Chapter 3

Yuta’s future was supposed to shine brilliantly.

For that shining future, he needed a partner worthy not just of anyone, but of himself—Yuta. He believed that his life would be built around that.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that someone, still unknown, was waiting for him.

Yuta was not bad at studying.

If anything, he was rather good at it, and he understood everything his teachers said. However, gradually, that was no longer enough.

A worthy partner meant that Yuta himself also had to become worthy from their perspective. Yuta studied diligently while listening to Western music. When he encountered problems he couldn’t solve, a restlessness stirred deep in his chest. Frustration and impatience mixed together, and he simply could not accept it. Whenever there was something he didn’t understand, it hurt his pride.

When he was in elementary school, even if he didn’t understand something, he let it be. It wasn’t exactly a lack of ambition, but there was a strange reassurance in thinking, “If I try, I can do it.” Moreover, his test scores and report cards were not bad, so he didn’t worry much.

He began to seriously want to be the best in his class—no, in his entire grade.

The cram school he had casually attended until then gradually began to feel like a "battlefield of wisdom."

Whenever he faced a problem he couldn’t solve, Yuta asked the instructor. For some reason, he could ask this instructor honestly.

Without imposing theories or rushing answers, the instructor quietly picked up the outlines of Yuta’s questions.

Most importantly, he answered Yuta’s questions thoroughly without complaint. This was true not only for Yuta but for all other students.

“Thinking is like pain. But it’s not a bad kind of pain,” he said.

From the day he heard that, Yuta stopped fearing that "pain."

Rather, he started to enjoy asking questions. Writing down questions he wanted to ask in his notebook and asking the instructor became part of his daily routine.

And the instructor answered each one carefully, choosing his words deliberately.

“Humans aren’t even thinking reeds; we’re just troubled grass. Burned by the sun, toyed with by the wind, always complaining until we wither away—wilted and weak.”

The instructor didn’t just answer questions but also, with exaggerated gestures, shared his life lessons.

“Burned by the sun, toyed with by the wind, always complaining until we wither away—that’s life.”

With a tone that seemed resigned yet cheerful, the instructor said:

“Me, being an instructor now, is the ‘crystallization’ of everything I’ve done in my life. Well, in a bad way. Complaints only leave negative marks in the ledger of life. If you’re dissatisfied, just study hard and break free. It’s not easy though.”

His theatrical tone made Yuta laugh. But he never imagined that these words would come back to him again and again in the future.

Suddenly, Yuta wanted to ask the instructor a question.

“Excuse me, may I ask—what do you think is the essence of love?”

“Love is a poison sweetly wrapped in suffering. But it’s addictive. Even if you think you’ll never love again after heartbreak, because of that sweetness, you end up loving someone once more.”

“Even knowing you’ll get burned, you try to get close to love again.”

Yuta had unconsciously picked up the instructor’s tone and philosophical phrasing. It wasn’t mere imitation but because it was “convenient” to explain himself that way.

At school, he never asked questions.

He hated the thought of others thinking, “You don’t even understand that?” if he asked.

His school grades steadily improved.

When he ranked third in his grade on the midterm exams, his motivation surged even more.

“If I study more, maybe I can really become number one.”

His goal began to feel attainable, and he studied desperately.

After greeting the woman who helped with household chores at home, he would immediately go to his room on the second floor and start his homework. First, he finished his homework to secure time for focused study after dinner. In the spare time before dinner, he usually took Rin, the dog, for a walk on the beach.

His mother didn’t have a job but was often away because she served on many boards. When Yuta became a middle schooler, she was even asked to be PTA president.

Naturally, taking care of Rin became Yuta’s responsibility.

Walking alone with Rin on the empty autumn beach, Yuta sang English songs. If he forgot the lyrics, he looked at his notes and sang to memorize them. Feeling this was a waste of time, he also memorized English vocabulary—mostly words not taught in middle school and unrelated to tests but that he thought would be useful someday.

His notes were crowded with word meanings scribbled in every spare space. Sitting on a nicely sized stone by the beach, he sang to Rin, who often tilted her head, seeming to try to understand the words coming from Yuta’s mouth. Yuta liked that gesture because it looked like Rin was puzzled, just like him.

The sea breeze was chilly while sitting there. Autumn was fully arriving.

Dinner was later than most families.

Both parents came home late, and on days when Yuta had cram school, he got home late too.

Whenever he had free time, Yuta thought, “Time is precious,” and stuck to his desk.

It wasn’t that he wanted to study but that he told himself he had to.

He believed that if he studied, his brain would develop abnormally and save him. Studying was undoubtedly painful, but each problem solved and each English word or history timeline memorized felt like the pain was rewarded. Knowing the pain was not wasted, he even began to see it as a friend.

The more he savored the pain, the more it dissolved inside him like stomach acid, becoming blood and flesh and eventually nourishment.

Having suffered so much, his grades were supposed to rise. Paradoxically, to improve his grades, he had to suffer.

Yuta studied like a monk in training. His pain was like an athlete’s muscle training aimed at victory. It was pain that led to a state of bliss.

One day, after finishing homework as usual and walking Rin, Yuta noticed a cluster of red flowers in a field beside the road inland from the coast.

He had never been interested in flowers but was drawn to the vivid red, and his feet were pulled toward the field.

On the edge of the field, countless bright red flowers were burning. More than blooming, it was more accurate to say they were on fire.

The smell of soil and humid grass filled the air as the thin petals swayed in the wind. Yuta imagined a fire that should not be there and thought this must be what love is like.

Though he didn’t know the name of the flowers, his intuition told him they were spider lilies, given the season.

They stood in vivid clusters, their crimson petals curling like flames—flowers often seen around the autumn equinox, associated with death and farewells in Japanese lore.

In Buddhist tradition, they are known as manjusaka—blossoms said to bloom along the path to the afterlife, guiding souls with their brilliant hue.

Yuta took photos of the flowers with his phone.

At home, the photos matched the spider lilies he saw in the field. The name “Manjushage” in Buddhism means “flowers of the heavens blooming in hell,” and the look and sound of the word fascinated Yuta. Also, the flower’s language was “I only think of you.”

Surprisingly, the flower was poisonous. It was planted on the field edges because, during famines, people detoxified and ate its bulbs to survive. It also served as protection from pests.

Yuta felt this flower was made for him. He decided to make this flower his favorite.

If anyone asked him, “What is your favorite flower?” Yuta planned to answer, “Manjushage.”