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The theater is half-dead, which suits Junpei just fine.
Yellow caution tape cordons off entire rows, the plastic seats beneath them shrouded in gray covers like they’ve been embalmed. The overhead lights are dimmer than usual, casting the room in a tired, uneven glow. Only a handful of people have likely bothered to buy tickets for this showing—an unpopular adaptation of an already niche novel, screened on a weekday evening when everyone else has better things to do.
Junpei prefers it this way.
He slips into his seat near the middle. The air smells faintly of stale popcorn and cleaning solution. It’s quiet enough that he can hear the low hum of the projector behind him, steady and mechanical. Predictable.
Movies are easier than people. Stories follow rules. Even when characters betray each other, there’s a reason—foreshadowed, justified, framed so the cruelty makes sense. Real life doesn’t bother with that. In real life, people hurt you because they can, and no one steps in unless it inconveniences them not to.
Junpei folds his hands in his lap and stares at the blank screen, already running through what he remembers from the book. He wonders, distantly, which scenes they’ll cut for time. Which nuances they’ll flatten for the sake of mass appeal, even though barely anyone is here to see it.
Late footsteps echo down the aisle.
Junpei tenses automatically, shoulders drawing in as someone shuffles past the blocked rows, hesitating. He doesn’t look at first. People usually sit far away in empty theaters like this, instinctively respecting the unspoken rule of distance.
But the footsteps stop beside him.
“Uh—sorry,” a voice whispers, quiet but bright in a way Junpei isn’t used to hearing. “Is this seat okay?”
Junpei glances sideways.
The boy standing there looks about his age, maybe a little taller, with pink hair that refuses to stay neat no matter how much effort is put into it. He wears a hoodie despite the warmth of the room and carries himself with an awkward sort of ease, like he doesn’t quite know where to put his limbs but isn’t embarrassed about it either.
Junpei flicks his eyes toward the surrounding rows. Most of the available seats are taped off. The rest are scattered and inconvenient.
“It’s fine,” Junpei murmurs.
The boy smiles—actually smiles—and slips into the seat beside him, careful not to jostle him as he sits. “Thanks.”
Junpei looks back to the screen, irritation prickling faintly at the closeness. Still, the boy quiets immediately, leaning back and focusing forward. No loud chewing. No restless leg bouncing. No phone screen lighting up the dark.
Huh.
The opening credits roll, low music filling the theater. Junpei watches closely, cataloguing differences as they appear. The tone is darker than he expects. Not bad. Just… different.
A few minutes in, a key scene unfolds earlier than it should.
The boy beside him shifts.
“…They moved that up,” the boy whispers, barely louder than a breath.
Junpei blinks.
He hesitates, then leans a fraction closer—not enough to touch. “Yeah,” he whispers back. “It’s supposed to happen after the river scene.”
The boy’s eyes light up, just a little. “Right? I thought I was remembering it wrong.”
Junpei feels something unfamiliar stir in his chest. Recognition. Not of the boy himself, but of the moment—the rare alignment of perspective.
They fall quiet again as the movie continues, but the distance between them feels subtly altered, as if the space has narrowed without Junpei’s permission.
Junpei tells himself it doesn’t mean anything.
It’s just a movie.
Just a stranger.
Just a seat that happens to be open.
The movie settles into its rhythm, and with it, so do they.
Their conversation comes in fragments, threaded carefully between dialogue and music. A murmur here, a brief lean closer there—soft enough that it never carries beyond their row.
“They changed his motive,” Junpei whispers during a pause in the soundtrack. “In the book, he isn’t cruel for no reason. He thinks he’s being fair.”
Yuuji hums quietly in acknowledgment, eyes never leaving the screen. “Yeah. Here it just makes him feel… emptier.” He frowns a little. “Like he doesn’t even know why he’s doing it.”
Junpei glances at him, surprised by the observation. He looks back to the screen, considering it. The scene plays out in muted colors, the character’s expression flat as he does something small and vicious.
“People like that exist everywhere,” Junpei murmurs.
It isn’t an accusation.
Just a statement.
A fact, as far as he’s concerned.
Yuuji’s response comes without hesitation, as Junpei expected. “Yeah,” he says softly. “But not everyone’s like that.”
Junpei waits for the familiar irritation. For the urge to push back, to list examples, to explain why that optimism doesn’t survive contact with reality.
It doesn’t come.
Instead, he studies Yuuji from the corner of his eye. The way his brows knit when a character falters. The way his shoulders tense during moments of unfairness, like he’s bracing for impact on someone else’s behalf.
Naïve, Junpei thinks. But not stupid.
It’s strange—how Yuuji speaks as if goodness is the starting point. As if cruelty is the deviation, not the rule.
The film continues, uneven but sincere. Junpei notices the way certain symbols are handled—water used too bluntly, a recurring object stripped of its meaning. He whispers about it, and Yuuji listens, nodding, absorbing it like it matters.
In return, Yuuji points out the emotional turns. “That look,” he whispers at one point. “That’s when he realizes he’s alone.” His voice dips, careful, like he doesn’t want to intrude on the moment.
Junpei hadn’t noticed it that way. He continues watching the scene with new eyes.
Despite its flaws, the movie holds together. The ending lands softer than it should, but not wrong. When a line meant to be bleak comes out dry instead, Yuuji lets out a quiet huff of laughter before immediately clapping a hand over his mouth.
“Sorry,” he whispers, embarrassed.
Junpei shakes his head, barely perceptible. It’s fine.
He finds himself… enjoying this. Not just the movie, but the shared noticing. The way someone else is paying attention to the same details, even if they care about different parts of them.
The thought settles uncomfortably in his chest.
Junpei lets it sit anyway.
The credits begin to roll, white text drifting slowly over a darkened screen. The music swells, softer than the opening, and then the house lights click on all at once, bright and unforgiving.
Junpei blinks, eyes adjusting.
He and the boy beside him stand at the same time, a little too in sync, and then hesitate—both caught in that brief, awkward pause where it’s unclear whether the moment is already over or not.
“That was…” Yuuji starts, rubbing the back of his neck. He smiles, easy and genuine. “I’m glad they didn’t mess it up completely.”
Junpei exhales through his nose, a near-laugh. “Yeah. It could’ve been worse.”
They linger near the end of the row as people trickle past, shoes scuffing against the sticky floor. Junpei gathers his bag, slinging the strap over his shoulder. He tells himself he doesn’t need to say anything else.
The words come out anyway.
“I’m… thinking of starting a movie club,” he says, almost like an afterthought. Like it’s not something he’s been turning over in his head for weeks. “At school.”
Yuuji’s eyes light up instantly. Not exaggerated. Not forced. Just—bright.
“That sounds awesome,” he says without missing a beat. “I hope it works out.”
There’s no sarcasm in it. No polite encouragement meant to be forgotten. He says it like it’s a given. Like Junpei succeeding is the natural outcome.
Junpei doesn’t know what to do with that.
He looks down, nods once. “Thanks.”
They start walking together toward the exit, then split instinctively when the hallway branches. Junpei heads for the side doors, the ones closer to the train station. Yuuji slows, stepping backward toward the main exit.
“I’ll see you later!” Yuuji says, lifting a hand in an easy wave, like this isn’t the first time they’ve parted this way.
Junpei blinks. “Yeah,” he answers, before he can stop himself.
The doors swing shut between them.
The night air is cooler outside. Junpei walks with his hands in his pockets, the echo of the movie still humming in his head. He boards the train, finds a seat by the window, and watches the city slide past in streaks of light.
It’s only then—somewhere between stations—that it hits him.
He never got the boy’s name.
No number. No contact. Nothing to anchor the moment except memory.
Junpei stares at his reflection in the darkened glass, expression unreadable.
He tells himself it doesn’t matter.
The train keeps moving anyway.
Years later.
Junpei is older now.
Not by much—but enough that the space between who he was and who he is feels stretched thin, like something pulled too far and left warped. His bangs have grown long, heavy, obscuring his right eye. He never cuts them anymore. It’s easier this way. Easier than explaining. Easier than remembering the way skin bubbled and split while everyone watched.
He hasn’t been to school in weeks.
The street leading back to his apartment is quiet, late afternoon light slanting low between buildings. Junpei walks with his hands in his pockets, head down, already bracing for the familiar weight of home—of silence, of his mother waiting, of Mahito’s voice coiled somewhere just behind his thoughts.
“Yoshino.”
Junpei stops.
Sotomura-sensei waddles toward him, face flushed, shirt clinging damply to his body. He dabs at his forehead with a cloth, breathing a little too hard for such a short walk. Junpei watches him approach with dull eyes, his mind already beginning to drift.
“Yoshino,” the teacher repeats, smiling in that strained, performative way adults use when they think they’re being kind. “I was just thinking about you.”
Junpei says nothing.
Sotomura-sensei clears his throat. “Apparently Sayama, Nishimura, and Honda are dead.”
Junpei blinks.
The teacher continues talking, voice droning on, explaining details Junpei doesn’t care about. Accidents. Investigations. Tragedy. “You were friends with them, weren’t you?” he asks, tilting his head as if the answer should be obvious.
Junpei’s mind goes blank.
Friends.
All he can see are flashes—hands grabbing him, laughter ringing in his ears, heat searing into his skin while no one intervenes. The way the world narrowed to pain, to sound, to nothing at all.
Sotomura-sensei keeps talking. Something about funerals. About paying respects. About going together, like it would be healing. Like it would be appropriate.
Junpei barely hears him.
Mahito had given him the means, hadn’t he?
The power curls eagerly beneath his skin, responsive, waiting. Junpei focuses, just a little. Just to see if it works. Just to—
“Excuse me.”
A new voice cuts cleanly through the moment.
Junpei looks up.
A boy with pink hair jogs over, breathing hard, eyes sharp with concern as he takes in the scene. He glances at Junpei first—really looks at him—then at the teacher.
“I have something important to discuss with you,” the boy says, firmly, to Junpei.
Sotomura-sensei scoffs. “What could you possibly have of importance?” he snaps, waving him off. “This is between a student and his teacher—”
The boy doesn’t wait.
In one swift, utterly ridiculous motion, he grabs the waistband of Sotomura-sensei’s pants and yanks.
There’s a yelp. A flash of pale legs. A stunned, offended scream.
The boy bolts.
Junpei stands there, frozen, staring at the teacher scrambling to pull himself together, face burning with humiliation. The street is suddenly loud with outrage and echoing footsteps.
Then—silence.
Junpei doesn’t move.
Not a full moment later, the boy reappears from around the far corner, jogging back toward him. He’s no longer holding the pants. No one is chasing him. He looks practically unfazed.
“Huh,” Junpei says before he can stop himself. “That was fast. You already ran that entire lap? You could’ve just dragged me away.”
The boy grins, catching his breath. “But you hate that guy, don’t you?” he says easily. “You don’t want someone you hate loitering in front of your home forever, right?”
Junpei blinks at him.
Up close, the boy’s face is open. Earnest. His eyes are bright, worried in a way Junpei doesn’t know how to interpret.
“Are you okay?”
Junpei’s chest tightens.
The boy’s face feels… familiar. Not in a way he can place, not tied to any clear memory. Just a sense of recognition, like walking into a room he’s been in before but can’t remember why.
“I…” Junpei hesitates. “Yeah.”
The boy tilts his head, squinting at him. For just a moment, his expression shifts—confusion flickering across it.
“Hey,” he says slowly. “Have we met before?”
Junpei almost answers.
The image hovers at the edge of his mind—dim seats, a glowing screen, whispered voices threading through a story. A moment suspended in darkness, untouched by everything that came after.
But it slips away before he can grab it.
“I don’t think so,” Junpei says.
The boy nods, accepting it easily. “Huh. Weird.”
Neither of them pushes it.
They stand there for a moment longer, two strangers connected by something neither can name. Then the boy grins again, all warmth and motion.
“I’m Yuuji,” he says, sticking out his hand.
Junpei looks at it, then takes it.
“Junpei.”
The handshake is brief. Ordinary.
Somewhere in Junpei’s mind, the image remains: grainy, familiar, like a scene from a movie he can’t remember the title of. Familiar. Unfinished.
Too late to rewind.