351 - Story About Buying My Classmate Once A Week

**Chapter 351** A birthday is a marked day, a date etched into memory, even if it isn’t circled on a calendar. For me, such days have always been days best avoided. Of course, I’d send gifts to friends on their birthdays and occasionally receive presents myself. Nonetheless, I would refrain from extravagant celebrations. I've always been that kind of person, but since becoming a university student, I can no longer be that way. With a sigh, I exhale. Days swiftly pass, and before I knew it, the Bon Festival had concluded, bringing us to Sendai-san's birthday. I'm now locked in a staring contest with the round cake behind the showcase. I’m the only one celebrating the birthday. And of course, the birthday star is just one person, too. With no one else joining us to eat, a round cake feels excessive. Yet, Sendai-san insists on preferring a round cake. “Hmm…” I never liked the round birthday cakes my father bought. Always too occupied with work to join me, he left me with ornate, beautiful cakes too much for one person. Storing what remained in the fridge only amplified the loneliness of being home alone. Now, with Sendai-san, there’s no leftover cake. I understand that well. Sendai-san has turned round cakes into good memories. Although she assures me that no cake will remain today, my anxiety prompts me to consider switching to sliced cakes. There’s no one to consult. It’s midway between noon and evening, a lull in the store's traffic. With Sendai-san left at home after claiming she wanted to come along, I can ponder at my leisure. The trade-off was losing autonomy over my appearance. When I informed Sendai-san of my intention to shop for the cake alone, she transformed me into a doll—braiding my hair, applying makeup, and dressing me. Practically an image overhaul, she insisted on it, arguing that someone staying behind deserved nothing less. Reluctantly, I went along. I tug on one of the braids near my ear. A skirt reflecting the freshness of the summer sky, a bag I’ve never seen Sendai-san use. Everything’s unbearably cute. I don’t think it suits me. I glare at my reflection in the showcase’s glass. But, no matter how much I wish it, my hairstyle, my face, and my clothes remain unchanged. My brow furrows deeper, just as when I left the house. As I stand, I find myself concerned less with the cake than with my appearance. Making it here alone, today’s purchase is a cake for a birthday—a once-a-year occasion. Such cakes should be chosen by someone else, not by the birthday person, hence my solo expedition. I tear my gaze from the case, focusing on the floor. Counting one, two, three, to calm myself before returning to the cakes. A white cake for a birthday is ideal. With strawberries and enticing-looking whipped cream. The shape won’t affect the taste, so whether it’s an isosceles triangle or a circle, it’s fine. I take a deep breath in, then out. Standing firm, I address the attendant behind the showcase. “I'll take the smallest whole cake, please.” Today's star is indeed Sendai-san. I accompany the round cake with a “Happy Birthday” plaque and candles, heading home. Walking along the sidewalk under the blazing sun quickens my pace due to the cake. Having celebrated Sendai-san's birthday last year has set a precedent, ensuring celebrations every year. There’s no escaping the accumulation of memories. Times have changed. Just as Sendai-san transitioned from a roommate to someone living in something important, I have changed, too. I may not know what awaits me at the end of this growing collection of memories, but there’s no discarding them now. Earrings Sendai-san attached to my ears. A necklace around a black cat’s neck. An alligator tissue cover—reminders of times spent with Sendai-san. My space is overflowing with Sendai-san memorabilia. Memories aren’t something I can discard at will, just as visible items are also beyond my disposal. I feel like my baggage has increased quite a bit. Thinking about the weight of my baggage that will soon increase again makes my legs freeze, but I can't imagine losing them. I tug on the braids that Sendai had made. My hurrying steps speed up even more. Cleaving through the muggy air, fleeing the sun, familiar buildings appear, prompting me up the stairs to the third floor, where I open the front door. “I'm back,” I softly announce. Closing the door and shedding my shoes. In the shared space, Sendai-san awaits, receiving my greeting with a "Welcome home" and asks, “What kind of cake did you get?” “… A round one. Make sure you finish it, Sendai-san.” “Of course.” Her cheerful reply lightens my mood. “What are you doing, Sendai-san?” Setting down my bag, I stash the cake in the fridge and approach her at the counter, busy with something. “Preparing dinner.” “What? You’re cooking?” This wasn’t the plan. We intended to skip cooking tonight and order pizza delivery with cake after. Same as last year. We decided in the morning together. “I’m making fried chicken, caprese, and pasta now.” “…Caprese?” An unfamiliar word halts me, prompting a question. “Yes. Don’t like it?” “I don’t know, since I don’t know what caprese is.” “Oh, it’s an Italian dish of sliced tomatoes and mozzarella cheese, seasoned with salt, pepper, olive oil, and basil.” “Like a salad, then?” “Hmm, something like that. Lend me a hand, will you, Miyagi?” Already prepped for frying, Sendai-san cheerfully proceeds with tasks. “Didn’t we agree on pizza?” Having returned to do nothing, the sudden workload is daunting. “The chicken’s ready to fry and caprese just needs slicing.” “And the pasta?” “Just needs boiling. With a ready-made sauce, it’s simple.” “I guess.” As complexities go, it’s simple. For pasta, just submerge in boiling water, and the sauce, either microwave or immerse in water. “So, no complaints and help out.” “It’s early for dinner.” “It’s fine to eat early. Slice the tomatoes and mozzarella into around five-millimeter, up to a centimeter thick pieces.” Today's protagonist is hard working and won't be slacking, it seems. As proof of this, Sendai-san, who turns twenty today, diligently plunges breaded chicken into the fryer. This compels me, the one celebrating, into action. “Why is the birthday girl cooking dinner? You should just relax.” Retrieving the tomatoes from the fridge, I can't help but grumble at Sendai-san. “A birthday only comes once a year.” “Which is why I think you should take it easy,” I retort, placing washed tomatoes on the cutting board. Sendai-san glances at me. “I want to spend this once-a-year occasion doing something with you. Last year, we had pizza together, so this year, let’s enjoy a meal we’ve made together,” she suggests in a soft tone, a gentle smile on her face. As she prepares the pot for the pasta, she continues, “Honestly, I wanted to go cake shopping with you too. But since I couldn’t, I thought it was nice that I got to make you look cute instead.” With that, she takes a closer look at me. “Your taste is awful,” I huff, scowling at Sendai-san, whose cheerfulness is annoyingly contagious. I couldn’t refuse today, being her birthday, but altering my appearance to this extent feels pointless. Even with minor changes, I won't turn into someone like Sendai-san. “No, I have great taste. Everything suits you perfectly,” she replies with a cheerful demeanor. She often speaks frivolously, but while her taste is indeed good, it just doesn't suit me. Thus, I regard her taste as terrible. Exhaling deeply, my gaze falls to the tomatoes. “Keep an eye on those fried chicken pieces, Sendai-san. I don’t want them to burn.” “And you should slice the tomatoes and cheese properly; no overly thick cuts, alright?” “I’m not going to cut them too thick,” I retort, throwing a sidelong glare at the distrusting Sendai-san before setting the knife to the tomatoes on the cutting board. Slowly, carefully. The sharp edge slices through the ripe red tomato with ease. “…Isn’t your tomato slice roughly two centimeters thick?” she remarks, apparently watching the tomatoes instead of the frying chicken. “Well, it all goes to the same place in the end,” I counter. “I suppose you’re right,” her monotone reply comes, and I turn my glare from her back to the tomatoes. Determined, I resume cutting, striving for the thinnest slices possible.