I'm dead
The incessant buzzing in my head was getting louder, threatening to consume my thoughts completely. And yet, despite the overwhelming sensation, my attention was quickly drawn to a divine, incandescent light that materialized before me.
As if I was beholding the very essence of nirvana—a blinding white radiance that beckoned me closer, even as it pressurized to engulf me entirely. Is this heaven?
But, at any moment, the light would dissipate and give way to a semi-blurry vision, then lead to assimilate the gray, opaque walls of a large three-dimensional cube.
Wow, how could something so wondrous and empyrean disappear so quickly leaving me with nothing but the monotonous reality of the world around me?
Well, equally I had been foolish to believe in the promise of a better life, to cling to the hope that there was something more for me. But even as I berated myself for my naivety, I couldn't help but feel a pang of bitterness and resentment.
My mind was spinning and my body was squirming with discomfort; then, I uttered a curse under my breath—the sharper escaping my lips like an errant arrow shot from its bow: «What the fuck,» I quoted slowly, each word elongated. «I feel... strange, strange. I-I don't know.»
My limbs contracted involuntarily and a cold sweat broke out on my forehead as I struggled to make sense of the bewildering haze of thoughts and emotions assailing me.
As I lay in repose, my legs fell prey to an annoying numbness, causing a reflexive retraction of my tendons. It was then that I became aware of a soft silk sheet wrapper, tousled by my restless toes.
The feather-soft fabric was tender, clung to my skin, filling me with a luxurious sense of alleviation, and lulling me into a state of calm whereas tempting me to stay in bed..... Wait, I'm in a bed!?
With a sudden movement and ignoring the lethargy that burdened my being, I lifted my torso off the bed, assuming a sitting position on the sheets; I opened my eyes.
"W-W-W-What? What is this? Where am I?" Are probably the words that I would exclaimed horrified, since I could hardly comprehend what had just happened. I couldn't believe it.
Perplexity beset, as I stared in amazement at my outstretched arms, which were twirling like some kind of curious spectacle. My breaths became choppy, each inhalation harder than the last, as if my heart was about to stop beating.
U-Uhm, uhm. Okay, okay... Calm down, man!
After insubstantial reflection, my own brain muddled with contradictory judgments. I mean, didn't I meet my tragic and melodramatic end a few seconds ago? Did I perform a self-consciously discomposing internal monologue for the sake of it?
Yet, despite this, I've been lying on this pleasant surface for like... What? Hours? Days? Giving me to understand that I'm still... a living being again, am I not?
"Heheheheh, why!" I shouted inwardly.
I'm alive...
I could feel my chest rising and falling with each gasp; I can watch the movements of my own joints and feel the softness of the mattress against my ass.
Yes, I was undeniably alive.
Wait a second!
Briefly, I raised my arm to touch the back of my neck, near the nape, and try to make sure if the bullet has penetrated much of my flesh...? However, there was no anomaly in my perception: only the tender strands of my hair brushed my fingers.
What's going on? I thought.
I resolved, therefore, to get out of this bed, and with an unparalleled flourish, I removed the sheet that had been covering my feet and stood up.
Holy shit! The moment I got up, I noticed my back was singularly moistened, and glancing posthaste at my bedspread, I'd saw a silhouette of sweat there: a perfect oval spread across the couch. What a disgustingly horrible scene.
Nevermind, nevermind! Inside this supposed room, I proceeded to inspect it in its entirety and realized that it wasn't mine. I didn't recognize a single item within the chamber, nor could I recall ever owning any of them.
On the other hand, what immediately caught my attention was the raw simplicity of the space. It wasn't dull or lifeless; instead, it exuded a certain minimalist charm.
Upon closer inspection, I noticed that some objects—books and curiosities—were present and arranged in an orderly fashion. This image is literally the true picture of that contemporary artistic movement.
By contrast, my own room had never been so well-kept. Clutter and disarray reigned supreme, and though I'd intended to rectify the situation for quite some time—but in the end, I never did. And now, here I was, in a different place.
«Gosh... I-I need to go now. Maybe? No... yeah. Yeah, yeah! I'm dipping, what the hell?» I muttered anxiously, already prepared to do so.
However, as I made my careless way towards the exit, my gaze fell upon a mirror hanging near the door.
Compelled by some unknown force, I retraced my steps and stood before the reflective glass. I stared into it, hoping to catch a glimpse of my own face and confirm my existence. And then... Surprise!
«W-what the fu—Huh, wha-what the hell?! Wha—Huh?!» I exclaimed, bewildered, my voice betraying a tinge of incredulity.
Suddenly, I was magnetised to the mirror: my nose and forehead mere centimeters from the glass, so close that my reflection seemed almost palpable. Yet, taking a step back, I examined my visage from every angle, marveling at the face staring back at me.
Then, as if by instinct, my sweaty fingers grazed over my features, tracing every curve and contour of my cheekbones, jawline, ears, and hairline.
«W-Wahh? Haha, w-what? T-This... this isn't real, haha» A nervous laugh escaped my lips. «But... who the f—?»
Staring in awe at the captivating brown orbs, unruly chestnut hair, luscious lips, and the smooth, velvety complexion. This isn't me, who the fuck is this handsome man?!
Truly, my face was one of unparalleled beauty, the kind you'd expect to see on characters from a teenage fantasy drama—like Riverdale, I suppose; or maybe that Korean show I recently watched: Business Proposal? Yeah?!
As for my physique, my upper body was proportioned just right for my frame, while my lower limbs seemed to possess a little more length than normal, which led me to assume I must have reached a height of around 5'10, 5'11 maybe[1]?
Was this a mere figment of my imagination, a mere fleeting dream conjured up by the fanciful ramblings of my mind? I shook my head, attempting to dispel such notions; but they lingered, tormenting me with their relentless inquiries.
Althought, indeed, the dreams of most young men—or at least imaginings or longed-for hypothetical occasions—often revolve around the tantalizing prospect of being undeniably attractive, right?
What if I were handsome? What if I were taller? What if I were more muscular?
Whether envisioning the athletic prowess of a sportsman like Michael Phelps, the lean elegance of a celebrated actor like DiCaprio in his younger years, or possessing a captivating face that, regardless of physique, commands attention and provokes the envy of other men.
These musings are reflections that have probably crossed the minds of many young men at least once. Without neglecting the opposite sex, of course; however, my discourse leans toward the male perspective, as I'm one—Duh!
And truthfully, despite harboring such vain questions, the desire to be more attractive has never taken hold of me, in the fullest sense of the word; nor have I envied those who have been blessed with such qualities that I recall.
But let's be honest: undoubtedly, if you are in the presence of someone more aesthetically attractive, side by side, there is a perceptible change that draws attention away from oneself and everyone around them.
What could be the reaction of, let's say, the ugliest? Obviously, a preference to get out of there or, in more desperate minds, to wish for the sudden disappearance of the nominal rival.
Perpetually speaking, I've and would have gravitated towards the first option; I found a peculiar consolation in self-effacement, where my presence became an unremarkable constant.
As for the latter option... Nah, are you kidding? I considered it to be inconsequential, and it seemed reserved for those maniacs trapped in jealousy and malice: the insecure, timorous, and diffident losers—too different from what I am.
Now, to claim that this bullshit paradoxical aversion to beauty never really occurred in any tangible form or feeling on me, would itself be a falsehood, you know?
In given situations in Isaac's company, I couldn't help but notice how he effortlessly earns attention. Though his appearance was relatively normal—for me: he was ugly as fuck—, it was his eloquence that made him stand out.
Isaac's articulate demeanor rendered him the focal point of any social gathering; it was this charisma that partially endeared him to the women at parties.
Meanwhile, I, to complicate matters, was constantly relegated from those cock-eyed nightlife's activities, content—or so I told myself—with my peripheral role.
Consequently, I thought: if I had a marginal increase in attractiveness, I think I could exempt myself from the need for verbal engagement with other individuals, and at least one girl—regardless of whether I consider her ugly or pretty—would approach me.
Come to think of it, was that desire envy? I wasn't planning to have a girlfriend, but I wanted at least one girl to talk to me. And I wasn't that desperate either, I was just deliberately disdainful; so, I saw myself as unpleasant.
However, if such a latent wish were to materialise at the cost of some cruelly binding "ritual pact," demanding a sacrifice—or rather, a "symbolic murder"—of the living entity that was my former self, I would reject such a transformation outright.
And yet, I cast my gaze upon the mirror once more and... Whoa, I realize it's no one else but me.
Feeling a tinge of grogginess, I opt to perform a series of minor reality checks in an attempt to rouse myself: A pinch on the cheeks; a vigorous slap on the thighs; a futile karate kick in the air; and the final act of punching the wall, eliciting an involuntary groan of pain.
Dear God, dear God, my God, what a fucking disgrace! Apparently, none of these measures seemed to provide any solace or clarity. I was, somehow, genuinely terrified.
Suddenly, a spontaenous urge arouse through me, and I let out a cry, «A-Aunt Tiffanyyyy!», with all the fervor of a frightened child.
Aunt Tiffany: as her pseudonym suggests, she's my aunt. I called her because she's the one who's been taking care of me since I was little. It has reached a point where, personally, I've considered her as a mother; although, systematically speaking, I'm just a kinship adoption.
But returning to this overriding situation, without hesitation, I rushed toward the door of the room, flinging it open with reluctance and, crossing its threshold, there it was the corridor that led to a flight of stairs.
However, as I stood there, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was distinctly amiss.
«...Wait, huh? What's this?» I murmured, barely audible, tinged with apprehension.
The steps, which in my house used to be curved and winding downward, was now a stark, unyielding straight line. This... This isn't even my house, right?
From above, I glimpsed a shaft of light spilling from a spacious room, hinting at the presence of more chambers beyond. Yet, overwhelmed by a whirlwind of confusion and disorientation, I paralyzed—unable to decide where to go or what to do.
At any second, the voice of a woman—soft, mature, and imbued with a warmth—resounded through the air, answering my desperate call for help:
«Yes, what is it?» She asked reassuringly, a soothing to my frayed nerves.
Oh, my God!? The sweet cadence of my beloved aunt's voice—I could hear it!
«T-Tiffany?! W-Where are you?» I inquired, searching for the source of her mellifluous voice.
Her words seemed to drift from beyond my room, to the port side of my door, and below. With a moment's deduction, I surmised she must be there. Given her reluctance to come at me, I took the initiative and hurried over.
Descending the staircase, my gaze swept my surroundings and I saw that the steps led directly to a doorway which was, in all probability, the main entrance to the dwelling.
However, without pausing to investigate this peculiar detail, I turned decisively to my right. At the first sight of an opening, I crossed a tunnel that was conspicuously devoid of a door.
It was at that instant that my eyes were met with a view that blended modernity with a sense of comfort, since the abode, as presented to me, was tastefully decorated—with a subdued color scheme that exuded a sense of placidity.
The chamber was commendably large, but served its purpose with diligence: the kitchen and living room shared the same open area, seamlessly integrated.
The living room had three elegant sofas, with leather exteriors. Opposite them was a distinguished entertainment center, enclosing a flat-screen television, emitting a graceful glow. And on the walls hung a series of paintings and photos, with a good few of houseplants distributed uniformly.
The kitchen, on the other hand, was modest in size but fully equipped: A compact stove and a refrigerator, cleverly concealed within the cabinetry; adjacent to the kitchen was the dining nook, consisting of a petite table and four chairs—perfectly suited for intimate meals.
Is this a hotel? That was the first thing that sprang to mind. The space was impeccably tidy, almost as though it had been newly purchased, right?!
As I scrutinized the room further, my eyes finally landed on a lady. She was seated comfortably on one of the couches, her attention wholly absorbed by the screen of her phone.
With my heart oppressed with trepidation, her eyes met mine and my spirit sank into uncharted depths, for before me stood a woman who bore no resemblance to the one I had always known as my caregiver.
Gone were the familiar features that defined her: the lusterless chestnut hair, the evocative yet disastrous light eyes, and the fair Caucasian complexion. In her stead... was a woman of unmistakable Asian descent.
Her skin was like porcelain, smooth and flawless, and her jet dark hair cascaded down her back like a river of onyx. Her almond-shaped eyes were a deep, piercing black, and seemed to contain within them a wisdom and a recondite understanding that was beyond my knowing.
The impact of this transformation was nearly unbearable, and for a moment, I stood frozen, utterly uncertain of how to proceed—once again.
«U-Uh… Uhum! W-Who are you, ma'am?»
My lips parted, and my voice escaped: tentative and wavering. My demeanor was cautious, for I was unaccustomed to the presence of this unfamiliar individual. Maybe, just maybe, she was a friend of hers; but, never in my life I've seen her.
Even if I'm wrong, my ostensible "Aunt Tiffany's friend" noticed my aloofness and perceived my countenance with a keen eye. Rising from her seat to approach me with heedful steps, her face deserting anxiety as she sought to discover the root of my distress.
Then she delved, mingled in concord: «「大丈夫,たくみ?」»[2]
T-Takumi, I heard that. But, who the hell is Takumi? Who is she talking about? I know that's a name; however, why is she pronouncing the words like that? It sounds so fucking weird. Somehow, I understood it, but… what did she mean?
Despite her gentle hint, I inexplicably took a step back, then another, as if some latent vigor compelled me to keep my distance.
Without thinking, I raised my arm with the intention of scratching my hair, then gradually ran my nails across my entire scalp, glancing around as if I couldn't believe what was unfolding before my very eyes.
This is not my house. This lady is not my lovely aunt. Where the fuck am I?
«Uhm, okay. Oof, oh my god. Lady...! Lady, listen. Uhm, I don't know what's going on! I don't know what's happening, or why am I doing here. But you're gonna answer my question, okay? Alright? I-In the...first. First of all, who are you?»
«「たくみ,なんで英語で話すの?...な,何か問題でもありますか?」»[3]
Notwithstanding my initial confusion, she remained steadfast—gaze fixed upon me, brimming with a discernible concern. Was this an expression of genuine kindness or simply the agitation of someone being upset?
It's this, precisely, this dubious constancy that grates on my nerves
Why, though? I ask myself. Perhaps it is because, in the end, I am the root of her unease; my actions, deviating from the expected social script, have invited an unwelcome spotlight.
To be the source of such sincere disquiet provokes an overwhelming sense of shame. A peculiar dilemma, I must admit, born entirely of my own making.
Never, I'm my freaking life, before had I found myself in such a perplexing predicament—one that left me utterly ignorant of its true nature and, consequently, powerless.
Those eyes—they're genuine, I thought. I've never had such piercing examples settled upon me; either indifference or my own adeptness at concealing my emotions had always shielded me from being scrutinized so deeply. But it's understandable, given how rarely I find myself in such a frazzled state.
Yet, despite the discomfort—sweat trickling down my temples, my eyes wide with unease—my anxiety only intensifies because this reality only refuses to align with the initial expectations I had unconsciously set for myself.
I'd envisioned myself—solely and only me—as the sole subject of a of a fantastic metamorphosis, mainly in appearance. Such a scenario would seem a mere fantasy. But the idea that those around me might undergo similar changes? Fuck, that possibility had never crossed my mind.
In retrospect, I should have seen it coming. The clues were so obvious: the unprecedented of the room, the absence of the spiral staircase, the altered aspect of the house. Everything was in front of my face.
But how? And why? Why?! Is this magic—some inexplicable, supernatural phenomenon? Or is there a sophisticated mechanism at work here, or perhaps even a malevolent creature orchestrating it all?
I would like to repeat my question: Is this a dream?
«What the fu—Don't, Don't play dumb on me, okay?! I need an answer "asap". Who the fuck are you? Where am I, where? What? Is, Is this some kind of... imagination? I'm having a, haha, a mental breakdown...?»
Even though I have compared it to bodily actions, my brain will not be able to process this information as efficiently. Rather, it would refuse to do so.
The truth was undeniable—I could no longer maintain my skeptical attitude: I needed to regain composure. I moderated my breathing; however, my body seemed to have its own agenda, with my pinky finger quivered uncontrollably
Despite her apparent concern for my condition, the woman before me maintained an air of composed serenity. Her response, though firm, carried an undercurrent of reassurance:«「たくみ,君が何を経験しているかはわからないけど,大丈夫だよ.」»[4]
«Would you answer me, please?! W-What are you even talking about?! I can't understand what you're sayi—No, like... I do understand you, somehow... But... Wh-Wh—Answer me alread—»
«I'm your mother, Takumi! Is that what you wanted to hear? 「まったく」[5]. Na—Wha, What's happening? Tell me!»
That was the decisive phrase.
Her voice reverberated through the room, cutting through the haze of my earlier delirium with unsettling ease.
«....No? Y-You... You're not. What?»
As the words left my lips, my breath grew shallow, erratic; my legs, shaky and unsteady, struggled to bear my weight. The trembling—unprovoked by any physical exertion—must have been the strain of my overtaxed reasoning.
Damn it. My hands, acting on their own, buried my face within their grasp. Overloaded by disbelief, my vision began to blur. The room around me seemed to dissolve into a watery haze, and before I could stop it, a solitary tear slipped free.
«I don't believe you. Haha...! I don't believe you! Wow, haha...! Am I kidnapped?»
«"Kidnapped" ...Takumi, please, what are you saying?»
I attempt to proceed cautiously, but this is totally exhausting—even for someone like me, who rarely gets emotionally driven.
At first, I almost enjoy the novelty of the situation, marveling at my altered appearance with a faint sense of amusement. But now I realize that I'm not the one experiencing it; I'm sure I'm living someone else's life.
I've been reincarnated, haven't I? And yet, for such a miraculous circumstance to transpire, there is no denying that I must have died first. And so, I did.
Confronting that experience, despite my efforts to face it with bravado and conceited arrogance, was nothing short of terrifying.
It's not that I ever entertained thoughts of suicide right there; rather, it was that, in that singular moment before death, I was incapable of begging for my life. As a result, I faced my execution with a foolish sense of proud haughtiness.
I prided myself on my inner monologues, crafting them with care, focusing on the aspects of myself I deemed worthy of admiration. I was always acutely aware of others' opinions, though I've come to realize how utterly unnecessary that was.
I had nothing to lose—no dreams to chase, no accomplishments to boast about. I was a student who fancied himself clever—though there were always peers who outshone me. Perhaps I stood out in that regard, but it was nothing of real significance.
However, now that I inhabit this new visage, there is a strange sensation—melancholy, isn it? I mourn the loss of the fool I once was, knowing full well I'll never be the same again. And, I am certain I wasn't the only one who met their end that day.
The memory of those fatal gunshots echoes vividly in my mind, reverberating from below. Someone else must have been killed alongside me.
Damn it—was one of my grandpas? My uncles? Or could it have been...
«Shit! Ahhhh! Owww, God! Hmmmmm!»
I'm fucking myself up, tormenting myself for no reason! I'm letting sadness take control of me, conjuring up images I'd rather not imagine! What the hell happened to me?
Ugh, fuck! Calm down, I need to pull myself together—immediately and decisively. This is agonizing, yes! But what the hell am I going to do about it? I must break free from this mental quagmire; I must look forward, right? Look foward, you little shit!
«Hey, hey! Listen to me. Are you listening?»
Abruptly, a hand reached out to me, unbidden yet gentle, encircling mine with an unexpected tenderness. One palm cradled the underside of my trembling hand, while the other rested atop it, as if to impart a calming influence—a silent reassurance I hadn't realized I craved.
At that moment, her hoyened voice resonated with a disarming sympathy, pleading softly: «Please... It's okay, it's okay. Calm down, I beg you. Everything it's gonna be alright. Please, breathe in and out. Breathe in... and out.»
She began to stroke my hand with a slow, rhythmic motion, reminiscent of soothing a skittish animal—tender and patient. Her words, repeated in a tone as warm as sunlight filtering through a windowpane, carried an inexplicable comfort: «You look very tense, my son»
«....!»
«Relax. You probably had panic attack. Are you... Are you stressed? Do you wanna eat something? Or are you tired? Did you sleep well? Do you want me to prepare dinner for you right now?»
There were no words in my vocabulary, no expressions I could summon, to encapsulate the sensation coursing through me. Magically, her comforting query quelled the tempest of my overwhelming anxiety.
If there ever was such a thing as maternal power, this was it, plain and undeniable.
Not even ten seconds passed before she seemed to recognize that I was finally at ease. She granted me a kind, affectionate smile, then gently cupped my cheek and used her thumb to wipe away the dampness from my face.
This woman knows exactly what she's doing—it's as if she has a manual for these situations.
I swallowed hard, pinched my nose, and exhaled forcefully through it, then out my mouth, expelling any lingering discomfort; though, immediately after, I started coughing: «Coff... Coff, coff!» Quite a bit.
«Are you okay?»
«No... No, shoot. My head hurts so bad,» I replied, clutching my forehead like it was a basketball.
On the other hand, at some point, I'd have to face my situation with some semblance of resolve, and this moment made it easier to start piecing things together.
Finally, with my eyes now relaxed and my headache subsiding, I took a steady breath, gathering the courage to ask her: «Alright... O-Oh, uhm... 「お,お母さん...」[6]» I began, my skepticism still lingering, and my pronunciation shaky. «「私の名前,も,もう一回言ってくれる?は,私の.」»[7]
She frowned slightly, unable to comprehend why that was the burning question I needed answered; but the expression shifted to one of mild puzzlement as her eyebrows raised ever so slightly, and a soft sigh escaped her lips, punctuated by a tender smile.
With nothing but good intentions, she replied: «Nakamura Takumi... That's your name»[8]
It was at that moment that I realized—this was the name of someone quite familiar. A fact I had conveniently overlooked until now. Therefore, it so happened that this individual, now me, was Takumi: the seducer, the Casanova, the protagonist of the Dating Game "HeartBreaker".
As these reflections consumed my mind, my mother interjected with a concerned tone: «Jeez. You really startled me. I don't know what happened, but you looked so pale—it worried me»[9]
A-Ah, what? Damn, she just spoke at a mile a minute. Her words poured down on me like a torrential downpour, and I was struggling to keep up with the deluge of concerns flooding my mind.
At the very least, I managed to grasp her message. In an attempt to calm the storm, I replied with as much composure as I could muster: «I-I'm fine, Mom. Really, I'm fine. I just had a nightmare, that's all.»[10]
Upon hearing my words, my mother responded swiftly, clearly unconvinced by the simplicity of my explanation: «A nightmare, you say? [11]You were shouting about who I were, and then you asked for your own name. It's been worrying me. Is this some kind of joke? Or are you acting?»[12]
With a nervous grimace, I countered quickly: «I'm sorry, Mom. I gave you a scare, but I promise you, I'm fine now. Please don't worry.[13]
Or, at least, that's what I hoped was true.
She stopped her locution for a moment to attend to my words, and then honored me with a warmhearted expression, speaking in sigh with a pleasant tone: «Well... If you say so, then that's fine.»[14]
Then, she let go of my hand and, with a graceful step, headed towards the kitchen, her voice trailing behind her: «I was thinking of preparing something to eat in the meantime until dinner time. Do you want some apple bunnies, to lift your spirits?»[15]
Apple bunnies?
«...Yes, please»[16] I replied calmly.
At that, I heard her laugh and then she commented: «My, since when did you start using such formal language? It's almost like a social courtesy.»[17]
«Huh, is that so?»[18]
She nodded at my words as I watched her pick up an apple and a knife.
Every time I feel completely disconnected from myself, I can't help but marvel at the absurdity of it all.
I slumped onto the table, stretching out my arm, and stared at its slender frame as if it belonged to someone else. I was still in shock, but... let's try to see the bright side.
"Behold, fools! Feast your eyes, for this is my new existence. This is the new me!" I'd scream it aloud if I had the courage—or the energy—to do so.
It's such a colossal shift, so incomprehensible, that I was muttering colorful curses into the indifferent air around me.
To be brutally honest, I'd grown so accustomed to seeing my old self in the mirror that I actually found myself longing for my original body—despite its flaws—over this… aesthetically perfect one.
And if it's true, if I really am trapped in this ridiculous dating sim, does that mean my fate is already written?
No. I'd like to think I still have a few tricks up my sleeve, a few paths to carve out for myself in pursuit of a life of hedonistic pleasure.
Though, maybe I'm just deluding myself. Maybe the only options I have are to endure painfully cliché conversations with tsundere girls. If that's the case, I might actually prefer death. No, no—I should stop saying that.
Still, I can't help but wonder: does this new appearance come with certain advantages? Or, on the contrary, will it only complicate things further?
Who knows? It seems the future remains as unpredictable as ever.
[1] Non-americans, it's around 179 cm.
[2] Are you alright, Takumi?
[3] Takumi, why are you speaking in English? ...I-Is there some kind of problem you're dealing with?
[4] Takumi, I don't know what you're going through, but you'll be fine.
[5] Good grief
[6] «M-Mom...?»
[7] Can you... say my name again?
[8] なかむらたくみ... 君の名前だよ。
[9] 「ビックリしたわ、どうしたの？顔色悪くて、心配したんだけど。」
[10] 「だ、大丈夫だよ、大丈夫だよ、お母さん。ただの...悪夢見ただけだから。」
[11] 「悪夢だって？」
[12] 「あなた、今日一日心配してたんだ、君が僕の名前を聞いて、自分の名前まで聞いてきたから。これはいたずらなのか、それとも演技なのか？」
[13] 「ご、ごめん、ごめんなさい、お母さん。驚かせてしまったみたいだね、今はちゃんと大丈夫だから安心して。」
[14] 「まあ.... そう言うんなら、いいいわ。」
[15] 「夕食の時間までの間、何か食べるものを用意しようと思っていたんだ。気分を上げるならりんごバニーでもどう？」
[16] 「...はい、お願いします。」
[17] 「あらま、いつからそんなに堅苦しくなったの？まるで社交辞令みたいだよ。」
[18] 「えっ、そう？」