124 The Wall Between Miyagi and Me - Story About Buying My Classmate Once A Week

The Wall Between Miyagi and Me Chapter 124 I reach out for Miyagi, brushing my fingers through her black hair and caressing her cheek before tracing her lips. Although she doesn’t resist, she remains unresponsive. Despite her usual habit of complaining about trivial things, today she’s unusually quiet. When I move closer, she closes her eyes as if troubled, making her seem unexpectedly sincere. I press my lips to hers, gently slipping my tongue between them. She doesn't push me away or bite my tongue. While I'd be startled by sudden enthusiasm from her, Miyagi not resisting at all feels unsettling. However, admitting such feelings to her would probably earn her wrath, so I keep them to myself. After several kisses, I press my lips against her neck. As I slide them down without leaving any marks, she lets out a soft breath. Undoing her tie and unbuttoning her blouse one button at a time, I kiss her collarbone, and she grips my shoulder tightly. Yet, she doesn’t say stop or no, so I undress her and push her back. I know this is a dream. A mix of memories from summer and winter breaks and various past events have merged into this dream. We’re clad in uniforms we've worn countless times, but longer wear anymore. This type of dream has occurred many times before we arrived here and several times since. I should wake up soon. Yet, there's a part of me that wishes to linger a little longer. I lightly bite her shoulder, feeling its softness and warmth. But I can’t fully grasp how soft or warm it is, as every sensation blurs and dissolves. “Miyagi,” I call, but she doesn’t respond. I long to hear her voice, so I remove her bra, covering her chest. Still, she remains silent. Whether by touch or kiss, she doesn’t utter a word. I only receive ambiguous sensations from her quiet form. Despite having never truly touched her enough to create a memory, I sense the softness of the parts I touch. The dream crafted by memory conveniently fills in unknown elements. I remove her skirt, and as expected, she doesn’t resist. I trace my hand below her ribs, across her soft belly, and down to caress her hip bone. My hand pauses as it meets her underwear. I waver, knowing it’s a dream, uncertain if I should proceed. “S... Sendai-san,” she pleads in a voice unlike the Miyagi I know—so uncharacteristically honest, so unlike her usual self. Despite understanding this, I slowly slide my hand inside her underwear. And then— Suddenly— My hand touches a smartphone, buzzing with electronic sounds. “...figures,” I murmur, letting out a sigh and silencing the alarm. I set the phone aside and press my hand against the wall beside the bed. Miyagi is on the other side of this wall. Perhaps that’s the problem. The current distance between me and Miyagi is simply too close. I possess the rationality to distinguish between actions that are permissible and those that aren’t, but dreams are beyond my control. Living together as we are now, I know I must not emulate in reality the things witnessed in dreams. However, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t harbor any desire. Because Miyagi is within reach, I end up having dreams like this. “...I really am the worst.” This wasn’t a good dream. Miyagi likely doesn’t even consider that there’s someone on the other side of the wall harboring such dreams. Because of that, I feel as though I’ve committed a huge indiscretion and feel like cursing myself. I sit up and lie back down on the bed. I don’t want to leave this room. But I have to go to university. Now that I've completed my course registration and set my schedule, a semblance of university life has finally begun. I can't establish a habit of skipping classes this early on. After lounging around for what feels like ages, I resolve to face the day. Crawling out from under the covers, I open the drawer. If I'm heading to a shared space, pajamas are too casual. I’d like to dress a bit more appropriately until I get used to casually strolling around in them. Remembering the time I stayed at Miyagi’s house— Back then, she lent me a sweatshirt. Perhaps I’d be more comfortable switching to sweatshirts like her instead of pajamas. Then I wouldn’t need to change intentionally. Deciding to buy a sweatshirt soon, I pull out a blouse and flared pants from the chest of drawers. After changing, I exit the room to find Miyagi preparing breakfast. While we’ve agreed to make dinner together, breakfast arrangements have yet to be settled. Generally, whoever wakes up first prepares breakfast, and the other does the dishes. It’s a rule that emerged naturally over time. Miyagi isn’t the most skilled cook, but something prepared by someone other than me always tastes delightful. “Good morning,” I say to Miyagi’s back. “Good morning.” A return greeting as such, accompanied by someone making breakfast, doesn’t make for a bad morning— —provided I hadn’t had that dream. Though it wasn't a dream I intended to see, such dreams leave me feeling awkward. I can’t seem to look Miyagi in the face, unclear as to what expression is appropriate when spending time with her. Before moving here, we weren’t even in the same class. If I wished to avoid seeing her, I wouldn’t have to until after school. Considering that, meeting her back then was easier on the nerves compared to now. Things are different from back then. Opening the door means encountering Miyagi. It's nearly impossible to avoid her from morning until after school. “What are you making?” Unable to settle my thoughts and uncomfortable with the silence, I address Miyagi as she observes the frying pan—but there’s no reply. “Miyagi?” Even after calling her name, her silence makes me worry about our breakfast’s outcome. I suspect my current expression isn’t a pleasant one. I ideally wouldn’t approach Miyagi, but as curiosity about breakfast gets the better of me, I draw near. An amalgamation between a fried egg and scrambled eggs occupies the pan. “Did the yolks break?” “They cracked on their own.” She mutters quietly, facing me. “Whether it's a fried egg or scrambled, it’s all the same once it’s in your stomach.” “I suppose.” I sense her gaze on me but can’t bring myself to meet her eyes. “I’ll go wash my face.” Turning away from her, I head to the bathroom. A brief “yeah” trails from behind me. I inhale, exhale, and inhale once more. Being mindful of typically unconscious actions helps me stay calm. I wash my face and repeat the breathing—and exhaling. The dreams have begun to contain more elements that never happened in reality, and I prefer not to think about what’s ahead. However, if I dwell too much, thoughts of the dream might overwhelm me, so I push the memory of it to the back of my mind. While I can't forget entirely, I strive to disregard it as much as possible. I give my cheek a light slap and return to the dining kitchen. “Breakfast is ready,” Miyagi announces. I glance at the table and see plates and a glass of orange juice set out. The eggs seem more scrambled now, with the yolk and whites mixed together. Not only the bread but also the sausages have been nicely cooked, each with perfect browning. As I sit down, I hear her across the table, saying, “Let's eat.” Following her lead, I echo, “Let's eat,” and take a bite of what’s supposed to be scrambled eggs. The rule about having meals together has matured into something I hadn’t fully envisioned. Initially, I only suggested dining together in the evenings, but Miyagi has extended this notion to include breakfast as well. “Have you been buying any manga lately?” I ask, unable to meet her eyes yet and scraping for a topic. “Yeah, I have.” “Then lend me some. You’ve got something interesting, right?” “Does it matter what?” “As long as it's interesting.” Biting into toast slathered with butter and jam, I look at her hands. Watching as her fork stabs a sausage and moves toward her lips. “Hmmm, how should I know if you’d find it interesting?” Miyagi retorts, sounding mildly annoyed. I finally glance up, our eyes meeting briefly, quickening my heartbeat just a touch. The notion pops into my mind that if I claim I want to choose a manga myself, she might let me into her room. “Let me pick for myself then.” Today feels like a day I’d rather not approach Miyagi. Still, I can’t deny a lingering urge to draw closer, to see what her room looks like now, or what new manga have been added to her collection. “...I’ll lend you some, but I’ll choose and hand them to you.” Saying that, Miyagi takes a bite of her toast.