Her intense gaze, sharp and knowing, pierced through me. My mind was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. It was true, once upon a time, my heart had fluttered for Miss Sumire. She was everything a pop star should be: effortlessly beautiful, with a smile that could light up a stadium and a voice that soared. But after days spent with the Copy Robot, facing genuine danger, learning about complex global issues, and realizing the true nature of Perman, my perspective had shifted. Dramatically.
Miss Sumire, for all her dazzling appeal, lived in a different universe. She was a star, and I was just Mitsuo, a normal kid who secretly wore a mask. Even as Perman, I was just that – a mask. She would never know the real me, the one sweating bullets in a cramped ventilation shaft, the one trying to figure out if sustainable energy investments actually meant anything to ordinary people. The gap between us felt vast, unbridgeable.
"Pako, you don't need to do that," I said, forcing the words out. My voice was a little shaky, but I tried to inject a note of conviction. "I don't... I don't love Miss Sumire."
Her eyes, still wide and fixed on mine, narrowed slightly. "Are you telling the truth, Mitsuo?" Her voice was soft, laced with a hint of skepticism.
I took a deep breath, steeling myself. This was it. The moment of truth. "Miss Sumire and I," I began, choosing my words carefully, "we live in completely different worlds. She's a star, surrounded by flashing lights and adoring fans. I'm just... me. Even if I did love her, there's no way she would ever accept someone like me. She probably doesn't even know if 'Mitsuo' exists, let alone cares." The words, heavy with a new kind of maturity, felt strangely liberating as I spoke them. It wasn't just a lie; it was the truth of my new reality. The Perman suit, the robot's lessons, had carved a chasm between my old dreams and my present self.
Pako's gaze intensified, scrutinizing my face. Her thumb, still clasped in mine, began to trace soft circles on my palm, a tender, distracting gesture. "But... if she would accept you," she pressed, her voice a low, insistent murmur, "if Miss Sumire, the real Miss Sumire, knew you and would accept you... would you change your mind then, Mitsuo?"
Her eyes, usually so full of playful malice, were now pools of vulnerability, reflecting the afternoon sun. She was asking for something I couldn't give, something that felt utterly impossible. I didn't say anything. My silence stretched, heavy with the weight of unspoken possibilities and the stark reality of my new life. It was a question rooted in a fantasy I no longer entertained, a fantasy that felt incredibly naive now.
A Different Kind of Comfort
Pako didn't press further, not right away. She simply held my gaze, and I felt a strange mix of relief and something else, something I couldn't quite name. Her thumb continued its soft, hypnotic circles on my hand, and the warmth of her head on my lap was a comforting anchor. The air in the room, usually thick with the unspoken tension of our rivalry, now felt soft, almost fragile.
"I see," she finally said, her voice barely a whisper, and for the first time, it didn't sound like a trick. It sounded... understanding. She shifted slightly, lifting her head from my lap, but she didn't release my hand. Instead, she leaned back against the headboard, pulling my arm with her, so I was half-lying beside her, still clutching her hand. The sudden intimacy of the position made my face burn again, but I was too stunned to pull away.
She sighed, a deep, contented sound. "You know, Mitsuo," she began, her eyes now fixed on the ceiling, a distant, thoughtful look on her face, "it's weird. You always acted like such a dummy. But... ever since that time on the rooftop, you've been different. Like you actually see things." She paused, then turned her head to look at me again, a small, genuine smile playing on her lips. "And I don't mean just with your eyes. You see... deeper. Like you understand things. Even when you're being quiet."
My mind reeled. She saw me? Not just the old Mitsuo, the one she used to pick on, but this new version, forged by the robot's relentless training and the harsh realities of being Perman? It was unnerving, yet... strangely touching.
"And," she continued, her voice dropping to a near whisper, "you're... you're really brave, Mitsuo. After what happened at the bank... most people would be hiding under their beds. But you're just... here. Being quiet. It's kind of... cool." She gave my hand another squeeze.
The compliment, coming from Pako, felt like a punch to the gut. A good punch, but a punch nonetheless. My cheeks still burned with embarrassment.