193 New Memories with Sendai-san - Story About Buying My Classmate Once A Week

New Memories with Sendai-san Chapter 193 A round cake adorned with candles stands before me. Delving into old memories, I find a similar scene. On a long-past birthday, though my father was away for work, my mother captured a photo that's still with me. Candles matching my age and my smiling face. The photo that fills in my fuzzy recollections is sealed within an album. Here, in Sendai-san’s room, my mother is not there. I wonder what kind of expression I have now. I observe Sendai-san placing five candles on a white cake topped with strawberries. When we made dinner together, and when she brought the cake to her room, she never insisted that I look happier. Thus, surely, my face doesn’t look that displeased. “Maybe I should have bought number candles after all,” she muses with a sincere voice, seeming quite pleased on the other side of the cake. “This is fine,” I reply. “Really? Don’t you want a ‘nineteen’ candle right in the center?” “No need.” The five included candles are sufficient; there’s no need to buy number ones. “Alright, then. I’ll light them up.” Sendai-san lights one candle after another. Once all five are lit, the flames dance gently. Even though I didn't make any plans for my birthday, trusting Sendai-san’s promise, the idea of sharing a whole cake together seemed implausible. Even as she left, claiming she would pick up the cake she’d reserved, I remained skeptical. The thought crept in that perhaps she wouldn’t return. That unsettling notion left me restless. But now, the whole cake is right before me, with candles alight. “I’m going to turn off the lights,” she says brightly, reaching for the remote. “No need to turn them off,” I insist. “Why not? I thought I could sing, too.” “No singing and no lights-off required.” “I wanted to showcase my lovely singing voice.” “That’s unnecessary; I’m blowing them out now.” Her gestures are overly grandiose, so I—who no longer revels in birthday songs—feel a growing urge to open that long-unopened album. To add Sendai-san to its pages, crafting a new birthday memory. “Go ahead,” she whispers softly. I inhale deeply, wishing to blow away the old memories, then extinguish the candles. As the flames snuff out, the scent of wax pricks my nose. Though I don’t feel like crying, my vision blurs, prompting me to shut my eyes tightly before reopening them. “Happy Birthday.” “Thank you.” Receiving her cheerful voice, I reply softly as she begins to clear the candles off the cake. “Miyagi, how many slices do you want?” “It’s up to you.” “If we’re sharing the whole thing, splitting it in two could work, but that might be too wild,” she muses, debating whether to split it into four or six slices before mumbling to herself and heading out to fetch a knife. I rub my eyes, looking at the cat-shaped chopstick rests on the table’s edge. The locations of these three cat figures have often shifted around the room, but now they seem to have found a home on the table. Over time, like the calico and black cats that have grown familiar with observing our shared meals, the three cats seem to have settled into Sendai-san’s room, which gives me a sense of relief as it proves she treasures the gift. I lightly stroke the head of the tuxedo cat. Unlike the plush black cat, it's hard and smooth. I align the three cats and flip them over. In the midst of this, Sendai-san returns, and I hastily place the chopstick rests back in their original positions. “I've read that heating the knife helps it cut neatly, so I warmed it. Although the instructions said to keep the cake chilled, some time has passed since it was out… I hope it slices well.” She sits opposite me with a focused look, eyeing the cake, and places the chocolate message plate inscribed with “Happy Birthday” into my dish. “That's yours, Miyagi,” she says, confidently plunging the knife into the center of the cake. "From the middle?" I ask. "That's what it said." Without lifting her gaze from the cake, she replies, drawing the knife from the center outwards. The process repeats four times, dividing the cake into quarters with two pieces each on our plates. "Well, a reasonable presentation,” she remarks with satisfaction. It's not as pristine as a store-bought cake, yet much tidier than those I clumsily cut as a child. “Let's eat.” Our voices overlap as we each dig into our portion. The mingling fresh cream and fluffy sponge cake dissolve in my mouth, the strawberry’s tartness accentuating the flavor, tempting another bite. “Is it good?” she asks, to which I affirm with a “Delicious,” taking a second helping and sipping iced tea. “Good, I’m glad.” Her gentle voice draws my attention from the cake to her, unintentionally meeting her gaze. “What is it?” I inquire, noticing her looking at me, a smile forming on her lips. “You seem to be having fun, Miyagi.” “You look like you're having more fun.” “Well, birthdays are enjoyable, aren’t they?” She cheerfully devours the strawberries atop the cake. As her fork shaves bits off of her remaining slice, one quarter finds its way into her stomach. After finishing my piece, I snap the chocolate message plate in two and nibble on one piece. “…Were you truly happy on your last birthday, Sendai-san?” “Like I mentioned when I came back earlier, it was thanks to you that I had fun.” “Honestly?” “Honestly.” “Did your friends also celebrate with you?” “Well, yes. But that’s the same for you, isn’t it?” Yesterday, Maika gave me a present with the words, “A day early, but…” Ami called, and my college friends celebrated as well. Still, I bet Sendai-san received double the birthday cheer. “It’s the same, but… your friends from university celebrated too?” “Yes, and also friends from high school.” “Ibaraki-san?” “That’s right.” “Are you still in touch?” “With Umina?” “Yeah.” “Yes, she wants to meet up in the winter.” It's the first time I’ve heard this. Up to now, Sendai-san hadn’t mentioned anything about it. There’s no reason for her to tell me she’s communicating with Ibaraki-san; no obligation, either. And I have no right to comment on Sendai-san’s friendships. Understanding that it’s only natural for friends to express the desire to meet doesn’t make the feeling akin to being thrown off a cliff into the ocean any easier. “…You’re not going back, right?” I ask, distorting the second slice of cake with my fork. "I'm not going back. If a bond breaks just because we can't meet, then that's all it was," Sendai-san says coolly without hesitation. While I don't want her choosing to leave just to meet Ibaraki-san, her unwavering tone stirs a sympathetic sentiment toward Ibaraki-san. In school, Sendai-san and Ibaraki-san seemed very close. However, as Sendai-san began visiting my house, I realized their friendship was only on the surface. While they were unquestionably friends, the depth of their friendship appeared to differ. Sendai-san often brought magazines that Ibaraki-san loved to my room during high school, but she never read them with much interest. Now, she doesn't bother buying those magazines anymore. "Sendai-san," I call. "What is it?" "You used to buy those magazines that Ibaraki-san liked in high school. Aren't you buying those kinds of magazines anymore?" "I don't need them anymore," she replies as if it's the most natural thing. Like slicing a cake, she seems to be capable of dividing the world around her without hesitation. Just as she separates trash efficiently, she can categorize what is necessary and what isn’t. She's not afraid to change shapes, like cutting a round cake into neat triangles. At the aquarium, she had no qualms about cutting up the otter-faced pancake. When making cookies, she effortlessly molded the cat-shaped dough into one ball. If necessary, she doesn’t hesitate to dismantle the present structure. Watching her, I’m struck by an anxiety over how long I can remain in my current form, worried about the day when I might be discarded. I take a small breath and begin eating the cake. The white cream, yellow sponge, and red strawberries are delightful. There's no need to dwell on mundane thoughts on a once-a-year birthday. With the sweet, gentle cake, I press down the encroaching shadows. "If you’d like to read them, I can start buying those magazines again," she offers softly. "No need. I won't read them," I say, taking another bite of the cake. Slowly savoring each bite, I consume half the round cake and the message plate. When I glance at Sendai-san, her plate is also devoid of cake. The promise is fulfilled, and the cake is not destined to be stored in the fridge. Every piece finds its way into our stomachs. A table laden with warm dishes and an entire cake. A birthday with nothing left uneaten is, I think, a happier one compared to those of past years. It’s okay. What Sendai-san divided was the cake, not me. What vanished from the table wasn't me. So, it’s okay. "Miyagi, what kind of cake do you want next year?" "Anything will do," I reply. "Then, another whole cake like today’s," she says with a bright smile. Trusting in such a promise feels like a stretch with a whole year ahead. Yet, I want to believe next year will be the same as this one. "And here's your present," she says lightly, handing me a not-so-large bag from under the bed. "Thank you." For someone like Sendai-san, who seems to favor meticulousness in such matters, a simple bag without ribbons feels unusual. "Open it now," she urges. I do as told, pulling out a small box-like object from the bag. To my surprise, what I hold in my hands seems unfit as a present, and I find myself staring at Sendai-san in disbelief. "What’s this?" "Don’t you know?" "I know what it is, but I don’t understand the meaning." The object that emerged from the bag is something I recognize. A memorable item I once bought and gave to Sendai-san. It's impossible for me to forget. However, it's something Sendai-san doesn’t need. She was reluctant to use this. "I’m giving you my ears, Miyagi," she says, her voice comforting, as I place the object from the bag onto the table. A piercer, the same kind that made the holes in my ears. That was Sendai-san’s birthday gift to me.