Second Serenade: Chapter 30
It was in early October when he
heard that the short piece—hardly deserving to be called a film—had made it to
the final selection of the “Film Festa” and even won an award. The wind blowing
against his single T-shirt would suddenly cut cold as a blade, and the dead
leaves rustling past his feet carried no trace of summer left in them.
He couldn’t focus in class. He kept
scolding himself to get over this damn lovesick haze already, but the
self-loathing only made it worse. It felt like digging a hole in the pit of
hell every single day.
“Hey, I just got a call from the
office…”
Even through the phone, he could
tell Hayashida was breathless from excitement, pausing constantly to gulp in
air.
“You’re kidding. That’s awesome.”
He said the words, but they didn’t
mean a thing. He couldn’t care less about some film. It had been two weeks
since he last saw Hashimoto. He hadn’t had the will to do anything since, and
anytime he had a moment of quiet, he ended up thinking about him.
Late at night, he’d get this sudden,
aching urge to see him. What’s the harm if no one finds out?—a little
Hashimoto-style logic would creep into his brain, and before he knew it, he’d
be standing at the front door lacing up his shoes. Then he’d catch himself and
shudder, horrified. Not only was he failing to change himself—he was starting
to be changed, and that terrified him.
“So the award ceremony’s in a Tokyo
hotel the Sunday after next. They want the core members there. You can come,
right, Kakegawa?”
He didn’t have any plans, but he
also had zero interest in attending some ceremony. He didn’t feel like it, not
one bit.
“Do I have to go?”
“Well… they said it’d be nice if
everyone could, but if you’ve got something…”
Hayashida’s voice shrank with
uncertainty.
“It’s fine. I’ll go.”
Arguing just seemed too cruel. He
didn’t want to be that kind of person right now.
“Thanks, man… Sounds like we’ll be
called up on stage, so the MC might ask you something.”
Sensing Kakegawa’s lack of
enthusiasm, Hayashida quickly started apologizing.
“It’s okay.”
He raised his tone to reassure him.
The conversation seemed to be winding down, so he started to pull the phone
away from his ear—when he heard it:
“Hey, Kakegawa… are you okay?”
“What?”
“I mean… your voice sounds kind of
dead. Are you sick or something?”
“Just a broken heart.”
The other end of the line went
silent again.
“…Is it… Sensei?”
A cautious question. Hayashida
hadn’t said a word during filming, so Kakegawa had figured he’d forgotten. But
it seemed he remembered that confession back in high school. So… he’d been
trying not to bring it up all this time?
“No. Someone else. Sensei already
has a partner.”
“I see. Yeah, that makes sense.”
Hayashida didn’t sound surprised at
all to hear that the teacher was taken. Which made Kakegawa wonder.
“Hayashida… do you know who it is?”
“Well… I mean…” came the vague
reply.
“You do know, don’t you?”
He pressed, voice firm. At last, he
got something like an answer.
“If I had to guess… But I didn’t
hear it straight from him or anything.”
“Who is it?”
“Can’t tell you.”
“It’s Aketo, isn’t it? How’d you
know?”
His tone bordered on interrogation,
and Hayashida sounded flustered as he replied.
“Back in high school, I think it was
near the end of our second year… there were rumors Sensei was getting
transferred, and Aketo cried. He didn’t say he liked him, not exactly,
but he said something that made it pretty clear. And when I asked Sensei
recently if he still sees Aketo, he just laughed and said ‘all the time.’”
“I see…”
So he had been the only one
who didn’t know. But strangely, he didn’t feel angry. Just… Oh. So that’s
how it was.
Now he could understand why Aketo
hadn’t said anything. Back then, Kakegawa had been so possessive, so
transparently territorial—anyone who got near the teacher was liable to get
bitten. Of course Aketo couldn’t speak up.
Maybe the only reason he could
accept it now was because the teacher was no longer someone he was in love
with. The feeling had ended. That must be it, he thought vaguely.
That was the end of the conversation
about the teacher. Kakegawa hung up the phone.
That night, he found himself
remembering high school—how he’d only joined that silly, toy-like movie project
because the teacher was involved. He hadn’t even wanted to do it at first. But
the teacher’s presence had made him fake enthusiasm.
It was funny. And painful. And
nostalgic. And it made his chest ache, just a little.
◇:-:◆:-:◇
The award ceremony was held at a
hotel near Shinshuku Station. Their teacher couldn’t attend due to work.
Thinking it was just a small amateur film contest, Kakegawa had come with light
expectations—but he was completely overwhelmed by the unexpectedly solemn and
lavish atmosphere. He regretted his choice of outfit: jeans and a T-shirt from
the very first scene of their film, which he’d picked as a casual nod to their
work. There were plenty of people in suits—even Hayashida had made himself look
presentable.
The titles of the awards and the
winning works were announced before each film was played. Their own entry,
which had received a special jury prize, was scheduled fourth on the program.
Some of the entries were full of
computer graphics; others were abstract and unintelligible. Amidst that
variety, it became clear that their film had a strong message—something that
stood out.
They watched the other entries from
the seats provided by the organizers, but before the third film began, they
were called backstage to wait for their turn. In stark contrast to the
glamorous front of the venue, the backstage area was a battlefield: stacked
cardboard boxes, cords snaking across the floor, staff rushing around
everywhere.
Hayashida was called over by the
production staff to discuss the program order. Left behind, Takagi and Kakegawa
watched the award-winning entries from the wings of the stage. Takagi,
unusually, had makeup on today, and instead of her usual jeans, she wore a
wine-colored dress that suited the early autumn weather.
“I never thought we’d make it to the
final round, let alone win a prize,” Takagi murmured under her breath.
“Not happy about it?” Kakegawa
asked.
“I’m happy, but... it kind of feels
like a trick or something.”
She turned toward him with a faint,
self-deprecating smile, tilting her head. Her fingertips clenched the curtain
divider tightly.
“…The film still doesn’t feel
complete.”
“I thought it was amazing.”
“Spare me the flattery. If you keep
saying stuff like that, I might actually start believing it and get carried
away.”
The stiffness in her expression
relaxed. She looked straight into Kakegawa’s eyes.
“You’ve seemed kind of off lately,
Kakegawa. Are you feeling sick or something?”
He’d been trying not to think about
Hashimoto, telling himself he was happy about the award, trying to act cheerful
so it would look that way. But she’d seen through it. The thought that his
depression was obvious even to others filled him with frustration.
“I just had something unpleasant
happen.”
“I see…”
The explanation for the third film
began.
“Bad things don’t go on forever, you
know.”
As she muttered that, Takagi’s gaze,
which had drifted to the stage, returned to Kakegawa.
“What happened exactly?”
“We broke up.”
Her expression shifted—subtle, but
tinged with confusion.
“I told you about the guy I had a
purely physical thing with, right? He said he was getting married. So… we broke
up.”
“I see.”
Looking down, she scratched her
thumbnail—painted the same wine red as her lipstick—with a similarly colored
manicure. She seemed genuinely unsure how to respond, unable to say “that’s
great” or “that’s awful.” It was supposed to be a celebratory night, but now
he’d dragged someone else into his gloom.
“How do you think I can forget about
him quickly?”
He wasn’t expecting an answer—he
just wanted to lighten the mood, anything to lift the heaviness.
“Start a new romance,” she replied
promptly, lifting her face.
“It’s simple. Like with oil
painting.”
“Oil painting?”
“If there’s an old painting you
don’t like, you just paint over it. That way, you can create something new.
Love works the same way.”
Paint over the old painting. In the
end, it was just a matter of layering something new to forget the past.
“Have you ever done that, Takagi?
Painted over someone?”
“Just once.”
Destroy the painting. Forget it. But
even if someone told him to do that right now, there was no way he could. The
moment he closed his eyes, that figure appeared vividly behind his eyelids.
Should he just wait for the memories to fade? But when would that even happen?
And until they did, was he supposed to go on feeling like this the entire time?
“Is it painful?”
She asked him that.
“No, it’s not.”
Takagi’s fingers suddenly pressed
lightly at the corners of Kakegawa’s eyes.
“Your eyes are red.”
Her fingertips must have hit just
the right spot, because a single tear slipped out and fell.
“I’ve been running on too little
sleep lately.”
He lowered his head, trying to shrug
it off. Takagi said nothing.
“I guess I’m the kind of person with
way too much possessiveness.”
“Yeah… I kind of got that
impression.”
“…It’s frustrating.”
The words slipped out in a mutter.
Her hand gently took his, like she
was trying to soothe him.
“Is it the fact that you were hurt
that frustrates you?”
Hayashida returned, but Kakegawa
didn’t feel like letting go of her hand.
When Hayashida saw them holding
hands, he stiffened slightly as he came to stand beside Kakegawa. He tried to
act normal, but his eyes kept flicking toward them.
“Takagi-san, want to kiss?”
Hayashida whipped around.
“Just kidding.”
Hayashida looked as though he were
about to cry.
“Of course it’s a joke. Don’t be
stupid.”
Takagi muttered, exasperated.
But even so, she didn’t let go of
his hand.
Before long, the introduction for
their film began. From the wings of the stage, a staff member gave them the cue
to head out onto the stage.
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