Pain, Pain, Go Away-Chapter 1: A First Goodbye

Kiriko and I became penpals when I was 12 years old, in the fall.

A mere six months from graduation, I had to leave the elementary school I’d been attending because of my father’s job.

That change of schools turned out to be the opportunity that made Kiriko and I get together.

My last day of school was at the end of October. I would be leaving town that same night.

It should have been an important day. But I had only two friends that I could really call friends, and one of them was too sick to attend, while the other was out on a family vacation.

So I was left to spend the day alone.

At the send-off party four days earlier, I’d gotten a bouquet of withering flowers with messages that all read the same way. And every time a classmate saw me, they gave me a look as if to say “Huh? You’re still here?”

The classroom became an unbearable place to stay. I knew that I already didn’t belong here.

Not a soul lamented that I was changing schools. That fact was a lonely one, but it also encouraged me.

I wouldn’t be losing anything from this. In fact, it would provide me with new experiences and people to meet.

I’ll fare better at my next school, I thought. If I turn out to change schools again, at least two or three people should be torn up about

it next time.

My last class came to an end. After putting my papers away in my desk, feeling like a boy left behind in a lonely classroom on Valentine’s Day, I went pointlessly rummaging through my backpack. I wasn’t mature enough to not get my hopes up that someone had left me some kind parting remarks.

Just as I was giving up on having any fond memories of this final day, I noticed there was someone standing in front of me.

She wore a blue pleated skirt and had skinny legs. I looked up, trying to conceal my nervousness.

It wasn’t Sachi Aoyama, who’d secretly had my fancy since third grade. It wasn’t Saya Mochizuki, who tilted her head and smiled at me whenever we met in the library.

Looking altogether too serious, it was Kiriko Hizumi, asking “Do you want to go home together?”

Kiriko was a memorable girl, with hair cut to the exact length to hang above her eyebrows.

She was shy, only ever talking in a whispery voice, wearing an awkward smile she looked ashamed to be having. Her grades were average, too, so she really didn’t catch anyone’s eye.

It was a total mystery why she, who had almost never held a conversation worth calling a conversation with me, came to talk to me today. I was secretly disappointed that it hadn’t been Sachi Aoyama or Saya Mochizuki.

But I had no reason to refuse her, either. “Sure, I guess,” I told her, and she smiled. “Thanks,” she replied, head still lowered.

Kiriko didn’t say a word the entire trip home. She walked at my side looking incredibly nervous, and occasionally shot glances at me as if she had something to say.

I didn’t know what we could possibly talk about, either. What’s someone who’ll be out of here tomorrow supposed to say to someone who’s hardly even an acquaintance? Not to mention, I’d never walked home together with a girl my age before.

With much bashfulness between the both of us, we arrived at my house still having not said a single thing to each other.

“Well, bye.”

I shyly waved at Kiriko and turned to grab the doorknob. Then at last, she seemed to muster some resolve and grabbed my hand. “Wait.”

Thrown off by the touch of her cold fingers, I asked with excessive bluntness, “What?”

“Um, Mizuho, I have a request. Will you listen?”

I scratched the back of my neck, as I’m wont to do when I’m uneasy. “I mean, I’ll listen, but… I’m changing schools tomorrow. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yes. Actually, that’s why it’s only you who can do it.”

Staring bullets at my hand as she gripped it, she went on.

“I’ll write you letters, and I want you to reply to them. And then, um, I’ll reply back to those replies.”

I thought about what she was saying. “You mean, you want us to be penpals?”

“Y-Yeah. That’s the word,” Kiriko confirmed bashfully.

“Why me, though? It’d probably be more fun to do with someone you’re closer to.”

“Well, you can’t send a letter to someone who lives nearby, right? That’s boring. I’ve always wanted to send letters to someone far away.”

“But I’ve never written a letter in my life.”

“Then we’re even. Good luck to us both,” she said, shaking my hand up and down.

“Hey, hold on, you can’t ask me this out of the blue…”

In the end, though, I accepted Kiriko’s request. Having never written a letter worth calling a letter outside of New Year’s cards, the old-fashioned idea seemed fresh and interesting to me.

And getting such an earnest request from a girl my age got me so excited that I wasn’t about to turn her down.

She sighed with satisfaction. “I’m glad. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if you refused.”

After handing her a note with my new address, she smiled, said “Wait for my first letter,” and ran home with a speedy trot.

Didn’t even say goodbye. Clearly, her interest was in the letters I’d write, not the flesh-and-blood me.

As soon as I’d transferred to my new school, her letter came right away. “More than anything, I think we should know more about each other,” she wrote. “So first, let’s introduce ourselves.”

It was a bizarre thing - separated ex-classmates only now introducing themselves. But it wasn’t as if there was anything else to write about, so I went along with the suggestion.

After some time being penpals with Kiriko, I made a discovery. We’d never properly spoken before I changed schools, but going off what she wrote in her letters, Kiriko Hizumi seemed to have strikingly similar values to my own.

“Why do I have to study?” “Why is it wrong to kill people?” “What is “talent”?”

Early in our teaching, we both enjoyed rethinking everything from the basics like that in an attempt to give adults pause.

We also had an embarrassingly serious discussion about “love,” which went as follows.

“Mizuho, what do you think about this “love” thing? My friends talk about it from time to time, but I still don’t really understand what it means.”

“I don’t understand either. In Christianity, the single word “love” can mean four different kinds of love, and there are multiple loves in one in other religions as well, so it seems hopeless to even try. For example, what my mom feels for Ry Cooder is definitely love, but what dad feels for Alden cordovans is also love, and there’s a kind of love in me sending letters to you, Kiriko. It’s a really diverse thing.”

“Thank you for that casual remark that made me very happy. What

you said made me realize that maybe the love I’m talking about and the love my friends are talking about have different definitions entirely. Maybe I should be wary of those girls talking so lightly of it. What I’m talking about is a more emotional, romantic love. That “thing” often seen in movies and books, but which I’ve never seen in reality, an entirely different thing from familial or sexual love.”

“I’m still dubious about the actual existence of that “thing,” myself. But if the “love” you speak of doesn’t exist, then someone must have come up with it, which is a stunning thought. For many ages, love has been the cause of many beautiful paintings, songs, and stories. If it’s only made-up, “love” may be humanity’s greatest invention, or perhaps the world’s kindest lie.”

Etcetera.

In everything we talked about, our opinions were as close as if we were long-lost twins. Kiriko described that miracle as “like a class reunion of souls.”

That description really stuck with me. A class reunion of souls.

----------

At the same time my relationship with Kiriko was deepening, I was finding myself unable to get used to my new elementary school. And when I graduated from there and moved on to middle school, then began a truly lonely existence. 𝑓𝔯𝑒e𝘸e𝘣𝓷𝘰ѵe𝚕.c૦𝙢

Not a single person to talk to in class, only minimal conversations in clubs, and naturally no one to talk about personal things with.

Relatively speaking, I actually had it better before I changed schools.

For Kiriko, though, everything seemed to take a turn for the better once she entered middle school, and her letters proved again and again that she was living very happily.

She told me how she’d made countless wonderful friends. How she’d stay late every day with her club friends talking about something or another. How she was chosen for the culture festival executive committee and could go into normally inaccessible rooms at the school. How she’d sneak onto the roof with her classmates and have lunch, then get scolded by the teachers. Etcetera.

I felt it would be awkward to respond to these letters with plain descriptions of my miserable circumstances. I didn’t want to cause her any worry, and I would’ve hated to be thought of as weak.

Maybe if I had opened up to her with my problems, she would have been kind and listened. But I didn’t really want that. I insisted on looking good in front of Kiriko.

So I wrote lies instead. My letters told of a fictional life of mine, so perfect and fulfilling so as not to be bested by hers.

Initially, it was no more than a bluff, but it gradually became my greatest joy. I suppose I had a love of acting that only needed awakening.

Leaving out anything that sounded too implausible, I wrote about the best school life I could muster without it deviating from the reality of being Mizuho Yugami. A second life created only for these letters. When I was writing letters to Kiriko, that was when I could

become my ideal.

In spring and summer and fall and winter, on sunny and cloudy and rainy and snowy days, I would write letters and deposit them in the mailbox on the corner of the street.

When a letter from Kiriko arrived, I would prudently cut open the envelope, bring it close to my face, lie down in bed, and relish the words while sipping coffee.

----------

A terrifying situation came up five years after we became penpals, the autumn when I was 17.

“I want to talk face to face,” Kiriko wrote.

“Some things, I just can’t bring myself to say in letters. I want us to look each other in the eyes and hear each other talk.”

This letter troubled me. Of course, I’d had the same desire to meet in person cross my mind. I would have loved to see how she’d changed in five years.

But it was obvious that if such a thing were to happen, everything I’d written in my letters would be exposed as lies. Gentle Kiriko wouldn’t condemn me for it, surely. But I was sure it would disappoint her.

I schemed to somehow become that fictional Mizuho Yugami for just a day, but even if I could briefly solidify all those lies, I knew I wouldn’t be able to hide my gloomy eyes and actions affected by years of loneliness, nor my lack of confidence. I regretted, all too

late, not having just lived a decent life all along.

In trying to think of a clever excuse to turn her down, weeks passed, and then a month.

One day, I supposed that it was best to just let our relationship fade away like this. Telling her the truth would forever end the comfortable relationship we had, and it was painful to keep sending letters while fearing my lies would be seen through.

As it happened, it was approaching exam cram season. So I resolved to give up on our relationship of five years, so quickly that it even surprised me.

If she was going to hate me either way, it seemed better to terminate things myself.

The month after the letter asking to meet in person came, another letter from Kiriko arrived. It was the first time I’d broken the tacit agreement that we would reply within five days of receiving a letter. She must have been worried by my lack of response.

But I didn’t even open that letter. As expected, another one came a month after that, and I ignored it too. It pained me, certainly, but it was the only thing I could do.

The week after I gave up on our correspondence, I made a friend. Maybe I’d grown too reliant upon Kiriko and it got in the way of forming normal relationships, I thought.

Time passed, and I got out of my habit of checking the mail for her letters.

And that was how my relationship with Kiriko ended.

----------

It was my friend’s death that led me to write to Kiriko again.

In the summer of my fourth year, Haruhiko Shindo, who I’d spent most of my time at college with, committed suicide.

I secluded myself in my apartment. I knew I was missing important credits that term and would have to repeat a year, but I didn’t care. It didn’t even feel like my business.

I felt little sadness for his death itself. There had been many signs. Ever since I met him, Shindo had longed for death. He smoked three packs a day, took straight swigs of whiskey, and went out on his motorcycle night after night.

He’d watch New Hollywood films and repeatedly play back the all- too-quick deaths of the protagonists, sighing as if in a trance.

So when I was told of his death, I more or less thought “good for him.” He was finally where he wanted to be. There wasn’t a shred of regret in me to the tune of “I should’ve been nicer,” or “I couldn’t see that he was suffering.”

Shindo, too, probably never thought of talking with me about his problems. No doubt, all he wanted was to have some ordinary days full of laughs, and then vanish from them just like that.

The problem, then, was that I was still here. Shindo not being there was a serious blow to me.

For better or worse, he was propping me up. He was lazier, more

desperate, more pessimistic than me, and similarly lacking in life goals, so having him there was a pretty big relief. I could look at him and go, “If a guy like that can live, I’ve gotta live too.”

His death pulled away an important foundation out from under me. I gained a vague dread for the outside world, becoming only able to go out from 2 to 4 AM.

If I forced myself to leave, my heart would start pounding, and I’d get dizzy and hyperventilate. At its worst, my limbs and face would go numb and cramp up.

Holed up in my room with the curtains closed, I’d drink and watch the movies Shindo adored. When I wasn’t doing that, I slept.

I longed for the days when I’d ride tandem with Shindo and we’d drive around. We did all kinds of stupid stuff. Pump coin after coin into games late at night in an arcade smelling of nicotine, go to the beach at night and come back home having done nothing at all, spend all day skipping stones on the river, ride around town blowing bubbles from the motorcycle…

But thinking about it, it was those silly times we spent together that deepened our friendship. Had it been a healthier relationship, his death probably wouldn’t have brought me this much loneliness.

If only he’d gotten me involved, I thought. If Shindo’d invited me, I’d gladly dive into a ravine with him, laughing.

Maybe he knew that, and that’s why he died without saying a word to me.

----------

The cicadas died off, the trees turned red; autumn came. It was the end of October. And I suddenly recalled a rather forgettable conversation I’d had with Shindo.

It was a clear July afternoon. We were in a humid room, drinking and rambling to one another.

There was a mountain of cigarette butts in the ashtray that looked like it’d collapse with a single touch, so I placed empty cans beside it, neatly-aligned like bowling pins.

Our ears were hurting from the buzzing of cicadas perched on the telephone pole near the window. Shindo grabbed one of the cans, went out on the veranda, and threw it at the cicadas.

It completely missed its mark and fell onto the road with a clatter. Shindo cursed. As he went back to pick up a second can, the cicadas flew off as if to ridicule him.

“Oh yeah,” Shindo said, standing there with the can in hand. “Shouldn’t you know if they accepted your application by now?” “Wish you would’ve gotten curious before they told me anything,” I implied.

“Rejected?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a relief,” Shindo sighed, having not gotten any job offers either. “Applied anywhere else since then?”

“Nope. I’m not doing anything. My job hunting’s gone on summer vacation.”

“Vacation? Sounds good. I think mine’s taking one too.”

There was a high-school baseball game on TV. The players, four or five years younger than us, were being showered in cheers. Bottom of the seventh inning, and still no points for either team.

“This is a weird question,” I began, “but when you were a kid, Shindo, what did you want to be?”

“High school teacher. Told you that a bunch of times.” “Oh yeah, I guess you did.”

“Now, though? Me shooting to be a teacher seems as implausible as a one-armed guy shooting to be a pianist.”

Shindo spoke the truth; he definitely didn’t look like someone suited to be a teacher. Don’t ask me what kind of occupation he would be suited for, though.

I guess he was already a teacher in the sense that he teaches people how you don’t want to end up, but as of now, “bad example” isn’t a valid job position.

“There could be a one-armed pianist, though,” I supposed. “Eh, maybe. So what did you wanna be?”

“I didn’t want to be anything.”

“Liar,” he accused, prodding my shoulder. “Grown-ups will make kids think they have dreams, at least.”

“It’s true, though.”

Cheers came from the TV. The game was finally getting somewhere. The ball hit the fence, and the outfielder was desperate to get it. The second base runner had already made it to third, and the

shortstop gave up on throwing to home plate. “We have a point!”, a commentator exclaimed.

“Hey, weren’t you on the baseball team in middle school? Pretty well-known in the area for your pitching?”, Shindo asked. “Heard about it from a middle school friend. A southpaw by the name of Yugami, only a second-year, but he could throw one hell of a precise pitch…”

“Guess that’s me. Yeah, I was pretty good at controlling my pitches. But I quit the team fall of that year.”

“Got an injury or something?”

“No, it’s kind of a weird story… Summer of my second year, the day we won the semifinals at the prefecture prelims, I was basically a hero. I don’t mean to brag, but it was like I carried the team to victory all by myself in that game. It was really rare for our school’s team to make it that far, so the whole school was cheering us on. Everyone I came across praised me.”

“Can’t imagine that at all, lookin’ at you now,” Shindo said doubtfully.

“Yeah.” I smiled bitterly. I couldn’t blame him for that. Even I was incredulous every time I thought back on it.

“Despite not having many friends at school and hardly standing out, that day made me a hero. It felt incredible. Except… That night, when I lied down in bed and thought about it, I felt this intense shame.”

“Shame?”

“Yeah. I was ashamed of myself. I was like, what do I think I’m 𝑓𝙧𝘦𝘦we𝘣𝙣𝘰𝘃𝗲l.com

getting so happy about?”

“There’s nothin’ wrong with that, though. Of course you’d be happy after that.”

“I guess.” He was right, there wasn’t a single reason not to be elated then. I should’ve just embraced it. But something deep in my mind crawled up and denied it. My mood instantly sank, like a overfilled balloon popping.

“Anyway, as soon as that happened, the whole thing started to seem ridiculous to me. And I thought, I don’t want to embarrass myself any more. So two days later, the day of the finals, I got on the early morning train and went to a movie theater, of all things. And I watched four movies in a row. I remember the air conditioning made me so cold, I was rubbing my arm the whole time.”

Shindo laughed heartily. “Are you a moron or what?”

“A huge moron. But even if I could go back in time and have that chance again, I think I’d do the same thing. Naturally, the team ended up losing by a huge margin. The staff, the supervisor, my classmates, my teachers, my parents, they were all furious. They treated me like I’d murdered somebody. When they asked me why I didn’t come to the finals, and I said I’d just gotten the date wrong, that only added fuel to the fire. On the first day of summer vacation, all these people dragged me away and beat me up. Broke my nose, so it’s shaped a little different now.”

“You reap what you sow,” Shindo noted. “No doubt,” I agreed.

The game on TV had wrapped up. It ended with the last batter doing a clumsy grounder to second.

Both teams got together and shook hands, but the losing team - probably instructed to do so by their supervisor - put on fake, creepy smiles the whole time. Talk about abnormal.

“I’ve always been a kid who didn’t want anything,” I said. “Never felt like doing that, or wanting this. It’s hard for me to get heated up and easy for me to cool down, so I could never keep anything going. My wishes for Tanabata were always just blank strips. We didn’t do Christmas presents at my house, but I wasn’t dissatisfied with that. In fact, I sort of felt bad for other kids who had to decide what they wanted every year. When I got New Year’s money, I had my mom hold onto it, and had her use it to pay for the piano lessons I took. Oh, and I only took those piano lessons so I could spend less time at home.”

Shindo turned off the TV, plugged in the CD player, and pressed play. The CD was Neil Young’s “Tonight’s the Night,” one of his favorites.

Once the first track had finished, he remarked, “Sounds like you were never a “kid” at all. Gross, man.”

“But I felt like that was normal at the time,” I explained. “Grown- ups will scold selfish kids, but they won’t scold a kid who’s not selfish at all, so it took me a while to realize it was weird… Maybe that’s the same wall I’m up against now. Even job recruiters can tell, I bet. That I don’t really want to work, in fact, I don’t even want

money, and even being happy isn’t a thing I’m too interested in…”

Shindo was silent for a while. Guess I said something stupid, huh. As I was thinking of something else to say to change the subject, he spoke.

“But you enjoyed writing letters, didn’t you?”

“…Letters? Yeah, there was a time I did that.” I never for a moment forgot about it, but I spoke as if I’d only just remembered again. Shindo was the only one who knew not only that I’d been penpals with Kiriko, but also that I’d told nothing but lies in my letters to her. I happened to let it slip at a beer festival last year, while drunk and annoyed by the sunlight.

“Yeah, I guess I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy that.”

“What was the name of the girl you were talking with, again?” “Kiriko Hizumi.”

“Right, Kiriko Hizumi. The one you totally cut contact with. Poor girl, still bravely sending letters even after you decided to ignore her.”

Shindo chewed off a piece of beef jerky and downed some beer. Then he continued.

“Hey, Mizuho. You oughta meet Kiriko Hizumi.”

I snorted, thinking he was joking. But his eyes were the definition of serious, convinced he’d come up with the most brilliant idea of his life.

“Go meet Kiriko, huh,” I sarcastically repeated. “And then apologize for what I did five years ago? Say “forgive this poor liar”?”

Shindo shook his head. “Not what I’m trying to say. It doesn’t matter if what you wrote is lies or not. ’Cause that, uh… “mingling of souls” you mentioned, it’s not just anyone you can pull something like that off with. You and this girl could be pretty damn compatible, so have some confidence. I mean, just look at your names, it’s like fate. Yugami and Hizumi, they both mean “distortion.””

“Either way, it’s way too late.”

“I wouldn’t say that. What I think, if it’s someone who really gets you, a five-year, ten-year blank isn’t a problem at all. You can pick things up again like it was only yesterday. I’m just saying, it couldn’t hurt to give it a try, if only to see if Kiriko Hizumi’s that kind of person for you. Could even help with your not-wanting-anything problem.”

I don’t remember how I replied to that. But I’m sure it was a vague answer that cut the conversation short.

----------

I’ll go meet Kiriko, I decided. I wanted to honor Shindo’s suggestion, and I was lonely after losing my best and only friend.

Most importantly, I was pushed forward by the harsh realization that the people you care about won’t live forever for you.

Working up all my courage, I went outside and drove to my parents’ house. I took out the rectangular cookie tin from the closet in my room, and sorted the letters from Kiriko within on the floor by date.

But as much as I looked for them, I couldn’t find those last letters that I’d never opened. I wondered where I could’ve put them.

Taking in the nostalgic smell of my room, I reread the letters one at a time. There were one hundred and two spanning five years, and I went from the last letter backwards.

By the time I finished reading the very first letter she’d sent, the sun had set.

I bought envelopes and stationery, returned to my apartment, and wrote a letter. My hands could write her address from memory. There was a lot I wanted to tell her, but feeling it would be best to say it in person, I made the letter brief.

“I’m sorry about breaking contact five years ago. I’ve been hiding things from you. If you’re willing to forgive me, then come to ___

Park on October 26th. It’s the children’s park on the way to my elementary school. I’ll be waiting there all day.”

With only those few sentences, I put the letter in the mailbox.

I had no expectations. And I intended to keep it that way.