already past eight and he still hadn’t shown up. Maybe he’d gone out for drinks after work. Matsuoka was about to give up and head home when he finally appeared.

A train slid into the platform. Just as Hiromatsu moved toward the nearest door, having come down the stairs, Matsuoka hurried toward him and grabbed his arm.

“Yes?”

Hiromatsu turned, tilting his head. Slightly overgrown hair, a slim frame, a small face. His eyes weren’t especially big, and his lips were thin. The features themselves weren’t bad, but the overall impression was hopelessly awkward—classic signs of someone who paid no attention to their appearance.

“Um… what is it?”

What surprised Matsuoka was that Hiromatsu didn’t recognize him right away as the woman from the rainy night. He quickly pulled out a pen and notepad from his handbag and scribbled a message.

Thank you for Friday.

Hiromatsu read the note, then looked back at Matsuoka’s face.

“Oh… you’re the woman from that night.”

When Matsuoka smiled at him, Hiromatsu’s face turned red with embarrassment and he looked down.

“Are your feet okay now?”

It took Matsuoka a moment to realize he was referring to the fact that he’d been barefoot. He wrote: Yes, thank you. How did you get home after that?

Hiromatsu glanced down at the note in his hands and gave a sheepish smile.

“I walked.”

The train ride alone from the entertainment district to his place took fifteen minutes. Walking would have taken way more than an hour or two. Matsuoka wrote, How long did it take?

Hiromatsu hesitated before replying.

“Don’t worry about it. It was only about thirty minutes.”

The moment he realized it was a lie, something tightened in Matsuoka’s chest. To Hiromatsu, he was just a nameless, unknown woman—and yet he’d lent her his shoes and money without expecting anything in return. And now, he was even lying so she wouldn’t feel guilty. That kind of quiet kindness—that instinct not to cause worry—that was what it meant to be a decent human being.

“Were you on your way home from work?”

Hiromatsu asked, and Matsuoka nodded.

I don’t usually use this station, but I was in the area for work today. I’m really glad I ran into you. Um… will you be using this station tomorrow as well?

He held out the memo. Hiromatsu nodded.

“Yes. This line takes me home without having to transfer.”

If I come at this time tomorrow, will I be able to see you again? I want to return your shoes and the money.

Hiromatsu hastily shook his head.

“Those cheap shoes? Please, just toss them. And really, the money’s not a big deal either. Besides, I get off work at different times, so I can’t say for sure when I’ll be here.”

Matsuoka wrote a short message: I’ll wait.

Then he smiled.

He reached out and took both of Hiromatsu’s hands in his own, squeezing them gently. Before Hiromatsu could say anything, Matsuoka turned and hurried out of the station—almost as if fleeing.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

The next day, since they weren’t meeting until 8 p.m., Matsuoka had plenty of time. After finishing work, he went back to his condo, changed clothes, and headed out again.

Fifteen minutes before the appointed time, he was descending the station stairs when he spotted Hiromatsu sitting on a bench near the platform. The moment he saw him, he finally realized the mistake he’d made.

Yesterday, Hiromatsu had said, “I don’t know when I’ll finish work.” In fact, the day before that, he’d left the office around seven. Even if he’d finished early today, he might’ve been stuck waiting because he couldn’t go home first just to meet Matsuoka—and the thought made Matsuoka feel guilty.

As he approached, Hiromatsu looked startled to see him appear so suddenly.

“Ah, hey there.”

Jumping to his feet, Hiromatsu gave a quick bow.

“I saw you leave the platform yesterday, so I just assumed you’d boarded the train.”

It was a fair assumption, and Matsuoka laughed, brushing it off.

Sorry for keeping you waiting, he wrote on his notepad.

Just as expected, Hiromatsu replied, “Not at all.” He was the type to always be considerate, so there was no telling whether he’d really been waiting or not.

Matsuoka held out the paper bag he was carrying. Inside were not the shoes he’d borrowed but a newly bought pair. The old ones had started to fall apart—while drying, the toe had peeled away from the sole. They’d been quite well-worn, and the rain had delivered the final blow.

He’d also slipped the money Hiromatsu had lent him that day into the bag. Hiromatsu hadn’t realized yet that the shoes were new, or that the money was in there. If he knew, he probably wouldn’t accept it. Matsuoka was relieved when Hiromatsu didn’t check the contents right away, and he felt a small, secret joy imagining the look of surprise on the man’s face once he got home.

“I really am sorry… I ended up making you go to all this trouble.”

Matsuoka shook his head, then wrote, I really appreciated what you did for me that day. Thank you.

Smiling, he showed the note. Hiromatsu quickly covered his reddening face with a palm and looked down. He’s such a shy guy, Matsuoka thought as he watched the man’s unstyled, dull black hair—he hadn’t even bothered to lighten it a bit. Has he ever even dated a girl? he wondered pointlessly.

His bashful manner and gentle disposition were oddly reassuring to watch. Come to think of it, since joining the company, Matsuoka hadn’t really interacted much with this type. Sure, there were guys he was friendly with at work, but in the sales department, everyone was a rival. It wasn’t the kind of environment where you could have honest conversations. And with other departments, well, trusting people wasn’t so easy either. Still, as Fukuda had once said, “Work’s not play,” and Matsuoka had accepted that as the way things were.

Maybe I’m just tired, he thought, analyzing himself. The same tiredness that made him dress as a woman, or find comfort in this guy.

“U-Um…!”

Hiromatsu suddenly lifted his head and blurted something out loud. Matsuoka was so startled that he instinctively took a step back.

“C-Can I have your phone number?”

As soon as he said it, Hiromatsu panicked and blurted, “I’m sorry!”

“I know you can’t speak, I just… it slipped out. I’m sorry. Um—could I maybe get your… email? Your phone’s email address?”

His body was trembling slightly, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. On top of that, his face was red as a monkey’s. Email? In this day and age? Matsuoka thought, but it was also painfully clear how much courage it had taken to ask. It wasn’t smooth at all—he’d even gone and asked for a phone number after being told Matsuoka couldn’t talk. Normally, that kind of awkwardness would’ve been a total turn-off. But somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to dislike him for it.

Matsuoka showed him a note saying, Sorry, and Hiromatsu’s face clearly fell. No matter how decent the guy seemed, Matsuoka had no intention of continuing this relationship while dressed as a woman. That’s why he couldn’t give him his contact info.

“I’m sorry for being so forward. Just, um… forget I said anything.”

Hiromatsu forced a strained smile, his face stiff.

“Really, don’t worry about it.”

His voice grew small again, and he lowered his gaze. Watching him, Matsuoka felt a stab of guilt. Even as he left the platform and climbed the stairs, he couldn’t shake the sensation of Hiromatsu’s gaze trailing him. He kept turning to look back—each time, their eyes met.

…It made him recall something, unexpectedly. When he was little, he’d once come across an abandoned dog. He couldn’t take it home, but he also couldn’t bear to just walk away. So he’d kept looking back, over and over again.

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