The name "Araragi Hitagi" echoed through my mind, but it just didn't feel right. It was as if someone had taken a beautiful painting and slapped a different title on it. Hitagi and I had known each other for nearly ten years, having started as friends back in first grade at Naoezutsu High School. We had grown into something more over the years, yet an undeniable coldness lingered between us, like an icy breeze that wouldn't let up. It felt surreal, as though we were strangers meeting for the first time.
Deep down, I knew I was the cause of this discomfort. I could blame myself with certainty, but even knowing that didn't change the feeling—the sensation of trying to fit mismatched pieces of a jigsaw puzzle together, a puzzle that no amount of effort could resolve.
Hitagi was my irreplaceable partner. I had sworn before the altar of Kita Shirahebi Shrine to dedicate my life to her happiness. But now, as I stood on the brink of marriage, a nagging discomfort washed over me. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was overshadowing the vibrant individuality of Senjougahara Hitagi, the person I loved most in the world. It was as if I had thrown a cheap paint over an exquisite canvas. That thought troubled me deeply.
I remembered the symbolism of wedding dresses—how they signify a wish to "please dye it in your color." That knowledge felt outdated now, a relic of the past. I had unwittingly stripped away something fundamental: her name. The weight of that realization haunted me, filling me with doubts about my ability to build a happy family.
"It's so unfair," I thought to myself. "So unjust. It's hard not to feel guilty about this."
Yet, Hitagi's reassuring voice cut through my spiral of thoughts. "It's fine, Koyomi. I don't mind at all. Actually, I think Araragi Hitagi sounds lovely!" Her words were meant to comfort me, but they didn't quite dispel the nagging feeling of having placed a burden on her shoulders, a burden that should be shared equally. If anything, it only intensified my sense of guilt.
She would have to change her driver's license, passport, and all sorts of legal documents—practical matters that were suddenly weighing heavily on my conscience. Forcing someone to give up a name they had carried for twenty-five years felt so unjust, almost like a betrayal.
I felt trapped in a narrative that didn't reflect who I wanted to be. My life as Araragi Koyomi was supposed to be about resisting these kinds of injustices. Yet, here I was, entangled in the snares of bureaucracy.
Sure, if I were to think of the government as a monster, then perhaps it fit. But voicing that thought felt too radical, too absurd. As a national civil servant, I had pledged my loyalty to this country, making it difficult to speak out against something as deeply rooted as the tradition of married couples sharing a surname. I had even trained with the FBI and had been headhunted for a position, which led some people to question my patriotism.
I could have chosen to take Senjougahara as my surname instead of her becoming Araragi Hitagi. At first, that was my secret plan. But then, somehow, she discovered the documents where I had laid out those thoughts.
"You're doing it," she said one day, choosing her words carefully. "Since we met, Koyomi has felt more like Araragi-kun to me. And please don't take this personally, but I don't want to take my father's name, 'Senjougahara.'"
Hearing her say that struck a chord within me. I felt the same way; her statement was a mirror reflecting my thoughts. It was as if we were caught in a web of societal expectations that neither of us wanted to embrace.
Marriage should be a partnership, where either party could choose their surname. But we both knew that the tradition often leaned toward the man's name being chosen, a setup that felt deeply unfair.
Meanwhile, the family of Hachiku-dera, the deity worshiped at the shrine where I had pledged my vows, had always taken the mother's surname, Tsuna-tsuna-de. I recalled a story from the twin-tailed lost god, who had once remarked with a hint of bitterness, "In the end, things didn't turn out that way in my family. Not a family anymore, but a former family. We divorced when I was in third grade, and I changed my name once. What a journey!"
She spoke so casually, and when I first heard her story as a child, I tried to play it cool, as if it were just a part of life. But now, as I faced the reality of legal matters, it gave me much to ponder.
Even with my background in law enforcement, this went beyond just a career issue—it touched on deeper, more personal aspects of who we are and what our society values. As Hitagi and I stood on the threshold of a new chapter, we were wrapped in uncertainty, wondering just how to navigate the paths ahead.