After sending the friend request, the girl stared intently at her phone, not blinking once.
Her sheer-black stockinged foot tapped anxiously on the floor with her heel.
"Kasumigaoka-senpai, doesn't this line feel a bit off?"
The sudden voice snapped her out of her trance.
Her foot stopped tapping, and she reluctantly tore her eyes away from the screen, lifting her gaze toward the source of the voice.
"Hm? What's your name again?" she asked, sitting up straighter and leaning back in her chair. Her tone was unreadable.
"I'm Shuto, senpai," replied the boy with fashionable hair and stylish gold-rimmed glasses.
Despite her cold response, he kept flashing a toothpaste-commercial smile.
"So? What are you doing here?"
"I'm the president of the drama club, remember?" Shuto chuckled.
"Then why aren't you at rehearsal?" Her voice remained cool and distant.
Though her deep red eyes looked in his direction, they seemed to glance right through him.
"Well, we had a tiny concern about your script." That same smile stayed plastered on his face.
"Then read it again," she said, tilting her chin ever so slightly.
"Huh?" Shuto blinked in confusion.
"Read it a few more times, and you won't feel that way anymore. And if you still have doubts… maybe read it a few more times."
With that, Utaha lowered her head, her palm still covering her phone screen though the glowing light beneath it hinted at a new notification.
"Sorry for bothering you, senpai. Come on, Shuto, she's telling you to stop being so full of yourself," said a girl with cute twin-drill pigtails who rushed over, gave Utaha a quick bow, and then dragged the dazed Shuto away.
With the nuisance gone, Utaha could finally look at her phone.
Request accepted! Her heart leapt with joy.
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"Hello, is there something I can help you with?" —Sayuka
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So polite, just as she expected. She had finally connected with Hojou-kun.
Her eyes lit up as she stared at the message.
Based on what she'd gathered from group chats and from what Eikichi Onizuka had told her, Utaha had already formed a mental image of Hojou Kyousuke.
Courteous and humble, someone who helped her without taking credit, even sending someone in his place to politely decline a meeting.
Now, reading this message, she was certain: he was exactly as she'd imagined.
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"Hi, I noticed your ID—do you also like Love Metronome?"
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In a group chat where practically everyone owned a copy of the novel, Utaha calmly typed out her message, her long black hair draped neatly around her.
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"Yes! And wait—does your ID, 'Naoto,' mean you're using the name of the male lead?"
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Exactly.
Wanting to increase her odds of being accepted as a friend, she'd craftily changed her username to match the male lead from Love Metronome, a perfect complement to the heroine's name.
———————————————————————
"That's right. I love Naoto so much that I changed my ID as soon as I finished the book."
———————————————————————
Even though Naoto was created just to highlight the heroine, he'd unexpectedly become her key to this connection.
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"I really like Naoto too. He reminds me of a friend of mine."
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Elsewhere, sitting on a bench in the kendo club room, Mitsuha was also surprised.
She hadn't expected to find another Love Metronome fan in this kind of group chat—especially one made up of supposed delinquents.
Then again, maybe it was Kyousuke who had introduced them all to the book, she thought, recalling something Eikichi Onizuka had once said.
As much as she wanted to keep chatting with this new friend, Mitsuha had something more urgent to take care of.
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"Just finished club activities—need to wash up. Chat later!" —Sayuka
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'He's going to shower!?'
"Ouch!"
Back in the drama clubroom, Utaha had shot up from her seat in shock, slamming her leg into a metal drawer.
Ignoring the pain and the tear in her black stockings, she grabbed her phone and quickly replied:
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"Sure, talk soon!"
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Thankfully, the tear wasn't too bad. A small snag, two faint red marks on her pale skin—nothing serious.
Hojou-kun's done with club activities. I should head home too.
Grabbing her bag from the side of the desk, she walked out.
She wasn't technically a member of the drama club only there because a teacher had asked her to help write the script and coach the members.
She came and went as she pleased.
"See you, senpai!" the twin-drill girl called out behind her.
Utaha turned and gave her a soft smile and a polite nod.
When she arrived home, her mother had already prepared dinner. Her father was still tied up with work.
"You seem to be in a great mood today, Shi-chan," her mother, Kasumigaoka Yayoi, said with a smile, watching her daughter stuff her cheeks and keep pressing the power button on her phone.
"…Not really." Under the table, Utaha's left leg which had been bouncing on her right knee gradually came to a stop. The smile faded from her face.
"Heh~ Come on, eat some carrots." Yayoi picked up a few with the serving chopsticks and dropped them into her daughter's bowl.
"Your smile's giving it away. Did you meet someone interesting?"
In Japan, not all families serve individual portions.
Most households share dishes, except for things like seafood or fried salads.
Not every home has a dishwasher, and even full-time homemakers don't want to wash extra plates.
"Mm, I got in touch with the person who recommended the book to me," Utaha replied.
A faint blush colored her pale cheeks, but she quickly composed herself and spoke in her usual calm voice.
"I see." Yayoi nodded knowingly and didn't push further.
Her daughter had always been independent and strong-willed, not the type to cling to her mother for comfort.
Press too hard, and she might lock herself away again.
She already knew the story from her husband:
How Utaha's novel bombed after its release, bookstores even returning the unsold copies. She'd been crushed.
After a few words of comfort, Utaha had gone off on her own to an empty family apartment, declaring a writing retreat.
Kasumigaoka Yayoi never once thought her daughter was ungrateful.
She understood her well, her daughter was fiercely proud and incredibly driven.
Faced with such a devastating setback, it wouldn't be surprising if she secretly wished she could rewind time and go back to before she ever wrote her novel, just to tell her past self:
"Don't write it. Everything you create is trash that no one will ever read."
That's the kind of harsh, unforgiving thought process she could imagine her daughter having.
After all, this was the daughter she and her husband had always been so proud of—brilliant, confident, ambitious.
But that strength of will came with a price.
When something went wrong, it hurt her more than most.
To someone like Utaha, failure wasn't just painful, it was unbearable.
All Yayoi could do was stay in touch with Machida, the editor from the publishing house, for updates, and bring meals to her daughter on a regular schedule.
Last week, when she'd dropped off breakfast one morning, she opened the apartment door and froze.
Her daughter and Machida-san were curled up on the couch, asleep in each other's arms.
Startled, she quickly woke the two of them.
Her daughter, clearly embarrassed to be caught in such a compromising scene, mumbled something about freshening up and fled to the bathroom.
That left editor Machida to explain what had happened.
It was during that conversation that Yayoi first learned the novel had made a miraculous comeback.
Later, Machida also shared the results of their investigation the reason the book had suddenly exploded in popularity.
That was the first time the name Hojou Kyousuke entered the Kasumigaoka family's world.
So when Yayoi heard her daughter casually mention that she'd gotten in touch with the person who recommended the book for her.
She instantly understood the reason behind her daughter's uncharacteristically good mood.
Watching her now, cheeks puffed out, quickly shoveling food into her mouth like a girl in love, Yayoi couldn't help but smile.
'So... even my proud, stubborn little girl has found someone she's curious about?'
"I'm done!" Utaha gulped down the last bite, gave her mother a quick nod, and neatly placed her bowl and chopsticks on the table.
Then, clutching her phone, she hurried upstairs to her room.
"Make sure you thank him properly!" her mother called after her.
The girl nearly missed a step on the stairs.
Without answering, she picked up the pace and disappeared around the corner—steps light, heart racing.