Adachi-san from another department

This feeling is surely love... no, it isn't. It's an extension of trust; I just like her as a person, that's all.

Telling myself that, I type on my keyboard at the office today as well. I send a request to update a webpage to that person I've only met once. And I'm hoping, just a little bit, that I'll receive a star from her.

The person in charge of the webpage

I work at a hotel. I imagine many people, upon hearing "I work at a hotel," picture a fresh-faced young man standing at the front desk. Of course, there are people whose smiles are as bright as a gym instructor's, but I'm not one of them. I'm not bright. Furthermore, I don't even stand at the front desk.

My current department is the administrative division. It's a department that plans fairs and such. I spend more time facing a computer than interacting with customers.

One of my duties is updating the webpage. That said, the people who actually do the work are in another department, and we use our PCs to send requests to the person in charge, saying, "Please revise this part like this."

My main contact for these requests is a woman named Adachi-san. "Adachi" is a pseudonym. The reason it's Adachi-san is that she resembles Rika Adachi, a celebrity from my hometown of Mie Prefecture. By the way, other celebrities from Mie Prefecture include Ken Hirai and Chan Kawai.

A star has arrived!

For webpage update requests, we use a dedicated task management tool. Unlike email, the interactions between those involved can be seen in a list, like the comment section on YouTube, making it easy to understand the progress.

Within this tool, there is a feature to send a "star".

When you want to express gratitude or think something is wonderful, you can send a "star" to that person's comment. It's similar to a "like" on Twitter, but for some reason, the hurdle is high within the company. You don't get one unless something really special happens.

When a star is sent, a notification saying "A star has arrived!" is sent, and this is, honestly, quite a happy feeling.

To use an analogy, it's similar to the joy of receiving a notification on note saying "Your article is trending!". After being surprised, thinking, "Huh!! Who!? Who did this!?", I'm just purely happy. I'm happy enough to bounce a little on the spot. My mood is completely different when I haven't received a star versus when I have. It's as different as Ken Hirai's mood when he sings "Rakuen" versus "POP STAR".

Adachi-san sometimes sent me stars. If other people did it once in a hundred times, Adachi-san gave me a star once in twenty times. Feeling something warm in my chest, I started pressing the star button, which I had never used before, as if to return the favor.

I have only met Adachi-san once. I know nothing about her private life. I have only ever interacted with her on a PC. Even so, for some reason, it doesn't feel mechanical. It's warm. It's kind. Through her writing and the stars, I feel like her emotions and personality come through.

Conversation is said to be "talking face-to-face." Although we aren't sitting knee-to-knee, for me, sending stars back and forth across the screen was "an important form of communication where feelings of gratitude are exchanged."

Adachi-san, who became busy

Adachi-san has been very busy lately. Two people who were doing the same work have both resigned. Even though new staff have been brought in, they are still beginners. Regardless of that, a flood of requests comes in from every department. Days spent chasing deadlines continue.

It must be pretty tough... That is what I feel she is thinking. I haven't asked her. But that comes across through the screen. The speed from when I make a request to when she handles it is different from before. Mistakes that never happened before are becoming noticeable. "I am very sorry" is said more often.

At a time like that, a new request came from my boss: Please upload this to the website by the end of the day.

The time is 4:40 PM. Adachi-san's finishing time is 5:30 PM. She is already being chased by work, and I don't want to burden her. But given the content, it absolutely has to be uploaded today. My heart aches. It truly aches.

At 4:55 PM, I reluctantly make the request. I pour my heartfelt apologies into the message. Adachi-san is being chased by work. The reply might come right at 5:30 PM. No, perhaps I might even make her work overtime. Ah, Adachi-san, I am so sorry. While chanting this in my heart, I wait, glued to my PC so I can check as soon as the reply comes.

At 5:15 PM, a reply comes from Adachi-san. Adachi-san didn't show a single sign of annoyance (or so I felt), and she understood my situation and finished it with unexpected speed. It must have been the fastest she could possibly do it.

Waaaaah! Adachi-saaaaan!!!!!

I clicked the mouse repeatedly. I clicked the star button more times than I have ever clicked it before. Thank you, Adachi-san, thank you for prioritizing this. This feeling of gratitude cannot be conveyed in words alone. That is why I am sending you stars! I am sending you plenty of stars, even though I have only sent two or three a month until now!!

As a result, 11 stars were sent.

Via internal mail, "I'm going to fall for you!!"

A few days later, internal mail arrived from Adachi-san. Inside a B4 brown envelope, there is a box slightly larger than a commuter pass holder. When I peel off the cellophane tape that sealed the envelope and tilt it, a rectangular red box comes out.

It was a KitKat.

A yellow square sticky note was attached to the back of the box, and it was written in Adachi-san's handwriting like this:

"Thank you for giving me 11 stars. It made me laugh. But it cheered me up! I hope you don't dislike sweets..."

I'm going to fall for you!! I suppress the urge to shout that. Calm down, Tomokichi, calm down, Chankawai.

I keep the thank-you notes I occasionally receive at work in an old, unused notebook because I feel bad about throwing them away. I peeled this sticky note off the KitKat to keep it in the same way.

—And then, I notice that the message space on the KitKat under the sticky note is not blank. "Ah," a voice escapes me.

There, a small star mark, filled in with a black ballpoint pen, was drawn modestly.

Inside me, Chan Kawai shouted once again.

#Starting from that conversation