I Reincarnated as the Counselor NPC in a Dating Sim, and Now Every Heroine I Treat Becomes Obsessed with Me - Chapter 31: “Full Rehearsal—The Moment Mio’s Mask Comes Off”

Chapter 31: “Full Rehearsal—The Moment Mio’s Mask Comes Off”

Thursday. 3 PM.
The second call.

The same small hall as last time.
The same single spotlight.

And just like before—Mio stood on the stage.

What was different—was the atmosphere.

Last time, Mio had been perfect. Up until the climax.
At the moment she had to remove the mask, she stopped for the first time—showing that empty expression.

—Until that instant, even Mio herself probably didn’t expect she would stop.

But today’s Mio—
From the very beginning, there was something like resolve in her.
She stood on that stage knowing she would reach that moment.

“Sit.”

The same command as before.
I sat in the same front-row seat as last time.

Mio took a deep breath.
Once. Twice. Three times.

She closed her eyes.

Silence.

Her eyes opened.
Not Mio’s eyes anymore.
The “masked girl” stood under the spotlight.

—

The monologue began.

The same script as last time.
The same lines.
The same structure.

But—her acting was different.

Last time, it had been perfect.
Technically flawless. Her voice and body were completely under control.
It was acting at a professional level.

This time—there was a tremble.

A faint shake at the edge of her lines.
A hesitation in her movements that hadn’t been there before.

It wasn’t perfect.
From a technical standpoint, last time might have been better.

But—this pulled me in.

Far more than before.

Why?

Because it wasn’t perfect.

Last time, her acting was a “perfectly performed masked girl.”
A person wearing a mask, acting as someone wearing a mask—
A perfectly layered performance.

This time—there were cracks in the mask.

Within the girl’s lines, Mio’s own emotions seeped through.
Behind the scripted words, there was pain that hadn’t been written.

Was it acting—or her real feelings?
That line between them had blurred.

And that—hit deep in the chest of anyone watching.

The story moved forward.

Why did the girl wear the mask?
The days she was protected by it.
The fear of the mask sticking to her face, until she could no longer tell where it ended and her real self began.

Mio’s voice—suddenly cracked.

In the middle of a line.

“I wear a mask—”

Right at the word “wear,” her voice flipped—just for a moment. Then she forced it back.

For a professional, that would be a mistake.
But in that single crack—there were seventeen years of pain.

The climax drew closer.

The moment she removes the mask.

Mio stopped at the center of the stage.
Both hands slowly rose toward her face.

Last time, she stopped here.
Her fingers touched her face—and froze.

This time—

Mio’s fingertips touched her face.

They were trembling. Just like before.

Five. Ten seconds.

Mio’s lips moved.
Words that weren’t in the script.

“I… I’m scared.”

A small voice.
So quiet it barely reached the audience.

It wasn’t a line from the monologue.
It was Mio’s own voice.

Her fingers—moved.

Slowly. As if removing a mask.

Her hands left her face.

The spotlight lit up Mio’s face.

Last time, it had been empty.
A blank expression with no name—nothing to grasp.

This time—

She was crying.

A single tear ran down her left cheek.

A look of surprise crossed Mio’s face.
She probably hadn’t meant to cry.
The moment the mask came off, the tears simply came out on their own.

Mio’s mouth opened.
There was supposed to be a line here in the script.
The first words the girl speaks after removing her mask—

But what Mio said—wasn’t in the script.

“I… I don’t know.”

Her voice trembled.

“I don’t know. This face— I don’t know who it is.”

Another tear ran down her right cheek.

“But—”

Mio looked toward the audience.
She looked at me.

From inside the spotlight, she stared straight into the dark seats where I was.

“—But there’s someone watching me.”

With those words—the monologue ended.

Not the ending written in the script.
But words Mio spun out in that moment.

Mio stood in the spotlight, tears falling.
No mask.
Not a prince.

Just the face of a seventeen-year-old girl.

It wasn’t empty this time.

Instead of that emptiness—there was a face crying, saying “I don’t know.”

That—was Mio’s real face right now.

—

A stretch of silence followed.

I didn’t clap.
Clapping didn’t feel right.

Instead, I spoke quietly.

“…I watched until the end.”

Mio looked at me.
A look that said, “That’s all?”

“Yeah. That’s all.”

Mio stood there under the spotlight.
She didn’t try to wipe her tears.
Maybe she didn’t know how.

The “prince” never cried in front of others.

“…I didn’t mean to cry.”

“I know. —But it came out. That’s what matters.”

Mio touched her cheek.
Her fingertips traced where the tears had run.

“…So this is my real face.”

“I don’t think that’s all of it. Just a part of it. —But it was definitely there. More than that empty face last time.”

Mio slowly stepped out of the spotlight.
She moved into the shadows.
Her face disappeared from view.

“…At the cultural festival—”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll say the scripted lines. I’ll end it the way I wrote it. —What happened today… won’t be shown in the real performance.”

“Right. Today—was practice.”

“…………”

Mio sat down at the edge of the stage.
Just like last time, she hugged her knees.

A posture the “prince” would never take.

“…Counselor.”

“Yeah.”

“On the day of the festival. Be in the audience.”

“I will.”

“…Watch from the front row.”

“Got it.”

“…………”

Mio buried her face in her knees.
Her voice came out muffled.

“In the real performance—I’ll do it as written. I’ll remove the mask and say the scripted lines. …But—”

“But?”

“…I’ll say it toward you in the audience. That part isn’t in the script.”

I quietly took in those words.

On the day of the festival, Mio would speak her lines to the audience.
But the direction of her gaze—would be toward me.

As a performer, that might not be correct.
A professional is supposed to act toward the entire audience.

But right now, Mio couldn’t remove her mask for “everyone.”
For “one person”—she could.

“Okay. I’ll be watching.”

Mio raised her face.
Her eyes were red.

Eyes after crying.

“…I’m going home.”

“Want me to walk you?”

“No need.”

Mio stood up and headed for the door.

She stopped midway.
Without turning back.

“…After the performance. I’ll come to the counseling room.”

“I’ll have tea ready.”

“…Don’t make lemon tea.”

“I won’t.”

Just a little—really just a little—her shoulders shook.

Maybe she laughed.

The door opened.
Light spilled in—and Mio was gone.

—

The small hall was empty now.
The spotlight had gone out.

Sitting in the dark seats, I looked up at the ceiling.

Mio had cried.

When she removed the mask—she was crying.

From last time’s “emptiness” to this time’s “tears.”

That meant—her own emotions had started to return.
It wasn’t that there was nothing under the mask.

There was something there.
She just didn’t know what it was yet.

And because she didn’t know—she cried.

To cry while saying “I don’t know”—that meant she had begun to accept not knowing.

It was similar to when Midori said, “I don’t understand.”
Being able to admit you don’t know—that alone is a big step forward.

In Mio’s case, she could express it through “acting.”
She had her own way of giving it form.

The problem was—

I was the only one watching that performance.

Mio removed her mask on stage.
I watched from the audience.

It was a beautiful relationship—but a closed one.

Someday, would Mio be able to remove her mask for someone other than me?

I wanted that day to come.

But—for now, it was enough that I was watching.

The cultural festival. Front row.

I would witness the moment
Mio removed her mask.

—

I left the small hall.
The schoolyard was glowing in the evening light.

Students working on cultural festival prep were already starting to head home.
Class signs had been put up on the classroom windows, and the whole school was slowly taking on a festive look.

When I returned to the counseling room, there was a single note on my desk.

It was Shizuku’s handwriting.

『Ren-sensei. I came today, but you weren’t here. I’ll come again tomorrow. —Have you decided on the book for the POP?』

I hadn’t decided yet.

What kind of book should I choose?
Shizuku had told me, 『Sensei, choose it yourself.』

I looked over the bookshelf.

Books Shizuku had read.
Books Mio had borrowed.
Books Rin had picked up, saying, “This looks interesting.”

One book—caught my eye.

Osamu Dazai’s No Longer Human.

It was the book Mio borrowed before summer break.
Akane had read it too.

—“I have lived a life full of shame.”

That opening line came to mind.

A protagonist who acted like a clown in front of others, hiding his true self the entire time.
A story about someone who kept wearing a mask.

After watching Mio’s rehearsal today—this choice might hit a little too hard.

But—

If I’m recommending something to high school students, it’s better to be honest about pain rather than dress things up nicely.

An adult who knows pain, telling kids who carry pain,

 “I want you to read this.”

That’s what a POP should be.

It might not be a bad choice.