The Black Box Between You and Me

When I was in my early twenties, I opened the F-marked icon on my bulky smartphone, and a photo of the boyfriend I was dating at the time having a BBQ by the river appeared.

It was as if I could hear his slightly low voice coming from the screen, spitting out a "Yeah!" I felt as though my face had been soiled by the saliva they were spewing.

He was in the center of a group of shirtless men, each holding a beer in one hand. There was a woman next to him, too. She was crouching with both hands on her knees, and her cleavage was spilling out from the gap in her tank top.

That guy wearing sunglasses must have been peeking at her chest while pretending to look at the camera. Yes, it had arrived—the bonus time of all-you-can-peek. For some men, sunglasses aren't for UV protection, but for hiding their inner male instincts.

Seeing that photo at home, I boldly stripped off my T-shirt, put on a tank top, and tried to mimic the same pose as that woman in front of a full-length mirror. Damn it! No matter how hard I tried, my chest was flat as a board.

Even if I crossed my arms as much as I could, there was no fat to push together. I couldn't cross my arms any further. Oh my god, this is a disaster. This is a refreshingly complete defeat. A gong rang out in my brain: clang, clang, clang.

At the time, he had invited me to the BBQ, but I didn't have the courage to join, having spent my time at the edge of the classroom watching the popular kids.

The power of their confident, boisterous laughter was immense. It was like a tornado had formed, and my small, poorly articulated voice would just get swept up in the vortex. I could easily imagine my very existence disappearing.

Even so, the people participating in the BBQ were probably kind enough to treat everyone equally.

That was exactly why it was so blindingly bright. No matter how much I tried to imitate them, I couldn't be like them, and I couldn't make that "living life to the fullest" smile.

If I had joined the BBQ and we took a group photo, I would definitely have turned into a ghost on the far right of the back row.

There is nothing more humiliating than seeing yourself as a ghost objectively after it's posted on social media.

Thinking, "Must be nice, they look like they're having fun," I closed Instagram and kept repeating the music video for my favorite AKB48 song, "Iiwake Maybe."

Sometimes, I would pause on the scene with Yuko Oshima. "It's fine, it's fine. Even if I'm not out there saying 'Yeah!', I'm here at home admiring Yuko Oshima's dimples," I told myself as I kept staring at the small screen.

Even while thinking that, I felt my body being gradually eroded by something black, slimy, and unidentified.

When I was about to be consumed by that something, I drowned in a black sea.

The moment I felt suffocated and my heart screamed, I was drawn to the paused dimples of Yuko Oshima and managed to regain my sanity. Surely, the world would describe this something as "jealousy."

And yet, who or what was I jealous of?

Was it the fact that he was having fun somewhere I didn't know about?

Or was it that woman with the voluptuous body who must have stirred up his male instincts?

The kind of men who seem high up in the hierarchy, the ones who always have people gathering around them?

I understand now. I must have been jealous of everything.

◇

A lot of time has passed since then.

In inverse proportion to the ultra-thin smartphones of today, my waistline has grown thick.

I spend my days sighing as I remember the slender body I once had in front of the full-length mirror.

And, holding a small mirror in one hand, I never fail to check for gray hairs using a hand mirror.

While living such days, I opened Instagram and saw an icon that looked like my husband in the 'People You May Know' section.

I didn't follow my husband, and there was no action from him either.

That is because I have come to the conclusion that I don't need to know the social media activity of the people who are important to me.

Whatever thoughts you choose to broadcast,

Whatever women you look at with a male gaze,

The times you've shown your brightest smile in places I don't know about,

Please, feel free.

Those are black boxes that I have no need to know about.

But you are right here in front of me.

We can talk about what happened today.

We can share a hot pot together.

If I reach out my hand, I can trace the deeper laugh lines on your face.

That fact alone is enough.
That alone is enough to let light shine into my heart and make it feel warm and cozy.

◇

Thank you for everything until the very end!

I participated in the Jealousy Festival. I read Nami Saito's new series with great enthusiasm! Thank you for such a wonderful project.