The day of the career guidance session arrived.
A line stretched down the hallway outside the classroom.
I’d never seen my classmates this quiet before.
Even Kenta, who was usually the loudest person in class, barely spoke.
“Nervous?” I asked.
He let out a small laugh.
“Wouldn’t you be? It’s the day our futures get decided.”
“…Decided.”
“Isn’t it?”
I couldn’t answer.
One by one, students disappeared into the classroom.
A few minutes later, they came back out.
Some were smiling.
Some were crying.
Some looked as if they still hadn’t figured out what they were feeling.
None of them talked about their results.
“Aihara.”
My homeroom teacher called my name.
I stepped inside.
The classroom felt strangely empty.
A single terminal sat on a desk in the center of the room.
My teacher was seated against the wall.
Today, even he was nothing more than an observer.
“Try not to be nervous,” he said.
“Navi isn’t here to decide your future.”
Some of the tension in my shoulders eased.
Then he continued.
“It simply tells you which path is statistically most likely to make you happy.”
Simply.
The word carried far more weight than it should have.
The terminal came to life.
Welcome to Navi, the Advanced Career Guidance AI.
The calm voice was almost comforting.
Beginning comprehensive analysis.
Information began scrolling across the display.
Academic records.
Physical fitness tests.
Personality assessments.
Attendance history.
Books I’d read.
Paintings I’d submitted.
My role during the school festival.
Friendships.
Even memories I’d long forgotten resurfaced one after another.
After several seconds, the screen stopped.
Analysis complete.
The silence in the classroom became almost oppressive.
Displaying recommended career paths.
Rank 1
Care Facility Administrator
Suitability: S
Predicted Lifetime Happiness: 96.8%
I blinked.
Then I read it again.
Care… facility administrator?
The smell of oil paint drifted through my memory.
Rank 2
Sales Representative.
Rank 3
Junior High School Teacher.
None of them had ever crossed my mind.
My voice came out quieter than I’d expected.
“…What about art school?”
The display changed.
School of Fine Arts
Recommendation: D
Predicted Lifetime Happiness: 42.3%
Would you like to view the analysis?
My fingertips felt cold.
I selected Yes.
The words appeared one line at a time.
You demonstrate an exceptional ability to observe subtle emotional changes in others and respond with empathy.
For just a moment, my heart lifted.
It felt like a compliment.
Then the next lines appeared.
However, if creative work becomes your profession, your emotional well-being is likely to become heavily dependent on external evaluation and measurable results.
This significantly increases the risk of long-term psychological stress and reduced life satisfaction.
Another line followed.
We recommend that you continue creating art—not as a profession, but as a lifelong personal pursuit.
Silence.
My homeroom teacher said nothing.
Neither did I.
There was nothing to say.
⸻
Kenta was waiting outside when I left the classroom.
“Well?”
I forced a smile.
“Care facility administrator.”
“…Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
He scratched the back of his head, looking as puzzled as I felt.
“I got police officer.”
“That actually suits you.”
“Right?”
We laughed.
Just a little.
Then the conversation ended.
⸻
Dad looked satisfied the moment he heard my result.
“Sounds like a great career.”
“You think so?”
“Of course. You’ll spend your life helping people.”
Mom wasn’t looking at the paper.
She was looking at me.
“What do you want?”
That was the hardest question anyone had asked me all day.
⸻
Sleep never came that night.
On my phone was an for an open campus event at a nearby art university.
Tomorrow.
Just visiting wouldn’t hurt.
Listening to a few lectures didn’t mean I had to enroll.
I opened the registration page.
Before I could press anything, a notification appeared.
Navi
Behavioral prediction updated.
Projected action: Attend Fine Arts University Open Campus.
Predicted Lifetime Happiness: 41.9%
Not Recommended.
Suggested Alternative Activity:
Visit a Care Facility Open House.
I couldn’t help laughing.
“…You can predict even that?”
I locked the screen.
But the notification lingered in my mind long after it disappeared.
The next morning, I found myself standing at the station.
I hadn’t made a decision.
I’d simply come.
On one platform, a train bound for the district where the art university was holding its open campus event was due any minute.
Across the tracks, another train would take me to the care facility’s open house.
I could board either one.
“Aihara?”
I turned.
“Mr. Murakami?”
My art teacher looked genuinely surprised to see me there.
“What are you doing here?”
I told him everything.
About Navi.
About the recommendations.
About the open campus.
About the care facility.
He listened without interrupting, hands in his pockets.
When I finished, I asked the question that had been weighing on me all night.
“…What would you do?”
He thought for a moment.
Then he smiled.
“I’m a teacher.”
I blinked.
“So I don’t get to decide someone else’s life.”
The words landed more gently than I expected.
After a brief silence, he continued.
“But I can tell you one thing.”
I looked at him.
“When I praised your painting that day…”
“…I meant every word.”
Something tightened in my chest.
“But…”
His eyes drifted toward the tracks.
“Not everyone who loves painting will find happiness making a living from it.”
The sound of an approaching train echoed through the station.
“Sometimes…”
He watched the train roll into the platform.
“…what you love and what you’re meant to do are painfully different.”
The doors slid open.
The departure melody began to play.
I closed my eyes.
Then—
I stepped onto the train bound for the care facility.
⸻
Several years later…
I was working as the administrator of a residential care home.
The days were busy.
Always busy.
Yet somehow…
I had never felt more fulfilled.
One afternoon, during a recreation program, sheets of drawing paper and crayons were handed out to the residents.
“Today,” a staff member said with a smile, “let’s draw something that means a lot to you.”
An elderly resident slowly wrapped trembling fingers around a crayon.
He began sketching a shopping street at sunset.
“I used to walk there all the time,” he murmured.
The words struck something deep inside me.
Without thinking, I went to the storage room and returned with an old box of art supplies.
I quietly took the seat beside him.
For the first time in years, I picked up a pencil.
I drew a single line across a blank sheet of paper.
My hand remembered.
Better than I had expected.
By the time my shift ended, a small shopping street had appeared on the page.
As I was leaving, one of my coworkers smiled.
“Director… I didn’t know you were such a talented artist.”
I looked down at the drawing for a long moment before answering.
“I used to love drawing.”
It wasn’t a lie.
But it wasn’t the whole truth, either.