Leaving the theater with memories of the manga still alive, I felt a swirl of nameless emotions in my chest.
Watching Komiya, I realized he never yields to social conformity. He keeps questioning his inner voice. That posture pierces straight through the screen. In daily life, where we are tempted to blend into “everyone does it” or “this is normal,” he listens quietly yet surely to himself.
Kaido’s words about “escaping from reality” also struck me. Usually, that phrase sounds negative. But for him it is different. He stares at reality squarely, turns the situation into fuel, and moves as if his own capability is higher than the current reality. It looks like escape, yet he faces reality more than anyone else. I deeply resonated with that paradoxical strength.
There are two selves within me.
One says coldly, “You have no talent.” People around me say so, too. This self is realistic, mature, and risk-averse.
The other whispers, “No, I can still go on.” There’s no proof. And yet there is something I can’t let go of.
When I let this second self show, people say, “You’re still a kid,” “How young.” But I think I want to carry both selves until the end of my life. It will be painful; I know that. Even so.
Watching Shohei Ohtani and Sota Fujii, I sense that true elites transcend “rationalization.” It is rather those below who drop out under the name of rationalization—no, perhaps it’s more accurate to say they step down by themselves. Society calls that “growing up.”
Safety matters, I know. But I don’t want the kind of safety gained through rationalization.
Hyakuemu reminded me: even if it’s irrational or childish, I don’t want to kill the voice inside me that says, “I can still go on.”
Komiya and Kaido taught me that this voice may be the last stronghold that makes me who I am.
My heart trembled, surely, because that voice within me resonated with theirs.