It's been four days since Rin Kamoshida confessed her love to me… with a poem… in front of the whole class.
But somehow—somehow—I've survived these four days.
Literally.
Because if I hadn't, my head would've exploded again.
It happened once. I blinked, and I was back at the start of the day and wondering if I'd just imagined the whole thing. But no. Time-loop confirmed.
Apparently, if Rin's "affection" drops too low, I go kaboom. I don't know why, or how, or who the heck installed a love-bomb in my soul, but here we are.
So far, my survival strategy has worked:
Step 1: Don't say anything stupid.
(But… my entire existence is kinda stupid, so it's already hard.)
Step 2: Don't say nothing either.
(Silence is suspicious. I learned this the hard way.)
Step 3: Compliment her cooking.
(She made tamagoyaki that tasted like clouds blessed by angels.)
Step 4: Eat lunch with her, every day.
(She brings two bento boxes now. I'm suspicious it's a trap. A cute, egg-filled trap.)
Step 5: Walk her home. Smile. Listen. Be respectful. Be mildly charming. Don't make it weird.
(Note: I still make it weird sometimes.)
Step 6: Pray her affection meter doesn't drop.
(Ha ha. Haha. Nervous sweating intensifies.)
So far? It's working.
For the last four days, her affection percentage has stayed a comfortable 70's.
No sudden drops. No reset. No boom.
Honestly, I deserve a medal.
Or at least a hug from a goddess.
Lunch with Rin has become a regular thing now.
At this point, people are whispering.
I catch glimpses of classmates peeking at us from behind milk cartons like we're some rare animal exhibit. "Look! The endangered socially-awkward couple is sharing nutrients in the wild!"
Yuuki—my best friend and certified idiot—nearly died choking on his fried chicken when he saw me and Rin sharing sweet tamagoyaki like some domestic couple straight out of a shoujo manga.
He coughed violently, flailing like a Magikarp on dry land.
"Bro—you shared food."
"Yeah?"
"You. Shared. FOOD."
"You sound more betrayed than surprised."
Not that I mind.
Rin is actually… nice to be around.
Like… actually nice. Not the fake smile, passive-aggressive, reality-TV kind of nice. I mean the kind of nice that makes you feel like sitting beside a space heater on a snowy day. Quiet. Warm. A little too close to being dangerous if you're not careful.
She's soft-spoken but sincere. Clumsy, yes—but in a way that feels graceful, like an anime girl who floats when she trips.
She makes weird faces when she's nervous—like puffing her cheeks, or twirling her hair, or tapping her chopsticks against her bento lid like it's a sacred ritual to summon courage.
Honestly? Even without the divine affection-curse-thing forcing her feelings, she's just… good.
Shy, yes. Easily flustered, yes. But kind.
And her bento boxes? Literal art.
I swear, I almost cried over a sausage shaped like a rabbit the other day.
"Aren't you… uh, too good at this?" I asked her yesterday, holding up a rice ball shaped like a cat paw.
"I-I just… practiced… a lot," she mumbled, poking her index fingers together. "I wanted to get better…"
"Better for what?"
She blinked.
"For you," she said, then turned red from the ears down.
Critical hit. I'm dead. Respawn me.
We don't talk too much during lunch.
But when we do, I find myself… paying attention.
Like, actually listening.
Not nodding while thinking about game stats. Not pretending to understand what the teacher said while calculating how many seconds are left until lunch break.
I mean, full attention.
Even when she talks about silly things—like how she named her rice cooker "Riko" or how she thinks pigeons have secret lives as spies—I listen.
And when she asks things like:
"Mizuki-kun… do you think flowers can hear music?"
…I actually think about it.
"Hm… maybe only sad ones. Like those little ones growing in parking lots."
She stares at me with wide eyes.
"…That's beautiful," she says.
Oh crap. Did I accidentally say something poetic?
Also, I don't need to fake enjoying her cooking.
It's actually delicious.
Like, "open a food truck and destroy the economy" level of delicious.
At this rate, I'll fall in love with her cooking before I fall in love with her.
Wait.
What did I just think?
Nope. Nope nope nope.
Abort feelings.
Abort feelings.