When I don't know where you are, I look in the garden first. I used to like the garden, I used to think it looked sort of charming. I was a child then but we're adult now in so many ways, wouldn't you say? You aren't ever in the garden, unless you've come there to look for me.

I should know where you are without thinking. Sometimes I do, but I have to try to.

I look in our room second, and you're usually there. If you're not, you're on the basketball court or in the cafeteria.

I look in the duelling arena last, and you're never there, and that's right, you can't come here without me, that's the rules. Even if you come here alone, you must come here with me, and there must be a duel held. The flagstones are cold, why are the flagstones cold? They usually feel warm, soft, like carpet.

He tells me you are not here, and he leaves my glasses where I can't see them until we are done.

I find you in our room when I return. Your room. "Where'd you go?" you ask. "To see your brother?"

Yes. To see my brother.

"You left ChuChu behind."

Please. Don't leave me alone.

"What's the matter, cat got your tongue?"

"Welcome home, Utena."

"Huh?"