As I Know Anything About You, I'll Be The One To Your Girlfriend, Aren't I? - Volume 1 Chapter 3.8

Leave That Culture in the Heisei Era 8

Kujo’s PoV

“Why…!”

As I uttered those words, I clenched my fists tightly. The emotions that surged forth were a mix of shame and anger.

──Why… why does such a painting exist!!

Unlike the first painting that depicted a forest or the second one that featured a bird, this painting didn’t clearly show what its motif was. It was perhaps an abstract piece.

The structure was simple.

At the center of the white canvas, there was only a rounded blue pattern.

The pattern resembled a distorted egg, hesitant to be born, or it seemed like a raindrop reluctantly giving up on several things as it fell into solitude.

What was clear to me, in any case, was that it represented me.

For some inexplicable reason, I felt that strongly at that moment, my head boiling over with the nonsensical emotion of having “my heart painted without permission.” And immediately after, I became furious with myself for feeling such an absurd anger.

I picked up the key and rushed out of the art prep room. I don’t remember how I made it home.

I skipped dinner and locked myself in my room, causing quite a worry for my family.

I buried myself under the duvet on my bed. The feeling of embarrassment wouldn’t fade.

Even with my eyes closed, I couldn’t get that painting out of my head.

…Having no interest in humans.

Thinking it’s okay to be alone at school, without friends I can truly understand.

Those feelings aren’t a lie.

They’re not a lie, but…

It’s not like I completely lack the desire for friends who share my interests, who like the same things as much as I do.

I’m like a misshapen egg, covered in a shell of timidity, a powerless and lonely raindrop that can do nothing but fall.

That painting reminded me of such things I had pretended to forget.

“Ugh, ugh, ughhhhh…!”

Frustration, irritation. Damn it, damn it, damn it!

It’s just a painting. Just that. Whoever made it, just painted.

Don’t act like you understand me just because you slapped some paint on paper or canvas!

“…Ughhhhh!”

Of course, logically speaking, I’m the one talking nonsense.

After all, there’s no connection between me and the unknown artist of that painting. The painting was created completely independent of my existence.

Yet, I thought, “This painting depicts me.” I also thought, “This painting was directed at me.”

That’s impossible, that’s impossible, it’s logically absurd. There’s no causal connection, no consistency.

While my logical conclusion denied it, my emotions refused to accept it. Torn by the contradiction within myself, I writhed in agony.

Unable to sleep a wink, I crept out of bed in the dim dawn.

“…It’s a bug, human’s.” (tln : bug as in error on program)

I had twisted out what seemed to be the most plausible answer.

It was nothing more than a cheap illusion. That must be it, I’ll prove it.

Turning on my PC, I rapidly typed out code on the keyboard. It wasn’t hard at all, and soon, I had created an image auto-generation program.

When I ran it, images with a structure similar to the painting I had seen in the art prep room—a white background with a blue pattern—began to appear on the screen one after another.

“Watch this…”

Initially, such images seemed to be created by randomly dripping paint onto a canvas. So, if I auto-generated thousands of similar images, surely among them would appear images that have the same impact on me.

When humans see vague shapes, they automatically recognize them as “something” they know and attribute meaning to them. It’s one of the bugs humans carry.

In essence, that painting was just an attack exploiting that frailty. By drawing something vaguely similar, everyone interprets it in their own way, and among them, some will even be moved by chance. A shallow trick hoping for a hit.

Believing so, I checked the generated images.

While attending school, I spent days looking at an enormous number of images.

The count was supposed to be in the thousands but ultimately reached one hundred thousand.

Even if it took one second per image, that’s about twenty-eight hours in total.

It might seem ridiculous to others, but I was serious, desperate.

I had to do it… to admit that the painting wasn’t a fluke.

The day after I finished checking the one hundred thousandth image, I found myself visiting the art prep room again after school.

Even with my eyes closed, something with a blue pattern kept floating behind my eyelids, almost driving me to a neurotic state. Honestly, I didn’t want to see another painting ever again.

But, I wanted to reconfirm that painting. That impact.

However, in such a state, I might not feel anything even if I saw that painting again. What should I do then, be happy or…

Such worries were needless.

“Ah…────”

Seeing that painting once more blew away all the failed blue patterns that had been wriggling behind my eyelids.

“…”

I had no choice but to admit.

I created a hundred thousand images with a similar composition. Yet, not once did I feel the same impact from those images as I did from the painting before me. Not even a hint of it.

I had come to understand that it wasn’t about the difference between the real painting and the images.

This was clearly painted with intention. Not specifically targeting me, but with enough skill and talent to make me think so.

Beautiful. The painting before me was beautiful.

Amazing. Truly amazing. I admit it.

And because of that, what filled me was hatred.

“…!”

I clenched my fists tightly, hardly aware of my nails digging into my palms due to my boiling frustration.

Hatred towards the person who painted it. Essentially, it was resentment turned upside down. Though I knew it, I couldn’t help but hate.

To begin with, I never had particularly positive feelings towards paintings.

I know that paintings involve a lot of techniques and theories. Still, I feel like at their core is something like sensibility or “humanity.”

Even what’s before me now seems like a painting that stands in opposition to my belief in beauty—a cold, rule-based, logically clear order.

Yet, my heart is so stirred, and… I find it beautiful. Adding insult to injury, that felt humiliating.

I hate the person who painted this.

If they hadn’t drawn such a thing, I wouldn’t have been made to feel this humiliation.

…And wouldn’t have been forced to confront the wishes I had tucked away deep inside, barely acknowledging them myself.

“Damn, damn, …damn!”

I wanted to see their face. I hadn’t thought about what to do next, but I just couldn’t stand leaving things as they were.

I had found out whose work it was. The art teacher told me when I asked.

Miyashiro Kuuya. A freshman like me.

A student who, despite being a freshman, had reached the top in the oil painting category at a national high school competition organized by the government this year.

There’s no art club at this school, and currently, the person working in the art room is him.

“…”

Knowing that the person who painted this was in the next room made me feel odd.

I put my hand on the door connecting the art prep room to the art room.

I wasn’t thinking of starting a conversation or picking a fight. I just couldn’t go home feeling like I had been punched one-sidedly… I wasn’t even sure what I wanted to do.

I slowly, very slowly opened the door and peeked through.

What kind of person could they be? Someone who paints such, in a way, superhuman paintings must be different from ordinary people, perhaps fitting the mold of an artist…

“…Ah”