“I learned it from a book called The Art of Murder that I read at the library. I’m employing the knife-fighting art of the Sicilian Mafia.”

Putting several feet between us, Misaki swung around the box cutter, threatening me.

“Aren’t you disgusted? Disgusted because the person you came all this way to save really is crazy? There’s nothing I can do about that, though, Satou. I’m sure you were thinking something along those lines, right? Like, you wanted to show how cool you are by saving some crazy girl about to commit suicide. That’s what you were thinking, wasn’t it? But it’s impossible. It’s impossible!”

With the moon at her back, it was hard to see her, so I couldn’t tell what expression she wore. Though it sounded like a farce, it wasn’t. That much seemed certain. I asked her seriously, “If I told you I’m deeply in love with you, what would you do?”

“I wouldn’t do anything. I’m finished. I mean, you’re just a hikikomori to begin with, Satou. And you look like you’d change your mind quickly. Besides, in actuality, you don’t like me at all, right? If someone won’t be mine from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, it’s better for me to die. It’s not like my desires can be granted by just anyone. I always knew this. And that’s why, either way, I just need to die.”

“I like you! I love you! Please, don’t die!”

“Ha ha ha. You’re so funny, Satou. But it’s no use. I’m going to die!”

Our dialogue was somehow very much like a shoujo manga.

Still, I knew that words like “love” and “hate” probably weren’t that important. The problem likely lay in a deeper, more fundamental place. I thought that I should try my best to explain this to her. I should somehow put it into words for Misaki. However, the words would slip away at once. The second I pronounced them, they would lose all meaning.

I just didn’t understand. What should I do? What did I want to do?

What was I thinking…? It didn’t really matter if she died. That’s what I thought.

It’s all the same in the end. The only difference is whether death comes sooner or later. Even if I do keep living, there will he only more suffering and more hardship. There’s no meaning to it. There’s no meaning to life. It would he better to die. This was a thoroughly logical conclusion that no one could refute.

At least, I couldn’t refute it. In fact, I doubted that anyone was less suited to the role of convincing someone else to give up on suicide than I was.