I Reincarnated as the Counselor NPC in a Dating Sim, and Now Every Heroine I Treat Becomes Obsessed with Me - Chapter 11 & 12

Act 02: Trust-Building Arc

Chapter 11: “The Length of a Memo—Shizuku’s World Begins to Expand”

Late May.

Shizuku’s visits had begun to… change.

At first, it was just one line on a memo.

『May I come again?』

Then it became two lines. Three. Questions started appearing.

And now—

『Sensei, it’s a little hot today. May I open the window? Also, I can’t find “Night on the Galactic Railroad” that was on the third shelf from the top, far right. Did you perhaps move it somewhere else?』

She had filled an entire page of her memo pad.

“You can open the window. As for Night on the Galactic Railroad—ah, I might have shifted it while cleaning yesterday. Sorry, let me check.”

I searched the bookshelf.

Kenji Miyazawa had somehow slipped to the far left of the second shelf. I found it and handed it to Shizuku.

She took the book.

Her small hands held it firmly, and then she drew it gently to her chest, as if it were something precious.

Watching that gesture, I felt a quiet sense of progress—the kind only a counselor would notice.

A month ago, she had stood in front of this door clutching her bag like a shield.

Now, she was holding a book like something she cherished.

Her posture had changed.

From protecting herself—to treasuring something.

—

I tried putting Shizuku’s changes into numbers.

First day she came.

Number of characters in her memo—four.

『May I come again?』

End of the first week.

Average: around six words. Mostly simple reports or brief requests for permission.

Second week.

Average: around ten words. Personal impressions and small questions began to appear.

Third week.

Average: around fifteen to twenty words. She started mentioning small things that happened in her daily life.life.

And now—

Sometimes she filled an entire page with over fifty words.

The increase in word count meant something.

It reflected growing trust. Inside Shizuku, I was becoming someone she felt safe sending her words to.

But one thing hadn’t changed.

Everything was still written.

Her voice—still hadn’t come out.

There had been one time she almost spoke. After overhearing my conversation with Rin through the wall. At the door, she had tried to say something—and couldn’t.

Since then, she hadn’t shown any sign of trying again.

Selective mutism takes time to improve. There was no need to rush. If we could communicate fully through writing, that was enough. Her voice would come at her own pace.

—That was the textbook judgment I was calmly making, when Shizuku suddenly slid a memo toward me.

『Sensei, would you like to draw with me?』

“Draw?”

She pulled a set of colored pencils from her bag.

Twenty-four colors. The metal case was clearly well used.

Another memo followed.

『If I only read books, you look bored, Sensei.』

(…I look bored?)

It was true.

While Shizuku read, I was usually doing desk work, drinking tea, or staring out the window. If she said I looked bored, I couldn’t exactly deny it.

But—seen from a counseling perspective, this was a major step.

The suggestion had come from Shizuku.

It had shifted from the passive, “May I stay here?” to the active, “Shall we do something together?”

“Sounds good. Let’s do it.”

I spread several sheets of copy paper across the desk. 

Shizuku opened the colored pencil case.

“What should we draw?”

She wrote on her memo pad.

『Shall we take turns? Sensei draws something, then I draw next』

Taking turns drawing.

In fact, that was a technique sometimes used in counseling. Expressing and sharing emotions through pictures instead of words. I doubted Shizuku knew that formally—but instinctively, she seemed to be reaching for a way to communicate beyond writing.

“Alright. I’ll go first.”

I picked up a blue colored pencil and drew a single circle on the left side of the paper.

Just a circle. No meaning. I started with something deliberately neutral—so she would have the freedom to decide what it was.

Shizuku looked at my circle.

After thinking for a few seconds, she picked up a green pencil and drew a small leaf on top of it.

The circle became an apple.

With a red pencil, I added a tree trunk beside it.

Shizuku used brown to extend the branches.

I added a yellow sun.

She filled in the sky with light blue.

On a single sheet of paper, our shared world slowly began to take shape.

Not a single word was spoken. Only the soft scratching of colored pencils echoed in the counseling room.

At first, Shizuku’s lines were thin and careful.

Small. Tucked near the edge of the page, as if she didn’t want to take up space.

But every time I added something—

Her lines grew slightly bolder. The colors multiplied. The space she used gradually widened.

Next to the apple tree, she drew flowers.

Beside the flowers, a butterfly.

Beyond the butterfly, a river.

Across the river, a small house.

Thirty minutes later—

The entire page was filled with a colorful landscape.

An apple tree. A field of flowers. Butterflies. A river. A small house. The sun. Clouds. A rainbow—

And in front of the house, two small figures.

Shizuku had drawn those.

One tall.

One shorter.

I didn’t ask anything.

Shizuku kept staring at the drawing. After a while, she picked up her memo pad and began to write.

『It turned out nicely』

“Yeah. It’s a good drawing.”

『If you hadn’t drawn that circle, I couldn’t have drawn anything』

“My circle was just a circle. You’re the one who turned it into an apple, Shizuku-chan.”

She lifted her face.

Behind her bangs, her eyes were—just a little brighter than usual.

While we were drawing, her expression had clearly shifted. The tension from the beginning had softened into concentration, and then something close to enjoyment had mixed in. Emotions she couldn’t put into words had flowed onto the paper through colored pencils.

This was the strength of art therapy.

Even someone without spoken words still had ways to express themselves.

As a counselor, I could feel the progress.

On her first day, she wrote four words.

A month later, she suggested drawing on her own.

More words. More colors.

Shizuku’s world was slowly expanding.

“Can I hang this up?”

Her eyes widened.

『Really?』

“Of course. The counseling room’s been a little plain. This is perfect.”

She nodded.

Stronger than usual. Again and again.

I taped the drawing to the wall next to the baby’s breath.

Sunlight from the window illuminated the colored-pencil landscape with a soft glow.

Shizuku stared at the picture—

The one we had drawn together.

Watching her profile, I thought—

A month ago, this girl had no place in the classroom. No place in the infirmary. She couldn’t connect with anyone and spent her time reading alone, as if she were invisible.

Now, her drawing hung on the wall of the counseling room.

Proof that she had been here. That she existed in this space.

—That was, without question, a good thing.

At the same time, the clinical psychologist in me noticed something else.

Drawing “herself and a specific other person” in the picture suggested a strong sense of belonging to that relationship. To Shizuku, I was slowly becoming more than just “the counselor.”

It was good if this room became her refuge.

But if that refuge existed only because I was here—

Then that was the doorway to dependency.

For now, I would watch. Carefully.

On her memo before leaving, she wrote:

『I want to draw again tomorrow. Next time, I want to draw the sea』

“Sure. Don’t forget to bring your colored pencils.”

She nodded and left the counseling room.

Her steps were slower than usual.

They carried a quiet sense of satisfaction.

After the door closed, I looked at the drawing on the wall.

Two small figures standing beneath the apple tree.

Shizuku had stared at that picture with unmistakable happiness.

—It’s fine. 

For now, it’s fine.

My job was to quietly watch as her world continued to expand.

From just one step behind.

Outside the window, the May breeze rustled the young cherry leaves.

Chapter 12: “A Fragment of a Voice—The Day Shizuku Let a Sound Slip Out”

Our turn-by-turn drawing had become a routine.

After school, Shizuku would bring her colored pencils, and I would place the first line on the page. From there, it became a silent relay.

Day two. The sea and a lighthouse.

Day three. A night sky filled with constellations.

Day four. The library—Shizuku’s favorite place. She carefully filled the page with tightly packed bookshelves.

And today, day five—

Shizuku took the first stroke.

What she drew was—

The counseling room.

The window. The bookshelf. The desk. Two chairs. The baby’s breath by the window. The drawing taped to the wall.

The details were exact. 

Seeing it, I realized just how closely she had been observing this room. The number of flowers in the vase. The precise order of books on the shelf. All correct.

I added beams of light streaming in through the window. Yellow and orange lines slanting across the room. Late afternoon sunlight.

Shizuku drew two thin trails of steam in the light. Two cups of tea on the desk.

It was a warm picture.

“Nice. Do you like this place?”

Shizuku nodded.

Then she wrote a memo.

『It’s quiet and safe here. Because you’re here, Sensei.』

As a counselor, I immediately understood the double meaning.

“Quiet and safe”—That was the most basic condition a counseling room should provide. The fact that she felt that way was a good sign.

“Because you’re here”—Safety tied not to the place, but to a person.

That was something to be careful about.

But at this stage, correcting her with “It’s safe even if I’m not here” would have been premature.

It was true that Shizuku’s sense of safety was tied to a person.

But for a girl who hadn’t had any safe base to begin with, asking her to immediately find safety in a “place” rather than a “person” would have been too harsh.

First, safety is secured through a person.

Then it shifts to a place.

Eventually, it settles within oneself.

That was the process of recovery.

Right now, she was still in the first stage.

It was okay for her to be here.

“Thank you. I like the time when you come here too, Shizuku-chan.”

She lowered her eyes slightly.

She didn’t write a memo.

—

When it was time to leave that day—

Normally, Shizuku’s routine was simple.

Put the book back in her bag. Leave one memo. Go home.

Today began the same—

She placed her book in her bag. Closed the colored pencil case. Stood up from her chair.

She picked up her pen to write a memo—

And stopped.

Shizuku stared at the memo pad, pen in hand.

She was trying to write something.

But she couldn’t.

The tip of the pen touched the paper, then lifted.

Touched again, then pulled away.

“Shizuku-chan?”

She looked up.

The moment I saw her expression, every counselor instinct in me sharpened.

What I saw on her face—

Was conflict.

She wanted to say something. There was something she wanted to convey. But writing it in a memo wasn’t enough. Something inside her couldn’t reach me through letters alone.

Her mouth moved.

Her lips parted. Her throat trembled faintly.

Words were—trying to come out.

I held my breath.

For about a month and a half, Shizuku’s selective mutism had never broken. She had used memos, drawings, nods—but not once had she made a sound.

And now—

It was about to happen.

As a counselor, the correct thing to do in this moment was nothing.

Don’t speak. Don’t prompt her. Don’t say “You can do it.” Don’t say “It’s okay.”

Any external push could shatter this fragile internal process.

So I simply remained.

In the same space as her. Breathing the same air. Sharing the same silence.

Five. Ten seconds.

Shizuku’s lips formed a shape.

The shape of a vowel. The shape of “A.”

And then—

“—Aa.”

The air trembled.

Her voice fell into the counseling room.

It was faint. Like the buzz of a mosquito. Barely more than breath with the slightest vibration.

But—

It was a voice.

Her eyes flew open.

She was the most surprised of all that a sound had come from her own mouth.

Her hand flew to cover her lips. Tears welled in her eyes. Her small body began to tremble.

—This was the turning point.

When a child with selective mutism accidentally lets out a sound, the most dangerous response is praise. Saying “You did it!” creates expectation. It turns “making a sound” into something she now has to perform again. That pressure can shut everything back down.

Just as dangerous is alarm. Asking “Are you okay?” frames it as something abnormal.

So I—

Acted as if nothing unusual had happened.

“Want another cup of tea?”

A normal voice. A normal question.

Shizuku looked at me. Tears were sliding down her cheeks. But when she saw my expression—her face softened just a little.

Nod.

Not a voice. Just her usual nod.

I poured tea. Same leaves. Same temperature. Same cups. Nothing different.

I placed the cup in front of her. She wrapped both hands around it and took a sip.

The tears hadn’t stopped yet. But her breathing was evening out.

A few minutes passed.

Shizuku finished her tea, picked up her bag, and stood.

She took out her memo pad.

This time—

She could write.

『I’m sorry. I did something strange.』

I read the memo and gently shook my head.

“That wasn’t strange at all. —Shall we continue the sea drawing tomorrow?”

A promise for tomorrow.

A quiet assurance that ordinary days would continue.

Shizuku looked at me—

Crying, she nodded.

Again and again. Small, repeated nods.

Then she left the counseling room.

—

The door closed.

Her footsteps faded.

Only after everything was completely quiet did I sink back into my chair.

I looked up at the ceiling.

(…It came out.)

Her voice.

“Aa.” Just one sound. One vowel.

But I knew what that meant. 

In my previous life, I had worked with several children with selective mutism.

That single sound was proof that, for one brief moment, Shizuku had stepped beyond the years she had been made to believe her voice had no value.

Just for a moment. It wasn’t stable yet. Tomorrow, she might not be able to do it again.

But once a wall has been crossed, the second time is always just a little lower.

(She was crying. Surprised that her voice came out. Scared. And yet—she looked happy too. Probably happy. Happy that she had heard her own voice.)

I remained there for a while, staring at the ceiling without moving.

The calm analysis as a counselor was already complete. I had mapped out my next approach in my head. From now on, I wouldn’t place pressure on her to “speak.” We would continue with memos and drawings as usual. And if her voice came out naturally again, I would simply receive it.

The analysis was finished.

The plan was set.

But—

I wanted to sit with this feeling just a little longer.

In my previous life, I worked as a counselor for three years. I met dozens of clients. Some recovered. Some stopped coming halfway through. Some slipped beyond my reach.

In those three years, when did I feel the most fulfilled?

—Probably in moments like this. The instant when I witnessed change. When something inside a person quietly began to sprout.

Shizuku’s “aa” was the same.

For a brief second, the voice inside her breathed again.

And I was there to witness it.

It was one of those rare moments that made me think, from the bottom of my heart, that continuing as a counselor was worth it.

(…Alright. Enough sentimentality. Time to write the record.)

I opened my notebook.

『Shizuku Yukimura. Day 43 of visits. After the turn-by-turn drawing, spontaneous vocalization confirmed at the time of departure. One syllable: “a.” Duration approximately 0.5 seconds. Strong surprise and agitation observed. Tears present. However, no avoidance behavior. Calmed down after drinking tea. Signs of guilt about making a sound (“I did something strange”). From next session onward, do not set vocalization as a goal. Allow it only as a natural extension. —Progress favorable.』

I put the pen down.

Outside the window, the sky was turning orange.

On the wall hung five drawings we had made together. The apple tree. The sea. The night sky. The library. The counseling room.

This room had definitely changed.

A month and a half ago, it had been a dusty, unused space.

Now it was filled with flowers, drawings, and the faint scent of tea.

All of that—Shizuku had brought.

The only thing I created was the atmosphere that said, “It’s okay to be here.” Everything else came from her own strength.

That single “aa” was her strength too. I had only been there to witness it.

(—Still, I think I’m allowed to feel happy about being trusted to witness it. Counselors are human, after all.)

I finished the now-cold tea and turned off the lights in the counseling room.