“And then what? The rest of this diary is torn.” Dr. Rosalind Dokita questions, with visible curiosity and concern, lingering on her face. I lie on my chair, and pick up a candy from the table in front of me, completely ignoring the words the psychiatrist they assigned to me just spoke. “And what’s with that melodramatic little story, anyway? I felt like I was reading some hardcore rom-com novel, or a philosophical journey of self-discovery. Hey, are you okay?”

I nod. Of course I’m not okay, but telling a psychiatrist that “I’m fine” always makes them do a double-check on your sanity. Denying your problems is what you can do to make sure psychiatrists do their job properly. You’d never visit them in the first place had you been fine, and they already know that. That’s why they pay closer attention to you if you just deny everything.

“I know you’re not doing well.” There we go, the much-anticipated double-check. “But you need to talk to me if I want to know what led to THAT happening.”

Ah yes. THAT.

THAT refers to four nights ago.

Yes. The girl I saved that night, the girl that saved me that night…

Naomi Mitaki…

Has already taken her own life two years after living with me.

And it was all entirely my own fault.