[Short Story] The Unaddressed Love Letter #UnrequitedLoveLiteratureClub

I am participating in the Unrequited Love Literature Club [Lost Item] event. This is a slightly longer piece at 3000 characters. I would be happy if you could read it.

“This lost item is a love letter, right?”

　Her flushed cheeks and teary eyes. Is this what youth is?

＊

　If there were a book in this world titled "Youth," my own youth wouldn't even have a single page, no, not even a single character, no, not even a single character floating in the author's mind before the book was even written.

　I was born prematurely, and apparently, I was only about the size of a fist. Perhaps because of that, even now that I'm in middle school, my height is about the same as a lower-grade elementary student. Following my father's teaching that "If you eat tons of food, you'll grow tall in no time!," I ate tons of food, and the result was a 134cm tall, 65kg version of me.

　Moreover, through some mistake in the heavens' planning, half of my hair is white—a style my father calls "cool, like Black Jack!"—which is more than enough to stimulate the cruel curiosity of middle schoolers.

　Small, round, and black-and-white, I am treated like a soccer ball, kicked and shoved around, living my student life without a single character of youth ever being carved into it.

　Right in front of me (or more accurately, at my feet), a love letter—or rather, a letter of affection—with a heart sticker on it is lying there. The first love-transmitting substance I've ever seen in my life. I had heard rumors about them. An ancient method of confession where you write words of love on paper and deliver them to your beloved. I gulped.

　I carefully pinch the corners, treating it like an explosive so as not to stain it with my sweaty hands. Now, what to do? I quickly scan my surroundings. Suddenly, the voice of a female student saying "Seriously?" rings out from behind me, where I am clearly acting suspiciously. I instinctively shove the love letter into my pocket and start running.

　Wiping away the dripping sweat, I throw my bag onto the bed and pull the love letter out of my pocket. The heart sticker on the crumpled letter is peeling off and dangling, as if inviting me to peel it back and look inside.

　Struggling with my conscience, I decide to turn it over for now. There is no address. There is no sender. Even if I wanted to return it, I can't, right? I tell myself, making excuses, and take out the contents of the love letter.

[Dear my beloved,

　Ever since I first laid eyes on you, I haven't been able to tear my gaze away. Whether in class, on the way home, or even after I get back home, my head is filled with thoughts of you and your small, round form.

　Until now, I was satisfied just watching your black and white hair from the seat diagonally behind you. But I've reached my limit. I'm no longer satisfied just watching. I want to talk to you. I want to touch you. I want to hold your hand.

　I love you. I would be happy if you felt the same way.]

　—It's me. It's me, it's me, it's me. This love letter is addressed to me. I jump around on the bed like a ball. I keep jumping, not even hearing the springs screaming and creaking. A hot lump, the likes of which I have never felt before, is heating up deep inside my body.

　Youth has arrived, skipping along and waving both hands. But who is the sender? Since it says the seat diagonally behind me, I can rule out Sakurada-san next to me. The row behind me is also out. In the first place, there are too many candidates for the seat diagonally behind me in the front row.

　No, could it simply mean the seat directly diagonal to me? Dobashi-san, who sits diagonally to my right, greets me. Kato-san, who sits diagonally to my left, often makes eye contact (or so I think) when I turn around. Wait, what about Saito-san, the class representative behind her? She stood up for me when I was being treated like a ball.

In the end, unable to narrow down the candidates, I decided to use a method passed down since ancient times. The culprit always returns to the scene of the crime. My stakeout began.

I staked out the love letter recovery site in an orthodox style, holding a bean paste bun in my left hand and milk in my right. My backpack contained four spare bean paste buns and three cartons of milk, pressing down on my shoulders.

Just as I was being overcome with anxiety about whether the milk would spoil, I heard footsteps approaching: scuff, scuff. She had light brown hair and long eyelashes. She was a flashy-looking girl I had never even spoken to. With her long eyelashes cast downward, she was restlessly darting her gaze at her feet and into the shrubbery. There was no doubt about it; she was the owner of the love letter. But what did she mean by sitting in the seat diagonally behind me?

I put a lid on my doubts, hurriedly swallowed the bean paste bun, and washed it down with milk. The bun, which had lodged itself in my throat, blocked the milk, and I sprayed it out spectacularly.

As I was on my knees, choking, a shadow fell over my head. Then, her voice descended upon me.

"What are you doing? Are you okay?"

"--Uh, um, *cough*, the love letter, did you, did you drop it?"

The line I had practiced so many times, "This lost item is a love letter, right?", soaked into the ground along with the milk, and the phantom of the blushing girl vanished like a stain. The words that came out instead were the exact opposite of cool, punctuated by a "*cough*," and met with the eyes of a girl looking at a pathetic creature.

"Oh--I see... Did you read the contents?"

"No, no... No, I did. Um, thank you. I've never spoken to you before, but let's start as friends--"

While wiping the milk flowing from my nose, I desperately tried to recover.

"Huh?--Hmm? No, no, no, no, no, wait a second, wait a second... Oh, I see, I get it now."

Saying that, she burst out laughing as if she were exhaling a puff of air.

"That was an assignment from Modern Japanese class. 'Personify something you like and write a love letter to it.' Didn't your class do that? Wait, what grade are you in?"

With eyes that couldn't quite focus, I stared at her, her face bright red from laughing too hard, and managed to make my brain understand what had just been said. Of course, there was no way a love letter would ever come to me.

"Um, I'm a first-year."

While hanging my head so low that the disappointment felt like it was crushing me, my sluggish brain automatically replied to what I understood now.

"Then you're a year below me. The recipient of the letter is a panda keychain hanging on a friend's bag. It's so cute. But, well, yeah, what's written in there is exactly about you, isn't it?"

Saying that, she burst out laughing again like a balloon popping. Feeling somehow unbearable, I took the neatly smoothed-out love letter from my clear file and returned it to her.

"I'm sorry for getting it all crumpled. Well then--"

I turned on my heel and started walking with heavy steps. My backpack, containing a bean-paste bun and milk, felt heavier than when I had arrived. That backpack became even heavier. About one person's worth heavier. Surprised, I turned around to find her draped over my backpack.

"Wait a second, kid. You, when you look closely—no, even without looking closely—you look like a panda. What's your name?"

Flustered by the weight of her on my back and the proximity of her face, I answered automatically once again.

"T-Tanzawa, Tan Tanzawa."

"Tanzawa Tan? ...What is that... No, sorry... I don't mean to laugh at your name... but it just hit my funny bone..."

The vibration of her convulsing laughter traveled through the backpack. For the first time, I felt anger toward the father who gave me this name, while simultaneously, the joy of having such a beautiful person laughing so close to me became complexly intertwined, leading me to a state of zen.

"Yes. My name is Tanzawa Tan. Please remember me. Now, farewell."

I said this with an expressionless face and started walking again. However, with my backpack being held, my feet only dug into the dirt, showing no sign of moving forward at all.

"I'm sorry. I won't laugh anymore. Let's be friends, Tan-tan. I'm Noa. Sky of Hope, Noa. Nice to meet you."

She laughed as she said this, and she was like a perfectly clear blue sky. The pages of my youth might just be filled up with her bright laughter and the weight of my backpack being pulled without restraint.

End

This time, I tried having an AI grade my work. It gave me a 92. It feels like a high score, but it misunderstood quite a bit. There were spots where I thought, 'That's not the intention, AI-san...' However, it also gave me detailed suggestions for improvement (whether they are truly improvements or not is another matter), so I thought I might have it grade my work again in the future.
I wonder if there will eventually be literary awards judged by AI?

If you liked this, you might like these too 😊

I have compiled the short stories I have posted so far. I would be happy if you read these as well.

Short-shorts are here.

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