The story of him, whom I cannot forget.

Today, I was in a hurry.

I was walking quickly through a large shopping mall, heading toward a destination I didn't know the location of.
My eyes were constantly fixed diagonally upward, following the arrows placed every few dozen meters so that anyone could find the place.

I found my destination immediately.
To get inside, I joined the end of the line that stretched outside. It was a weekday, but unfortunately, it was crowded.

Even so, my turn came around with almost no wait.
I wasn't allowed to choose. I headed toward the one space that had popped open.
The moment I stepped into it, the scent of perfume left behind by someone unknown brushed against my nasal cavity.
And immediately after that, through the gaps in the perfume, I detected a foul odor.
That foul odor was different from my own; it was something that felt like a different culture. I felt a slight terror at the unwavering certainty of the object I imagined from the scent.

Olfactory signals are sent directly to the brain. In an instant, orders were issued from the brain, and my eyeballs moved.

I don't want to see it.
Even though my heart screamed that, the order from the brain, which had sensed danger to my body, was absolute.

Protect yourself, Makko.

Because my instincts refused to let me close my eyes, covering my nose with my hand was the best I could do. My gaze moved toward the white vessel inside the stall.

Inside it, he was there.
Despite it being our first meeting, he had a dignified attitude without any hesitation.
A presence that exerted intense pressure from inside the vessel.

Yes, it was poop.

A budding sense of fear.
He might only be hiding underwater for now, but if I looked away, he might attack me.

The urge to urinate I had felt so intensely just a moment ago was completely gone.
I locked the toilet stall door and leaned against it to calm myself down.

What should I do about this stranger?
What is the action I should take?
The answer I arrived at was one.
Scoop him up. That's it.

I was wrong, flush him.

I take one step closer to the toilet bowl.
Up to this point, I haven't taken my eyes off him even once. My right hand, which had passed directly over him, touched the flush button behind the toilet. The stranger I met for the first time, seen directly below.

…How magnificent he is.

Although there are some irregularities, he is smooth overall.
The fact that the tip is tapered means he is a considerate type that puts little burden on wiping the anus.
What a beautiful form.

And my thoughts expand.
When was the last time I faced such a magnificent 'him' of mine?
Even so, the potential of an anus that can handle such a size is moving.

While I was thinking about such things, I felt the foul odor again.
The moment I came to my senses and was about to press the flush button, a question popped into my head.

Why is he stark naked?
Why is there no toilet paper that would have wiped the part of him that must have been left on the anus when he was created?

My right hand, unable to press the flush button forever, lost its place.

For now, a deep breath.
I felt nauseous from the foul odor I had immediately inhaled into my lungs.

But there is no time to stand still here.
I asked my brain. Why is there no used toilet paper that should be in the toilet bowl?
Several hypotheses came back from my brain.
Did only the light toilet paper get washed away by a weak flow of water invisible to the eye?
Or did they use something else instead of toilet paper?
No, don't tell me, did they not wipe at all!
Or did they take the used toilet paper with them? But for what purpose?

Am I the only one who suddenly feels affection when I think about a specific person or thing to a certain depth? Even if it is poop.

I suddenly felt sorry for him, who hadn't been properly faced by his creator. You were abandoned, weren't you?
And without even being given the proper treatment.

The disgust toward him disappeared.
Even though I had felt nauseous, I even started to sympathize with him.
And feeling affection for the pitiful him, I spoke to him.

"We eat to create you, the food of the three great desires exists to meet you, you are the proof that I am alive."

Humans are ridiculous. We eat diligently every day just to poop.

"Good work."

The crystallization of someone's effort, the proof of life, goodbye.
Gently, I pressed the flush button with my right hand.

The moment he disappeared from before my eyes.
As if on cue, I felt the urge to urinate again.
I sat on the cold toilet seat and pushed out the proof that I was alive.
And when I reached out my hand, there was no toilet paper there.

The image of him I just flushed floats in my mind.
His creator didn't not wipe; they couldn't wipe.
His parent was also in pain. Because they could only bury their son like that.

The joy of being able to complete his story. With this, he too will be rewarded.

And then I realized.

Without toilet paper, how am I supposed to complete my own story?