{Satou-san and My Ideal Self}

A long time ago, we were assigned an essay at school.

The theme was “Myself in Ten Years.”

The top works would be published in a collection edited by the city’s Board of Education, and at East High School, participation in this collection was almost mandatory for students. Back then, everyone in Class C grumbled but worked on the assignment, and after going through the selection process, I was the one chosen as the school representative.

However, there wasn’t any real reward for being selected. There was no monetary prize for the manuscript, and even the collection itself wasn’t given to you; you had to buy it. All that came with it was praise, recognition at school, and having your work published. As a high school student, I couldn’t justify buying that collection. I didn’t feel the need to keep a copy just because my essay was in it, and I figured I wouldn’t read it even if I had bought it. I even thought I’d forget the fact my essay had been selected in just a few months.

That prediction was correct. By the time I graduated, I’d completely forgotten about both the essay and the collection, and after graduation, I never thought about them again.

Until Satou-san brought that collection to one of our dates.

“I suddenly remembered last night, and thought, ‘Oh yeah, Yamaguchi-kun’s essay was in that collection,’” Satou-san said, pulling the collection out of the paper bag she brought with her.

The thick collection looked cheap, with its thin glossy cover that felt like it would stick to your hands. Satou-san had placed a pink-ribboned bookmark in it, and when she opened it to that page, my name was indeed there.

“I thought Yamaguchi-kun might be happy to see it, so I brought it. What do you think?”

Sitting at the counter of a coffee stand, Satou-san held the collection out to me.

I sipped my hot coffee, debating whether or not to take it.

Just when I had finally forgotten about it, why did Satou-san have to dig it up? Who in their right mind would want to read an essay they wrote long ago? Especially one with a theme like “Myself in Ten Years,” where I couldn’t have written anything profound. In that collection, the essay I’d crafted with all the right-sounding, superficial words was now in Satou-san’s hands.

“You bought the collection, Satou-san?” I asked.

Satou-san smiled and nodded.

“Yeah. You didn’t buy it, did you? So I thought I’d bring it for you.”

“Wait, did I ever mention that I didn’t buy it?”

“I’m not sure who you were talking to, but I overheard it. Back then, our seats were next to each other.”

Now that she mentioned it, I recalled that during that time, Satou-san and I were seated next to each other, just after we had moved up to the third year.

That brought back memories. Back then, I was inexplicably drawn to Satou-san, but I couldn’t admit those feelings. Despite constantly watching her, I would get annoyed by her small actions, without understanding why.

The essay assignment came during that time when I was struggling with those emotions.

“But why did you buy that collection, Satou-san?”

I couldn’t understand why she, who had no direct connection to it, would purchase something that even I, who was featured in it, hadn’t bothered with. Despite the fact that the homeroom teacher would hand out order forms every time a new edition was published, I never saw anyone actually order it. Except for Satou-san.

Her response to my question was rather perplexed.

“I bought every edition.”

“That’s even more mysterious. Why would you buy something like that?”

“Well, sometimes people you know would have their work featured, right? I wanted to read it in book form.”

There was no hesitation in Satou-san’s answer. She flipped through the collection casually, her bookmark still in place.

“I bought this edition because Yamaguchi-kun was going to be in it. I thought it was amazing that someone from our class would be featured.”

It wasn’t amazing at all. A few students from each school were always selected, and my essay just happened to be crafted in a way that pleased the teachers. It didn’t bring me any particular benefits.

“When I reread it, I thought your essay was really wonderful, Yamaguchi-kun.”

Satou-san smiled gently as she handed me the collection.

I reluctantly accepted it, unable to refuse. The collection was quite thick and felt heavy in my hands. There was no need for her to bring such a bulky item on our date.

Thanks to the bookmark, I quickly found my essay. But there was no way I was going to reread it. I had to admit, the version of myself back then was annoyingly self-righteous. I knew exactly what kind of words would please the teachers and other adults, and I wrote accordingly, stringing together pleasant-sounding phrases. There was no genuine emotion behind it. Naturally, the essay was well-received at school, and I was chosen as the school representative.

Now, I was mature enough to feel embarrassed about my behavior back then. I knew how immature, cynical, and conceited I had been. Yet, I still wasn’t brave enough to face that old essay directly.

“Isn’t it a great essay?” Satou-san said, smiling as she watched me pretend to read the collection.

Her eyes were as clear and beautiful as they had been back then.

I found myself unwilling to continue pretending, and decided to face the high school version of me.

The essay’s theme was “Myself in Ten Years.”

In the essay, I wrote that I wanted to become an adult who would willingly help those in need, stand by those who were struggling, and be someone who could fulfill my responsibilities in society, value my friends, and carry the future of Japan with pride. I stopped reading there, as I was starting to feel the urge to crawl into a hole. The essay was full of nothing but empty platitudes.

It was nothing more than idealism. It was the kind of thing anyone might think about at least once, but achieving it was much more difficult. Living by those principles wasn’t easy. I’m no exception.

That essay was a textbook example of how easy it is to say things.

But it also resonated with Satou-san.

“You were always so mature, even back in high school, Yamaguchi-kun,” she said, beaming with joy as she spoke to me.

“When I reread your essay, I thought it really reflected the future you envisioned for yourself.”

Satou-san said it reflected “my future,” but what exactly did she mean by that? Did she think my future self was full of empty ideals, always trying to please others?

Of course, I knew Satou-san wasn’t praising me sarcastically. Still, I felt even more self-conscious and handed the collection back to her, closing it.

“That’s not true at all.”

I shook my head.

“I didn’t write that essay because I truly believed in those lofty ideals.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I wrote it hoping to be praised by my teachers.”

It wasn’t that I wanted to be published, but with college entrance exams approaching, I did want to leave a good impression on my teachers. It was all very calculated.

“So while I’m happy you’re praising it, I didn’t really have those ideals back then. Honestly, I think I was just showing off, and reading it now is pretty embarrassing.”

At least I’d grown enough to be able to admit these things. Though part of that was because it was Satou-san I was talking to.

“But…” Satou-san tilted her head, watching me with concern.

“I don’t think you could write something like that without having some part of it come from your heart.”

“No, it’s all just surface-level.”

I nearly burst out laughing at how innocent Satou-san’s words were.

But she didn’t laugh.

“I think the future Yamaguchi-kun wrote about in that essay is actually similar to who you are now.”

“Really? I don’t think it’s even close.”

As I tried to brush it off, Satou-san gently placed her hand on the closed collection.

“Yamaguchi-kun, that ideal version of yourself is still inside you.”

“Inside me?”

“Remember when you helped me with my essay once? When I was stuck, and you told me that what I was feeling wasn’t just sympathy, but empathy.”

Her clear eyes locked onto mine as she spoke, serious and sincere.

“I think that you resonated with the ideal version of yourself in that essay, which is why you wrote it as ‘Myself in Ten Years.'”

There was something about Satou-san’s words. Whenever she said things like that, even the most unlikely ideas started to seem plausible. She could even make someone as cynical as me rethink things.

It’s true that my essay reflects an idealistic view written with superficiality. Looking back at who I was back then makes that clear.

However, the version of me within the essay was certainly my ideal self.

Although it’s unlikely I could ever be that way, if such a person existed, and if I could become like that—then that would mean being someone who doesn’t shame Satou-san, who is now looking at me and offering sincere words.

Thinking that way, I felt I couldn’t turn my eyes away from that essay.

“I wish I could become like that,” I said with a smile.

Satou-san, as expected, responded without smiling. “You can. You’re already becoming that way, Yamaguchi-kun.”

“Isn’t that a bit of an exaggeration?”

“No, you’ve reached out to me.”

She spoke with a confidence I hadn’t seen before.

The reason I reached out to Satou-san repeatedly, worried about her and sometimes helping her, was because I liked her. To be blunt, it was because I had ulterior motives. Someone like that is still far from the “future self” I wrote about in my essay.

But, “When you say it, Satou-san, I feel like I really can do it.”

I confessed this feeling that suddenly arose.

It had always been this way. Satou-san used to tell me I could do it.

“You can, because it’s you, Yamaguchi-kun.”

The words she offered me were always positive and kind. Satou-san’s straightforwardness, without pretense or embellishment, was the most trustworthy thing for me.

One of the stains of my high school days that I wanted to forget had, thanks to Satou-san, transformed into a cherished memory.

Someday, I would think back on this again. This time, I would remember what I wrote in that essay with a more positive mindset and truly think, “I want to be like this.”

I want to be someone who doesn’t shame Satou-san and encourages me.

“Thank you, Satou-san. I feel a bit less embarrassed now.”

When I expressed my gratitude honestly, Satou-san seemed a bit flustered. She looked down shyly and nodded.

“Yeah, you’re welcome.”

Now, Satou-san appeared more embarrassed, and that was incredibly cute.

Then I suddenly remembered that everyone in Class C had written essays.

“By the way, Satou-san, what did you write in your essay?”

When I asked, she suddenly seemed flustered.

“Uh, me? I didn’t write anything impressive…”

“I’d really like to hear it. Mine has been read, so it’s only fair.”

I said this a bit teasingly.

Then, with a reluctant look, Satou-san finally spoke.

“I think I wrote, ‘I want to become an adult who doesn’t trouble others’… It sounds kind of low aspirations, right?”

Well, that might be true. It’s an important sentiment, but it does sound like something the old Satou-san would say.

I felt a bit complicated at that moment.

“But now, I think I’d write it differently.”

As she carefully and reverently tucked away the collection of essays, Satou-san continued.

“How would you write it?”

“…‘I want to stand proudly beside Yamaguchi-kun.’”

With that, she lifted her face and smiled a little proudly at me, sitting next to her.

It seems we both have quite similar thoughts.

When the ten years I wrote about back then really arrive, maybe we’ll be called a “couple of similar kinds.”