When it came to real-life experiences I could use in an erotic game; I had no choice but to think far back into the past. I needed to remember that distant time, five years earlier… that fun time from five years ago… my high school years.

I closed my eyes and thought back. Doing so, I soon realized that those memories would move in an emotionally difficult direction. I hurriedly opened my eyes and tried to stop thinking about it. However, the vector of my thoughts, once given a direction, could no longer be stopped.

My bright, optimistic high school years… my refreshing youth.

“High school” suggests slightly bitter romances, and society generally agrees with this conventional wisdom. I, too, had been in a romance; every day had been filled with excitement, like in a love simulation game. For example, I had liked that older girl in my literary club.

As might be expected from someone in the literary club, she was quite an avid reader. Because of that, she was a huge idiot. She once read The Complete Manual of Suicide in front of me.

I had thought, You should stop because that kind of behavior is unbecoming. You’re cute, so why can’t you just act normally?

The girl hadn’t shown any sign of noticing at all.

“Why are you reading that book?” I asked her, feeling I had no choice.

Laughing self-consciously, she answered, “Don’t you think that suicide seems kind of cool?” At the time, she’d just had a terrible breakup with her boyfriend, and she seemed depressed over it.

“Hey, Satou. What do you think of people who commit suicide?” She’d asked me.

“I guess it’s all right, isn’t it? If people want to commit suicide, I guess they ought to be free to do so. It’s probably not right for others to judge.”

“Hm.” She didn’t seem impressed by my boring answer; as though deflated, she dropped her eyes once more to the book on her lap.

After school, on another day, just when I had gotten sick of playing cards with her, she said, “Hey.”

“What?”

“Satou, after all this time, if I died or something, would you be sad?” No matter how I’ve tried, I cannot remember how I answered that sudden question. All I remember clearly is that several days later, she came to school with white bandages wrapped around her slender wrists.

Come on, give me a break. I have no idea how serious you were about wanting to die, but you should at least be a little embarrassed by this melodrama.

“You’re not just a stupid middle school girl.”

She replied, “Because I’m a stupid high school girl.”