All Beautiful Girls Want to Stick with Me

The next step was simple—make sure neither Yukino Yukinoshita nor Yui Yuigahama realized that she had borrowed two items from the senior. Once that was done, her mission would be complete!

Having successfully defused what could have easily turned into a full-blown love triangle disaster, Kotomi Izumi felt immensely proud of herself. That sense of accomplishment brought with it an even stronger wave of confidence. At this moment, Kotomi truly believed that even if she found herself surrounded by dozens of jealous girls, she could still resolve the chaos with ease.

By the way, the reason Kotomi had chosen to sit beside Yukino earlier, and then beside Yui now, was actually a carefully thought-out detail. Once she sat down, she subtly used her unzipped school jacket as a cover—so when she handed the hand cream to Yukino, Yui couldn’t see; and when she handed the throat lozenges to Yui, Yukino couldn’t see.

Now that the tension had finally dissipated, Kotomi felt her body relax. She let out a soft sigh of relief.

”Kotomi, are you tired? If you are, you can lie on my lap and take a nap,” Yui Yuigahama said kindly—or perhaps more accurately, she said it in a mix of excitement and nervous anticipation.

Kotomi was honestly tempted. The thought of resting her head on Yui’s lap was more than a little appealing. But her rational mind screamed at her to resist. If she really accepted that offer, Yukino would definitely notice—and then all her efforts just now would be wasted!

”No need, thank you. I’ll just sit for a bit and rest,” Kotomi replied with a smile, though her heart ached as she said it. Turning down a lap pillow from a cute girl felt like tearing her soul in half. Any other day, she would have gladly taken the offer without hesitation—but right now, she couldn’t afford to risk getting metaphorically stabbed for it.

To distract herself—and to prepare for the afternoon performance—Kotomi took out her phone and opened a document app, her fingers moving swiftly as she typed.

The plan had originally been to perform two songs on stage. According to the initial schedule, every group’s stage time was strictly limited to avoid delaying the next performance. Once the allotted time was up, the curtain would drop, no matter what.

This rule, while fair in theory, was always a headache for performers. The given time was barely enough—it could only be described as just right. Every second on stage had to be planned in advance. For those responsible for organizing the show, it was always frustrating: inspiration flowed freely, but half of it would end up constrained by time.

Yet under such strict time limits, miracles sometimes happened.

Five years ago, the drama club of Sobu High had performed an original play. The script had been beautifully written, and the students’ acting was so astonishingly good that they could have easily outperformed those so-called ”film academy graduates” among the trendy celebrities of the time. The audience was completely mesmerized.

But because the actors had been so immersed in their performance—adding extra nuance and emotion as the play reached its climax—the timing slipped. Just as the story was approaching its most emotional moment, the curtain suddenly dropped, signaling the end.

The audience was outraged, protesting loudly. Yet, since the play had been a tragic love story, that abrupt ending, cutting off right before the resolution, created an unintended but haunting sense of beautiful regret. Even the playwright hadn’t foreseen such an effect.

Someone in the audience had recorded the entire performance—from start to the sudden end—and uploaded it to YouTube afterward. Sobu High’s cultural festival allowed filming and uploading of performances to video platforms, after all.

Within a short time, the video had reached ten million views. Even now, years later, people still sought it out to watch again and again, each time rediscovering that same bittersweet impact.

The students who had acted in that play never went to college after graduation. Instead, they formed a small production studio, using the viral fame of their cultural festival performance as their launchpad. Over the years, their studio grew rapidly, gaining nationwide recognition.

Even today, that theater studio continues to receive countless commercial performance invitations. And they never rest on their laurels—every three years or so, they release a brand-new stage production.

Each time a new play premieres, the seats are always fully booked. Those who can’t attend in person eagerly purchase tickets for the live-streamed performance instead.

As the studio’s popularity grew, so did public interest. People who had never watched a stage play before began buying tickets out of curiosity, only to become captivated by the experience.

Since the founding of Sobu High School, many students had chosen to start their own ventures after graduation instead of attending university—but among them, that theater studio was undoubtedly the most successful.

And much of that success, in one way or another, could be traced back to the school’s strict time regulations for performances.

Returning to the present, Kotomi Izumi valued performance time management very highly. Even knowing about the miracle that happened five years ago, she didn’t want her performance to be forcibly ended due to running out of time.

After all, the drama club’s success back then was called a miracle precisely because it couldn’t be repeated.

And Kotomi had no intention of repeating it.

Her pride wouldn’t allow it. She believed with absolute confidence that as long as their ensemble performance ran smoothly from beginning to end, it would be a complete success on its own.

That’s why, for weeks, she had been thinking carefully about how to structure their time on stage. Even though they were only performing two songs, the schedule was still tight—every second mattered.

But today, after learning that their act had been assigned the finale slot, Kotomi felt not just excitement and joy—but relief.

Because the privilege of the finale act was simple: no need to worry too much about time.

Once the finale performance ended, the only thing left would be the host’s closing remarks—a segment the audience typically found dull anyway. Most people actually preferred when the final act ran longer; the more time it took, the less time the host had to stand there and ramble.

The cultural festival’s stage time had a total limit, but how it was distributed was flexible—as long as it didn’t exceed the total. Normally, 95% of that time was used for performances, with the host’s opening and closing taking up the remaining 5%.

The privilege of the finale slot meant being allowed to borrow a portion of the host’s time—say, turning the ratio into 97% for the performance and 3% for the host.

Of course, that extra 2% could only be used by the finale act.

Kotomi wasn’t the type to let a privilege like this go to waste—she wasn’t about to treat it like a video game ultimate move, always saving it for ”the right moment.” Even if their current stage time was technically enough, she was determined to use that finale privilege to squeeze out a little extra time.

An opportunity like this—risk-free, within the rules, and entirely beneficial—wasn’t something to pass up. Besides, once today’s performance ended, that finale privilege would vanish along with it.

If it wouldn’t have looked too shameless, Kotomi would’ve happily cut the host’s talk time down to just 1%.

Originally, Kotomi had planned to use the bonus time to make the performance more relaxed. After finishing the first song, she intended to speak for a bit, interacting with the audience. That way, Yui Yuigahama, who was handling most of the vocals, could rest before the next number and get her voice back in shape.

But now that Kotomi knew Shizuka Hiratsuka was resigning, she changed her mind.

She would use that extra time to sing one more song—a third piece, performed solo.

She already knew exactly what she wanted to sing. It was a song she loved deeply in her past life, and she remembered every lyric perfectly. This performance would be her farewell gift to Shizuka Hiratsuka, who would soon leave for the Royal Academy of Arts.

She hadn’t rehearsed it, and even the instrumental melody wasn’t prepared. But Kotomi planned to rely on her heightened musical proficiency—to play the tune from memory, guided by the rhythm echoing in her mind.

She hadn’t told Yukino Yukinoshita or Yui Yuigahama about the third song yet. This piece would be hers alone—both to play and to sing.

After the second song ended, she would have Yui and Yukino step off the stage first. Then she would remain behind, alone under the spotlight, and begin the final song dedicated entirely to Hiratsuka.

Sitting beside Kotomi, Yui Yuigahama felt quietly happy. She wanted to lean against Kotomi and chat idly until it was time to go on stage.

But just as she was about to rest her head on Kotomi’s shoulder, she noticed Kotomi furiously typing on her phone, her expression focused and serious.

Though curious about what Kotomi was working on, Yui didn’t want to interrupt her. She simply watched for a moment, unsure how she could help.

After thinking for a bit, Yui quietly stood and walked to the nearby vending machine. She bought a bottle of peach soda and tiptoed back carefully, placing it beside Kotomi with gentle precision—afraid even the sound of her footsteps might distract her.

Once she’d set down the drink, Yui sat back down just as quietly. Every now and then, she glanced around absentmindedly, only to sneak another look at Kotomi, who was still focused on her phone.

Whenever Kotomi got serious, Yui thought she looked incredibly cool.

Kotomi, however, didn’t notice Yui’s small gestures or quiet affection at all. With the help of her musical skill, her entire mind was consumed by the lyrics and melody of the third song.

...

”The thing about high school cultural festivals,” said Hideaki Anno with a faint smile, ”just being here makes you feel young again.”

He and his wife, Moyoco Anno, strolled leisurely through Sobu High’s campus, taking in the lively atmosphere. Watching the bustling crowds brought back his own memories of high school festivals.

Back then, he’d done the same—wandering through the exhibits and performances, watching classmates on stage. Every time he saw the applause they earned, he’d felt a pang of envy. Deep down, he’d thought, next time, I want to go up there too. Even if it’s just to do a comedy skit alone, I want to stand on stage and earn that applause.

That idea had first come to him in his first year of high school—and persisted all the way to his third.

By the time he swore to himself for the third time that he’d perform at the next festival, he realized something: he was already a senior. This would be his last cultural festival as a student.

The difference between then and now, he mused, was that back in those days, he’d wandered the festival alone. But today, his wife was by his side, sharing the nostalgia.

”Being here really makes me want to draw a manga set around a high school cultural festival,” said Moyoco Anno with a cheerful smile.

As one of Japan’s most celebrated manga artists, she hadn’t released a new work in almost a decade.

Moyoco Anno had once been one of the leading authors for Bessatsu Friend, Kodansha’s flagship shoujo manga magazine. It wasn’t that she had lost her passion for storytelling—but after getting married, she had chosen to dedicate more of her time to life itself, to being a good wife rather than continuing the grind of serialization.

Whenever inspiration struck, she would still sketch her ideas onto paper—but most of those drafts were left unfinished.

”I’d look forward to reading that,” Hideaki Anno said with a small laugh.

As they toured the festival, Hideaki Anno kept quietly scanning the crowd. The true reason he had come to Sobu High today was not just to enjoy the festival—it was to meet Kotomi Izumi. He wanted to sit down and talk with her properly about the music composition for Evangelion.

Along the way, several anime-loving students recognized him. Some were too stunned to speak, while others excitedly rushed over to ask for photos.

Of course, Hideaki Anno didn’t refuse anyone. For a creator, there was no greater happiness or honor than having their work loved and supported by fans.

As word spread—one student telling another, and then another—the news that Hideaki Anno himself was at Sobu High quickly swept through the campus.

It wasn’t surprising. Evangelion was a national phenomenon in Japan. Even people who hadn’t watched it knew the name.

Once everyone heard that the director of Evangelion was attending the cultural festival, fans flocked to see him—some hoping to take a photo, others simply curious to witness such a famous figure in person. After all, directors were the kind of people one rarely encountered in real life, and the chance to see the mind behind a legendary anime was far too tempting to pass up.

Sobu High, already lively, now buzzed with even greater excitement. The atmosphere reached a fever pitch.

Meanwhile, backstage in the auditorium, the students remained unaware of the commotion outside. Everyone was busy preparing for the afternoon’s performances.

Kotomi Izumi was still fully immersed in writing the lyrics for her third song, oblivious to the fact that Hideaki Anno was already at the school looking for her.

Finally, after typing the very last line of lyrics, Kotomi stopped. Her small hands, which had been flying across the screen nonstop, finally came to rest.

She stretched her arms, letting out a soft sigh.

The third song—complete!

—

—

40 Advanced Chapters Available on Patreon:

Patreon.com/DaoOfHeaven