As teenagers, we should all probably be collectively forgiven for our trespasses in misunderstanding the feelings and identities of other people. Heck, even adults are constantly misunderstanding each other – and as an adolescent, it’s enough of a struggle to understand yourself, much less any other person. We cast around for a stable, reassuring identity, and when we fall in love, it is often not another person we are enamored with, but rather what we feel is missing from our own lives. So it went in Toradora’s fourth episode, which was ostensibly centered on the roots of Taiga and Ryuuji’s crushes, but ultimately revealed far more about how they view themselves.

That itself is some sort of progress, at least. Both Ryuuji and Taiga currently seem resolutely incapable of honest self-reflection, and thus the closest we can come to understanding their feelings is to see what they covet in another.

In Taiga’s case, she revealed that she first came to love Kitamura after he confessed to her, and she rejected him. Taiga had no particular fondness for Kitamura at that time, but the act of his confession caused her to take notice, and eventually fall in love with him. But to be honest, it’s likely Kitamura could have been replaced by anyone else on that rooftop – the key distinction was not that it was Kitamura confessing, but that he was confessing a love and appreciation for who Taiga really is. Kitamura loved Taiga for her bluntness and anger, for her ability to forcefully express herself. He saw these qualities not as personal failings, but as strengths to admire – and as someone who has tremendous difficulty seeing value in herself, and who has been consistently shamed for her behavior, being told that it is okay or even admirable to be the way she is must have been an incredible feeling. 

As for Ryuuji, we learned at the end of episode three that Minorin’s enthusiastic persona is something of a mask – but not a deceitful one. Minorin’s affection is an aspirational choice, a hope that she can eventually naturally embody the strength she currently works so hard to present. And rather than loving her for validating his current identity, Ryuuji seems to love Minori because she’s who he wishes he could be – funny and confident, defiantly sure of herself, somehow able to turn her quirks and catchphrases into the new slang. Learning that Minori was actually putting on a brave face hasn’t dampened his feelings; rather, it’s confirmed his understanding of her incredible personal strength, something he feels he utterly lacks.

Taiga and Ryuuji are not the only ones suffering, though. Ultimately, the validation and strength both Taiga and Ryuuji see in their crushes seem founded in insecurity in their own ways. Kitamura admires Taiga because he feels he can’t embody her blunt confidence, and Minori performs an energetic self because she has trouble expressing genuine vulnerability, and must always be “on” among others. The very things Taiga and Ryuuji love about them are reflections of what they themselves find lacking.

These are complex and difficult-to-resolve psychological problems, but Toradora approaches each of them with profound sympathy for its characters, and respect for all their mixed-up emotional positions. The “love” that both Ryuuji and Taiga seek is a false idol based in their own insecurities, but Toradora accepts their feelings as legitimate and heartfelt regardless, embracing the passion that we all bring to our first, impossible crushes. It’s easy enough for me to poke at these feelings as psychological reflexes, but Toradora instead captures these moments as they are truly felt – the heady, delirious joy of first falling in love, and the incredible rushing of feeling truly accepted. Regardless of their origin, those feelings are true, real, and absolutely worth celebrating.

Of course, not every teenager is out there to make friends and discover themselves. Some have already reached a point of total fatigue with that process, whether through difficult personal experiences or precocious psychological insight, and some are more than willing to use the knowledge they’ve gained for evil. In Toradora’s fifth episode, we are at last introduced to a character who actually is in control of their emotional faculties, actually does possess a reasonable degree of psychological insight, and is absolutely not above lording these qualities over the other members of the cast. In other words, we’re about to meet my obviously favorite character.

Episode five opens on the end of Golden Week, as Taiga is found once again lounging and griping in Ryuuji’s living room. Their makeshift family has at this point settled into a familiar dynamic; Taiga grumbles about not getting to see Kitamura over the break, while Ryuuji simultaneously feeds her and snarks about her problems, and Ryuuji’s mother Yasuko offers mumbled suggestions from the bedroom. The dynamic feels like a genuinely fractured family, with Taiga’s need to be appreciated and Ryuuji’s love of doting over others keeping both of them feeling validated and secure. In spite of Taiga’s possessive language, their genuinely easy friendship is clear as they bicker over Taiga spilling soup, and negotiate another Minori-scouting trip to Jonny’s.

Minori turns out to not be on shift that day, so the two instead butt heads over a fashion magazine. After Ryuuji snidely comments that Taiga is too short for a pair of pants, Taiga responds with “so I’m a midget with short legs. At least I’ve never had to be a bother to other people.” It’s an oddly specific line, a line that points to one of Taiga’s inherent contradictions. Taiga prides herself on her independence, but is clearly anything but independent. It’s obvious to us that she’s perpetually imposing herself on other people, but she seems to view her own behavior as a way of presenting strength, and that she could totally survive on her own. But of course, the fact that she actually uses this as an insult makes it seem likely she’s aware of the true situation, and simply protesting too much.

But before Taiga or Ryuuji can even begin to unpack the implications of Taiga’s statement, calamity strikes. Walking casually into their neighborhood Jonny’s, keeping so close to Kitamura they might as well be linking arms, stands the model from the magazine: Ami Kawashima. As Taiga and Ryuuji spit-take in unison, Kitamura explains that they not only know each other, but they’re actually childhood friends. Trouble of troubles, horror of horrors, Taiga has acquired a rival – and this rival happens to be beautiful, famous, and already on a first-name basis with Taiga’s beloved Kitamura.

Though most of the characters in this show play different parts at different times, the affectation in Ami’s voice is clear from her very first moments. In contrast with Taiga’s perpetual grumbling and Minori’s hyperactive energy, Ami sounds like she’s reaching for “childhood friend,” “naive princess,” and “sentimental airhead” all at the same time, evoking a tone of innocent but receptive interest. Shifting her toes with an actor’s precision, she apologizes for her appearance, and admits that “I get a little lazy about my looks when I’m not on the set.” Her statement expresses “vulnerability” in a way that actually serves more as a self-compliment, while naturally inviting further compliments and attention from the people around her. Even her body language is perfectly calibrated to draw people in, with her slight shift of uncertainty saying both “I’m nervous so you don’t have to be” and “I seem to have a special interest in you specifically.”

While Taiga suspiciously notes her precise shifts in body language, Ami moves in for the kill with the oblivious and instantly smitten Ryuuji. “People always tell me I’m a clumsy airhead,” she says, offering confessional vulnerability and an absurd display of helplessness, while also carefully establishing physical contact. Every aspect of her behavior screams “I’m interested in you” at Ryuuji, from her feigned helplessness and close contact, to the conspiratorial wink she offers at the end. Ami is clearly a master manipulator, someone who already seems accustomed to the many ways she can use her personal presentation to make others do things for her. It’s likely a skill she learned by necessity due to her work in the fashion industry – but here in Jonny’s, she mostly just seems to be flexing, and enjoying the ease with which she can shape Ryuuji like putty in her hand.

Fortunately, Kitamura already knows Ami’s game. Abruptly leaving the table, Kitamura prompts an awkward silence that forces Ryuuji to slink away in turn, and be caught by Kitamura at the bathroom. There, the two of them stealthily observe Ami and Taiga at the table, where Ami follows up a demand for Taiga to refill her glass with an exaggerated sigh, and “I’ll get your boyfriend to do it. He seems willing to do anything I ask.” Ami’s career-necessitated mastery of emotional manipulation seems to have resulted in her gaining a fundamentally cynical attitude towards other people, particularly men. And she has been given every reason to adopt that stance, because her experiences have taught her that men really are that simple and single-minded, and that presenting an airheaded, approachable, ego-stroking persona is one of the only ways to get ahead.

“Spoiled, selfish, and bossy. That’s her real nature,” says Kitamura, in a tone almost verging on pride. In another show, Ami’s duplicitous nature might serve as the dramatic crux of an entire arc, as certain characters are fooled by her affectation, and others work to reveal her. But Toradora is not a show with simplistic villains – it’s a show about multifaceted people seeking to understand themselves, and find a form of self-presentation that works for them. Rather than use her deception as dramatic grist, Toradora reveals her full selfhood from the start, and lets the audience form their own conclusions.

As someone who spent a great deal of their adolescent years unpopular, unhappy, and unrelentingly mired in self-awareness, Ami’s cynicism spoke to me from the first time I watched this show. Having likely been shamed for earnestly expressing herself in the past, Ami has made the classic mistake of believing that earnestness or sincerity are inherent signs of weakness, and that only people who are naturally suspicious of others’ behavior are truly intelligent. Those who are burned for reaching out have a tendency to subsequently sort the world into manipulators and marks – but as Minori regularly demonstrates, it actually takes great personal strength to be earnest and kind. Being kind and sincere are skills you must work hard to develop, just as Ami has likely worked hard to develop her crowd-friendly facade.

Minori’s reverence for authenticity ultimately means she’s the only one Ami’s charms don’t work on, as Ami continues her invasion of Taiga’s life by joining their class. It is easy to please people by telling them what they want to hear, and Ami is able to turn her entire persona into a demonstration of that fact. Speaking meekly and perpetually tripping over herself, while simultaneously protesting that she is neither meek nor clumsy, she masterfully plays on people’s desire to coddle helpless things, and to feel like they are in control of a situation. Even Ami’s female classmates can’t resist her act – the allure of believing you entirely understand and are in some way “above” someone is just too strong.

And once again, rather than condemn Ami for her artifice, both Kitamura and Toradora itself seem genuinely impressed by her. In a story like this, where presentation and self-image are paramount, Ami isn’t just a “liar” – she’s a master of a specific art form, one that gives her a meaningful edge over others in conversation, and one that’s based in a sturdy understanding of human psychology. And Ami’s tactics are never presented as a source of genuine, fulfilling strength – they are her great weakness, and an inherent expression of her fundamental loneliness.

Watching Ami practice her art, Kitamura can ultimately only respond with pity for his genuine friend. “To be honest, I have no problem with Ami’s true nature. I want everyone to see it, and to like her for who she is.” The ultimate truth of Ami’s style of emotional manipulation is that there is rarely much difficulty in understanding the motives behind people’s actions, and no meaningful sort of victory in “fooling” people who are approaching you with honest intentions. Treating all relationships as games to win will only isolate you; ultimately, the only consolation this sort of analysis can provide is the cold comfort of being assured all friendships are fake, and thus you’re better off alone.

The last act of this episode serves as a dramatic demonstration of Ami’s various powers, as she uses feigned helplessness, subtle implications of personal interest, and well-used jolts of physical contact to try and poison Ryuuji against Taiga. Cornering him between classes, she offers an “apology” for her earlier behavior that’s ultimately just a backhanded condemnation of Taiga’s own actions. Ami is capable of constantly presenting herself as if she’s revealing an embarrassing personal secret, an affectation which perpetually implies “I’m charming and innocent, and you’re special to me.” But ultimately, it’s her attacks on Taiga that actually bear fruit, when she at last discovers that Kitamura is Taiga’s weak point.

After spending so much time illustrating Ami’s distinctive style of manipulation, episode five ends on a cathartic reaffirmation of Ryuuji and Taiga’s genuine emotional bond. Claiming he’s checking on Taiga because “food tastes better when it’s fresh off the stove,” Ryuuji heads next door to find his friend swaddled in blankets in the dark, despondently certain that Kitamura now hates her. And hearing this, Ryuuji can only laugh, and state that “Kitamura’s not the kind of guy who’d hate someone for something like that. You know that, don’t you?”

Taiga’s response is something Ami could likely never say, as she quietly asks Ryuuji “then why am I so small?” Taiga tries very, very hard to be strong. Presenting strength in spite of all the forces arrayed against her is precisely what made Ryuuji pay attention to her – and precisely what made Kitamura fall in love with her, as well. Taiga possesses a strength that both of them wish they could match; but in a moment like this, she is still able to acknowledge that she doesn’t feel strong, that she’s actually insecure and vulnerable and in need of a friend’s support.

It is moments like these that help us truly understand each other – moments when our weaknesses are bared, and we can approach each other without pretension, or any of the games Ami has learned. Taiga was hurt deeply by what Ami said, but she has the luxury of being able to return home to her friends, and admit her weakness to the people who love her anyway. In her moments of greatest despair, Taiga demonstrates the flaw at the heart of Ami’s philosophy – and the comfort of genuine, sincere friendship that Ami refuses to accept.

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