I Reincarnated as the Counselor NPC in a Dating Sim, and Now Every Heroine I Treat Becomes Obsessed with Me - Chapter 35: “Monthly Report and the Blank Spaces in the Script—October Passes Quietly”

Chapter 35: “Monthly Report and the Blank Spaces in the Script—October Passes Quietly”

Final week of October.

Midori came.

After school.

The usual time slot, after Shizuku had left.

Three knocks.

Evenly spaced.

“Come in.”

The door opened.

Midori stood there, holding a binder.

The same as always.

But—

The way she held it was different.

Before, she used to hold it in front of her chest like a shield.

Now, it was tucked at her side.

A more unguarded way of holding it.

“Asagiri-sensei. I’ve come to deliver the monthly usage report.”

“Ah, the monthly report. —Come in.”

Midori sat down.

She didn’t use the backrest.

That hadn’t changed.

But the stiffness in her posture had eased a little compared to before.

She opened the binder and began asking questions efficiently.

Number of visitors.

Consultation hours.

Any shortages or excess in supplies.

It had been half a year since her first visit—back in April, when she came to “check the facility usage.”

The monthly report had started as an excuse for Midori to come here, and formally, it was still the same.

But the content had changed.

“Sensei. The number of visitors in October is more than triple compared to September.”

“That’s the effect of the cultural festival.”

“The number of repeat visitors has also increased. —Are you managing alright? You’re handling everything alone, correct?”

“So far, it’s fine. There aren’t many serious cases.”

Midori wrote it down in her binder.

Neat, precise handwriting.

“With the increase in visitors, has it affected the time you spend with the students who come here regularly?”

A sharp question.

As the student council president, it was a natural one—

But at the same time,

It was also a check.

Whether the time for “the five,” including herself, was still being protected.

“For now, I’ve been able to manage it. I appreciate you worrying, Midori-san.”

“This is part of my duties as the executive committee chair.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Midori closed her binder.

“That concludes the report. —Thank you for your time.”

She started to stand—then stopped.

Before, she would have given a perfect bow and left.

Lately, this was where the “real part” began.

“…May I have some tea?”

“Of course.”

I made tea and placed it in front of her.

Midori wrapped her hands around the cup.

She took a sip.

“…………”

Silence.

A comfortable silence.

Not the Midori of reports—but Midori Hojouin, as herself.

Her own time had begun.

“Asagiri-sensei.”

“Yeah.”

“The cultural festival executive committee is finished.”

“Good work. It must’ve been tough.”

“Yes. —But I’m not as tired as last year.”

“Because you could rely on your juniors?”

“That too. But—”

Midori looked down at her tea.

“Last year, the day after the festival, I had a fever of 38 degrees. The moment it ended, my body broke down. But this year— I haven’t had a fever.”

“Your body didn’t get pushed to its limit this time.”

“…Yes. I kept practicing stopping at seventy points, even during summer break.”

She took another sip of her tea.

“It’s strange, isn’t it? Once I stopped aiming for a perfect score, my body stopped breaking down. —It’s such an obvious thing, yet for me, it feels completely new.”

“The most obvious things are the hardest to notice. The fact that you realized it—that’s your own strength, Midori-san.”

The corner of her lips softened slightly.

“You always say that, Sensei. ‘It’s your own strength.’ —I’d like to say it’s thanks to you, though.”

“All I did was make tea.”

“I don’t think it was just tea… but if you say so.”

She set her cup down.

“I have one more thing to report.”

“Didn’t the monthly report just end?”

“This is a personal report.”

Midori paused for a moment.

She was choosing her words.

Before, she never needed to.

She would simply pull the perfect answer from her internal “database.”

But now—

She was searching for her own words.

That time spent searching—was proof of her change.

“The other day, I called my father.”

“Your father?”

“Yes. The monthly report call. I report my grades, student council work, and extracurricular activities.”

The Hojouin family’s regular report.

A system meant to maintain Midori’s “perfection.”

“And in that report— for the first time, I told him my cultural festival score.”

“…Score?”

“That it was seventy-eight. That it was my best so far.”

I was a little surprised.

She told her father—about that seventy-eight points.

“My father… went quiet for a moment. Then he asked, ‘What kind of score is that?’ So I answered, ‘It’s the score I gave myself.’”

“What did your father say?”

She lowered her gaze to her cup.

“He said, ‘I don’t understand. A member of the Hojouin family should always aim for a perfect score.’ —Exactly the response I expected.”

“…………”

“But—I was able to say it. I was able to show him a version of myself that wasn’t perfect. —Even if it was over the phone.”

She finished her tea.

“I was scared.”

The second time she said “I was scared.”

The first time had been that morning she was late.

This time—it was the call with her father.

The situations where Midori felt fear—had changed.

From “when she failed to meet the Hojouin standard”—to “when she confronted the Hojouin standard with her own.”

“I was scared, but I still said it. —I think it was about sixty-five points worth of courage.”

“That’s more than enough.”

Midori stood up.

She tucked the binder under her arm.

“Then, I’ll be going. —I’ll come again next month for the report.”

“Anytime. Whether it’s for a report or not.”

She paused at the door—and turned back for just a moment.

“…Sensei. Next month’s report— my score might be a little higher.”

A smile.

Not a mask—but a face quietly proud of herself.

The door closed.

—

The next day.

A note was tucked under the counseling room door.

Written in commands. No name.

“After school today. Small hall. Come.”

Mio.

Two weeks had passed since the cultural festival.

It seemed rehearsals had started for the December performance.

After school. Small hall.

When I opened the door, it was the same dim space as before.

The spotlight wasn’t on.

Instead, the fluorescent lights on the stage were lit.

Everyday rehearsal lighting.

Mio was on stage.

But she wasn’t alone.

Four members of the drama club were there with her.

They held scripts in their hands, in the middle of a read-through.

Mio noticed me and turned her face toward me.

“…You came. Watch from there.”

The club members glanced at me in the audience.

A look of “Who’s that?”

“He’s the counseling room teacher. He’s here to observe rehearsal.”

That was all Mio said before going back to the read-through.

The others looked a bit unsure, but if Mio said it, they followed.

The prince’s word was absolute.

The read-through began.

The next performance—was an ensemble piece.

Unlike “The Girl with the Mask,” which was a monologue, this one involved multiple actors interacting.

Mio wasn’t the sole lead.

More precisely, she was one of the leads—

But not in the same way as before, where she dominated the stage alone.

She exchanged lines with the others, received their reactions, and responded in turn.

Watching her, I felt a little surprised.

When Mio spoke with others—her expression was different from the monologue at the festival.

When listening to others’ lines, her face shifted slightly.

She reacted to their words.

She wasn’t completing everything on her own.

The read-through ended.

The club members started chatting among themselves.

“Kujou-senpai, for that part in the third act just now, should I slow it down a bit?”

“…Up to you. Go with your own timing.”

“Eh, really?”

“It’s your role. You decide.”

The club member’s eyes widened.

Mio—had left the direction to someone else.

Before, she would have controlled everything herself.

“Dismissed. Next rehearsal is Thursday.”

The members left.

“Good work today—” their voices echoed briefly in the small hall before fading away.

Now, it was just the two of us.

Mio stepped down from the stage and sat beside me in the audience.

Not on stage—but in the seats.

“…How was it?”

“It was good. —Completely different from the monologue.”

“Yeah. This time, I’m not alone.”

She looked up at the stage.

“At the cultural festival, I stood there alone. I removed the mask while looking only at you. —But next time, I’ll be on stage with the others. Not removing it alone, but while being with someone.”

“Did you choose an ensemble piece on purpose?”

“…Half of it. The other half—was my advisor’s suggestion. ‘Kujou, you complete everything on your own too much. Next time, do something where you have to connect with the others.’”

“That’s a good advisor.”

“…………Not bad.”

Mio leaned back against the seat.

Sitting beside me in the audience, looking up at the stage.

Before, she had stood on stage and looked down at me.

Now—we were at the same level.

“You left the direction to your junior earlier.”

“…I got tired of deciding everything myself.”

It probably wasn’t just “tired.”

But if that was how she chose to put it, then that was enough.

“…Counselor.”

“Yeah.”

“After the cultural festival, the club members’ attitude changed.”

“How so?”

“Before—no one would say anything to me. They just followed all my directions. But lately, some of them say things like, ‘Wouldn’t it be better if we did it this way?’”

“…Do you not like that?”

Mio stayed silent for a moment.

“…I don’t dislike it. That’s what surprised me. And— it made things a little easier.”

“Easier.”

“I don’t have to carry everything myself. —I’m saying the same thing as Kagurazaka.”

I let out a small laugh.

It was rare for Mio to bring up Rin’s name.

“You heard Rin-san talking?”

“We’ve been in the counseling room at the same time a few times. Sometimes I can hear voices through the wall. —Her ‘I’m tired’ didn’t feel like a lie.”

Mio looked at her own hands.

“I still can’t say ‘I’m tired.’ Instead, I say ‘I got tired of it.’ …Even though it means the same thing.”

“Someday, you’ll be able to say that.”

“…………”

“For now, ‘I got tired of it’ is fine. In your own words, Mio-san.”

The corner of her lips lifted slightly.

“…No tea?”

“This is the small hall. Want to stop by the counseling room?”

“…………Not today. I’m tired from rehearsal.”

“Ah, you just said you’re tired.”

Mio looked at me.

A brief silence.

“…I did.”

“You did.”

“…………How careless.”

Mio stood up.

But her expression wasn’t annoyed.

“Come again on Thursday. Watch the next read-through.”

“Got it.”

“Hinomiya said she wants to see the performance, right? —I’ll prepare three tickets.”

“Three?”

“One for you, one for Hinomiya, and the last— for that girl. The one who reads books.”

For Shizuku.

“…You’re the one inviting her?”

“Tell her yourself. If I say it directly, she’ll get scared.”

She understood Shizuku’s nature.

Mio’s way of being considerate.

“Got it. I’ll tell her.”

Mio left the small hall.

Just before the door closed, her voice lingered.

“—Next performance, I won’t be saying it just to you. I’ll say it to the whole audience.”

The door shut.

—

On the way home.

An October evening.

The days were getting shorter.

The shadows of the school building stretched long.

I went over what I saw today.

Midori told her father about her “seventy-eight points.”

Mio entrusted direction to her junior.

Both of them—had started to move away from “completing everything on their own.”

Midori no longer tried to produce perfect results alone.

Instead, she showed her imperfect self to someone else.

Mio no longer tried to dominate the stage alone.

Instead, she began sharing that space with others.

The changes they showed in the counseling room—were starting to spill outside of it.

Midori—to her father.

Mio—to her club members.

Rin—to her team.

Shizuku—to the library.

Akane—to her class during the cultural festival.

Their worlds were expanding.

Moving beyond just me.

(…This is a good direction. If things keep going like this—)

If it keeps going like this, someday these girls won’t need me anymore.

They’ll have more safe places outside the counseling room, and they’ll be okay even without me.

That’s the goal.

As a counselor.

But

—“Next performance, I won’t be saying it just to you. I’ll say it to the whole audience.”

When Mio said that,

I thought, That’s good.

I should have—

And yet, there was a small pain in my chest.

Like being pricked by a needle.

The day she stops saying it just to me.

The day Midori can report her seventy-eight to someone other than me.

The day Shizuku can write her notes to someone else too.

All of it is good.

It’s recovery.

It’s what I was aiming for.

And yet—

Each one of those things hurts, just a little.

(…Countertransference. I’m starting to depend on them. —A textbook trap for counselors. I knew it.)

I knew.

I’ve spent these past six months knowing it.

But knowing something—and not feeling it—are two different things.

I, too—had been saved by them.

A man who died alone in his previous life—now surrounded by five girls in this world, making lunchboxes, brewing tea, drawing pictures, reading their notes.

Thinking I was the one supporting them as a counselor—when in reality,

I was the one being supported.

Facing that truth—can wait a little longer.

It’s still October.

Snowdrops bloomed by the window.

Seven drawings hung on the wall.

A stack of notes rested in the drawer.

October passed quietly.