"Huh?"
I frowned.
One second it was darkness, then suddenly—I was staring up at a ceiling.
Familiar. Way too familiar.
[Third Trial: What Could Have Been Done]
Objective: Change what needs to be changed.
Note: You have been given a chance to alter the past... but tell me—can one really change what already exists?
I sighed. Of course. Another trial.
"What could be done," I muttered, reading the title again. Change what needs to be changed.
So it's about altering the past.
But... what event?
I sat up. A bed. Small. Uncomfortable.
My eyes drifted across the room.
Posters lined the walls—cultured things for cultured men, if you catch the drift. Not too outrageous, but yeah, anime characters with "talents."
"Tch. Pathetic." I scoffed, dragging a hand down my face.
This was my old room.
God, I remembered this mess. Even the damn creak under the bed.
I stood, lifted the mattress, and yep—there it was. The secret stash of cultured material.
Another sigh. "Why was I such a degenrate?"
Then—thud.
I froze.
"Huh?" I turned and walked to the window.
Outside, kids were rushing off to school. I opened it, scanned the street.
Then it hit me.
The mirror.
I ran into the bathroom. Stared at the reflection.
"Larson…" I whispered.
No wonder.
Goddamn it.
That perverted idiot.
I still have no clue why Quincy ever liked—
"QUINCY!"
The realization punched me in the gut.
'What can be changed?'
Of course. It made sense now.
Today was the day she confessed. The one moment I ruined—forever.
"Larson! Get off that bed now!"
Mom.
Shit.
"I'm already up!" I yelled back.
"…Okay?"
She sounded surprised. With the kind of eyebags I used to rock from late-night degeneracy, yeah—waking up on time was a miracle.
I rushed back to the window.
She usually knocked around this time.
I looked.
She wasn't there.
However, I did see her cousin, wobbling on that tiny-ass bike of his.
"Hey! Fatso!"
He turned, glared up. "SHUT YOUR DIRTY TRAP, YOU PERVERTED FREAK!"
No creativity, as usual. But damn, he wasn't wrong.
"Here's some advice! Shed some weight, that bike's got it's limit!"
"DAMN YOU!!" he barked, but I was already gone, shutting the window and rushing to clean up.
Mom? I barely looked at her. She was barely ever around. Mornings were rare sightings.
I tossed on my big-ass glasses—they hid the bags—and hopped on my bike, tearing through the streets toward Brilliance Academy.
....
....
I dumped the bike. Didn't even bother locking it.
I ignored the stares, the whispered comments, the laughter. None of it mattered.
I was looking for her.
And then—
There.
Quincy.
Golden-blonde hair falling past her shoulders, that black-and-blue butterfly hairpin still clipped just right. I remembered it. Got it for her once after she caught me buying… well… cultured content. I bribed her to keep quiet.
God, I missed this annoying girl.
"Quincy," I called.
She paused, shifted. Definitely recognized my voice. She slammed her locker shut, probably hiding the letter.
"Larson? What are you—"
I hugged her.
Tight.
"Stop, you idiot! Everyone's looking!"
I didn't care.
There was a time I did. When I let shame, judgment, and fear rule me.
Not anymore.
"Just… let me hold you a little longer," I whispered.
She fell silent. Her face turned crimson.
After a beat, I pulled away.
She punched my chest.
"Stupid… idiot… pervert," she muttered, her voice caught between flustered and pissed. "Why are you acting so weird?"
She kept punching me, but it was all bark.
Eyes were on us.
I'd get dragged for this later.
But, didn't matter.
It's not like this was real.
Maybe… maybe if I did it right this time, the guilt would fade.
I took her hand. "Come with me."
"Stop!" she protested—but only with words.
She followed anyway.
I led her to a quiet little spot—one I used to use to hide out and read manga when the noise got too loud.
She folded her arms. "Don't tell me you drank something. What's wrong with you, idiot?"
The blush on her cheeks gave her away.
"Quincy…"
She stepped back.
I held her hand.
Then—
Bam.
A classic kabedon. Palm to wall. Close. Eyes locked.
Damn, I used to read about this when I had time to waste.
"L-Lars… What are you—"
"I like you."
"W-what? I know that—"
"No," I cut in. "I really like you. Not just as a friend. As something more. I love you."
Her mind froze.
"You… you're joking, right?"
"I've never been more serious."
A tear slipped down my cheek.
It wasn't real. Just a trial.
But those tears she shed the day I rejected her—those were.
I never forgot.
All I wanted… was to see her smile again. Even if it was fake. Even if it was for one last time.
"Why are you crying?" she whispered. "What's wrong with you?"
"Be mine, Kay."
I used the name I hadn't said in forever.
"Will you be my girlfriend?"
She stared at me like I'd flipped reality.
"This isn't fair," she whispered, and the tears started falling. Fast. Raw.
I hugged her again.
"I… what makes you think I want to be your girlfriend, you jerk?" she mumbled, her fists trembling against my chest.
"Don't you want to?"
"…I…" she hesitated.
"If you don't, that's okay," I said softly.
Manipulation came too easy now. Like breathing.
"You… you never even looked at me," she whispered. "You were always chasing her… so why now?"
Her punches slowed. Then stopped.
"You never know what you have until you lose it," I said.
"But what about… Becky?"
I shook my head. "I don't care about Becky."
"But…"
"Kay…"
"...I… FINE! I WILL, YOU IDIOT!" she shouted, punching me one last time.
I smiled.
Truly happy.
But...
It didn't last, as later that day...
SPLAT!
"KYAAAAAAAAAAH!"