If flipping through the phone before was “theory class,” then the “practice class” came from something she never expected.
Around the second week of hospitalization, during an afternoon, she was leaning against the headboard browsing through Haruka’s social media.
She stumbled upon a ten-second practice video selfie Haruka had taken in the training room.
Suddenly, a fragmented image flashed through her mind, giving her a headache.
The image was brief, like a film frame put on fast-forward:
Training room, mirror, sweat.
In the mirror, Haruka was wearing practice clothes, dancing in front of the mirror, panting heavily.
Footsteps at the door.
She turned.
Ritsu.
He didn’t say anything.
He set down a bottle of sports drink on the floor, then turned and left.
Haruka stared at the bottle, froze for a moment, then smiled.
Her eyes crinkled into crescent moons.
Then the image vanished, but the discomfort of the headache lingered.
She sat in bed thinking for a long time, her heart thumping wildly.
Finally, she reached a conclusion—these were fragmented memories belonging to Hoshino Haruka.
In some unreachable depths, there might still be remnants belonging to the original owner.
They wouldn’t surface on their own, but under specific conditions—like when related information triggered a nerve—they would rise like bubbles from the bottom of the water, bursting into a fleeting image on the surface.
She couldn’t help but recall what the doctor had told her earlier about severe brain damage causing memory loss.
But the doctor had also mentioned that some scenarios might trigger memories of the past.
During her month of hospitalization, these flashbacks occurred about eight or nine times.
Each was very short, only a few seconds, but four times involved Ritsu:
The sports drink in the training room.
Dozing in the back of the van when someone gently draped a jacket over her.
Before a variety show recording, Ritsu crouched down to straighten her twisted shoelaces, muttering, “Can’t you tie them yourself?”
Every flashback was mundane, trivial, insignificant.
Some flashbacks were private interactions between Haruka and agency staff, backstage crew, other colleagues at the agency, or senior members—memory fragments like that.
But it was precisely these small things that allowed her to piece together a picture she could never see as a fan: what kind of person Hoshino Haruka was offstage.
With this fragmented understanding, she began to adjust her “performance.”
She no longer just imitated the “onstage Haruka”—the one who was always energetic, full of vitality, the Little Sun.
Instead, she added something softer, more personal beneath that.
When Ritsu visited, she no longer greeted him with a perfect professional smile.
First, she showed a slightly sleepy expression, then “switched” to a smile, like someone who had just woken up.
When Ritsu reported work arrangements, she no longer obediently nodded to every item and said “Okay.”
Instead, she would let out a drawn-out “Eh—” for certain things to indicate reluctance.
Though, in the end, she would still agree.
When Ritsu stood up to leave, she would say, “Manager, take care on your way.”
The tone wasn’t Haruka’s lively one, but Matsumoto Ei’s natural, unadorned concern.
She wasn’t sure if these adjustments were correct, but she noticed one thing: a change in Ritsu.
This change was so subtle that if she hadn’t spent over twenty years with him, she wouldn’t have noticed it at all.
Because she was probably more familiar with Ritsu’s style than with her own parents.
That stubborn, woodenness was unmatched.
The most typical instance that made her witness the “Mizutagawa Ritsu-style companionship” was about five years ago, when Haruka was still Ei.
He had been hospitalized for an appendectomy.
He had no other friends or family.
Ritsu would come see him every day, but only once a day.
He arrived at exactly 9:30 PM every night, punctual and on time.
Except for occasional business calls, he never missed a day and was never late.
He would stay for at most ten minutes and leave without a word.
It was as if visiting her in the hospital was part of his work report, or he treated it as a daily commissioned task.
Moreover, during the visits, he barely spoke.
He would come in, put things down, sit on the visitor’s chair, scroll through his phone, and leave exactly at the ten-minute mark.
If Ei didn’t start a conversation, the two would just stare at each other for ten minutes without talking.
Though if Ei initiated a topic, they would chat, and sometimes if the topic was interesting enough, they could talk for a long time.
But getting Ritsu to start a conversation was like trying to find a needle in a haystack.
In the first few days after Haruka woke up, Ritsu’s state was quite interesting—gentle, few words, but every line conveyed care and concern.
But a few days later, probably after he saw that Haruka’s condition had stabilized, he switched from “nice guy mode” to “demon manager mode.”
Every evening, he would come for twenty minutes of visitation time, primarily to report work.
After the report, he would just sit there silently.
Similarly, if Haruka was scrolling through her phone and didn’t talk to him, he would sit there for over ten minutes and then leave without a word.
“Can only say, as expected of you. I knew you were like this to everyone,” said Hoshino Haruka.
As for the change in Ritsu, it seemed to have appeared after she started becoming “gentle.”
The visitation pattern changed from once a day, punctual and on time, combining work reports with prison-style visits, to a baffling pattern of twice a day—noon and evening—sometimes even staying for an hour, with the second half involving some work-unrelated small talk.
At the same time, he also started initiating conversations.
Although most of the time it was the kind of “nice weather today,” “the convenience store downstairs has new sandwiches,” “your hair needs washing”—seemingly meaningless small talk.
But the fact that “Ritsu voluntarily says meaningless things” was itself highly abnormal.
Another time, while looking down at her phone, she happened to look up and caught Ritsu’s gaze.
He was staring at her.
It wasn’t the kind of look for examination or confirming her condition.
It was a look with a hint of confusion, as if he was looking at someone he clearly knew but found he didn’t fully recognize.
That look startled Haruka.
She didn’t dare continue meeting his eyes and pretended to look down at her phone while frantically reviewing everything in her mind: “Oh no, could it be that my disguise is that bad? That look of his was saying—’Hey, you, are you really not Hoshino Haruka? You’re not the Hoshino Haruka I know. Give her back.’ What do I do, what do I do…”
“Your complexion looks much better.”
Ritsu suddenly said out of the blue.
“Ahaha… I do feel pretty good today…”
“Then tomorrow’s check-up should be fine.”
And just like that, the topic drifted by blandly.
Ritsu started looking at his phone again.
Haruka breathed a sigh of relief, but she remembered that expression.
Maybe he had figured something out, maybe he was just checking on her complexion.
Whatever the real reason, she didn’t know and didn’t want to know.
“Anyway, Ritsu didn’t ask me any identity-related questions, so I haven’t been exposed. Absolutely not!” said Hoshino Haruka.
—
One afternoon, after Ritsu left, she tossed and turned in bed, going crazy.
Not for any other reason, but because she had just done something that would be absolutely impossible for her as Matsumoto Ei—
Five minutes ago, after Ritsu’s routine visit, he seemed to notice a strand of hair stuck to Haruka’s forehead from sleeping.
He reached out and smoothed it down for her.
This sudden action startled Haruka, making her jump on the bed like a frightened bunny.
But Ritsu showed no reaction.
Expressionless, he told her to rest well, not to rush to be discharged, and that he would handle everything.
Finally, before leaving, he lightly tapped her head, telling her to mind her idol image when sleeping.
Haruka could only reflexively say, “I’m not a child. Don’t touch my head.”
After Ritsu left, Haruka recalled his action from a moment ago.
Her face flushed bright red.
Her cheeks burned and itched, like ants crawling all over her.
Her mind kept replaying that expressionless face, but with movements that were overly gentle… It seemed… kind of handsome?
After rolling around a few times, she suddenly stopped, as if a switch had been flipped.
She realized a problem.
Those actions of hers, in one word, were—having a crush.
She, using a sixteen-year-old girl’s body, was having a crush on her good brother of over twenty years.
“…”
She buried her head under the covers.
After calming down, she began to wonder what kind of spell this body had cast on her.
Finally, before bed, she reached this conclusion—
“Hoshino Haruka, it’s all your hardware’s fault. It made my software suffer too.”
“But how come I never noticed this cocky kid could be such a flirt? Ah, whatever. Who cares? It’s Hoshino Haruka who likes him, not me. As a qualified idol, there’s no way I can date my manager. Besides, he’s my good brother, after all.”
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