Truth of Touch

by BassCleff

Summary:

Love songs. They used to come easily, like second nature. Mio used used to write them all the time, when she could be a dreamer, when she could lose herself in fantasies of romance and the perfect relationship, when she didn’t have a boyfriend. Now she does, and she's quiet. Because what does she know about love, really?

Chapter 1: The Head and the Heart

Notes:

Truth of Touch, by Yanni, was released in February 8, 2011.

 "To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves."

Federico García Lorca

April 3, 2011

The first time Akiyama Mio kissed a boy, she was eighteen.

She didn't like it.

Kenji's lips were rough. His stubble scratched her skin, and the sensation lingered more than the kiss itself. His hand on the back of her head was too tight, his fingers pulling at her freshly washed hair.

It wasn't what she'd imagined.

She'd spent hours preparing—choosing the right outfit, the right hairstyle, imagining how it would feel. A soft, delicate moment. Like something out of her favorite romance movie. Something that would leave her breathless.

But it wasn't.

It was clumsy. Uncomfortable. Too wet. Not unpleasant, exactly. Just... off.

Mio told herself it was nerves. Told herself she was inexperienced. Told herself this was normal. But it didn't feel normal. Her mind recoiled at the sensations, confusion settling in her chest. Why hadn't it felt magical? Why hadn't it swept her away? Romance was supposed to be more than this. More than awkward touches and fumbling kisses.

It had to be.

Mio clung to that thought. Told herself she'd get used to it. Eventually. And maybe she had. Sort of.

Now, six months later, she's still with Kenji. Six months of dates, of hand-holding, of kissing, of fondling. She tells herself this was what love was supposed to be. That it isn't perfect for anyone at first.

But it's funny.

Since she started dating him, she hasn't written a single love song.

Not one.

Before Kenji, love had been all she wrote about. Her notebooks were filled with lyrics about sweeping romances and grand declarations. Idealized emotions she'd never experienced, but imagined so vividly. Now? Nothing.

Mio taps her pen against her notebook.

The girls have noticed, of course. Especially Ritsu. Ritsu, who always sees right through her. Because if Mio was already corny as a 16-year-old teenager without a boyfriend, who wrote about love as if it were the greatest force in the universe, a 20-year-old Mio with a boyfriend would have been insufferable. But she is not. And that seems very strange to Ritsu. Ritsu, who asked one day, bluntly, as she always does, "Hey, Mio. Is everything okay with Kenji?"

They were sitting in a café. Just the two of them, catching up over break.

Mio didn't look up from her tea. "Of course. Why wouldn't it be?"

Her voice was too casual. Hollow, even to her own ears.

Ritsu raised an eyebrow. "You sure?" she asked, dragging the words out. "I mean, come on. You're, like, the Queen of Romance. And you haven't written a single love song since you started dating him." She leaned forward, grinning. " What gives?"

Mio felt her face burn.

"I'm just busy," she said, fumbling. "College. The club. You know how it is."

It isn't the whole truth. And Mio knows it. The truth is, she doesn't want to think about it. About Kenji. About the lack of butterflies when his name lights up her phone screen. About the relief that always comes when their dates end. About how tomorrow she'll return to the dorms, and Kenji will go back to his campus. How the distance between them feels like freedom rather than punishment.

She shifts on her bed, restless.

Her mind drifts to their first kiss. The clumsy press of lips. How her body had stiffened. How she'd almost recoiled. The books always said there would be warmth. Thrill. Electricity. She remembers only coldness. Numbness.

Her pen lands on the bed with a soft thud. She stares at the notebook in her lap. Its blank page, mocking her. Mio snaps it shut, leans back against the wall, and exhales. The questions come again. Quiet, insistent, unanswerable.

Her phone buzzes.

Ritsu 🥁

Ritsu: Hey, wanna grab tea with the girls?

Mio types back quickly.

Ritsu 🥁

Ritsu: Hey, wanna grab tea with the girls?

Mio: Sure. But can we meet before, just the two of us?

Ritsu's reply doesn't matter. She knows the answer. It will always be yes.

The phone drops onto her bed. Mio stands, her movements brisk, determined. Anything to escape the room. The silence. The empty notebook that still waits there, a patient judge.

Her closet door hangs open. She grabs the first things her hand touches. A loose sweater. Jeans. Casual. Comfortable. The kind of outfit that asks no questions. She ties her hair into a loose ponytail, catching her reflection in the mirror. She looks at herself.

What will she say to Ritsu? How much will she tell her?

The thought is too heavy. She lets it fall away, grabs her bag, and heads for the door.

Anything to escape this room.

The silence.

Herself.

The notebook stays where it is. Forgotten, but not gone.

---

Mio taps her fingers against the table. Her foot bounces beneath it, restless. Ritsu's late. As always.

She glances out the window. A couple sits at a nearby table, laughing together, leaning in close.

Her phone buzzes.

Ritsu 🥁

Ritsu: On my way! Five mins

Five minutes. Mio sighs. Five minutes in Ritsu time means ten. Maybe fifteen.

She looks out at the street, her thoughts circling. Kenji. Romance. Physical contact. The strange weight of it all. Her chest tightens with every loop.

Kenji is kind. Attentive. Gentle. But something is missing—something she can't name. Or maybe she doesn't want to.

Her hand tightens around her phone. She tries not to look at the couple again.

The door jingles. Mio glances up.

Ritsu strides in, her grin wide and bright. She plops into the chair opposite Mio, her bag hitting the floor with a thud.

"Yo, Mio!" she greets, like she isn't late.

Mio raises an eyebrow. Says nothing.

"Sorry, sorry," Ritsu says, waving a hand. "Taro and I were at the arcade."

Taro. Of course.

Ritsu talks about him like this. Like it's nothing. Like it's everything.

"He wouldn't shut up about this new band he found," Ritsu adds. "You'd like them. I'll send you the link."

Mio nods, her fingers brushing the rim of her cup. "Sure."

Ritsu leans back in her chair. Comfortable. Carefree. Effortlessly herself. Her fingers drum against the table. She's glowing, Mio thinks. Radiating something Mio doesn't understand. Can't understand.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Ritsu. The wild one. The reckless one. The one who used to tease Mio about the mere mention of love.

Now she's the one who laughs about Taro. Talks about him with that light in her eyes. The kind that makes everything look easy. Simple.

And Mio. She's here. With Kenji. Nice, kind, patient Kenji.

But she doesn't feel it. Not the light. Not the ease. Not the natural, glowing thing that makes Ritsu grin like this.

Mio takes a breath. "So, how's Taro?" she asks.

Ritsu launches into a story about the arcade. The band. His silly, excited energy.

Mio listens. Or pretends to. Her eyes wander back to the couple. They're holding hands now.

When Mio thinks of holding hands with Kenji, all she feels is... tired.

And that makes her feel guilty.

Because Kenji doesn't deserve that. He deserves someone who's excited to see him. Someone who feels that spark.

Mio doesn't feel a spark. Not even a flicker. It's not that she doesn't like him. She does. It's just...

Nothing.

She stirs her tea. Around. And around. Watching the little whirlpool form and disappear with each lap of the spoon.

"It's fine," she mutters, though it isn't. "Must be nice."

"What?"

Mio glances up. Ritsu's head is tilted, her expression open.

"What must be nice?"

Mio grips the spoon tighter. She could say nothing. Change the subject. Or laugh it off like she always does.

But Ritsu is her best friend. And Ritsu doesn't let her hide.

Mio exhales slowly, the words catching in her throat before finally tumbling out.

"You and Taro," she begins. "You make it look so easy."

Ritsu grins instantly, leaning back in her chair, arms folding behind her head. "Well, duh. We're perfect." She grins. "What? You jealous of our love life?"

Mio feels the heat creep up her neck. "No."

Too quickly.

Ritsu raises an eyebrow.

"Oh, you totally are." Her smirk is almost cruel. "Spill it. What's going on?"

Mio hesitates. Ritsu waits. The café hums around them—spoons clinking against mugs, conversations overlapping. Normal. Everyday noises.

Mio wets her lips. Looks down. Looks up again.

"Well," she begins, hesitant, "it's just... Kenji and I..."

Ritsu's eyes light up like she's just discovered a secret stash of cake. "Ohhh, trouble in paradise?"

Mio shoots her a look.

Ritsu laughs, waving her off. "Okay, okay, I'll be serious. What's up?"

"How do you..." Mio trails off. She stares at her tea, suddenly wishing it could swallow her whole. "How do you handle all the... touching?"

Ritsu's grin freezes.

"Touching?"

Oh god.

"Yeah." Mio swallows hard. "Aren't you ever nervous about... you know... the physical stuff?"

Ritsu blinks at her. Once. Twice.

And then bursts out laughing.

Mio's face burns. She waves her hands frantically. "No! It's not like that. I mean, it's just—" She lowers her voice, glancing around as if someone might overhear. As if the entire café isn't already too busy with their own lives. "I feel like I'm bad at it. Like, really bad."

Ritsu snorts. "Bad at what? Kissing? Hugging? Seducing? What are we talking about here?"

"Ritsu!" Mio's voice is a strangled hiss. "I knew this was a mistake."

"Hey, you brought it up!" Ritsu grins, leaning closer. "So... you're trying to spice up your relationship with Kenji?"

"No! I mean... yes. I mean—ugh, just shut up."

Ritsu lets out a bark of laughter. Mio wants to die. Right there. At that moment.

"Forget I said anything. I shouldn't have—"

"No, no, wait!" Ritsu wipes a tear from the corner of her eye, still giggling. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It's just—Mio, you're blushing right now!"

"I am not!" Mio mutters, though she knows it's true. Her face is burning.

"You totally are!" Ritsu is still laughing. "No wonder you can't handle intimacy—you can't even talk about it without turning into a tomato."

Mio glares at her. "I'm trying to be serious, Ritsu."

"I am being serious!" Ritsu says, leaning forward. "You wanna know why you have problems with physical contact? It's because you can't even say the word 'intimacy' without combusting."

Mio feels like she's going to melt into the floor. Why did she think of telling Ritsu anything.

Ritsu blinks twice. "Wait—you and Kenji haven't been...?"

Mio feels the urge to crawl under the table and disappear. "No, we have!" she rushes to say, her hands flailing slightly. "It's just... I get... tense."

"Tense?"

Mio nods, embarrassed by how ridiculous she sounds. "It's just... I don't know. Everything's fine with us, but when it comes to... physical stuff, I struggle. He tries to hold my hand, or cuddle, or kiss me, or—and I... I freeze up. I want to enjoy it, but my body just... reacts on its own."

"So, what's really going on? You're telling me Kenji's too touchy for you?"

Ritsu's voice is casual, her tone teasing but not harsh. It settles in the air, challenging, familiar. Mio doesn't meet her eyes.

"It's not that I don't like him," she says, voice quieter than she intended. She fidgets, her fingers brushing against the hem of her sleeve. "I do. But... every time he tries to be... affectionate, I just—" She stops. Inhales. "I tense up."

Ritsu leans forward, chin propped on her hand. Waiting.

"It's not like I don't want to," Mio continues, her words more rushed now, tripping over one another. "I want to like it. I want to feel... comfortable. But I can't. My body just—doesn't cooperate."

Her cheeks are hot. Burning, really. She forces herself to look up, but Ritsu's staring at her with a look that's unreadable. For a moment, she thinks maybe she's said too much. Then Ritsu bursts out laughing.

"Mio," Ritsu says, between snickers. "You can't even talk about this without turning red! How are you supposed to be comfortable with it?"

The heat spreads to the tips of her ears. "That's not helpful."

Ritsu shrugs, still grinning. "I'm just saying. Maybe it's not something you need to push. Not everyone's all touchy-feely like me. Maybe that's just not your style."

"But I want it to be," Mio says, voice rising a little. "I want to enjoy it like he does. Like you all do. I want to feel normal."

Ritsu's grin fades, replaced by something thoughtful. "So, you're saying you can't relax when you're all lovey-dovey with him? That's pretty normal for you, right? You're, like, shyer than a shadow at noon."

Mio glares. "I'm not that shy anymore, okay? I've changed."

"Uh-huh."

"I just don't know why I'm still... awkward about this."

Ritsu leans back, arms crossed over her chest. She tilts her head, her eyes narrowing like she's solving a puzzle. "So... what, it feels like a chore?"

The word stings, but Mio nods miserably. "Yeah. I tell myself it'll get better, that I'll relax eventually, but... ugh." She presses her fingers to her temples, closing her eyes. "It's so frustrating. I feel bad. Like I'm letting him down."

Silence stretches between them. Mio hears the faint hum of passing traffic outside. Then Ritsu sighs.

"Have you told him?" Ritsu asks. "That it makes you uncomfortable?"

"He knows," Mio says, opening her eyes again. "And he tries to be patient. But I can tell it bothers him. I can't blame him for that, though."

Ritsu watches her carefully. "So what's the real problem, then? Is it just the shyness?"

Mio shakes her head. "I don't know. I mean... I'm not as shy as I used to be, right? I've grown. But with this, it's like... like there's a wall I can't get over."

"You're thinking too much," Ritsu says. "You need to stop trying to force it. Let things happen naturally."

"I am trying," Mio says, frustration slipping into her tone. "But it's not that simple. Not for me."

Ritsu taps her chin, eyes narrowing again. "Hmmm... Well, have you tried being crazy? You know, just let go and stop overthinking everything. You've always been too in your head, Mio. Maybe you need to let loose. Let the second year of uni turn you into a wild woman."

Mio deadpans. "Yeah, because that's totally going to solve all my problems."

Ritsu grins, reaching over to ruffle Mio's hair. "It might! Who knows? Maybe you just need more practice."

Mio huffs, swatting Ritsu's hand away. "I don't think more practice is going to help. It's not like I don't want to feel close to him. I do! I really do. But when it happens... my body just won't cooperate. It's like I shut down."

"That's because you're always thinking too much. Live a little!"

"You make it sound so easy."

"That's because it is! Now you've got the second year of university ahead of you. Time to let loose, Mio. Do something wild. Trust me, it'll help."

"Right, like that's gonna happen."

"I'm serious! You've already come a long way, y'know. But you do need to loosen up a bit. Second year of university? That's prime time to get a little crazy."

Mio gives her a flat look. "That's easy for you to say."

"Look, Mio. You've always been the serious one. The careful one. But maybe you don't need to be so careful all the time. Maybe... try letting yourself go, even just a little. See what happens."

Ritsu pauses, just long enough for Mio to let her guard down. Then—

"Or, you know, you could just join me and Taro sometime. We'll show you how it's done."

Mio's face turns redder than it's ever been. "RITSU!"

"What? I'm just offering!"

"I'm never asking you for advice again."

"Why not?"

"Because you're not helping!"

"Sure I am. You just don't like my advice."

"Yeah, yeah. Just... don't tell the others, okay?"

Ritsu zips an imaginary line across her lips. "Your secret's safe with me. But seriously, you need to chill out more. And stop blushing every time we talk about this stuff. You're way too easy to tease."

"I hate you."

"Love you too, Mio-san. So, are you excited for tomorrow? New semester, new faces, new ways to embarrass yourself?"

"I'd rather not embarrass myself, thanks."

"Too late for that! Remember last semester when you—"

The café door swings open, cutting Ritsu off. The rest of the gang streams in like a gust of wind. Yui is first, bouncing with energy, followed by Mugi's calm steps and Azusa's cautious stride. Azusa looks like she's carrying the weight of a semester already, and it hasn't even started.

"Mio-chan! Ricchan!" Yui's voice rings out. Her eyes sparkle, her smile too big for the small café.

"Yo, Yui!" Ritsu waves back.

Mio raises a hand. Smiles. The sight of them together again it's comforting.

Yui drops into the seat next to Ritsu. Mugi and Azusa slide in on Mio's side. The table feels cramped now. In a good way.

"Hi, Mio-chan, Ricchan," Mugi says, her voice sweet and soft as always.

"Hello, senpais," Azusa greets, her tone polite. Always polite. Always so formal, even now.

"Tomorrow's the big day!" Yui chirps. "College! All of us, together again!"

Mio's smile widens. "Yeah. It's exciting."

"Well, you've been going for a year already, Yui," Ritsu points out. "But yeah, tomorrow's the real deal for Azusa here."

Azusa looks at the table, her fingers clasping her bag tightly. "I'm nervous," she admits. "Living in the dorms, balancing classes, the Light Music Club... University feels like a whole other level."

Mio can see it. The weight pressing on Azusa's shoulders. It reminds her of how she felt back then. The uncertainty, the anxiety. But Azusa has always been strong. Stronger than she knows.

"Don't worry, Nakano!" Ritsu says. "College isn't that different from high school. Except for all the responsibility. And no one cares if you skip class."

Mio rolls her eyes. "That's not helpful, Ritsu."

"You'll be fine, Azusa-chan." Mugi smiles at Azusa. "It's just a new chapter. You'll get the hang of it in no time."

Ritsu sniffs dramatically. "Our little kouhai, all grown up."

Mio glances at her. "She's probably more responsible than you," she says, deadpan.

"Hey!" Ritsu protests, sitting up. "I'm not that bad! Besides, Azusa's too serious sometimes. Maybe college will loosen her up a little."

Azusa frowns. "I'm not too serious."

"You wrote a full practice schedule for the Wakaba Girls during winter break," Ritsu teases.

"Okay, maybe I am that serious," Azusa admits.

Mio ignores Ritsu's teasing. Turns to Azusa instead. "How are you really feeling? Ready for college?"

Azusa hesitates. She exhales, her shoulders slumping. "I think so. I'm still figuring things out. I mean, there's the Wakaba Girls, the university Light Music Club, classes... Living in the dorms for the first time."

"It'll be fine, Azu-nyan!" Yui says, leaning over the table to pat Azusa's head. "You're going to do great!"

Azusa smiles faintly. "I hope so. But mostly, I'm excited. I can't wait to join the Light Music Club again with you all." She pauses. Laughs nervously. "It'll be weird, though, not being president anymore. But honestly? I'm kind of relieved."

"Yeah, well, you never liked being president anyway," Ritsu says, snickering.

Azusa blushes. "I wasn't bad. But I wasn't great at managing everything either."

Mio sighs. "Well, our university's Light Music Club president last year wasn't exactly the best either. She was... kind of disorganized."

"At least Ritsu-senpai isn't the president at university."

Before Mio can agree, Ritsu leans back, arms crossed, with a smug grin. "Actually—"

Four pairs of eyes turn to her. Waiting.

"Kana and Chiyo had to step down. So guess who's back in charge?"

Azusa pales. "No."

"Oh yes," Ritsu replies, her grin widening. "I talked to Akira, and she's going to be co-president. So, you know, I'll be the captain of chaos."

Azusa groans, slumping forward. "I thought I'd finally escape your chaos. But now it's going to follow me to college."

"Don't worry, Azu-nyan! It'll be fun!" Yui chimes in, patting her head again.

Azusa doesn't look convinced. "I thought I was free..."

Ritsu gasps dramatically, one hand clutching her chest. "How could you say that? I was an amazing president! Right, Mio?"

Mio doesn't even look up. "You were... something."

Mugi giggles behind her teacup. She always does this. That serene, knowing smile on her face. "Akira-chan will keep things under control. She's very reliable."

Azusa perks up. "I'm looking forward to seeing her again. I really liked their concert during the break. Wada-senpai, Yoshida-senpai, and Hayashi-senpai... They're really good."

Yui nods too enthusiastically. "Akira-chan's the best! She's so cool and good at guitar!"

"They're very talented," Mugi agrees, setting her cup down. Perfectly. Always perfectly. "Akira-chan wants to be a professional musician, actually."

Azusa's eyes widen. "Really? That's amazing! It's nice to know someone takes music seriously."

Ritsu scoffs loudly. "Excuse me, Nakano. Are you saying we don't take music seriously?"

"I take sweets seriously," Yui cuts in, face completely deadpan.

Azusa doesn't miss a beat. "I mean, even if we don't have the same ambitions as Onna Gumi, we could... take it more seriously."

"I take offense to that," Ritsu says. But she's grinning.

Mio sighs. "She's not wrong, though."

Mugi's smile doesn't falter. It never does. "As long as we're having fun, that's what matters."

Ritsu leans back. Her arms cross. "She's got a point, you know."

Mio looks away.

Azusa looks skeptical.

Yui just hums, "What if the new members are better than us and make us look bad?"

Ritsu smirks. "As if that would ever happen. We're legends."

Mio doesn't respond. She lets the words wash over her. The teasing. The back-and-forth. The familiar rhythm of it all.

It's light. It's fun. And it's hers.

She smiles.

She's missed this.

The easy laughter. The way they always, somehow, balance each other out.

She leans back in her seat, just a little more relaxed. The nervous energy from earlier? Fading. Slowly.

It's good to be here. With them. Even if she has to leave early. Even if she has to leave before anyone else notices. To see Kenji.

Even if she really doesn't want to.

Because she has a boyfriend now. And that's what she's supposed to do.

---

It's quiet as Mio walks down the street to Kenji's house.

The early evening air tugs at her hair as Mio walks. It's cool, refreshing. But it does little to lift her mood.

Her social battery is at rock bottom.

The day has been long. Yui's antics. Azusa's fretting. Ritsu's constant teasing. Mugi's cheerful hums. Mio adores her friends, but right now, she feels like the quiet is a gift she desperately needs.

Still, she's heading to Kenji's. It's the responsible thing to do, she tells herself. Spend time with him before the semester starts. Before their lives grow busier. Clubs. Classes. Friends. Different paths. Different places.

Same relationship.

Kenji's house is just ten minutes away. Not far. A short walk through quiet streets she knows too well. It's convenient. That's the word. Convenient.

It seems like a cosmic coincidence. Tokyo is huge. But she wasn't surprised at the time.

She remembers the first time they met.

A live house in Sakuragaoka. A small gig. Nothing big. She still gets nervous before gigs. The kind of nervous that crawls under her skin, coils tight in her chest, and lingers. But that night, like so many others, the stage felt like a shield. The bass in her hands. The vibrations under her fingertips. Her fingers drawing music from taut strings. Her voice weaving into the melody.

For those moments, she isn't shy. Isn't awkward. Isn't Akiyama Mio, who avoids the stares and fumbles through words. She's just Mio.

The music fades. And then, after. The crowd. The noise. The noise after takes over. Voices, loud and brash. Strangers' faces, unfamiliar and invasive. Congratulating her. Staring at her.

The stares.

She hates them. Always has. Always will.

It makes her skin prickle, her chest tighten. She always feels naked under their gaze. Exposed.

She remembers seeing him in that sea of eyes.

Kenji.

He wasn't like the others. His gaze wasn't sneaky or indelicate. It felt steady. Safe. Handsome, too. He smiled at her. A wide smile, surrounded by a bit of stubble.

He was with Taro that night. Two best friends, drawn to two best friends. Ritsu clicked with Taro like puzzle pieces snapping into place. Loud, extroverted Taro. A mirror image of Ritsu, but a boy. They disappeared into the noise, leaving her with Kenji.

They talked. He asked about her music. She doesn't remember what he said, exactly. Just the feeling. The way his laugh filled the silences she couldn't. He made a joke. Something forgettable. Something she laughed at anyway. A distraction from the leering gazes still crawling over her skin.

She's more confident now and not as socially awkward, but she's still shy. She's still herself. And that's not going to change. But that's okay, because Kenji fills the silences she doesn't know how to fill with laughter, questions, and comments. He is studying Marketing, she learned. She said she is studying Music Education. He found that endearing. He had short, side-parted black hair, wavy bangs, brown eyes, and a wide smile surrounded by a three-day beard.

For the first time since she left the stage, she feels comfortable.

"Can I get you a drink?" he had asked.

She declined politely. She can't drink—not that she would. Not with someone she doesn't know. Alcohol probably would make her feel strange—like she's slipping out of herself, losing control. She would only drink with her closest friends. When she's safe.

"Something else, then?" he'd offered.

That was considerate. Mio liked that. Liked him. Enough to exchange numbers.

Heading home, Ritsu teased her mercilessly. "You exchanged numbers, huh? Look at you, Mio! So bold!"

Mio had blushed. Profusely.

Kenji called her the next day. Then the day after. And the one after that. His voice became familiar. Comforting. A constant presence in her life.

Six months passed.

Mio knocks on the door.

The smell of coffee greets her the moment it opens. His dad's habit, brewing it all the time. Even when no one's drinking it.

Kenji is smiling. Wide and warm. "Hey, Mio," he says, leaning in to kiss her.

She leans in, too. A little. Just enough.

"Hey," she replies, stepping inside.

Her shoes come off neatly by the door. Kenji starts walking, and she follows.

She always follows.

They reach his room.

The walls. Covered in movie posters. The videocamera perched on the shelf like a prized trophy. There's personality here. Something consistent. Steady. She's always liked that about him. He doesn't change. He's reliable.

Her eyes catch on the suitcase by the bed. She wonders if it's new or if it's the same one he used last semester. It looks scuffed at the corners.

They sit. The mattress dips beneath them, and the room feels smaller. His voice, though. Easy. Relaxed. That's Kenji. Steady. Like the room. Like him.

"Packed for the semester yet?" he asks.

She nods. "Almost. Just need to check everything tonight."

"Of course you do. Always prepared, Mio." He leans back on his elbows. Casual. Like this is how it's always been.

"What about you?" she asks. "Finished packing?"

"Almost. I'll get it done after you leave. No rush."

Relaxed. Everything about him is relaxed. She envies that sometimes.

"Sounds nice," she says. "Relaxing."

"I know, right?" He smirks. "You should try it sometime."

Her lips twitch into a half-smile. He always says things like that. A gentle nudge. A joke. Nothing sharp or cutting. Just easy.

"So," he continues, "ready for the new semester? Clubs, classes, all of it?"

"Yeah." She nods again. "Looking forward to it."

"You're rejoining the Light Music Club, I'm guessing?"

"Of course," Mio says. Her voice lightens. "Ritsu's going to be president this year."

Kenji's eyebrows shoot up. "No way."

"Way," Mio says, sighing. "It's going to be a disaster. We're packed with new stuff at college, and Ritsu has zero organizational skills. Akira is going to be co-president, though. I hope she keeps her in line."

Mio sees in Kenji's eyes how he is trying to place Akira in his mind. "Ah, Onna Gumi's guitarist!"

"Yeah, that's her."

"She seems reliable."

"She is. More than Ritsu, at least. Although that's not difficult."

"And you? Still keeping up with bass?" he asks.

Her eyes brighten, and she straightens just slightly. "Of course. I couldn't imagine not playing. It's everything to me."

He chuckles. "Yeah, I know. You'd lose your mind without it. Will you be too busy?"

"I'll be writing new songs too." Or so I hope. "So there's that."

"That's good. I always like hearing your songs."

They fall into rhythm.

Kenji talks about Taro. About the film club. About movies he wants to see. His voice fills the space between them, steady and warm. Mio listens. Nods when she should. Laughs when he makes a joke. She's good at this—listening. Being here. Being with him.

It works. It's always worked.

"So," he says, after a pause, "I was thinking. Once we settle in, maybe we could go on more dates. Even with the semester being busy."

"Yeah. That sounds nice."

"We could see that action movie Taro keeps raving about. I know you're more into romcoms, but I think you'd like it."

Mio gives a small laugh. "I don't mind trying something new."

Kenji smiles at her.

Then he leans in. Kisses her. Soft. Gentle. Familiar.

And she kisses back.

In her mind, she's here. Kissing him. Because she wants to.

But her body tells a different story.

Her body stiffens, moving through the motions like clockwork. 

When he pulls away, he's smiling. Steady. Reliable. Just like always.

Mio smiles again. And wonders why it doesn't feel the same.

Kenji's hand is warm in hers. Too warm. It's solid and steady, grounding in a way Mio knows she should appreciate, but it doesn't comfort her. It feels heavy. The knot is back. Twisting, tightening in her stomach. The familiar one. The one that's always there when they're alone.

She wants to love him. She really does.

Mio swallows, her eyes dropping to where their hands are linked. His thumb brushes over her knuckles, and she tells herself this is nice. This is normal. This is what couples do.

So why doesn't it feel that way?

Kenji's voice breaks the silence. "Did you watch that movie I recommended last week?"

Mio shakes her head, relieved by the change in conversation. "No, I didn't get the chance. But I'll watch it soon."

"You should," he says, smiling. "It's really good. We could watch it together sometime."

"Sure," Mio replies. Her voice feels distant, not her own. "I'll let you know when I have time."

He shifts closer. She doesn't move. Doesn't pull away.

His smile lingers, soft and patient. "Maybe next week? When things settle down?"

She nods. This is fine, she tells herself. You like spending time with him. You do. You're just tired.

Kenji leans in. His lips meet hers again.

Mio's eyes flutter shut, and she tells herself to relax. It's a kiss. Just a kiss. She's kissed him before. It's fine. She kisses him back, her hands moving to his shoulders. But it feels mechanical.

At first, it is. His lips are gentle. Not too much. Not too fast. She leans into it, just a little, lets herself pretend for a moment that this is what she wants. That this is what she likes.

Kenji's hand slides up her arm. Slowly. Softly.

Mio stiffens. Not much. Barely noticeable, she hopes. But she hates it. Hates how her body reacts, no matter how hard she tries to override it.

Relax, Mio. It's Kenji. You like him. He's your boyfriend. He's good to you.

This is what couples do.

But the more she tries to convince herself, the more tense she becomes.

He's kissing her neck now, and she lets him. She doesn't really like it, but she doesn't move away, doesn't tell him to stop. This is what girlfriends are supposed to do. And Kenji's a good guy. He's patient with her, kind. He doesn't push.

But her body isn't cooperating. Her muscles tighten, rigid beneath his touch, her breath coming out a little faster, not with excitement, but with something else. Her heart pounds, but not the way it's supposed to.

His lips press harder, more eager now. His hand rests on her waist, fingers warm through the fabric of her shirt. It's not too much, not aggressive—just a touch. Just him holding her like he's supposed to. Still, the tension in her body builds. She tries to push the feeling away.

Don't think about it.

His fingers trace her neck, ghosting over her skin. A gentle brush. A soft caress. Mio swallows against the unease curling in her stomach. She should like this. She should melt into it.

She doesn't.

His mouth moves higher, pressing into the spot just below her ear. A kiss, then another, slow and deliberate. She feels the heat of his breath, the weight of his affection, the warmth of his palm through her shirt as it moves slightly higher. Mio feels herself tensing up again. Her body stiffens before she can stop it.

Don't think about it. Don't ruin this.

Kenji doesn't notice. Or maybe he does, but chooses to believe otherwise. His lips leave her neck, find hers again, eager and insistent. He kisses her harder, his mouth pressing into hers with urgency. Mio kisses him back, forces herself to match his pace. Because this is what girlfriends are supposed to do. Her body is reacting in ways she doesn't want it to, but she tells herself it's okay.

It's fine. I want this. I should want this.

His hand slips under her shirt, resting on her bare skin. And suddenly, it's not fine.

Mio's body jerks, a reflex, her muscles tensing involuntarily. She pulls back slightly, and Kenji freezes. His hand stops moving, his lips hover over hers, waiting.

Kenji stops.

"Mio..." His voice is gentle. Careful. But there's something else there, too. A crack in the patience. Disappointment? Frustration? She can't tell.

"I'm sorry," Mio blurts out. She sits up straighter, pulling away just enough to put space between them. "I—I don't know why I'm like this."

Kenji watches her, silent for a beat too long. Then he shakes his head. "It's okay," he says. but his tone isn't convincing. He's trying, but Mio can hear the hurt underneath.  "I know you're shy. I get that. I know it's hard for you sometimes—"

"It's not you."

Mio says it too quickly. Her voice, too desperate. Her hands, too still in her lap.

"I don't want you to think it's you," she says again.

Kenji doesn't react the way she hopes. He smiles, small and unsure, his hand reaching for hers like he's trying to bridge something.

"Don't worry about it," he says, but his voice is a bit off. His hand lingers, tentative, on hers. "Should we stop? Or do you want to keep going?"

Mio opens her mouth. No words come out. Closes it. Tries again. The room feels like it's folding in on her, every second stretching impossibly long. She doesn't want to hurt him. She doesn't want to say no.

She doesn't want this, either.

"Sorry," she whispers. She doesn't know what for. Her lips part again, moving on their own. "I'm fine. Keep going."

Kenji hesitates. The smile returns, smaller this time, fragile and unsteady. He leans in. Mio closes her eyes. Braces herself. Tries to will herself into feeling something other than the tension building in every corner of her body.

Their lips meet.

Warmth. Pressure. Movement. Kenji is careful, his kisses soft and measured, but Mio can't stop cataloging every detail like a scientist documenting an experiment.

Warmth. Pressure. Movement.

Her body stiffens. Kenji's hands are on her shoulders now, hesitant, sliding down her arms like he's testing how far he can go. She knows he's trying not to push. He always tries not to push.

And she hates that it doesn't help.

He pulls her closer. Shifts. Adjusts. His weight presses her down against the bed. Their lips don't part.

Mio feels the boundary in her head, the invisible line she's drawn over and over. She wants to want this. She wants to feel something—anything—that makes her lean into him instead of pulling away inside herself.

Kenji pulls back, just enough to look at her. His breath brushes against her cheek. "It'll be a while before we get time like this again," he says. His voice is lower now.

Mio's mind starts to race.

She knows what he means. Classes, clubs, exams, busy schedules, less time for each other. This moment—just the two of them—feels like something they should be cherishing. Something they should be leaning into.

She forces herself to nod. To relax. To act. This is what couples do. This is what she's supposed to want. This is what she should want. Because this—this is—

Normal.

This is normal.

This is what normal feels like.

Kenji leans in again, and this time, his lips part. His tongue brushes hers, and her entire body recoils.

She tenses, but he doesn't stop. His hands are warmer now, firmer, slipping under her shirt, fingers grazing the bare skin of her stomach. Her imperfect stomach. She feels him pause when his fingers graze her bare skin. Her imperfect skin.

Mio lets him. They've been here before—kissing, touching, yet always stopping before things go too far. That boundary, the invisible line she's drawn in her head, looms larger than ever today.

They won't have this kind of privacy again for a while.

This is the moment. She knows it. She feels it. And a part of her—just a small, hesitant part—wants to let it happen. To give in. To be the person she's supposed to be. The kind of girlfriend who knows what to do. The kind of person who can go along with this.

But there's another part of her. Louder.

No.

The word echoes in her head. It screams. It digs in its heels and refuses to budge.

Mio's chest tightens, her breath quickens, and she knows she's overthinking. She always overthinks.

She should be able to do this, shouldn't she? She should want this. She's his girlfriend. That's what people do. They move forward. They take steps.

But is this her step? Is this her moment? Now? Here?

She thought she was ready. She likes Kenji, doesn't she? He's kind. He's patient. He's understanding. He's been all the things she told herself she needed.

So why does everything feel so wrong?

The room feels too small. His body feels too close. His touch feels too much.

The walls close in.

Her body tenses under his. Her pulse thrums in her ears. She feels his weight shift, just slightly, as he adjusts over her. His hand brushes her shirt. A casual movement. Like it's nothing.

But it isn't nothing. It's too fast. She's not ready. Her heart hammers. She's not ready. Her fingers curl into the bedsheets beneath her.

She's not sure she ever will be.

Her first time shouldn't be like this. Not rushed. Not something done just because it's convenient. It should be special. Magical.

Kenji's hand moves again. Another brush, deliberate this time, fingers edging beneath the fabric of her shirt.

Something presses against her hip, through his pants.

She panics.

It's the same panic, the same fear she can never quite explain.

Kenji slows.

His movements, his breath, his hands—everything softens, as if sensing her hesitation. The kisses are gentler now. Deliberate. Testing the waters.

But it doesn't help.

Every time his tongue brushes hers, her body recoils. It's subtle. Involuntary. Like a whisper of a warning she doesn't understand. Her heart pounds, not in excitement but in something else. Something heavier.

His hand moves higher again. It's light. Barely there. The graze of his fingers against the underband of her bra.

And yet.

Her body stiffens. Again. Without thought. Without choice. Her mind says this is fine. Her boyfriend. Her partner. She should want this.

But her body decides otherwise.

Stop.

Stop.

"Kenji, stop," she breathes out.

Her voice is unsteady. Quiet. But it carries enough weight to make him pause. He pulls back immediately, giving her space. Giving her air. His chest rises and falls, his breath shaky as he searches her face.

"What's wrong?"

She shakes her head, heat rising to her cheeks. The shame. The guilt. It's crawling up her throat, and she hates it.

"I... I—I can't. I'm sorry. I just..." Her voice breaks, and she lowers her eyes. "I'm not ready."

Kenji exhales, long and slow. He nods, not out of frustration but something quieter. Something closer to disappointment.

"Okay," he says. "We don't have to."

He's kind. Too kind.

It only makes her guilt worse. Her chest tightens as she nods, her lips parting to say thank you, but the words stick. She feels selfish. She feels small. She wishes she could be different.

Why can't I just relax?

Why can't I enjoy this?

Mio sits up, pulling her shirt back down. She looks at him again, words forming on her lips, but they stay unspoken.

"I'm sorry," she whispers instead.

Kenji sits up and shakes his head, offering her a small, fragile smile. "You don't have to apologize, Mio. It's fine."

It's not fine.

They both know it's not fine.

The silence between them feels loud. Unbearable. She wants to explain. Wants to say she doesn't understand why this happens. Why her body feels like a stranger she can't reason with. But the words won't come.

And so, they sit. Two people separated by inches, yet miles apart.

Kenji watches her for a moment. Quiet, unreadable. Then he sighs and leans back against the headboard. She follows, folding her knees to her chest. He doesn't push. She's grateful for that. But the silence feels heavy. Suffocating.

And all Mio can think is:

Why does this keep happening?

There's a wall between her and his affection. Thick, impenetrable. She doesn't know why.

Kenji looks at her. "You know... you don't have to force yourself, Mio."

She turns to him. Her stomach sinks. "I'm not forcing it," she says. The words feel hollow. A lie she doesn't fully believe.

Because she wants this to work. She really does.

But her body won't listen.

Kenji shakes his head, his voice soft. "It's okay. I'm not upset or anything. I just don't want you to feel like you have to—"

"I know." She cuts him off, her tone sharper than intended. She knows. Of course, she knows.

He's patient. Always patient. And that makes it worse.

How long can someone wait for a partner who flinches at their touch?

The quiet returns, loud in its weight. Mio leans her head on his shoulder. Tries to ignore the ache in her chest. He wraps an arm around her, his hold light.

She likes him. She does. But there's this space between them. This uncrossable gap. No amount of kissing or touching seems to bridge it.

What's wrong with her? Why can't she just enjoy it?

Kenji is kind. Affectionate. Attentive. And every time he touches her, her body seizes. Her muscles tense, her heart pounds, her mind spirals. She doesn't know why.

She wants to want this. To feel normal. To kiss him without panic threading through her veins. To love him the way he deserves.

But it feels like they're stuck in a dance she can't follow.

Minutes pass. The air grows heavier. Mio forces a smile. It feels strained. Plastic. "I should go," she says, shifting to her feet. "I still have to finish packing."

Kenji chuckles. "Always so responsible." He stands with her. "I'll walk you home."

---

They walk together. The streets are quiet, the night cool. Kenji fills the silences with easy conversation, his voice steady.

Mio listens. Sort of.

She wonders if he talks so much to fill the void she can't.

When they reach her place, Kenji leans in, his lips soft against hers. Gentle. Too gentle. Like he's reminding her of what she's supposed to feel. What she wants to feel.

"I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"

Mio nods. "Yeah. Talk soon. Goodnight, Kenji."

He smiles. Leans in again, a quick kiss this time, and waves goodbye. She watches him walk away. The sun behind him, low and fading. His silhouette blends into the light.

She doesn't move.

Her feet feel heavy, rooted to the pavement. Then, instinct takes over, and she climbs the stone steps to her door. One. Two. Three. Inside, the door clicks shut behind her, and she leans against it. Her breath comes out slowly, shaky. The tension in her shoulders eases.

But the guilt stays.

"Mio-chan, welcome home! You look tired." Her mother's voice echoes from the hallway.

Mio stares at the ceiling, willing herself to answer. To move.

Her mother appears, a warm smile lighting her face. "How are things with the girls? Nervous about tomorrow?"

Mio finally looks at her, blinking away the weight in her chest. "Mostly Azusa."

"Oh, right, she's starting this year, isn't she?"

Mio nods. "She gets flustered easily in new environments." 

Her mother chuckles. "Sounds familiar."

Mio frowns. "I wasn't that bad."

Her mother just smiles knowingly.

Silence settles between them. Her mother hesitates. Then, carefully: "And Kenji? Did you two have fun?"

The question hangs in the air. Mio lowers her gaze. She knows why her mother's asking. She doesn't want to. But she has to. She's their only child. They trust her. And six months isn't long, but it isn't short either.

"Hn," is all she says.

Her mother presses lightly. "Are you going to miss him?"

A pause. "Yes. Of course." Another pause. "But we'll hang out on weekends. We'll be fine."

Will they?

"Do you want some dinner?"

Mio shakes her head, already moving toward the stairs. "I'm okay, Mama. I'm not hungry. I think I'll go to bed early. Tomorrow's a busy day."

Her mother doesn't push, and Mio is grateful. She climbs the stairs, her legs heavy with every step. Her room feels far away.

Kenji wanted more today.

The thought lingers, sharp and invasive. She can't push it away. She keeps replaying it. How her body froze when he leaned closer. How she wanted to like it. Wanted to relax. Wanted to feel something other than discomfort.

She didn't.

It's frustrating. So frustrating. It's not fair. Not to him. Not to her. Kenji deserves someone better. Someone who doesn't flinch when touched. Someone who doesn't hold back without meaning to.

He's patient. Too patient. But she saw it in his eyes tonight. That flicker of frustration he tried to hide.

Her skin prickles at the memory. Her fingers brush against her neck, imagining his lips there. She shudders. Her hand drops. Her body reacts before her mind can stop it.

She hates it.

She hates that even now, alone in her room, her body tenses at the thought of him. Of what he wants. Of what she can't give. Her mind pulls one way; her body pulls the other.

She couldn't even kiss him back tonight. Not properly.

It should have been different. Should have felt right. Should have been normal.

It wasn't.

Mio lies back on her bed, her arms crossed over her chest, and stares at the ceiling. The guilt twists in her stomach, a knot she can't untangle.

It's not fair. To either of them.

She exhales, her breath unsteady, and closes her eyes. Tomorrow is another day. But tonight, she's still trapped here. In her thoughts. In her body. In her frustration.

She's restless. She can't sit still, can't stop thinking about it—about him. About how her body reacts on its own when he touches her. It's like her mind and body are on different planes, pulling in opposite directions.

She couldn't even kiss him back tonight.

She moves. Around the room. Again and again. Tidying things that don't need tidying. Adjusting corners of her bedspread. Opening her suitcase for the third time. Clothes. Check. Books. Check. Stationery. Check. Supplies. Check. Bass. Check.

It's all there. Everything she needs. For tomorrow. For university. For her second year.

Her eyes land on the notebook. The lyric notebook. Once full of songs. About love. About feelings she thought she understood.

Now, blank pages.

It's been months since she wrote anything. Every time she tries, the words slip away. Faint ideas. Gone before she can catch them.

She picks it up. Flips through it. The emptiness glares back. Taunting.

Should she pack it? Should she leave it behind?

Maybe university will bring back her muse. Maybe not.

She sighs. Tosses the notebook into her suitcase.

Pajamas. Brush teeth. Bathroom. Hair. It's all mechanical. Routine. Her body moves on autopilot, but her mind doesn't stop.

What is it? This block. This strange unease. Is it shyness, still? Or something deeper?

Her idea of love. Was it always this way? Did it always make her feel like this?

Vulnerable. Uncertain. Uncomfortable.

She wants to feel it. The romance. The magic. She wants to. But—

Every time Kenji touches her, something inside pulls back. Like a reflex. And it's not him. She knows it's not him. He's perfect. Kind. Patient. Gentle. Everything a boyfriend should be. And handsome, too.

So why can't she enjoy this?

Her eyes drift. To the mirror.

She stands. Walks. Slowly. Like something is pulling her.

She looks at herself.

The girl in the mirror looks back.

She's neat. Brushed. Presentable. Her dark hair frames her face just right. She looks calm. In control.

But something feels off.

What is it? She doesn't know.

She stares. A long moment.

She wants to be affectionate. With Kenji. Like anyone else would. She wants to. But she can't.

Her mind spins. The reasons. The doubts. Is it her? Is it him?

Is she broken?

She's always felt self-conscious. About her body. Maybe that's it.

Maybe she's afraid of what Kenji will think. If he sees her like that.

She looks away from the mirror. Back to her suitcase. Her lip quivers.

She doesn't even like looking at herself sometimes. So why would he?

The more she thinks about it, the more her chest tightens. Her fingers twitch, brushing against the fabric of her blanket. The room is quiet, the kind of quiet that makes her own thoughts too loud.

She wants to enjoy it. She wants to feel something. Anything. But her body—her stupid, betraying body—won't let her.

She presses her hands into her lap, curling them into fists. Is it her? Is she broken?

At sixteen, love was a dream. No, more than that. A force.

Something beautiful. Something abstract. Something worth writing about. She believed in it then. With all her heart. She thought she'd fall into it, like the perfect song, like gravity. She thought being with someone would light her up inside.

But now there's only the ache. The emptiness. The absence.

At sixteen, love was everything. At twenty, it feels like nothing.

How? How did she get here? How did she go from writing songs about the beauty of love, of friendship, of connection, to this? How did she go from being the hopeless romantic who blushed at every joke Ritsu made about couples, to... this ?

Love isn't supposed to feel hollow.

But she doesn't say that out loud. She doesn't even let herself think it too clearly. It's just nerves, she tells herself. Just shyness.

It has to be normal, right?

Kenji is good. He's kind. He listens. He takes her out on dates. He texts her every morning. He does everything right.

It's her.

It has to be her.

She swallows the thought, but it sticks in her throat.

What's wrong with me?

Her phone buzzes on the bedside table. She blinks.

Yui's messages. Ritsu's, too. Mugi. Even Azusa. They're all excited for tomorrow, the start of the semester, the new dorms, the chance to be together again.

It'll be like old times.

Mio smiles at the screen, but the smile feels strange.

She types out a quick reply, something light and cheerful. Something she wishes felt more like her.

Then there's Kenji's message. Simple. Sweet. 

Kenji ❤️

Kenji: Goodnight, Mio. Sleep well. Good luck tomorrow!

She doesn't respond.

Notes:

Hello, and welcome to this fic! If you've made it this far, thank you so much—I truly appreciate it. I hope you've been enjoying the story so far, and of course, reviews are always welcome!

This story is set right after K-ON! College and K-ON! High School. While I know K-ON!'s high school is based on a real one in Toyosato, I decided to have the girls live in Sakuragaoka, Tokyo. Why? Well, in the Kyoto trip episode, they see Mt. Fuji from the train, and according to Google Maps (unless Google lied to me), you wouldn't see Mt. Fuji on a train ride from Toyosato to Kyoto. So, for the sake of storytelling and a bit of geography-based headcanon, the high school is in Tokyo. Similarly, the university they attend is also in Tokyo in this story, just a short train ride from Sakuragaoka.

And yes, Mio's room does have a mirror! Here's the proof from the official art.

I know the K-ON! fandom is pretty quiet these days, but this story has been on my mind for years, and it feels amazing to finally bring it to life. If you've decided to give it a chance, thank you so much—it means the world to me! And as always, feel free to leave kudos and/or a comment if you'd like. I'd love to hear your thoughts! See you in the next chapter.

The Head and the Heart by The Head and the Heart was released on April 19, 2011.

Chapter 2: On a Mission

Summary:

Mio hands out flyers.

Notes:

This chapter dives deeper into the club dynamics while setting the stage for some new arrivals. I hope I've done justice to the K-ON! crew's chemistry—getting them just right is always a challenge, but I had a blast trying.

On A Mission, by Katy B, was released on April 1, 2011.

April 4, 2011

Mio is spacing out. Again.

The train jerks forward. Mio shifts in her seat, her reflection flickering in the window—dark hair, gray-blue eyes, pale skin. She stares at the faint image, distorted by the speed, by the trees and buildings flashing past.

The clacking of wheels forms a rhythm. She could almost set lyrics to it. If she didn't have writer's block.

Across from her, Yui and Ritsu are at it again. Loud. Laughing. Their voices tumble over each other, too much for a space this small. Whatever they're debating now, Mio doesn't know. Doesn't care.

She glances down at her phone. The message she sent this morning—Good luck today, too. Still unread.

An hour-long ride to the start of another year. An hour left to go.

A yell snaps her back.

"Look! A cat on the roof!" Yui presses her face to the window, her finger jabbing the glass. "Ricchan, did you see it?"

"Of course I saw it!" Ritsu sprawls in her seat, arms stretched wide, one draped lazily over Yui's shoulder. Her voice rises, attempting to match Yui's. "That cat's got nothing on me. I climbed higher than that when we were kids."

"You fell out of that tree," Mio mutters.

Ritsu grins. She hears. "And you cried when I did, don't forget!"

Mugi, sitting next to Mio, chuckles. Her smile, soft and amused, barely fades as she leans forward. "They're still the same, aren't they?"

"They should behave," Mio replies, sighing. "We're not the only ones on this train."

"Come on, Mio-chan, let them have fun," Mugi says. Her smile widens. "It's the first day back."

Mio raises an eyebrow. Mugi always finds the humor in those two's antics, no matter how inappropriate. It's both comforting and, in moments like these, slightly annoying.

Across from her, Azusa sits stiff and quiet. Her grip on her notes is strong, but it was before their senpai's antics.

Mio notices.

She remembers her own first train ride to college. Her stomach flipping with nerves. She wishes she could share that with Azusa, but the words feel tangled, heavy somehow. So, instead, she studies her for a bit.

Azusa now wears a single ponytail on one side. It's strange to see her like this, even though it's a style she wears more and more often. She assumes that Azusa wants to look more mature. Less childish than when she wears two ponytails. And it works.

The train bumps. The scenery shifts. Mio's gaze drifts back to the window, to the fleeting images outside, to the faint blur of her reflection.

Her friends' voices fill the space again. Mio listens. Watches. And wishes...

She doesn't know what she wishes for.

She drifts.

Kenji. His name finds her. Pulls her back to the hollow weight in her chest.

The way his hand feels when it brushes hers. The tension in her body when he kisses her cheek. When his fingers thread through her hair.

He's kind. So kind. He listens to her dreams. Her music. He says he likes her. Shows he loves her. She's supposed to love him too, right?

But she doesn't. Not the way she should.

Her body rejects him. Each touch. Each kiss. Every soft attempt. A reflex. A defense. Her muscles coil. A barrier. Unyielding.

She wants to love him.

Her mind tells her she does.

Her body says no.

"Oi, Mio!"

Ritsu's voice crashes through her thoughts.

She blinks. Looks up.

"You alive over there?" Ritsu's grin is teasing. "You're missing all the fun."

"What fun? You're just being loud."

"Honestly," Azusa mutters, still focused on her notes, "I thought you two would've matured by now."

Ritsu gasps, hand on her chest. Dramatic. "I am plenty mature! I just know how to have fun, too." She nudges Yui. "Right, Yui?"

Yui nods, hair bouncing. "Fun is the key to everything!"

Mio sighs. Rolls her eyes. They're the same.

Ritsu, with her boundless energy. Yui, always one step away from chaos. Mugi, sitting quietly, her smile indulgent. Azusa, the exasperated anchor trying to keep the group grounded.

And Mio.

Somewhere in between. Watching, thinking, feeling too much and saying too little.

"Mio-chan?"

Mugi's voice. Gentle. Concerned.

Mio startles, turning to her.

"Are you okay?"

The weight in Mugi's question is palpable. Mugi, always perceptive.

Mio swallows. What can she say? That she feels like a failure? That she's broken? That she's starting to wonder if she's even capable of love?

She forces a smile. "Yeah. I'm fine."

A lie.

"You sure?"

"Hn," Mio insists. She pauses. Hesitates. "I was just... thinking about Kenji." The words stumble out before she can stop them.

Mugi tilts her head, eyebrows raised. "Oh?"

Mio doesn't elaborate.

Mugi stares for a beat longer but lets it go. "I'm sure it'll be a good year," she says instead. Her voice is light. Reassuring. "Are you packed for the dorms?"

"Just the essentials. You know."

"Oh, essentials, she says," Ritsu cuts in, loud and teasing. "Bet she packed every notebook she owns."

"Unlike you," Mio shoots back, her tone attempting levity, "who probably didn't pack a single book."

"Who needs books? I'm here to make memories, not notes," Ritsu replies, leaning back with an exaggerated stretch.

"Ritsu-senpai, you're in university now. You're supposed to take it seriously."

"Yeah, Ricchan! University is serious business!" Yui pipes in, her voice bright and oblivious.

Azusa turns her narrowed gaze toward Yui. "Coming from you, Yui-senpai, that doesn't exactly mean much."

The train lurches slightly, its wheels screeching faintly against the tracks. Mio closes her eyes. Breathes in. Out. The rhythmic clatter of the train, though grating, is the only anchor she has.

The journey stretches, drags, elongates into what feels like an eternity. When the train finally arrives, it's almost a shock. Like waking up from a dream that's too vivid.

They step off the train, shoulders brushing in the crowded station, their voices rising and falling like waves. Suitcases roll behind them. Instruments, heavy and awkward, shift against backs.

Mio's phone buzzes in her bag. She hesitates. Pulls it out.

Her breath catches. For a second, she thinks it's Kenji. But it's not. Just a notification. Class group chat. Nothing personal. Nothing pressing.

She exhales. Quietly. Relieved. But the knot in her chest doesn't fully loosen.

Their voices swell again as they move toward the university, the air around them alive with chatter. Yui is talking animatedly about something Mio doesn't quite catch. Ritsu eggs her on. Mugi hums softly in agreement. Azusa mutters something under her breath.

Mio trails behind. Detached. Out of sync. Her thoughts tangle, looping endlessly in her mind.

She glances at Azusa. The younger girl's steps are slowing, her posture stiffening. Anxiety radiates off her in waves. Mio feels it like a second skin. Her protective instinct stirs, and she quickens her pace. Steps beside her.

A smile. Small. Assuring. Quiet. It says more than words could.

Azusa looks up. Then she relaxes. Just enough.

Mio's gaze shifts again. To Mugi. Always serene. Always composed. Watching Yui and Ritsu's antics with that soft smile. That warmth in her eyes, like nothing could be better. This chaos. This noise. This little world they've built together.

Mio's steps falter. Just slightly. She watches her friends.

The five of them. Together again.

A laugh bubbles up inside her, but she swallows it down.

---

When Mio wakes up from now on, she'll see an unfamiliar ceiling. When she opens the door, an unfamiliar hallway.

It's strange. Even though she spent more time in this room last year than at home. Even though it's supposed to feel familiar. Safe. Comfortable.

It doesn't.

It feels like a new life is waiting for her. One she has to fit into. One she isn't sure she's ready for.

Mio unpacks quickly—clothes folded neatly into drawers. Books stacked on the shelf beside her bed. Little things she might miss if they stayed hidden away too long. She knows Mugi and Azusa will do the same. She knows Yui and Ritsu won't. She knows Ritsu will tease her for doing it.

She arranges her desk. A couple of photo frames go on the shelf. One with the girls. One with Kenji.

She stops.

Her hand hovers over the frame with Kenji, fingers brushing the edge. She moves it behind the photo of the five of them together. Closer to where her eyes will land when she wakes up.

She steps back, tilting her head. She squints. Her fingers linger over the last frame—Ho-kago Tea Time. The five of them, smiling, instruments in hand. A moment frozen in time. Mio adjusts it on her desk, stepping back again.

The shelves. The desk. The bed across the room, empty for now. The walls without posters, without the reminders of their songs.

It feels quieter than she remembers.

A door bangs in the hallway.

"Miiooo-chan!"

Yui. Only Yui could make her name sound like an exclamation mark.

Mio barely has time to turn before her door flies open. "Mio-chan! Guess what?"

Mio exhales. Braces herself. "What?"

Yui beams, gripping the edge of the door like she might launch herself into the room. "Same room as last year!"

Mio blinks. "Yui, the university keeps the same rooms for returning students."

Yui pauses. Blinks back. Her mouth forms a small 'O' as if this is groundbreaking news. "Oh! Still, it's nice, right?"

Mugi's voice drifts in before she appears in the doorway, smiling. "Familiarity is comforting, isn't it?"

Before Mio can answer, a loud, familiar voice echoes down the hallway.

Ritsu.

She steps in like a whirlwind, slinging an arm around Mio's shoulders with a light slap. "And of course, our Miss Neat-and-Tidy is already done."

"Unlike you two," Mio says, voice dry, a glance at Ritsu and Yui, "some of us prefer not to live out of suitcases for a month."

"We're supposed to be college girls, Mio!" Ritsu counters, leaning back theatrically in her seat. "Spontaneous, living-on-the-edge—"

"It's called being organized, Ritsu. You should try it sometime."

Ritsu is mid-retort when the exasperated sigh cuts through the air.

"For crying out loud. Second-year students, and still no volume control?"

Akira, framed in the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrows raised in irritation. She looks like a judgment personified.

Yui's head snaps up. Her eyes light up. She's across the room in seconds.

"Akira-chaaaan!"

Before Akira can react, she's wrapped in a tight hug. She's frozen. Stiff. Her arms pinned to her sides as Yui latches on.

"Let go," Akira says, struggling. "Can't—breathe—Yui—"

"I missed you, Akira-chan!" Yui beams, squeezing tighter. "I was looking forward to hanging out with you again this year!"

"I wasn't," Akira mutters as she finally breaks free, smoothing her shirt.

"Oh, lighten up, Akira," Ayame says, breezing in like she's never been anywhere else. Her grin is playful. "You act like you're already in your thirties."

"Some of us came to college to study." Akira's response is quick, practiced. No hesitation.

"Oh yes, Akira, our study queen," Sachi chimes in, materializing behind Ayame, patting Akira's shoulder with mock solemnity. "Already thinking of ways to 'mature' us?"

"Of course I do." Akira's arms cross tighter. "You'd think they'd grow up a little by now."

Mio watches, bemused. Her lips twitch. Akira, same as always. That cutting tone, that impatient edge.

But then there's her hair. It's longer now. Medium-length. Sleek and polished, falling just to her shoulders. Gorgeous, objectively. But it doesn't suit her. Not the Akira Mio met last year, sharp edges and spiky hair. The Akira who leaned into rebellion and out of expectations.

This feels like someone else's choice. And maybe it is.

Maeda.

She doesn't like Maeda. Never has.

Mio doesn't usually judge others, but she really doesn't like this guy. He's stubborn, a bit aloof, and all he seems to care about is appearances. But Akira's too into him to notice—or worse, to care. And if this is how Akira wants to look now—because her maybe-boyfriend, Maeda, now prefers girls with long hair—well, that's her choice.

If she had a say, Akira wouldn't be with him. but it's none of her business.

Akira's her friend, yes. But they've only known each other for a year.

And Akira still kind of scares her.

Besides, and to be fair, being with Maeda has helped Akira's band, Onna Gumi. They've gone from playing small gigs to performing in mid-size and even large venues.

And Mio's not one to get in the way of anyone's life.

Akira's voice cuts through the din. "I'm just saying, maturity wouldn't kill anyone."

Ritsu snorts. "We're second-years now, Akira! We deserve a little fun."

"Fun? Is that what you call it? God forbid anyone around here act their age."

"Stop whining, Akira," Ayame says. "You know you secretly enjoy it."

Akira doesn't respond, just huffs and looks away.

Then, like sunlight bursting through storm clouds, a bright, eager voice joins the fray. "Hi, everyone! I was really looking forward to seeing the dorms!"

Mio turns her head just in time to see Azusa bounding toward them, a bundle of energy wrapped in innocence. Then, Azusa spots the Onna Gumi gang.

"Um, hi! Wada-senpai, Hayashi-senpai, and Yoshida-senpai, right?"

The three girls mentioned blink in unison, caught off guard by the sudden spotlight.

"I'm Nakano Azusa," she says, bowing deeply. "The fifth member of Ho-Kago Tea Time. I'm really looking forward to joining the Light Music Club again this year. Watching you all rehearse is so inspiring! It's amazing to see female musicians who take music seriously."

Akira stares at her, expression unreadable, until she finally speaks. "Well. Finally, someone in your band with a sense of dedication—"

Ayame's foot connects with Akira's back, sending her stumbling forward. "Enough with the lectures, Akira."

Akira straightens, coughing and glaring over her shoulder.

Yui wraps Azusa in a sudden hug, squeezing her like a plush toy. "Yes, this is our little Azu-nyan! Our very own rhythm guitarist!"

"Yui-senpai, please—!" Azusa's voice cracks as she squirms, face burning.

Mio glances at Akira, almost sensing her silent plea. Maybe, with Azusa around, Yui's hugs will target someone else. Or not.

Ritsu raises a hand like she's in class. "Hey, does anyone else feel like there's something extra chatty about the student body this year?"

Mio catches Ayame smirking. "Oh, I did hear," she says slowly, as if savoring the news, "that Kaji Elizabeth might join a club this year."

Akira freezes mid-glare, her head snapping toward Ayame so quickly that Mio half-expects to hear something crack.

"Kaji-san?"

Azusa looks between them, puzzled. "Who's Kaji-san?"

"Only the most popular student on campus," Ayame explains. "She was the lead singer of a semi-pro band until recently."

"We have to get Kaji-san to join the club," Akira says, as if it's her personal mission.

Mio stiffens. The thought of Kaji joining feels... overwhelming. She's heard about her. Seen her from a distance. Intimidating. Larger-than-life. The kind of presence that could easily drown out the cozy, familiar atmosphere of the Light Music Club.

"Also," Sachi chimes in, her voice low and conspiratorial, "I heard there's a foreign student this year."

The group falls silent.

A foreigner. Someone completely new. Different. Mio wonders briefly what she might be like.

Yui gasps, clutching Mio's arm with wide-eyed excitement. "A foreign student! So cool!"

"Can you imagine all the things we could learn from her?" Mugi adds, her expression dreamy.

Akira narrows her eyes at Mugi, hesitating. "Wait—aren't you...?"

"Yes, but no," Mugi answers, anticipating the question. "My mother is Finnish, but I was born and raised here."

"Europe, though?" Ayame muses. "Where do you think she's from?"

"Who cares?" Ritsu chimes in, excited.

"I think the foreign student cares, Ritsu," Mio sighs, her arm still trapped in Yui's grip.

But Ritsu ignores her. "We have to find her and convince her to join the club!" she declares. "I'm sure we'll get a lot more attention with a gaijin!"

Mio breaks free from Yui's grip and smacks Ritsu on the back of the head. Hard. "You can't call a foreigner that!"

"Ouch! What? It's not offensive!"

"It is!"

Ritsu rubs the spot where Mio hit her, pouting. "You're so uptight, Mio."

"As co-president," Akira declares with authority, "I want this year's club to be more serious. Tomorrow after the entrance ceremony, we're aiming for Kaji-san, the foreigner... and anyone else we can find."

Oh, right.

The Light Music Club, now under her and her friends' charge, is recruiting, and she knows what that means.

Flyers.

Mio sighs, already feeling the exhaustion settle in. It's only the first day back.

---

April 5, 2011

The courtyard is loud. Laughter, footsteps, the rustling of paper flyers. Groups of students drift like lazy clouds, their laughter bright, piercing through the late morning air.

Mio stands at the edge of it all, already feeling the ache of exhaustion press behind her eyes.

She wonders if it's her or the courtyard that's changed. She adjusts the strap of her bag, fingers brushing over the worn canvas, and straightens her posture. Taller, maybe. She feels taller, but not in a way that makes her proud. Stretched. Like the year before had pulled her in every direction, leaving her longer, thinner, and quieter.

Beside her, Ritsu shades her eyes with one hand, squinting into the crowd. "Think we'll spot her?"

"Kaji-san?" Mio says, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. "If she's here, we'd hear her fan club by now."

Ritsu laughs and lightly smacks Mio's shoulder. "Forget Kaji. Let's find the foreigner. Exciting, right? Fresh blood!"

Fresh chaos, Mio thinks. Fresh noise, fresh unpredictability. She tries to smile but feels it falter.

Before she can answer, Yui barrels into view, clutching a stack of flyers. Her energy is blinding. "We're gonna be famous!"

"Yui..." Mio says, her voice barely audible over Yui's echoing declaration.

"It's true!" Yui waves the flyers like victory flags. "We're second-years now! People will notice us. We'll be legends!"

The words, so bold, make Mio's cheeks warm. Endearing, really. Almost contagious.

Almost.

Mugi approaches, a serene counterpoint to Yui's chaos. "Shall we change before handing these out?" she suggests, smoothing down her crisp suit. "I feel a bit... formal."

The others nod, and together they head toward the dorms.

Mio stands in her room, staring at the mirror. Her least favorite place in the world.

She adjusts her shirt, tugging the hem, smoothing the fabric. Her reflection stares back with steady eyes, a mouth set in that familiar half-frown. She looks... new.

No, not new. Altered.

The thought unsettles her, and she steps back, grabbing her bag. Her heart feels too loud in the silence of the room.

Downstairs, Yui is waiting. Beaming. Vibrating with excitement.

"Mio-chan! Ready to hand out flyers?"

"Not really," Mio admits, glancing at the courtyard. It's fuller now, the crowd buzzing with leftover energy from the ceremony.

She catches sight of Akira near the steps, arms crossed, eyes sharp as she surveys the scene.

"We need to find Kaji-san. And the foreigner," Akira says, tone weighty, as if she's preparing for battle.

Ayame sidles up to Mio, leaning in close. "You'd think she's recruiting for a rock army."

Mio stifles a laugh.

The faces around them blur. Too many. Too unfamiliar. She remembers the real possibility—her small, intimate club could soon be something else. 

She grips the stack of flyers tighter.

"Hey, Mio," Ritsu's voice cuts through her thoughts. "Nervous?"

Mio scoffs, shrugging Ritsu off. "I'm not nervous."

"Right, right, and I believe you." She moves closer to Mio. "Think of this as part of your training, Mio-san."

"Training?"

"Sure! What we talked about, remember? Didn't you say that your problem with Kenji might still be your shyness?"

Mio doesn't answer. She just turns red.

"Look," Ritsu says, her grin too wide to mean anything good. "Handing out flyers is gonna help you get over your shyness even more. You're not as shy as you used to be, so this year you gotta beat it completely. Become Kenji's little teddy bear!"

The smack lands cleanly on Ritsu's head. "Don't say things like that!"

"I'm just trying to help!" Ritsu rubs the top of her head.

"You alright, Mio-chan?" Mugi's voice is soft, a gentle bridge over the noise. She's watching from a safe distance, ever-patient, ever-kind.

"Oh, uh, yeah!" Mio straightens, taking a step closer to the group, dragging Ritsu along like a scolded child. "Just... wondering if this is a good idea."

"It'll be fun!" Yui chirps. "Think of all the new songs we could learn with more members!"

"Or the new drama," Ayame says, arms crossed, nodding towards a knot of first-years chatting nearby. Her eyes gleam with something like amusement. "Apparently, one of them already has her eyes on Kaji-san."

Akira snorts, scowling. "Who doesn't? But Kaji-san is ours. Let's start already."

And that's how Mio finds herself in the middle of campus on her second day as a second-year, awkwardly clutching a stack of flyers. Around her, the other members of the Light Music Club scatter like dandelion seeds on a breeze, already chatting, laughing, handing out flyers with ease.

Why am I doing this again?

The crowd is endless. Fresh faces, new voices, all moving past her, weaving in and out like the rhythm of an unfamiliar song. Mio grips the flyers a little tighter, the edges digging into her fingers. The more people she sees, the more she feels herself shrinking.

Her friends seem immune. Ritsu, reckless as ever, bounces from student to student, practically shoving flyers into their hands before darting off to the next. Yui glows, her energy infectious, her flyers disappearing into a growing radius. Mugi is composed, every interaction like a small gift, her smile warm enough to melt any hesitation.

Mio's never been good at this. Approaching people. Talking to them out of nowhere. She's better than she used to be—less shy, as Ritsu would put it—but the thought still tightens her throat. Her eyes skim the passing faces, searching for someone who might be interested. Someone who wouldn't think it strange if she, a stranger, handed them a flyer. Someone safe.

She looks at the group, calmly handing out flyers, each in her own way. She thinks about the nonsense Ritsu said and admits—not out loud—that maybe she's right. So Mio sighs, Mio tries and, eventually, Mio feels herself easing into the rhythm of it—handing out a flyer, smiling, moving to the next person. Most of the students take one politely before moving on. It's not terrible. Just awkward.

"Mio-senpai!"

Azusa's familiar voice cuts through the noise, and Mio's heart lifts. A familiar face in the sea of strangers. Mio feels the tension ease in her shoulders. At least one person she doesn't have to worry about.

"Azu-nyan!" Yui exclaims. "Here, have a flyer!"

Azusa sighs. "Yui-senpai, you know I'm already joining, right?"

Yui doesn't even blink. "Doesn't matter! You still get a flyer!"

Azusa takes the flyer, resigns, and before she can react, Yui pulls her into a bear hug.

"Yui-senpai! Stop! We're in public!"

Mio blinks. Typical Yui.

Her gaze then lands on a girl standing a little away from the crowd. Petite, with long dark hair. She's watching, her eyes flicking between the flyers and the girls handing them out. She looks shy. Hesitant. Like she's waiting for someone to approach her.

Mio can relate.

Her nurture side awakens. She should go over. Say something.

Her feet move before she thinks too hard. The girl glances up as Mio approaches, her eyes wide, startled. For a second, Mio hesitates. Then she smiles warmly. "Um, hi. Are you interested in the Light Music Club?"

The girl blinks. Nods. Her hands fidget at her sides. 

Mio holds out a flyer. "You should come check it out. We play all kinds of music, and it's really fun. And we're all pretty friendly."

The girl smiles shyly. She takes the flyer carefully. "T–Thank you. I'll think about it."

Mio watches as she steps back into the crowd, the flyer clutched tightly in her hands. Her own hands feel lighter now, the stack of flyers easier to hold.

Mio watches the girl walk away, clutching the flyer to her chest with a shy smile, feeling a little better about herself.

Just as she turns around, another presence looms in front of her.

Mio nearly jumps out of her skin.

It's a tall girl. Striking red hair, tied back in a messy ponytail. All black. Leather jacket, boots, the whole intimidating look. Her eyes are gray, sharp. They cut through Mio like glass, analyzing every inch of her in just one glance.

No.

There are seven people handing out flyers. She could have approached anyone. Yui, with no survival instinct. Ritsu, too stupid to sense danger. Akira, who's her number one fan.

But no. Kaji Elizabeth picks her.

"Hey," Kaji says. Smooth. Strong. "This is for the Light Music Club?"

Mio's throat tightens. She stares up, forgetting how to breathe. How to speak. How to anything.

Kaji is tall. Taller than Sachi. Beautiful. Intimidating.

Mio's hands grip the flyers tighter.

Kaji tilts her head, a small smirk playing on her lips. "You don't look like the recruiting type." She glances at the flyer, then back at Mio. "But I'm intrigued."

Mio's face burns. This girl is way too cool. Way too confident. Way too everything that makes Mio's battery drain at high speed.

Her mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

Kaji raises an eyebrow. "What's this Light Music Club about?"

"I—uh—" Mio stammers. She's suffocating. Her hands clutch tighter. Flyers crumple. "We, um. We play music. In a club."

Kaji laughs. Not unkindly. "Yeah, I gathered that. What kind of music?"

Mio gulps.

Rock. Pop. Whatever we feel like.

The words refuse to form.

Kaji laughs again. "Relax. I'm not going to bite."

The world spins.

Mio forces out a response. "We play... rock. Pop. Whatever we feel like, really."

"Sounds fun." Her smile sharpens. "Do I get a flyer too?"

Mio nods. Too quickly. Her hand is rigid. She thrusts the flyer out like it's a sword, her grip unrelenting.

Kaji doesn't take it right away. Instead, she looks her up and down. Slowly.

"You're tense." Kaji leans in slightly. "Am I that intimidating?"

"No!"

Mio flinches at the sharpness of her own voice.

"I mean, yes—no—uh, maybe a little—just—here, take the flyer!"

Kaji's laugh echoes. Full. Finally, she takes the flyer.

"Thanks. I might check it out."

"You should." The words tumble out unbidden. "We'd love to have you."

Kaji's smirk softens. "See you around, then."

And just like that, she's gone.

Mio's knees almost buckle. She's alive. Somehow.

Akira sidles up beside her. "Mio. Was that Kaji-san?"

Mio nods. Still processing.

Akira pats her back. Hard. Too hard. "You're amazing! You might've just landed us our star member!"

Star member. Mio doesn't know how to feel. She doesn't even know what just happened.

Before she can spiral further, Ritsu appears, hands empty, looking smug.

"All done!"

Mio narrows her eyes. "Already?"

"Yup! New president duties, you know." 

"Did you hand out all of those flyers, or did you throw them away?"

"Mio-san! You wound me! I take my role as president very seriously."

"Uh-huh." Mio doesn't buy it.

"Oh! Guess what?" Ritsu leans in.

"What?"

"I gave one to the gaijin!"

The smack lands before Mio thinks. "Stop calling the transfer student that!"

Yui pops up, overhearing. "Ooh! Where is she from?"

"Dunno. She didn't say." Ritsu rubs her head, pouting.

"Of course she didn't, Ritsu..."

"She smiled a lot, though."

"What was she like?" Yui keeps asking. "Was she cool?"

"I don't know!" Ritsu throws up her hands. "She had, like, messy brown hair. Looked tanned. All the girls were chasing her. She was holding a bunch of flyers. I had to give her this whole speech just to get her to come check out the club."

Mio pinches the bridge of her nose. "A speech? Ritsu, what—"

"I had to bribe her! No idea if it worked, though."

Mio doesn't respond immediately. Just stares at her best friend, waiting.

Ritsu scratches her cheek. "Tried talking to her in Kansai dialect."

Mio's hand drops from her face. "Why would you—"

"She looked kinda confused," Ritsu says, as if that explains everything.

Mio smacks her. Not gently. "Why," she demands, "would you speak Kansai dialect to a foreigner?!"

Ritsu yelps and rubs her head. "I thought it'd be funny!"

"Funny?!" Mio huffs, incredulous. She closes her eyes, counts to three, and sighs.

And with that, she turns away. Hands out another flyer.

---

It's not that Mio doesn't love spending time with her friends—she does. But sometimes her room, her sanctuary, feels too small with all of them crammed inside.

After a day like today, even more so.

"The Light Music Club is now under our charge!" Ritsu declares, voice too loud for the late hour. "Tomorrow, we've gotta be there early to welcome any new members!"

"We're senpais now!" Yui chimes in, raising her fist in triumph.

"I can't wait to see who joins," Mugi adds.

"Same," Azusa nods. "Do you think Kaji-senpai will join? It'd be amazing to have a professional singer in the club."

Mio shudders.

"Oh, right, Kaji-san!" Ritsu's elbow nudges her side, a smirk creeping across her face. "Our Mio here made quite the impression on her, didn't you?"

Mio sighs. Long. Heavy. Practically deflating where she sits. "I just want to go to sleep."

"And what about the exchange student?" Mugi asks, curious. "Think she'll join us? I hear a lot of clubs are trying to recruit her."

Ritsu waves a hand like it's obvious. "Psh, she'll come to us. Who could resist my charms? I'm very persuasive."

Mio glances at her. Flat. Unimpressed. "Are you?"

"Actually, yeah!" Ritsu's tone shifts, just slightly. "She looked pretty overwhelmed. Until I stepped in."

Mio arches a brow. "Maybe that's because you thought speaking Kansai dialect to a foreigner was a great idea, and her brain just shut down."

Ritsu gasps, hand to her chest like she's mortally wounded. "Hey! Her expression totally changed when she saw the flyer!"

"Well," Azusa interjects, cutting through the noise, "we won't know who's signing up until tomorrow, so—"

"Maybe we should rest," Mugi suggests gently. "It's been a long day. And if Mio-chan wants to sleep..."

"She can, you know." Ritsu grins.

"With all of you in my room? As if."

"How about we meet at the cafeteria for breakfast tomorrow?" Azusa asks, glancing around the group. Everyone nods.

"Did you like the cafeteria, Azu-nyan?" Yui's eyes light up. "Isn't it great?"

"It's... just a regular university cafeteria."

"But it has so much food! And it's so delicious!" Yui's already lost to her excitement. "It's my favorite place on campus!"

Ritsu snorts. "Of course it is, Yui."

Before Yui can launch into a full ode to university food, Mugi gently pulls her up, herding her toward the door with Azusa. They say their goodnights, leaving Mio with a brief, fleeting moment of quiet.

Until she realizes Ritsu is still lingering.

"What's up now, Ritsu?"

Ritsu wiggles her eyebrows. "So... Kaji-san."

Mio shudders again, involuntary, as the memory surfaces. "What about her?"

"Akira told me you gave her a flyer."

"So?"

"So, the training is working!"

"What training—Ritsu, are you still on about that?"

"Of course! I want to help you. And, you know, tease you a little. But mostly help. We're best friends, right?"

Mio's eyes soften. Ritsu has her own way of showing she cares. "Yes, we are."

"Good! Then here's the plan," Ritsu says, raising a finger dramatically. "Tomorrow, we're gonna welcome the new members, like Kaji-san and the ga—"

"RITSU!"

"... and you're gonna talk to them!"

"Me?" Mio scoffs. "No way."

"Oh, come on, Mio! Didn't you say you weren't that shy anymore?"

"I'm still introverted! Talking to people drains me! I know you don't get it because you're a whirlwind, but... it's exhausting."

"Don't worry, Mio! We'll all be there! You just need to say a few words!"

"Good luck getting me to talk."

Ritsu opens her mouth to argue but then pauses, her face morphing into that look—the I-had-a-brilliant-idea-that's-actually-terrible look. She recovers quickly, but Mio's seen enough.

"What."

"Hm?"

"Ritsu, what's on your mind?"

"Nothing!"

"Ritsu, I know you."

"Nothing, nothing! I promise. Anyway, tomorrow, you're talking to the new girls, okay?"

"No."

"So, okay then."

"I'm not doing it."

But Ritsu's already halfway out the door, mumbling a quick goodnight.

As the door clicks shut, Mio realizes just how drained she is. Exhausted. She collapses onto her bed, only to hear her phone buzz on the nightstand. She stares at it, hesitating before picking it up.

A message. From Kenji.

With all the fuss about the club, new people, the entrance ceremony, and Kaji... she hadn't had time to think about him. And now, guilt creeps back in.

She stares at the message for a long moment, then sighs and puts the phone back down.

She can't do this right now.

---

April 6, 2011

They're meeting at five. In the club.

Mio brushes her hair in front of the mirror. One stroke. Two. Her hand slows. She adjusts the hem of her white tee, its red design tucked neatly into light beige pants. Casual. Inviting. She steps back, studies the way the fabric falls. The blue polka-dot slip-ons feel just right—relaxed, but thought out.

Not too much. Not too little.

She exhales and reaches for her phone on the nightstand.

The club. The two names everyone's whispering about. And with them, an avalanche. Of unfamiliar faces. Invading her safe space.

Is this really what she wants?

The phone then rings. Insistent.

Mio stiffens. Glances at the screen. Swallows.

Kenji.

Her thumb hovers. She should pick up. Shouldn't keep avoiding him. Or... maybe it's just her imagination?

She answers. "Hey, Kenji."

"Hey, Mio," he says. Lighthearted. "Been avoiding me?"

Mio winces. Half-joking. Half-serious. Should she laugh it off? Explain?

"No, it's just—"

"I'm kidding, Mio. You okay?"

Pause. Too long.

"Sort of," she says. Carefully.

"Is it about the other day?"

Straight to the point. It catches her off guard.

"A bit," she admits.

"Mio, it's fine. Seriously." His voice softens. Gentle. "Don't worry about it."

"You're... not mad?"

"Mad? No. Why would I be mad?"

She studies his tone. He sounds sincere.

"I know it's frustrating for you," she murmurs.

"That doesn't mean I'm mad at you."

Relief settles in her chest. And yet... Something still feels off.

"Look," Kenji says, "we don't need to talk about this over the phone. Whenever you're ready, okay? No pressure."

But do I really want to?

"I didn't answer your messages either," she says.

"I figured you were busy."

Busy.

"I just wanted to check in, you know? You tend to overthink. Wanted to make sure everything's okay."

He's so nice. And somehow, that makes it harder.

"And how's your second year going so far?" he asks, shifting the tone.

"Honestly?" She exhales. "Overwhelming."

"How come?"

"We're in charge of the Light Music Club now."

"Oh, right! And Ritsu's the president?"

"Yeah. And Akira's co-president. The usual college gossip's going around, too." She pauses. "Apparently, the most popular girl on campus is looking for a club, and Akira's determined to recruit her."

"Why isn't she joining the same club as last year?"

"She didn't have one." Mio glances at her reflection again, tucking her hair behind her ear. "She was in a semi-pro band. Left it."

"Oh. And what's she like?"

Mio's grip tightens around the phone.

"Intimidating." A pause. "Tall. Beautiful. Looks like a model. Total rock star vibe." The words fall too easily. "She's got it all. She talked to me yesterday. I gave her a flyer."

"Wait, you handed out flyers?" Kenji says, a hint of disbelief in his voice. "You?"

"I know," Mio mutters, her hand brushing her temple. "And she came right up to me. I almost fainted."

Kenji snorts. "No wonder you didn't answer me yesterday. Bet you were wiped out."

"I was." A pause. Then she remembers. "Oh, and there's an exchange student on campus. Ritsu and Akira think she'd be perfect for the club. They say if the most popular girl and a foreigner join, we'll attract more members."

Kenji chuckles. "Look at you guys, aiming high. What's this exchange student like?"

"No idea. Haven't met her yet. Ritsu talked to her yesterday. In Kansai dialect. Because, you know, Ritsu."

Kenji laughs. It loosens something in her chest, if only for a moment.

"Anyway," Mio continues, "Ritsu says she's got messy brown hair. A bit of a tan. That's all I know. She's from Europe, apparently. We'll see her today. If she shows up."

"Hey, if she struggles with Japanese, you can help her out with English," Kenji says. "You're good at it."

Mio winces, a small laugh escaping her lips. "May I remind you that when I went to London with the girls, I pretended I didn't know English just to avoid talking to people?"

"Come on, Mio. You're a second-year now. Think about it—she's probably feeling out of place. She could use a friend."

Mio considers. "Okay. You've got a point." A beat. "Anyway," she says, shifting, "what about you? Joining a club?"

"Yeah, probably. Classes and job hunting will keep me busy, but I'll make time for you. Speaking of, want to meet up this weekend? Or need time to settle in?"

Mio hesitates. The quiet stretches between them, not awkward but not comfortable either.

"I'm... not sure yet," she says finally. "I'll let you know, okay?"

"Sounds good."

Mio glances at the clock. "Sorry, but I need to go. Meeting the others to welcome the new members."

"Go for it, Mio. And be nice to the exchange student."

"Yeah, yeah." She smiles. "Have a good day."

"You too. I'll text you later."

"Bye."

Mio sets the phone down. Stares at it.

It's always like this. Why is it easier when they're not face-to-face? The conversation flows. Kenji is easy to talk to. She even laughed.

So why does her body still feel off?

She doesn't want to dig into that right now. There's another problem to face.

---

Mio enters the Light Music Club room. Right on time. She expects her friends, her familiar crowd of comfort.

Empty.

The floor responds under her steps. Her breaths echo in the stillness. She stops, listening, her hand tightening around the strap of her bass case.

It's eerie.

The clock on the wall ticks. Louder than usual. Mio glances up at it. Then around the room. Instruments lined up neatly, untouched. Amps stacked in their usual places. Everything is as it should be.

Except no one is here.

She checks her phone. No new messages.

She listens for footsteps. For voices in the hallway. Anything.

Nothing.

Her heart picks up speed. Something isn't right.

Why would Ritsu tell her to meet here, at this time, if no one else was coming?

Ritsu 🥁

Mio: Where are you? You're not late, are you?

The reply comes instantly.

Ritsu 🥁

Mio: Where are you? You're not late, are you?

Ritsu: Hey Mio! Sorry, I'm running late with the rest. Can you greet the new members for us? You got this!

Mio stares.

Her eyes widen.

"Wait, what?! Ritsu!"

Her fingers fly across the screen.

Ritsu 🥁

Mio: Where are you? You're not late, are you?

Ritsu: Hey Mio! Sorry, I'm running late with the rest. Can you greet the new members for us? You got this!

Mio: What do you mean, greet them?! Alone?!

The screen mocks her with silence. She waits. Watches for the typing indicator. For an apology. An explanation. A bad joke.

Nothing.

Mio groans. Of course. Of course, Ritsu would do this. Leave it to Ritsu to throw this on her, unannounced. She knows her reasoning already. Imagines the grin on her face as she decided this would be "good for Mio." A confidence boost, she'd call it. A "small social exercise." As if she hasn't tried before.

Her shoulders slump as she flops onto the couch. She presses her fingers to her temples.

Breathe, Mio. It's just a quick hello. You've done way harder things. You've played on stage. You've survived Yui. You've survived Ritsu. You've survived both Yui and Ritsu.

She can do this.

Maybe.

She lifts her right hand, sketches the kanji for 'person' three times on her palm, and makes a half-hearted attempt to pretend to eat it.

It's no use.

"Alright. Just relax," she murmurs. "It's only greeting a few new people. Not that hard."

She tries to imagine her greeting.

She does it wrong.

Fingers tap against her thigh, a rhythm out of sync with her heartbeat.

Mio sits. Alone. Her eyes flit to the door. It stays closed. For now.

With a defeated sigh, she clings to the hope that no one will actually show up.

Maybe, she thinks, they'll all bail.

She'll wait. Sit here. Quietly. Pretend she's ready. Smile warmly when no one arrives. Later, she'll say she tried, but no one showed up. That it just didn't work out. That she did her best. And no one could blame her for that.

It's a plan. A decent one. A safe one.

The hinges creak.

Her spine straightens. Too quickly. Her shoulders tense. Too tight.

Her plan shatters before it even takes form.

Footsteps.

Her pulse skips. Then pounds. She isn't ready. Not for this. Not yet. Not now.

The door groans wider. Mio's stomach is a knot of nerves. A quiet prayer tumbles through her mind—please, let it be one of them. Please. Let it be the girls. Or Onna Gumi. Or anyone I know. Please.

But it isn't.

Mio looks up. And their eyes meet.

At the door stands a girl she has never seen before.

A girl she doesn't know.

A new member she has to greet. Alone. By herself.

Crap.

Notes:

I hope I’m capturing the group dynamics well. The main characters in K-ON! are so brilliantly written that it feels like walking a tightrope to get them just right. But hey, I had fun writing them, and that's what counts, right?

By the way, this is the outfit Mio chose for the club. It's from the first volume of K-ON! College, and I think it suits her perfectly. I'm not exactly a fashion writer (or a description expert in general), but I hope it's enough to paint a mental picture!

Oh, and yes—in this story, Mugi's half Finnish. It just… makes sense, doesn't it?

Thanks for reading! I hope you'll stick around to find out who steps into the club next. And of course, feel free to leave kudos and/or a comment if you're in the mood. They really make my day!

Chapter 3: Walk The River

Summary:

Mio wrangles a mini United Nations summit.

Notes:

Our favorite bassist has faced many challenges in her life—terrifying haunted houses, public performances, and even wearing that maid outfit—amen to something related to a stripped rice bowl. But today, she's up against her greatest test yet: welcoming new club members... alone. Truly, a tale of bravery, and Mio-level overthinking. Let's cheer her on!

Walk The River, by Guillemots, was released on April 18, 2011.

April 6, 2011

A girl Mio doesn't recognize stands at the doorway.

Maybe Mio's height. Or a little taller. They lock eyes for a split second—long enough for Mio to catch the green.

Bright, vivid green eyes.

Actual green eyes, not hazel or brown-leaning, but dazzling green, rare, unexpected. They're striking—almost startling. Not something you see every day.

Who has eyes like that?

Mio takes it in, almost careful not to stare, but it's hard. She's not sure she's ever met someone with green eyes. Not in real life, anyway.

Then she notices the rest of her. Sun-kissed skin. Tousled brown hair, messy bangs skimming those—that vivid green. It's like she's never bothered with a brush. Dressed casually, too—a graphic tee with a band Mio doesn't know, an open maroon hoodie, ripped black jeans that look like they've seen better days. Red headphones hang around her neck. There's an effortless coolness about her, a bit boyish but in a way that works. It suits her.

She looks... different.

And Mio's not sure what to do with that thought. What to even say.

They're both still. The girl just holds the door open, like she's not sure if she's supposed to come in or stay there. Her gaze drops to the floor, hesitating. Almost bracing.

Mio waits quietly. The girl glances up again. Blink, blink, blinks. Then smiles—awkward, but warm. Like she's trying, at least.

"Hey!" It comes out louder than she probably meant.

"Oh, um—hi," Mio stammers, blinking herself back to the present. "Are you here for the Light Music Club?"

The girl steps in, letting the door thud shut behind her. "Yeah... I think so?" She pauses, picking her words. "I'm... not really sure. I'm looking for the club. Is this... the right place?"

There's something unusual in her Japanese. The vowels a little too open. Not quite fluent. Not quite natural.

So, this is her. The exchange student.

The girl scratches her head. "I got a flyer yesterday, but... I didn't really understand the girl who gave it to me. She was talking fast in, like..." She pauses, searching for a word. "A dialect?"

Mio almost winces, already feeling embarrassed for her friend. "Yeah, that'd be Ritsu. She... does that. Sometimes slips into Kansai dialect just for fun."

The girl laughs, a little uncertain, like she's not sure if she should. "Right. Kansai dialect... I guess I have a lot to learn." A sheepish chuckle. "I thought I was already bad at Japanese, but she made me feel like I didn't understand anything."

Mio sighs. "No, it's not you. That's just Ritsu being Ritsu."

"Ahh. I see." The girl nods. "I was kinda afraid I wouldn't be able to understand anyone here." She laughs. "Japanese is hard enough without people throwing in different... dialects."

Mio finds herself smiling. "Don't worry. We mostly stick to standard Japanese."

A grateful look. Then the girl glances up, like she's remembering something. "Ay, mierda, presentarse."

Mio tilts her head, curious.

"I'm Nayara Rivera, by the wa—espera." She frowns, visibly tripping over the formality. "Surname first, right? Rivera Nayara." She winces, bowing a bit stiffly. "Ugh, sorry, it's confusing. Surname Rivera, name Nayara. Second-year."

Rivera Nayara. Unique, different. And Mio's pretty sure she'd struggle with the strong 'r'. It sounds... I hope I don't mess it up.

"Call me Naya," the girl adds, almost like she read Mio's mind. "It's easier."

Naya. It's simple, easy to remember—and she can pronounce it. Good. Mio nods. "I'm Akiyama Mio," she says, bowing back. "Second-year, too. Nice to meet you, Naya-san."

"Naya is fine." A warm smile. Mio nods again, feeling her cheeks warm up a little. "Nice to meet you, too, Mi—Akiyama... san." Naya stumbles, giving a slightly awkward bow. She clears her throat, embarrassed. She's obviously not used to this—bowing, honorifics, any of it.

It's kind of cute.

And Mio notices, too, the way her surname sounds in Naya's voice. Strong and rhythmic, each syllable emphasized like she's savoring the sound.

"You don't have to be so formal," Mio says, waving her hand. "Just Mio is fine."

Naya looks relieved. "Alright. Mio it is." She smiles again—warm, easy, disarming. Mio notices how Naya's hands move as she speaks, painting her words in the air.

Mio gestures to the couch. "You can sit, if you want. The others should be here soon."

Naya nods and crosses the room with a steady, unhurried stride. Her presence fills the space, calm but unmistakable. She settles onto the couch, leaving a small but noticeable space between them. She crosses one ankle over her knee, leaning back casually, one arm along the back of the sofa. She looks like she's been here forever.

Mio glances over, feels a pang of intimidation. How does she look so comfortable already? Mio's mind scrambles, searching for something to say.

This is your chance to make a friend, Mio. Don't blow it.

But her mind stalls, blank. What do you even ask a foreigner? She's curious about where Naya's from, but would it be rude?

What if I say something wrong? Or nothing at all? I've never even talked to a foreigner before. Where's the line?

She catches herself, scolds herself quietly. Stop overthinking, Mio. Just treat her like anyone else. She's a student, not just 'the exchange student.'

She sneaks a glance at Naya, who is looking around the room, taking it all in. Naya's tee—bleached out, with some band name scrawled across. Naya's headphones around her neck. Naya's gaze lingering on the drumset by the corner

Alright, Mio tells herself. She's interested in the club, she likes music. That's a start. Or maybe... ask why she's in Japan? Show interest?

Clearing her throat, Mio glances down at her hands, then looks up, gathering her thoughts. "So, um... what brings you to Japan? If you don't mind me asking."

Naya's gaze lands on her, and she just stares, like the question catches her off guard. Then, she smiles, bright and genuine. "Exchange program. I'm studying East Asian Studies, focusing on Japanese. Wanted to... immerse myself. You know? Get the full cultural experience for a year."

"On your own?"

"Yeah, on my own."

Mio nods, feeling slightly out of her depth. To leave everything, everyone behind, to dive into an entirely different world.

She can't even imagine it.

"I've been studying Japanese for a while now," Naya continues, "but actually being here... it's..." She pauses, searching for the word. "It's intense. Some days I feel like I'm understanding everything, and then—bam—I'm lost in a sea of words."

She says it lightly, but Mio senses the underlying exhaustion. The constant effort to keep up, to make sense.

"Like yesterday, with your friend," Naya adds.

Mio sighs. "Yeah, Ritsu can be... a lot. But she's harmless. Mostly."

Naya laughs—a soft, light laugh that eases the tension in Mio's shoulders. There it is again, that feeling of Naya filling the room—not overwhelming, just there. Unmistakable.

"I'm still learning," Naya says. "My Japanese isn't the best. Your friend spoke really fast, and I didn't catch half of it. But I didn't want to... you know, ask her to repeat herself." She chuckles, though Mio senses a hint of embarrassment. "It's like I'm always trying to catch up, you know?"

There's a pause, and Mio recognizes it—a hesitation she knows well.

She nods, offering a gentle smile, hoping to ease Naya's worries. "Don't worry. You're doing fine."

"Thanks," Naya says, her smile growing softer. "I thought joining a club might help me get more comfortable with the language. And..."

Naya pauses again.

Mio doesn't fill the silence. She just nods, a steady, quiet encouragement.

"... meet people, you know," Naya finishes.

Mio nods, understanding. "You speak it really well. I wouldn't have guessed you're still learning. It must be... tough, though."

Naya's smile returns, a little lighter. "Thanks. It is, but I love languages."

"Have you been here long?"

"Since January," Naya says, pausing, like she's counting the months. Mio waits patiently. "Yeah. January."

"So, you came early to adjust?"

"Yeah, and to take a support course. I have a Japanese class three times a week. But until the semester started..." She hesitates, then, quieter, adds, "I've been in the dorms alone."

Three months alone here? That must have been lonely. Mio feels a pang of sympathy. She tries to keep it casual, soft, so as not to press. "Oh... well, I think you'll make friends here. We're all pretty friendly."

"Well, you're really nice," Naya replies, her voice a little light, giving Mio a lopsided smile.

Mio feels her cheeks warm up, the start of a blush. She glances away but can't help smiling back.

"So, what about you? What do you study?"

"Music Education major." Mio's smile widens as she speaks. "I've always loved music. And... I think it'd be amazing to teach it someday. It just felt right to study something I care about. Maybe inspire others, you know?"

Naya nods, her eyes steady on Mio, genuinely interested. "That's really cool. Must be incredible to dedicate yourself to something music-related. Music's universal, eh?"

Mio brightens. "Yeah, exactly. Music is universal." She feels that connection—like a bridge. "It's like... you can connect with someone, even if you don't speak the same language."

"So, in a way, we're both studying languages." Naya laughs.

Mio hadn't thought of it that way before. She laughs too. It's easy with her. Naya's energy is infectious, natural, unforced.

"And here, is it just you and your friend? Or...?"

"No, no. They're running late. But they'll be here soon."

"Got it," Naya says, glancing around the room again. "So... what's this club about, anyway? I've never heard of this 'Light Music' concept."

Mio blinks, a bit caught off guard. She's so used to people already knowing—like Azusa, who joined because she loved music, or Ritsu, who had dragged her here in high school. But Naya has no idea.

"You joined a club without knowing what it is?"

Naya shrugs, unbothered. "Well, I saw 'music' and thought it fit? I love music, so..."

"Oh. Um, it's... basically a band club. A place where bands can rehearse. We play rock, pop, that sort of thing."

Naya winces. "Do I need a band to join?"

Mio shakes her head, reassuring her. "No, you can join on your own. You can play, learn about music, maybe even form a band with other members."

"Oh, okay. It's just that... I don't know anyone here..." Naya shifts a little in her seat. "Are there many members?"

"Eight, in total." Mio notices the furrow in Naya's brow and rephrases. "There are eight of us in the club. I'm in a band with friends from high school—five of us. And then there's another band, with three girls. We're hoping to get more members this year." She pauses, then adds, "Ritsu's our drummer."

"Ah, the flyer girl!"

"Yep, that's her. She's also the club president now."

"Oh. Is she, like, serious about it?"

Mio snorts. "Serious? Ritsu? No way."

Naya chuckles. "She was very nice."

"She is. We've been best friends since we were little. I have to put up with it, though," Mio sighs with a small smile, and Naya laughs softly, nodding.

"So, what's your role in your band?"

"I play bass. And sing sometimes. I'm also the main lyricist."

Naya's face lights up. "Espera—wait, wait—you play bass? ¡No jodas! I play bass, too! I used to mess around with the piano a bit—nothing crazy," Naya insists, "but bass is definitely my thing now."

A spark of excitement rises in Mio. "You play bass?"

Naya nods eagerly. "Yeah! I've been playing for a few years. Still learning, though."

Mio's smile is wide. Bass. She can't help it—she loves finding other bassists. "I've been playing bass since middle school, and I've been in the band with my friends since high school. We play here in the club."

"I'd love to hear you guys sometime. I used to be in a band too, but it was... let's just say, different," Naya says, running a hand through her hair.

Mio nods, but doesn't pry. "I'm actually studying piano this year."

"Oh. Makes sense," Naya says. "It's the essence of music, isn't it? It provides a... cómo se dice... like, a visual representation of musical theory, right? Aiding in understanding harmony, melody, chord structures... The whole package," she says easily.

Mio raises an eyebrow. "How do you know that?"

"Eh? Oh, um, well, you know, I used to play the piano a little bit... and... uh... I'm a big music geek and all... so... but... you're not quitting bass or anything, right?" Naya changes the subject.

"No, not at all." Mio says, firm. She can't even imagine leaving her bass behind. "The bass will always be my instrument.

"Cool, cool. So... why do you play bass?"

"Ritsu wanted to start a band, so she picked drums, and I didn't want to play guitar because it... draws too much attention."

"Oh. Shy?"

"Yeah." Mio laughs, a bit flustered. "But now I love bass. It's... I don't know. Kind of underrated but... so important, you know? It holds the music together. I like that... it supports everyone else in the band." She slows down, her words soft, letting them settle so Naya can take them all. "And it's fun, figuring out basslines that blend with everyone's parts. Not too flashy, but still noticeable. I've always wanted to be a bassist like that."

"I get that," Naya says. "Bass ties everything together. It's not always in the spotlight, but it's essential."

"Exactly! That's exactly it."

"What kind of bass do you have?"

"Fender Jazz. Left-handed."

"That's awesome!" Naya's eyes are bright with genuine interest. "I'd love to see it sometime. Mine's a Fender, too—short-scale Squier Jaguar, right-handed. It's kind of beat-up, but it's got character."

"I'd love to see it, too. I've always liked the Jaguar shape."

"Deal. It's back in my room, though—I thought today was more like an introduction day? But honestly, I'd carry it everywhere if I could... especially after the hassle of bringing it all the way from Spain." Naya sighs, as if remembering it all. "Sixteen hours in the air, worrying it'd break or get lost somewhere over Siberia."

Wait, Spain?

Mio feels another jolt of surprise. "You're from Spain?"

"Yeah—paella, siesta, olé, all of it," Naya jokes, laughing a bit awkwardly. "Pretty far, eh?"

Spain. Mio's caught off guard; she's never met anyone from Spain before.

"You know," she says, "I don't think we've ever had an exchange student in the club."

"First time for everything, right?" Naya's eyes sparkle, like this is all part of the adventure.

"Right." Mio finds herself smiling, feeling unexpectedly at ease. Then, realizing she hasn't asked the most obvious question, she blurts, "So, why do you play bass?"

Naya hesitates, a sheepish smile creeping up her face. "Well... I heard a Muse song once. Hysteria. It blew me away. I know, basic." She laughs. "But I just love how bass can be subtle or right out front. You can make it your own."

Mio nods. "I chose it because I didn't want to be the one everyone's always watching. Bass felt right—important, but in the background. I like supporting the band from the shadows."

"And yet... you sing," Naya teases, gently, like she's trying to find the balance between joking and serious.

Mio blushes. "I know. We're two vocalists, so we switch between lead and backup depending on the song."

Naya's brow furrows slightly, her gaze thoughtful, as if she's mentally translating. Mio watches her closely, feeling a strange urge to help.

Mio decides to make it easier. "Sometimes I sing," she clarifies, "and other times, I just play bass in the background."

"Oh! Nice." Naya's smile is open, warm, as if she's honestly impressed. "I'd love to hear you. I bet you have a good voice." Then, with quiet sincerity, she adds, "You already have a beautiful speaking voice."

Mio blushes harder, caught off guard, and for a moment, she can't respond. Compliments usually make her retreat, but right now... she just smiles, shyly, but with a warmth she rarely shows.

There's a pause, just long enough for Mio to regain her breath, before Naya asks, "What kind of music do you like?"

Mio's face lights up, please with the topic. "I like a lot of things. But, um... classic rock, like The Beatles. And some J-Pop. And, uh... jazz."

"The Beatles are awesome! I've listened to some J-Pop and jazz, but not much." Naya leans forward, eyes gleaming with interest. "Maybe you can recommend me some bands or albums sometime?"

"I'd love to." Mio glances up, and for the first time, she feels like she's sharing something real with her. "What kind of music do you like?"

"Oh, everything," Naya says, then laughs at herself. "My music player's always on shuffle. It'll go from progressive rock to bubblegum pop, to post-rock, to French house, to lo-fi... you get the idea." She pauses, looking up at the ceiling as she searches for words. "I love checking out new releases. This month? I'm all about Explosions in the Sky's new album and Amaranthe's debut album. And Sophie Ellis-Bextor! I love her!"

Mio's eyebrows lift, surprised by the sheer variety. It's as if Naya is another world—broad and unexpected, an entire map she's just glimpsing for the first time.

Naya's energy is infectious, almost magnetic. It's like watching a light click on, her words coming faster, smoother, the pauses only there for Naya to choose her next thought.

Mio finds herself smiling, caught in Naya's excitement.

"I swear," Naya's voice has grown louder, her accent more pronounced, "this year's shaping up to be amazing for music. Right now, I'm hooked on Zonoscope by Cut Copy—they're an Australian synth-pop band, and their new album just dropped last month. There's this song called Sun God, and—"

And she stops, suddenly.

Mio raises an eyebrow, half-expecting a language block, but Naya just smiles, shyly this time, her excitement cooling.

"Ah... sorry, I got carried away."

Mio tilts her head, still absorbing Naya's words. "Carried away?"

Naya runs a hand through her hair, her expression sheepish. "Yeah, I... tend to ramble when it comes to music. My friends back home always told me to tone it down... said I could get... annoying."

Mio frowns, just slightly. "Annoying? You're in a music club... talking about music."

Naya lets out a small laugh. "Right, but... sometimes I just go on and on, and, well... not everyone wants to hear that."

A quiet pause. Mio considers. She thinks about her own experience—how she often keeps her love of music to herself, not because anyone tells her to stop, but... because she's never sure when or how to bring it up.

I get that, she thinks. I could talk about music forever... but I usually don't.

"You don't have to apologize," she says, her voice soft. "Actually... it's kind of nice to meet someone who talks about music like that. I don't get to talk about it much."

"Really?"

Mio nods. "Yeah... Ritsu will sometimes talk about concert DVDs, but it's rare. And Azusa—one of our guitarists—she likes jazz because her parents are musicians. But..." She trails off, glancing away. "It's hard to find someone to talk about all the albums I love. I mean... Ritsu tries to listen to some of them, but... my boyfriend, he's more into movies, so..."

The mention of Kenji sends a strange discomfort through her. Like a small, unwelcome tug that feels out of place here, in this safe space of the clubroom. She realizes she's shared more than she meant to.

"Uh... sorry, I was just... thinking out loud."

Naya shakes her head. "No need to apologize. So... you listen to a lot of music?"

Mio nods again, feeling more at ease. "Yeah. I'm always listening to something... studying, reading, even just thinking."

Naya taps the red headphones around her neck. "Same here. Gotta have music playing. It's like breathing."

Mio glances at Naya's headphones, chuckling softly. "Guess we're not so different there."

Naya beams, bright and warm. "So... yeah, in a nutshell, I'm into everything, but mostly alternative rock and electronic. My favorite bands are Muse, St. Vincent, and Justice."

"Muse has some interesting basslines. I've heard a few of their songs. But I don't know St. Vincent. And I haven't really listened to much electronic."

"Maybe we can trade recommendations sometime. Or... just chat about what we're listening to. If you feel like it."

Mio pauses.

Naya's not just here for the language. She's looking for connection.

She nods. "That'd be nice."

Naya smiles, and Mio finds herself smiling back. Naya glances around the room, as if gathering courage. There's something she wants to say, Mio can sense it, but Naya hides it behind small talk about music.

But not for long.

"Hey... can I join the club?"

Mio blinks, caught off guard. "Sure. Like I said, it's fine if you don't have a band—"

"No, I don't mean that," Naya interrupts. "I mean... if it's not... too much trouble."

Mio's eyes narrow slightly, puzzled. "Trouble? Of course not! We'd love to have you. You just need to fill out a form. But you're definitely welcome."

"You're sure? I like what you told me about the club, and... I like talking to you. But... I don't want to... I don't know... hold anyone back." She gestures vaguely as if brushing something away. "I've tried other clubs, and... well..."

Mio tilts her head, watching her carefully. It doesn't make sense. Why Naya would think she'd hold anyone back?

Naya lets out a strained chuckle. "I'm still learning. Sometimes I'm... slow with the language, especially after classes." She shrugs. "Might have a hard time... understanding. Or maybe... I won't say the right thing. In fact..." She hesitates, clearly searching for the right word, but Mio's face stays patient, soft, unwavering. No hint of impatience, no judgment. "This conversation... might've already drained half my Japanese battery for today."

Mio notices the shift in her posture—from confident to guarded, cautious. She's laughing it off, but it's clear she's bracing herself, as if worried Mio will judge her.

"I don't want to bother anyone," Naya adds, glancing at Mio as if she's already asking too much.

Does she really think that?

"So if I can't join, that's fine. I just... want to know. No big deal," Naya finishes, trying to play it off casually.

Mio watches her, taking in the small, telltale signs: the raised shoulders, crossed arms, the way her gaze stays unfocused, chin held high but her eyes distant. She's always been good at that—observing, reading people. There's something achingly familiar in Naya's look—the feeling of being a nuisance, of not quite fitting in, always wondering if you're in the way.

Kenji had told her over the phone that Naya probably felt out of place and could use a friend.

Naya's been here since January. Alone in the dorms. A foreigner in a world she's still learning to navigate.

But music is universal.

"You're not a bother at all," Mio says, her voice steady, candid. "I'll help you out. We'll help you out. You're more than welcome here."

There's a moment's pause. Naya looks at her, her expression unreadable. Seconds tick by, and Mio's heart quickens, wondering if she's sounded pitiful.

Did I say the right thing? I mean it, but... does she believe me? I just want her to know she belongs here.

Then, Naya's smile spreads slowly, wide and warm. She tries to shrug it off, but Mio sees the relief, the gratitude.

"Thanks. I'll... do my best to keep up."

Mio feels herself relax, a small smile playing on her lips. Talking to Naya somehow feels easy.

The door swings open, and both girls turn. Mio stands quickly—too quickly. Naya rises too, following her lead, as if she's already part of the club.

A tall figure steps inside.

Oh no.

Mio recognizes her instantly.

Kaji Elizabeth.

The girl everyone talks about. The popular one. The intimidating one. The one Mio had handed a flyer to.

Please, floor, swallow me now.

Mio's heart sinks. But as she shrinks back, Naya's eyes light up, full of curiosity.

Tall. Striking. Commanding. Kaji strides in like she owns the place, her red hair tied back in a wild ponytail. A sleek black jacket emphasizes her height, her sharp features—like she just walked off a music video set. Every gaze would turn her way naturally.

Kaji's sharp gray eyes land on Mio first, and in one sweeping look, she seems to see right through her. Great. My entire personality in one glance. Mio feels her heart tighten. She shifts slightly back, almost hiding behind Naya—a reflex she'd never admit out loud.

The last thing she expected was for Kaji Elizabeth to actually show up. Confident, collected, with a gaze that holds longer than comfortable. Everything about her, from her posture to that subtle smirk, screams cool. Too cool for this room.

Why am I hiding like a kid behind the new student? Mio realizes the silence has stretched on a bit too long.

Kaji speaks, voice smooth. Too smooth. "You two the welcoming committee or something?" She steps further into the room.

"That'd be her," Naya says, nodding toward Mio. And Mio tenses. The last thing she wants right now is to be thrust into the spotlight. I'm not the welcoming committee. I don't even want to be the welcoming committee.

"Uh... yeah. Welcome." Mio manages, stepping out from behind Naya, voice soft. Too soft. "I'm, um, Akiyama Mio. Second-year. Nice to meet you again." She dips into a small, stiff bow.

Kaji raises an eyebrow. "Again?"

Mio cringes. "I—I mean, I gave you a flyer. Yesterday. Outside."

Kaji's gaze sharpens, lips curving just slightly. "I know. I remember you. I was kidding." She glances briefly at Naya, then back to Mio. "You seemed tense."

Mio's face heats. "I—I wasn't tense! I'm fine!" I am NOT fine.

Kaji chuckles, clearly amused by the reaction. "I'm Kaji Elizabeth. Second-year. Call me Liz."

"And I'm Na—Rivera Nayara. Second-year. Nice to meet you." Naya gives a small bow, her voice even.

Liz's gaze lingers on Naya for a moment. "Rivera Nayara," she repeats, her Japanese tripping over the syllables just slightly.

Naya laughs. "Name's a bit tricky here. Just call me Naya."

"You're not from here, are you?"

"What gave it away?" Naya steps a bit closer to Mio, their shoulders almost touching. "Look at me and Mio here—we're like two peas in a pod."

Liz snorts.

"Seriously though, I'm from Spain."

Liz's eyebrow lifts. "So you're the foreigner everyone's been talking about."

"Well... I don't hear everything people say about me," Naya replies, brushing it off. "Just the little bits."

"Interesting. Must be... different? A big leap, coming to Japan?"

Naya pauses, piecing together Liz's rapid words. "Yes. Different, yes."

Liz smirks, glancing at Mio. "Guess I'll need to be patient, huh?"

Mio frowns. Not cool, Liz-san. New language. New culture.

"And what are you doing in Japan?" Liz asks, gaze shifting back to Naya.

"Living experiences. Maybe finding myself along the way. Who knows."

Liz chuckles, a hint of sarcasm. "Living experiences? Sounds like you've been hanging around tourists too much."

Naya blinks, a bit confused.

Mio jumps in. "She means she's exploring, learning new things."

Liz's eyes snap to her, and Mio's heart stops.

"What about you?" Naya cuts in, redirecting to Liz with practiced ease.

"Me?"

"Where are you from?"

Liz's mouth quirks. "Osaka."

Naya blinks. "Oh. I thought... your name, and the hair, you know?"

Liz laughs, the sound low and amused. "I get that a lot. Born and raised in Osaka. The hair's just for fun."

"Right. Osaka. Got it."

"Your Japanese is good. You're catching everything, right?"

"Of course... mostly."

"She's doing fine," Mio cuts in, stepping slightly forward, almost as if in quiet defense.

Liz's gaze returns to her, the faintest hint of acknowledgment. "Just checking." Her smirk softens, as if amused. "So, you're new here?" she asks, turning back to Naya.

"Yeah, I got here in January. I love it so far. People are... nice. Well, some." She gives Mio a warm smile. "Mio here's been the best."

Thanks, Naya, Mio thinks with a sinking feeling. But this is probably the worst time to say that.

"So," Mio jumps in, hoping to divert the attention, "are you here to join, or just checking things out?"

Liz's gaze lingers a moment longer than comfortable. "I'm here to check things out. What's this club all about?"

Focus, Mio, she tells herself. You know the answer. She's been with the Light Music Club since high school, played countless gigs, poured her heart into it. But right now, all she can think of is Liz's intense gaze, studying her.

"We, uh... rehearse, play music. It's pretty chill. We have two bands now, one working toward semi-pro."

Liz hums, crossing her arms, leaning back. "I don't know if I can do chill. I'm looking for a new band. I'm used to a professional environment. Don't want to lose my edge."

And we're more like a sleepover with instruments. Perfect.

Mio isn't sure what to say. If it were up to her, Liz would walk out the door, and she'd be perfectly content with her small, safe club. But the club could use someone like Liz. Still, how can she convince a pro-level performer to stay in a club that's more about fun than fame?

She's also unsure whether to ask about Liz's old band. She already knows, of course—Ayame mentioned it yesterday. But would bringing it up feel intrusive?

Fortunately, Naya steps in. And Naya, being new, direct—and apparently being just Naya—doesn't hesitate to ask.

"You were in a band before?"

Liz considers, then nods.

"I was. Not anymore, though."

"Why not?" Naya asks, as if she's chatting with an old friend. Casual. Almost too familiar.

Liz raises an eyebrow.

Are all Spaniards this direct? Mio wonders, a bit alarmed.

"Creative differences," Liz replies, her tone dry. "They wanted something I couldn't give them. So I left."

"Well, I'm joining the club," Naya says, unfazed. "Maybe we can form a band. I don't have one either."

Liz's gaze sharpens. Narrowed eyes. "Just a reminder—I'm looking for something long-term, not temporary."

"So?"

"Aren't you supposed to go back to your peninsula?"

Silence.

Naya only smirks, as if she's been waiting for this. She decides this is the best time—and Liz, the most popular girl on campus, the best target—to tease: "If you impress me, maybe I'll stay."

Liz tilts her head. "Oh, is that so?"

Mio's heart skips. Naya's teasing Liz-san? Liz, the most intimidating girl I've ever met? Right in front of me?

Liz stares back, intrigued. "You think you could keep up with me?"

Naya shrugs, easy. "Think you could keep up with me?"

Mio feels her soul leave her body. This is it. This is how I die.

Liz doesn't break eye contact. A slow smile. "What do you play?"

"Bass. And a bit of piano," Naya says, almost dismissively. "But mostly bass."

Liz chuckles, low. "Bass? No surprise switch-ups?"

Naya hesitates, and Mio nudges her, whispering the explanation. Naya nods, expression clearing.

"Still working on your Japanese?" Liz's tone is teasing.

"Hey, I'm trying. Thanks for the reminder, though."

"You're doing fine, Naya." Mio looks at Liz, her gaze unyielding.

Liz smirks. "If I join, it's just for vocals. I'm done with guitar."

"No one asked you to play guitar," Naya replies. "If more people join, we could have a full band."

Liz's eyes narrow again, assessing. "Anyway, like I said, I don't know if I can do 'chill.' And the concept of this club feels... abstract."

Mio takes a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment. If anyone's going to explain the Light Music Club, it has to be her.

"Our club isn't exactly professional," she starts, glancing at Liz. Her voice steadies. "We play music, yes. But it's more than that."

Liz's gaze sharpens, her interest piqued. It throws Mio off, but she holds her ground.

"It's a place where we can be ourselves," Mio says, each word carefully chosen. "We play what makes us happy, and we're here to have fun." A pause. "It's a space to enjoy music without performing for anyone's approval."

Liz is silent, watching her, scrutinizing.

Mio's heart hammers. Have I said too much? Too silly?

But then, Naya gives her a small, encouraging nod.

"Sometimes we're silly," Mio adds, a touch of nervous laughter breaking through. "Sometimes we're not entirely serious. But when it matters—when we're on stage, or just together—it's genuine." She takes a breath, leaning into the truth. "It may not be the professional scene you're used to, but... there's something honest here that keeps us all coming back."

Am I starting to sound like an after-school special?

Liz's stare softens, just slightly. "So... you're saying I'd get freedom here?"

"Yes," Mio replies. "Maybe more than you're used to. We don't follow strict rules, but we still take our music seriously. And you'd bring something new. Something we don't have."

Liz studies her, then shifts her gaze to Naya, who only shrugs. "It's a vibe you might actually like."

"And," Mio adds, feeling her face warm, "we'd be lucky to have someone who knows the professional music scene. We can learn a lot from each other."

Liz's eyes narrow, considering.

"You play?" she asks, breaking the silence.

"Uh—yes," Mio stammers. "Bass."

Liz smirks, eyebrow raised. "Suits you."

Oh great. So bass is just for the quiet types who barely hold a conversation. Wonderful.

Mio swallows. "And... I sing sometimes," she blurts out, feeling oddly defiant.

Liz's eyebrows lift. "You sing?" She chuckles, clearly surprised. "Didn't expect that. You seem quiet."

Mio nods, feeling a blush rise to her cheeks. "I used to be terrified of performing," she admits. "But the club helped me. That freedom to mess up and just... be in the moment—it's kept us going." She looks away, almost embarrassed. "Forgetting the pressure. Just... enjoying the music with friends."

"Di que sí," Naya chimes in, words no one else understands. "Music is all about fun."

Liz turns to her. "You think so too?"

"Hombre, of course. Life's about enjoying yourself. Why do something you don't like?"

"You sound like a tourist brochure," Liz teases, raising an eyebrow.

Naya rolls her eyes, looking mildly offended. "She has a point, actually."

Liz scoffs, tilting her head. "You're pretty upbeat for a new member, Naya."

"Ah, thank you?"

Liz gives her a faint smile. "It's refreshing."

Mio watches Liz, unsure how this will end. She's poured her heart into describing the club's sincerity, even if it's not strictly professional, and shown that it has both structure and freedom. And Liz, for all her cool exterior, doesn't seem as skeptical as before.

"Alright," Liz finally says, her voice slow, deliberate. "Maybe I'll stick around. See what this 'chill club' is about. But I don't do half-effort—I've got a reputation."

Mio nods, feeling the weight of Liz's gaze. "Of course. We'll show you how serious we can be."

Liz's smirk softens. "I'll be the judge of that."

She walks over to the couch, and Mio, on instinct, steps back, accidentally bumping into Naya. A light touch on her shoulder. Steadying her.

"So, this is it?" Liz asks, her gaze drifting around. "The grand tour?"

Mio nods. "We usually meet here. For rehearsals, or just... to hang out."

Liz's gaze shifts to Mio. "You really do seem like the quiet type, Akiyama-san. Hard to believe you're the one selling this club."

You and me both.

"Anyway," Liz continues, "don't get too cozy with the idea, though. If things get too chill"—she shoots a look at Naya—"I'm out."

Mio steadies herself. "We're glad to have you, even if it's just to check things out, Kaji-san. I mean—Liz-san."

Liz waves her off, confidence in full force. "Just Liz is fine."

Mio nods quickly, her brain too fried for coherent thoughts. Is this what people feel after climbing mountains? Because I feel like I've just hiked up Everest in my own head. She takes a deep breath, her social battery dangerously low. Well, I wanted to be more open this year. Open to a mental breakdown, apparently.

Then, the door creaks open again, slowly, as if the person on the other side is hesitant.

Mio stiffens. Please let it be the girls, or even Onna Gumi. If it's another new member, I might actually throw myself out the window.

But it's another new girl.

Specifically, it's the shy girl from yesterday—the one who'd taken a flyer but hadn't seemed brave enough to approach. She steps into the clubroom, gaze immediately dropping to the floor, as though afraid of taking up too much space. She's small and petite, with long, dark hair falling neatly over her shoulders, wearing a simple, modest outfit: a white shirt, suspenders, a skirt, and stockings. Clothes that seem designed to blend in. And the way she moves—head down, shoulders hunched—makes it seem like she's trying to disappear altogether.

Mio feels a pang of sympathy. The poor girl looks terrified, standing there, cringing slightly at the sight of the three other girls already in the room—especially Liz.

She knows she has to step in. The new girl looks like she's practically folding in on herself under Liz's gaze. I know that feeling all too well—the fear of being noticed, the instinct to shrink. Mio straightens her back and steps forward.

"Hi, welcome to the Light Music Club." Mio approaches, but keeps a respectful distance, hoping to make her feel at ease.

The girl fidgets, her eyes darting between Mio and the others. "H–Hello."

Poor thing, Mio thinks. She's even more nervous than I was with Akira around last year. She knows exactly how it feels to be shy, to feel like the smallest person in the room, and she doesn't want this girl to feel that same pressure.

"I remember you from yesterday," Mio says candidly. "I'm glad you came. I'm Akiyama Mio, second-year. What's your name?" She speaks softly, trying to put the girl at ease.

The girl looks up, meeting her eyes briefly before looking away, clearly nervous but trying her best. Mio can see the effort.

"I'm Tamashiro Momoko... Nice to meet you," she says with a small bow.

"Nice to meet you too, Tamashiro-san." Mio bows back, keeping her tone gentle.

Naya, noticing the interaction, steps forward, her smile warm and inviting. "I'm Rivera Nayara, second-year. But you can call me Naya," she says easily. "Everyone does."

Tamashiro seems a bit taken aback by Naya's loud tone but manages a small smile. "N–Nice to meet you, Naya-senpai."

Then Liz, still lounging on the couch, leans forward, resting her arms on her knees. "Kaji Elizabeth. Second-year. But, please," she smirks, "call me Liz."

The girl glances around nervously. "Then you can call me... Momo. Yeah... Momo is fine."

The three girls exchange glances, and Mio can't help but find it endearing. She's already trying so hard to keep up with these two.

"Sure thing. Momo it is." Liz stands up, and Momo's eyes widen at her full height. Dressed in all black, with a sharp, commanding presence, Liz seems like she's just walked off a rock magazine cover. Clearly intimidating to someone like Momo.

Sensing Momo's discomfort, Mio tries to shift the focus. "So, are you a second-year too?"

Momo shakes her head. "First-year."

"That's great! We have another first-year in the club too," Mio reassures her. "What instrument do you play?"

Momo hesitates for a long moment before finally mumbling, "Drums."

Mio blinks, trying to reconcile the image of Momo with the sound of a drum kit. She tries to imagine her behind one, but her mind just... can't. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Liz and Naya exchanging incredulous looks. The idea of this tiny, quiet girl sitting behind a drum kit doesn't quite compute.

Naya is the first to recover. "Drums? Wow... Didn't expect that." She smiles brightly, but her confusion is clear.

Liz raises an eyebrow. "Interesting. You don't look like a drummer."

Momo fidgets, her face flushing. "I... I know I don't look like it, but I've been playing since middle school."

Feeling for her, Mio steps in again. "That's awesome, Momo. We actually have two other drummers here." She gives an encouraging smile. "What kind of music do you like?"

Momo brightens a bit. "I... really like K-Pop."

There's a pause.

Mio, Naya, and Liz blink in unison. K-Pop? From the shy drummer girl?

Naya chuckles. "Didn't see that coming either. Any favorite groups?"

Momo nods, her voice gaining just a bit of confidence. "I really like 2NE1 and Orange Caramel."

"Noted. I'll give them a listen," Naya winks.

And before anyone can comment further, Momo adds, "I also like power metal."

This time, Mio's brain really does shut down.

K-Pop and... power metal? It's not exactly the combination she expected from Momo. And by Naya's expression, she's equally taken aback.

Liz, however, looks genuinely impressed. "Power metal? No way. Which bands?"

Momo hesitates, then says, "Dragonforce... and Sonata Arctica."

Another long pause. Mio can see Momo's confidence starting to falter again, so she steps in with a smile. "That's great, Momo-san! Liking such different genres shows you have a wide taste in music."

Momo looks up, her expression softening. "Thank you," she whispers.

"Joder, Momo," Naya says with a grin. "You're full of surprises."

Momo looks down. "Is that... a bad thing?"

"What? No, no!" Naya waves her hands quickly. "It's awesome! You just... don't seem like the power metal type, that's all. Sorry."

Liz, clearly amused, steps closer. "I'll definitely want to hear you play sometime, Momo. Show us those power metal chops."

"Oh, I'm not that... I mean... I'm not very good."

Liz smirks. "We'll see about that."

Naya steps in, voice calm, tone gentle. "Hey, Momo, I play bass, so we'll probably work together a lot. And I listen to all kinds of music, so maybe you can show me some K-Pop and power metal bands."

Momo's expression softens, her cheeks lifting into a small smile. She seems relieved. Naya, with her natural ease, her easy smile—Mio envies her for that. Wishing she had a fraction of that effortless charm.

But still, even with the warmth, Momo's shoulders are tense. Her gaze shifts, nervous. Mio sees it. So she suggests, softly, "Why don't you take a seat, Momo-san? The rest of the club members should be here soon." I hope.

A tiny nod from Momo, quick, grateful. She settles on the far end of the couch, away from Liz, who sprawls like she owns the space. Naya drifts to the other end, close to Liz. Mio chooses a spot beside Momo, hoping, somehow, her own presence might calm the girl's quiet nerves.

And then Naya catches her eye. Smiling. Small, knowing. We got through that, without scaring her off. For now, Mio thinks, that feels like a win.

Then the door swings open.

Seriously? Again?!

Mio's silent prayer is that it's one of her bandmates, or Onna Gumi, or anyone who can dilute the strange mix of responsibility and anxiety pressing in on her shoulders.

It's everyone. Azusa included.

All of them pile in like a flood, Ritsu leading the charge. Her voice, loud, as always. The force of her personality filling the space before she even says a word.

"Miooo! Sorry we're late!" Ritsu grins, shamelessly.

"I saw a dog!" Yui adds, beaming, like it's the best excuse in the world.

Relief washes over Mio, though she knows full well that Ritsu's energy is more likely to stir things up than calm them down. Still, it's a relief. Momo, though, flinches at the sudden volume, shrinking back, caught between a smile and a flinch.

Ritsu's gaze sweeps the room. Taking in Mio hanging out with three new girls. Her grin stretches even wider. "Look at you, Mio, already recruiting new members!" she exclaims, patting Mio's shoulder. Hard.

Mio's face warms. She rubs her shoulder where Ritsu smacked it. "I wasn't recruiting. You all just left me here alone."

Akira, arms crossed, stops short as she sees Liz. Her eyes widen. "Whoa, no way. Kaji-san? You're here?"

Liz's mouth tilts in an amused smirk. "Apparently."

Ritsu looks back to Mio, impressed. "Mio, you got Kaji-san to join? That's amazing!"

Mio's cheeks heat up more. "I didn't... She just... came in..."

"Nice work, Mio-chan!" Yui cheers. "We're gonna be so cool with Kaji-san!"

Liz lets out a small laugh. "Alright, don't get too excited. I'm just checking things out."

Ritsu's eyes narrow, zeroing in on Naya. "Hey, you came! The ga—!"

"RITSU!"

Naya's eyes narrow too. Recognition dawns. "Ah, you're the flyer girl! Mio told me about you."

Ritsu spins towards the Spaniard. "Did you understand anything I said?"

"Not a word."

Ritsu laughs. "That's 'cause I was speaking Kansai-ben! Classic me."

Mio groans, not bothering to hide it.

And, as if on cue, every single one of them turns to Naya. All at once.

"Oh! The transfer student!" Yui's eyes are wide with curiosity, her voice bright. "You're here!"

"So, are you joining? Where are you from?" Ayame leans in, eager.

"Are you here on an exchange program?" Mugi asks, voice soft but interested.

"Do you like Japanese food?" Yui chirps up again, leaning closer.

"Do you know any Japanese bands?" Sachi jumps in. "Or anime? Or—"

Naya's smile tightens. Mio can see her trying, the way her gaze flicks from one face to another, trying to find words, find an anchor. She catches Naya's eyes, sees the quiet panic there. Senses it.

Quickly, she raises her hands, firm. "Guys, one at a time, please? Let's all sit down and maybe introduce ourselves properly. You know, a bit more... organized?"

The room falls into silence. Finally.

"Fine by me!" Yui chirps, dropping onto the couch, squeezing beside Momo. The poor girl jumps, startled. Slowly, everyone finds a place on the couch, save for Ritsu, who bounds up to the small stage.

With a grand clap, she calls, "Alright, everyone! Welcome to the Light Music Club! I'm your fearless leader—Tainaka Ritsu, club president!" She gestures, with flair, to Akira. "And this is Wada Akira, our co-president."

Akira raises a hand, a lazy wave. "Yo."

"Any problems, talk to us. Mostly me, 'cause I'm the fun one."

Mio rolls her eyes.

"And now, for the initiation—I mean, introductions!" Ritsu grins wide, eyes gleaming. "Full name, year, instrument, and a fun fact."

Momo shifts, looking like she wants to disappear. Liz leans back, completely unfazed. Naya just looks like she's doing mental gymnastics to keep up with everyone's fast pace, but her smile hasn't faded.

Yui springs to her feet, raising her hand. "Me first! Hirasawa Yui, second-year! I play my lovely Giita, and my fun fact is... I really, really love cake! Especially strawberry cake!"

"Is that your fun fact every time?" Mio asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, and I can eat ten pancakes in one sitting!"

Azusa sighs, muttering, "Is that really something to be proud of...?"

"Yes," Yui says, deadly serious. "Because it's true."

A ripple of laughter goes around. Azusa looks resigned. Mio can almost see her silently bracing herself for another year of Yui's endless, chaotic energy.

Ritsu stands next, arms spread wide. "Tainaka Ritsu, second-year, drummer, and reigning queen of pranks!"

A chorus of groans fills the room, Yui's cheer the loudest of them all. "Ricchan is the best at pranks!"

"Best?" Mio mumbles under her breath. "More like the most relentless."

Mugi rises, all grace. "I'm Kotobuki Tsumugi, second-year, and I play keyboard. My fun fact is that I've been trained as a classical pianist since I was four."

Momo's eyes widen, and Liz's gaze shifts, intrigued, lingering on Mugi. Mio glances to her side, where Naya leans in close.

"She's something, eh?" Naya whispers, nodding toward Mugi. "She looks like royalty."

"She kind of is," Mio murmurs back. "Her family's, uh, very well-off."

Naya raises her brows, a hint of awe. "Is she foreign? Her hair and blue eyes..."

"She's half Finnish. But born and raised here."

"Ahh." A faint nod from Naya. She watches Mugi, then the others, with something like... curiosity. Mio thinks, wondering if Naya's just looking for someone who might understand her feeling of being a little out of place.

Next up is Azusa. "Nakano Azusa. First-year. I play guitar." She pauses. "My parents play in a jazz band."

Simple. Straightforward. Very Azusa.

Then, it's Mio's turn. She clears her throat. She's done this plenty of times—it's her band, her friends. She shouldn't feel nervous. "I'm Akiyama Mio. Second-year. I play bass. Left-handed." She pauses, searching. "Uh... fun fact... I like reading classical literature."

Ritsu coughs. "Nerd."

Mio glares.

Akira goes next, leaning back on the couch. "Wada Akira. Second-year, guitar. Fun fact: I've probably seen every horror movie known to mankind."

There's a pause. Mio winces at the idea of all those horror movies.

"Really?" Yui asks, wide-eyed.

Akira nods, deadpan. "Really."

Sachi chimes in. "Hayashi Sachi, second-year. I play bass, and I collect vintage records."

Mio perks up. She hadn't known that about Sachi. She makes a mental note to ask her later.

Ayame's turn. "Yoshida Ayame. Second-year, drummer." She pauses, grinning. "And I'm a fashionista, darling."

Mio watches them all—her friends, each with their own quirks. Like colors in the same painting. Different, but blending effortlessly.

Now, it's the new girls' turn. Mio can feel the shift in the room as everyone's attention turns to Momo, Liz and Naya.

Momo decides to go first, probably wanting to get it over with. She wrings her hands. "T–Tamashiro Momoko, but you can call me Momo. First-year. I play drums... and I really like K-Pop."

There's a brief silence. And then—

"K-Pop?!" Yui practically jumps out of her seat. "That's so cool, Momo-chan!"

Momo's face flushes. Her eyes dart to the floor, overwhelmed by the attention.

Next is Liz. She flips her ponytail dramatically. "Kaji Elizabeth, or Liz. Second-year. I sing. I play a little guitar, but it's nothing special." She smirks. "I can hold a note for forty-five seconds straight."

The group hums with impressed murmurs. Liz gives a satisfied nod, clearly used to the attention and praise.

Finally, it's Naya's turn.

"Nay—Rivera Nayara. But Naya's fine." Her voice is a touch louder than needed. "Second-year. I play bass." She glances at Mio. "Right-handed. I dabble in piano, but nothing fancy." She shrugs. "Oh, and yeah, I'm from abroad—Spain. That's going to come up anyway, so there you go."

Mio feels a pang for her. Someone with probably so many layers, reduced to 'the foreigner.'

She gauges the group's reaction.

Nobody reacts.

Weird?

A beat.

There's silence for a moment.

Then—

"SPAIN?!"

A barrage of questions hits Naya from every angle.

"You're from Spain?! What's it like?"

"How long have you been here?"

"Is it true the whole country takes naps in the middle of the day?"

"Can you speak Spanish for us?"

"What's 'hello' in Spanish?"

"Do you like Japanese food?"

"Do you play Spanish guitar?"

"Do you live near the beach?"

"Can you show us how to flamenco dance?"

The questions come at her from all sides.

Mio watches as Naya's eyes widen, struggling to keep up with the rapid-fire Japanese. It's too much. Too fast. Too random. Naya's doing her best—Mio can see it—but she's missing words, phrases slipping by her as voices bombard her from all directions.

Finally, Mio steps in. "Hey, hey—guys, stop it," she says, attempting to calm the room. "You're going to give her a headache."

Ritsu pouts. "Come on, we just wanna know!"

"She's not going to answer if you keep bombarding her like that."

The room quiets, a ripple of silence. Naya sends a grateful look Mio's way.

But Ritsu and Yui? They're leaning in, eager, like kids with hands raised.

"So, like, do you eat paella every day?" Yui blurts.

"Do you know how to do the Spanish clap thing?"

"Do you guys really have siestas? Like, nap time every day?"

Mio pinches the bridge of her nose, eyes shut. She just—she just can't with these two sometimes. "Sorry about them," she mutters, glancing at Naya with an apologetic smile. "They just get... enthusiastic."

Naya shrugs, a slight grin. "It's fine. Thanks for stepping in, but I think I'm fighting a losing battle here." She glances between Ritsu and Yui, shaking her head. "Okay, quick answers: no, I don't eat paella every day. I don't know the 'Spanish clap thing'—they're called palmas. And siestas... well, sort of? It's mostly a stereotype. Some people nap. Some don't."

Ritsu and Yui nod sagely, as if they've just learned the most valuable piece of information in the world.

"Okay, but Naya," Ritsu pipes up, "do you have, like, flamenco in your blood? Can you dance like that?"

"RITSU!" Mio's face flushes, horrified.

"What? I'm just curious!"

Naya laughs, a bit awkwardly. "Uh, no, I don't dance flamenco. That's more of a southern thing—"

"Bummer," Ritsu mutters, disappointed.

Mio sighs. She loves her friends, but they are, well, a lot. At least Naya seems to be taking it all in stride, handling it with humor. For now, at least.

Mio only hopes she can keep up with them too.

But Ritsu, as always, can't resist. "Okay, but Nay—"

Mio smacks her on the head. "Enough! Give her a break."

Ritsu rubs her head, pouting. "But I want to kno—"

"No more questions. You're overwhelming her."

"Yeah, give her some breathing room," Mugi says softly, a warm smile directed at Naya. "We'll have plenty of time to ask questions later."

Ritsu raises her hand, fingers wiggling. "Just one last question?"

Naya chuckles, though she looks slightly tense. "Alright, one more."

Ritsu's face brightens, taking a deep breath. "How do you say 'Ritsu is the best' in Spanish?"

Naya deadpans. "No way am I saying that."

Mio facepalms. Of course, Ritsu would go there.

"Fine, fine." Ritsu relents, still grinning. "Welcome to the club, Naya. And Liz. And Momo."

Momo shifts under the attention, nervous, while Liz just smirks.

"So... what now?" Naya asks, eager to shift the focus.

Akira leans back, folding her arms. "Mostly, we practice. Rehearse, work on songs, sometimes do shows."

"Oh!" Yui perks up, practically bouncing in her seat. "We're Ho-Kago Tea Time! Me, Ricchan, Mio-chan, Mugi-chan, and Azu-nyan!" She gestures as she goes, "We've been playing together since high school. And now that Azu-nyan's back, we're complete again! And we're the best!"

"Absolutely!" Ritsu grins, flashing a thumbs-up.

Sachi nods. "And we're Onna Gumi—Akira, Ayame, and me. We're aiming to go semi-pro, actually."

Liz's attention sharpens. "Semi-pro, huh? Akiyama-san mentioned something."

Mio nods. "They've been working hard."

Akira smiles, pride visible. "It's our goal. We're pushing ourselves more this year."

Liz raises an eyebrow, her tone testing. "Looking for a singer by chance?"

"Not at the moment." Akira's tone carries an edge. "But... we're open to ideas."

"Good." Liz's gaze sharpens, intrigued. "Finding a serious band is my top priority right now."

Azusa tilts her head, curious. "Is that why you're here?"

Liz casts a quick glance toward Naya and Momo. "I want a serious band. Not just a club to goof off in." Her voice is even. Steady. "If I join, it has to be worth my time."

"So you're looking for something solid?" Ritsu perks up, eyes bright.

Liz uncrosses her arms, gaze calm yet resolute. "Exactly. I came to find a band to take to the next level. I'm not interested in wasting time."

Ritsu grins, nodding toward Naya and Momo. "Why not try a band with these two?"

Momo's face pales, her voice barely audible. "A—a band with them?"

Liz's gaze moves slowly between the other new girls. "You think that would work?"

"Why not?" Ritsu's grin widens. "It's just the three of you who don't have a group. Why not jam together?"

Liz's smirk changes, intrigued. Wary. "Alright. I'm open to a trial."

"But you're not playing guitar," Mio mentions. "How can you work this out with just bass and drums?"

"Maybe we can figure something out," Liz says to Naya and Momo. "But no pressure. Let's just see if there's a vibe."

Naya seems unfazed with the idea of leading a band without a guitar—or maybe she's still catching up—but Momo looks down, nerves rising.

"And... if we don't meet your expectations?"

"It's not about meeting expectations. It's about seeing if there's something here worth committing to."

Naya raises an eyebrow, studying Liz. "So... a tryout?"

"Exactly. If we click musically, then great. If not, no harm done."

Ritsu's eyes light up. "That's the spirit! Keeps things interesting, right?"

Akira nods, clearly approving. "Our club has a reputation to keep. If we work together as serious musicians, it benefits everyone."

"Right." Liz glances at Naya and Momo, assessing. "Let's see what we can do."

Mio shifts in her seat, uneasy. "But... you three have never even played together," she says, looking at Momo, who seems ready to vanish from sight.

Akira leans forward, steady. "True, but I like Liz's approach. We could all use the push. The club's grown, and this year we want to keep building momentum."

Momo's gaze darts nervously to Liz. "I've... never been in a band before."

Liz's gaze softens, just a little. "Look, no pressure. If we mesh, great. If not, it's all good."

Akira's eyes gleam. "See? That's what I like—raising the bar."

Yui raises her hand eagerly. "If we're all practicing, can we do a little show? Just for fun?"

Ritsu's face lights up. "Wait! I have an idea!"

Mio sighs, already feeling the weight of Ritsu's suggestion. "What is it, Ritsu?"

"Well," Ritsu begins, "since we've got all these new faces... how about a mini-gig in two weeks? Just us girls, with each group playing an original song! Ho-Kago Tea Time can play, Onna Gumi can play, and you three"—she points at Naya, Momo, and Liz—"can do a trial set!"

Yui claps her hands. "Oooh, like a showcase?"

Mio's face falls. "Compose, rehearse, and perform an original song in two weeks? Ritsu, we just started college. It's a lot."

"C'mon, Mio!" Ritsu pleads, grinning. "We've got no projects, no exams yet—there's time. And it'll be fun! The perfect way for everyone to get to know each other."

Mio gives Ritsu a skeptical glare, knowing she's lost. "Fine. But I don't think it'll be easy for a brand-new group."

Liz's gaze shifts, sizing up Naya and Momo. "A chance to see how we work together... I like that."

Naya looks to Mio, her unofficial guide. "Two weeks, right?"

Mio nods, resigned, as Ritsu bounces.

"Exactly! Think of it as an experiment. No pressure, no competition. Just a chance to test the waters."

Akira looks intrigued. "For once, Ritsu's got a solid idea."

"Oi," Ritsu protests.

"Pushing ourselves to put on a show will help us grow as musicians. And it'll give each of us a taste of what everyone brings to the table."

Mio watches Momo fidget.

"This is all for fun, right?" she asks, giving Ritsu a pointed look.

"Of course!" Ritsu grins. "No full pro-mode. It's just to feel things out. And hey, if Liz likes what she sees, maybe she'll decide to stick around."

Liz's smirk reappears. "I'll stay if I'm genuinely impressed."

"Then it's settled!" Ritsu cheers, punching the air. "Two weeks to show what we've got!"

The club members drift into groups. Momo shrinks a little next to Liz, and Mio, feeling the day's exhaustion, is about to join her friends, shuffling feet, when a voice stops her.

"Hey, Mio?"

She turns.

Naya.

She's looking at her with genuinely appreciative green eyes.

"Thank you. You've been... really kind. More than anyone else. I know it's not easy to cope with... all this." She gestures vaguely to herself, encompassing the questions, her language struggles, the chaos, and everything else.

Mio blushes, taken aback. "Oh, it's... it's nothing, really. I'm glad you decided to stay."

"Even if it was mostly for you," Naya smiles.

Mio's blush deepens.

"Thanks for your patience. I hope we can be friends."

Mio smiles. "Of course. I'd like that, too."

Naya seems to hesitate. Then she bows stiffly. It's forced, endearingly awkward.

Mio chuckles; Naya's awkwardness is undeniably charming.

"Sorry," Naya says with a sheepish grin. "I forget you bow here to say thanks. And if I say or do something out of line, please correct me, if you feel like it. I know it's not your job, but I'd like to learn. I won't take it personally."

Mio nods. "I will."

Naya's smile widens. But before she can say more, Liz swoops in, grabbing her by the shoulder.

"Enough with the sappy stuff, flamenca. We've got to talk logistics." She nods toward Momo. "If we're actually doing this 'trial band' thing, we need to figure out what we're working with."

Naya stumbles slightly under Liz's arm. "Right, right..." She trails off, giving Mio a small wave and shooting Liz a sidelong glance.

Mio watches them go, her head spinning from all the day's interactions.

She rubs her temples, more than a little socially drained.

That's when Ritsu sidles up beside her, nudging her.

"Sooo, Mio-san..." she drawls. "How'd my 'leave-you-alone-with-the-new-girls' plan go?"

Mio's expression flattens.

Her eyes narrow as she turns to face her best friend.

"Ritsu," she says slowly, her voice laced with mock calm, "I am going to kill you."

Ritsu claps her on the back. "Aw, come on! It all turned out great, didn't it? You did an amazing job handling everything! It worked!"

"If by 'worked' you mean that I spent the last hour wrangling a mini United Nations summit in here, then yes, it worked." She sighs. "And I'd like to strangle you."

"Pfft, you'd miss me too much," Ritsu teases, patting her shoulder. "Now, let's create some music! We've got two weeks!"

Mio exhales slowly.

A new song in two weeks, and she's wrestling with writer's block. She closes her eyes, silently praying for strength.

Ritsu grins, sensing her distress. "Come on, Mio! Where's your sense of adventure?"

Mio's sense of adventure is currently buried under a mountain of anxiety.

She takes out her phone and looks at the time.

Six thirty.

"... I just want to go to sleep."

Notes:

So here they are—the new members! If you're curious about their faces, these are Naya, Liz, and Momo, created using this Picrew—which is the closest I could find to K-ON!'s art style. Kind of.

Physically, Naya was loosely inspired by a mix between Hirose Aiki from Go For It, Nakamura! and Mochizō Ōji from Tamako Love Story, more or less. And then I realized Liz looks a lot like Sayaka, the guitarist from Death Bang Bang Chicken in the Live House! episode. The unconscious mind works in mysterious ways.

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. And, of course, if you feel like it, leave a kudos or a comment—I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Chapter 4: Guilty Rainbow

Summary:

Mio has never seen nine pedals for a bass.

Notes:

Hi, everyone! Thanks for sticking with the story so far. This chapter dives more into the everyday lives of our favorite characters, with some musical fun saved for next time.

Guilty Rainbow, by Roommate, was released on April 12, 2011.

April 8, 2011

How does everyone find out about these things?

It's Friday. Just two days since the new girls joined the Light Music Club. And somehow, almost everyone on campus already knows. Rumor has it that Kaji Elizabeth, the most popular girl on campus, is considering joining.

Mio can't figure it out. She hasn't told a soul—who would she even tell? She still struggles to greet Sachi in class if Sachi doesn't say hello first. She's pretty sure Mugi, Azusa, or Ayame wouldn't spill the news, either. Which leaves the likely suspects: Yui, who tends to talk faster than she thinks, or Ritsu, who may have let it slip in a burst of excitement. Or maybe it's Akira—bragging, confident that Liz is bound to join.

Then there are the three new girls themselves, but that's doubtful too. Momo? She's too shy to even speak. Liz? She's as private as she is popular. And Naya? Naya's mostly on her own, not exactly connected enough to spread rumors.

But, despite the talk, no one new has shown up. Just like high school—all this chatter about the Light Music Club, and yet, no new faces.

"Why won't anyone just come by?" Ritsu grumbles, loud enough to be heard over Onna Gumi's rehearsal. "They can't stop talking about us!"

Mio glances up from her composing session with Mugi, feeling a small wave of relief that no one else has joined. The club is her sanctuary, a place to immerse herself in music, unwind with her close-knit group. The fewer people, the better—not that she'd ever admit it. Not that she even needs to.

Things have changed now, of course. There are three new faces. Each unfamiliar in different ways. But, surprisingly, they don't cause the anxiety she anticipated. Well, except for Liz. Because Liz is... well, a lot to handle.

And then, as if on cue, one of those unfamiliar faces appears in the doorway—Naya. In her usual band tee—another one—, a bass case slung over one shoulder and a bulky backpack on the other.

Naya always brings that backpack to the club. Why? No one knows.

She moves with a relaxed kind of tension, like she's aware of every curious glance that comes her way. She knows she stands out. It's clear from the way people look her over, almost like every glance reminds her she doesn't quite fit in. But she presses on, undeterred.

When Onna Gumi finishes their song, Naya speaks up.

"Hola, everyone," she says, her smile easy. She bows lightly, stiff. "Sounded good!"

Ayame grins back. "Thanks!"

"Oooh! What did you say, Naya-chan?" Yui asks, impressed.

Naya chuckles, looking a bit awkward. "Uh... I said 'hello' in Spanish."

"Sounds super cool!"

"It's, uh... just a normal greeting. But thanks." She quickly shifts the conversation, clearly not wanting to linger on herself. "Does anyone know if Liz or Momo are coming?"

Azusa pipes up. "Oh, Momo's in one of my classes. She had to talk to a teacher but should be here any minute."

"Ah, thanks, eh..." Naya pauses, visibly searching for Azusa's last name, then gives up with a sheepish grin. "Thanks," she says simply, dropping her backpack and bass case to the floor and settling onto the couch.

Ritsu raises an eyebrow. "Hey, Naya, I thought you played bass?"

Naya looks up, slightly puzzled. "I do... as far as I know?"

"Then why do you have a guitar case?"

Naya blinks at the case, realization dawning. "Oh! No, no—it's a short-scale bass." She glances at Sachi. "By the way, your bass is so cool, eh..."

Another pause as Naya tries to recall Sachi's last name. But Sachi doesn't seem to mind.

"Thanks," Sachi replies, assuming she's the one being addressed. "It's a Gibson Thunderbird."

"Never seen one in person. Mola—uh, I mean, it's cool. I like the shape," Naya says, admiring the bass.

"Oooh! That was Spanish, too?" Yui claps excitedly.

Naya smiles, shrugging. "Yeah, it slips out sometimes. Sorry."

"Wait," Ritsu cuts back in. "Short-scale bass? What's that?"

Mio sighs. "Ritsu, I've shown you what a short-scale bass is, like, a thousand times in Slapper's magazine. You know what that is."

"I don't!" Yui declares, sounding almost proud.

Akira, stepping down from the small stage, raises an eyebrow. "You shouldn't be proud of not knowing what a short-scale bass is, Yui."

Azusa leans forward, happy to explain to her senpai. "The main difference between a short-scale bass and a regular one is the length of the scale—the distance between the bridge and the nut."

Mio nods, already stepping in to add more. "In a short-scale bass, the strings are looser. They're softer to play. And since the neck is shorter, the frets are closer together. It's ideal if you have smaller hands," she pauses, looking around, "or just want something comfortable for longer sessions."

"Then you'd be playing that bass all over the place, Mio, with those huge hands of yours," Ritsu grins. 

Mio narrows her eyes, then cracks a smirk. "Oh? That's rich coming from someone who couldn't hit a drum if it was standing still."

Ritsu pouts. "That's just mean, Mio-san."

Yui, meanwhile, looks as if she's still catching up. Her face blank, almost as if her brain has short-circuited.

"But... it sounds the same, right?" Ayame's voice cuts through the tension.

"Not exactly." Sachi clarifies. "It has a warmer, rounder tone compared to a regular bass."

Naya smiles, looking a bit sheepish. "Thanks for explaining, everyone. My Japanese wouldn't have covered all that."

Ritsu crosses her arms, thinking hard. "So, it's like... a bass for short people?"

"Ritsu, it's not about height—it's about comfort and tone," Mio points out.

"Then why did you choose the short-scale bass, Naya-san?" Mugi asks, curious.

Naya hesitates, brow furrowing as she thinks through her answer, translating each word carefully in her mind. "I play a riff-rock style, so I like the... eh... punchier, thicker tone," she says slowly, shaping her hands as if holding something compact. "The smaller size lets me play fast riffs and..." she pauses, tapping her forehead, searching, "intricate finger work. It fits my sound. Driving... riff-heavy."

Mio murmurs, almost to herself, "Like a heartbeat."

Naya nods. "Yes! Exactly."

Mio's curiosity is buzzing.

All this talk about short-scale basses, and Naya still hasn't taken hers out of the case.

Every day, Naya, Liz, and Momo come to the clubroom. Every day, Naya brings her bass—and that ever-present backpack. But she never plays it. They brainstorm, debate ideas, toss around styles and lyrics for the mini-gig. Naya suggests something, Liz teases her, Naya doesn't always catch the jokes, and Momo listens quietly, nodding along.

It's perfect. This kind of creative back-and-forth is exactly what the club is about.

But, Mio thinks, I really want to see that bass.

Finally, she gives in. "Hey, Naya," she says, rising and walking over, "can I see your bass?"

Naya blinks. "Oh, right! I did promise I'd show you."

"Yeah," Akira interjects. "You bring it every day, but we haven't seen you play. Are you even practicing?"

"Come on, Akira," Sachi says. "It's only been two days."

"So?" Akira crosses her arms. "We're here to work."

Naya shifts, looking a little smaller under Akira's sharp tone. "We're... getting there. Sort of."

Mio steps closer as Naya unzips the case, finally taking out her bass. She hands it over to Mio—no hesitation, like trust has already formed. Mio takes it with the care she'd give her own, knowing how personal an instrument is to a musician.

The bass is exactly as Naya described—a short-scale Squier Vintage Modified Jaguar bass in a striking candy-apple red, a bit worn and with a deep, almost magnetic shade that catches the light. Offset body, black pickguard, a bold contrast.

"May I...?" Mio gestures, feeling an itch to hold it properly.

Naya grins, nodding. She knows what Mio means. Adjusting the strap on her left shoulder, Mio lets her hair fall over one side as she positions the bass. It feels different from her Elizabass, smaller, almost like a four-string guitar.

Mio thinks of her own bass, the way her long, smooth basslines stretch across the fretboard, each note flowing. Naya's bass, though, feels built for something else—speed. Precision. It's crafted for the kind of fast, punchy riffs Naya described.

"Why not play guitar, then, if you like riffs, Naya-senpai?" Azusa asks, watching.

Naya scratches her forehead, thinking. "It's kind of silly..." She pauses, looking up. "I started with a basic Fender Precision. Liked it... a lot. So I thought, let's upgrade." She frowns, recalling something, then continues, "I did a bit of research, found this one, and totally fell for the color. When it arrived, I realized it was... um, shorter." She lets out a chuckle, scratching her head again. "That's when I learned what a short-scale bass was. Took me a while to get used to the... spacing on the frets."

A few of the girls laugh. Naya's expression—an open, eager concentration—suggests a mental workout as she pieces her story together in Japanese. Mio smiles. There's something so endearing about it, how casual she seems. It's just her heart, Mio thinks, leading her, picking a bass guitar on a whim. She remembers her own agonizing choice, days spent weighing the tiniest details of her Fender Jazz.

"Oh my god, you're just like Yui!" Ritsu's voice breaks through. "She picked her guitar because she liked it. That was it."

"Liked it?" Yui looks affronted. "I love Giitah!"

Azusa sighs. "Yui-senpai, I still think you'd do better with a smaller, lighter guitar."

"Don't be jealous, Azu-nyan!" Yui has her arms around her now, practically smothering her in a hug. "I have enough love for both!"

Azusa squirms, frowns. Yui clings.

Mio's attention drifts. She examines Naya's bass, noting its differences. Elizabass is sleek, smooth, meticulously maintained. A plain black strap, nothing flashy—a reflection of her own desire to be part of the music, without standing out. Her bass, her choice, her role: an anchor to hold their sound together, something solid, supportive, and sometimes, she wishes, invisible.

Naya's bass is something else. Candy-apple red, covered in stickers—most of them about bands, some Mio knows and a few she doesn't recognize. The strap is worn, patched with little badges. For Mio, her bass is how she expresses herself quietly. For Naya, it's a piece of her, bright, unrestrained.

"It's beautiful," Mio says, handing it back.

"Right?" Naya's grinning, proud.

Sachi steps in closer for a look, and without a second thought, Naya offers it to her.

"Oh my gosh, Sachi-chan!" Yui exclaims, clutching her cheeks. "You're so tall, and that little bass—it's like a toy! You look like a giant!"

Sachi hands the bass back quickly, shrinking.

Naya glances at Mio. "Can I see yours?"

Mio blinks. Right. She's been so wrapped up in their two-week prep, her creative block, that they haven't even played their usual songs. Naya's never really seen them in action.

She nods, opening the case with careful hands, pulling out Elizabass. Pride tugging at her. She hands it over. Naya takes it with the same look—almost reverence.

"This is gorgeous." Naya's fingers trace the sunburst finish that fades from dark to warm amber. Her hand pauses over the tortoiseshell pickguard. "I almost don't want to touch it. It's so pristine. Is it new?"

Mio shakes her head. "No, I just take good care of it."

Ritsu peeks over her shoulder. "She cried when it got its first scratch—"

"Quiet, Ritsu," Mio huffs, elbowing her.

Naya laughs. "Would it be okay if I played a little?"

There's a small pause. Mio hesitates, then nods.

Naya slings Elizabass on with a certain tenderness, adjusting to the left-handed layout. Her hands are a bit lost at first, fingers stretching awkwardly as she strums a few hesitant notes, but she finds a rhythm—just enough to make the familiar, warm sound echo through the room from Elizabass' bare strings.

Mio listens, her heart catching on the simple notes. So that's what it sounds like from the outside.

"I'm so used to mine," Naya laughs, easing the bass back off, "yours feels huge." She hands it back with a careful smile, almost reverent.

Just then, the door creaks open, and Momo slips inside, clutching a notebook to her chest, looking slightly panicked.

"Sorry I'm late!" she whispers, her eyes darting around like she's bracing for a scolding. She sees everyone laughing, mid-conversation.

"Hi, Momo-chan!" Yui practically sings, waving like Momo might vanish if she isn't acknowledged enthusiastically enough.

"Hey, Momo," Naya greets her, a soft warmth in her voice, her accent lingering just slightly on the 'o'.

Mio lifts a hand in a small wave. Momo's gaze shifts quickly between Yui, Naya, and Mio, her eyes finally landing on the bass in Mio's hands. Holding her notebook close, she makes her way to the couch, settling beside Naya with a faint, shy smile.

"Glad you made it," Azusa says. "Everything okay?"

Momo nods, flustered. "Y–Yeah, I just... Ichikawa-sensei... wanted to go over some things."

"Oh, you two have class with Ichikawa-sensei?" Ritsu chimes in, leaning forward. "How's he this year?"

Azusa straightens. "He's strict." Momo nods, glancing around, her hesitation evident.

Ritsu laughs. "Strict, but scatterbrained. There was this essay he assigned us last year—totally forgot about it."

"That was the only time I've seen you genuinely happy about schoolwork, Ritsu."

Ritsu scoffs. "Happy? Just relieved!"

"Um... did I interrupt something?" Momo's voice is quiet.

Mio shakes her head. "Not at all." She gives a small, reassuring smile. "We were just... talking about basses." A quick glance at Naya.

"Yeah, turns out Mio and I have different ideas about bass care," Naya says, smirking. "She takes care of hers. I... don't."

Momo says shyly, "I think your bass is cool, Naya-senpai. It has... character."

"Exactly! You get it, Momo." Naya's grin widens as she taps the cover of Momo's notebook. "Are those song ideas?"

Momo blushes, nodding as she opens it. Lyrics, chords, little doodles along the margins. Stars, clouds, careful ink.

"Can I see?" Ayame's voice is eager.

Momo hesitates, then nods. Ayame takes the notebook, handling it like it's made of glass. Soon, nearly everyone—except Akira—leans in, glancing at the pages.

Mugi's voice is soft. "You have a lovely style. Very poetic."

"Really?" Momo's voice, a whisper. A spark of pride in her eyes.

"Definitely," Mio adds. "It's charming. Simple, but..." She pauses, thinking. "Heartfelt."

"Maybe we could blend Liz's lyrics with yours," Naya suggests, giving Momo's shoulder a reassuring pat. "I've already sketched the music."

Akira raises a brow. "Already? All by yourself?"

"Well, it's rough." Naya shrugs. "Since my style's riff-heavy, wasn't too hard." She glances at Momo. "Oh, and I trust you with the... uh..." She drums her fingers in the air, searching. "Percussion arrangement."

Momo nods, eyes wide, as if she's just been given an assignment of utmost importance.

"So, riffs?" Sachi asks. "The whole song is riffs?"

Naya nods. "Pretty much. That's my thing. Catchy, heavy riffs to keep people moving."

"Catchy is our specialty!" Ritsu exclaims. "The song we're working on is fast-paced, energetic... You're gonna love it!"

"The song we're working on?" Mio shoots Ritsu a look.

"Teamwork!" Yui chimes in. "It's one of our best!" Mugi pats Mio's shoulder sympathetically. "And definitely catchy."

"You like catchy songs?" Naya asks.

"You should hear our hit—Fuwa Fuwa Time! Even Akira-chan loves it!"

Akira flinches, busy with her guitar. Says nothing.

"The lyrics, though—peak cheesy," Ritsu grins. "It's a total love-at-first-sight anthem. Pure Mio. She's got a knack for the sappy stuff."

Mio blushes. "Ritsu, knock it off."

"Oh, come on, Mio. You write sweet, marshmallowy lyrics and then act shy about it."

Momo pipes up, voice soft. "I'd... love to hear your band someday, Akiyama-senpai. I really like... love songs."

"Same here." Naya nods. "Bet they're fantastic."

Mio's about to thank them both when the door swings open. She tenses immediately. No need to look back. She knows who it is. The room fills with a new energy.

"Well, well, everyone's looking lively." Liz strides in, tossing her bag onto a chair.

Ritsu smirks. "Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence!"

"Well, someone has to bring a touch of glamour to this place." Liz casts a quick look at the bass in Mio's hands. "That's yours, I assume?"

"Uh—yeah."

"It's nice. Looks well cared for. I'd like to see you play it sometime."

"T–thanks."

Akira crosses her arms, narrows her gaze at Liz. There's a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth as her foot taps, steady. "You missed our rehearsal, Liz. Would've been a good chance to see how a semi-pro band sounds."

Liz raises an eyebrow. Barely acknowledges the jab. "Oh, was that a coincidence?" Her voice syrupy. "I was hoping to catch your little semi-pro act."

Akira straightens up. Crosses her arms tighter. It's like she's bracing herself, ready for the challenge. "Trust me. We'll blow you away."

"Us too!" Yui chimes in. "You haven't heard our new song yet, Licchan, but it's amazing!"

"Nobody has, Yui," Mio points out, deadpan. "We haven't even started rehearsing it."

But Ritsu drums her fingers on the table, grinning. "Just wait. We're gonna blow the roof off this place!"

Liz's gaze sweeps over them—Ho-Kago Tea Time. Lingers briefly on Mugi. Then on Mio.

"You all look way too cute to pull that off."

Mio feels a flicker of nerves as Liz's attention drifts her way. Mugi leans over, gentle smile. "You'll be surprised, Liz-san."

Liz's eyes rest on Mugi for a long moment. A smile, curling at her lips, but no response. Her gaze shifts, settles on Naya and Momo. Mio takes the opportunity to put her bass away, slipping back to the table, quick and quiet.

Naya jumps right in. "Hey, Liz, Momo's got some lyrics, and I've got most of the song down."

Momo nods. Hugs her notebook close to her chest, tight.

"If we tackle the percussion notation," Naya says, "we can wrap it up today." She glances around, as if mapping out some plan only she can see. "Rehearse next week. Get it down by Friday."

"Isn't that cutting it close?" Mio asks, glancing at Momo's uncertain expression. Friday is just over a week away. "You guys sure you can pull it off?"

Liz crosses her arms, assessing them. "We'll make time if we need to." Her grin is wicked. "If I have to push, I'll push."

Mio looks at Momo, who seems caught between impressing her seniors and fainting right there on the spot. Then she glances at Naya, unfazed, as usual, wearing that casual smile—the kind that could mean either 'I'm totally following' or 'I have no idea what's going on, but I'm enjoying it.' 

Liz drops down on the couch beside Naya and Momo. And Ritsu slaps her hand on the table, snapping Mio out of her thoughts.

"Oi, Mio! We've got work to do too! Don't you have those cringeworthy lyrics ready? Something corny about dancing penguins or whatever?"

A sharp yelp fills the clubroom as Mio lands a swift kick to Ritsu's shin under the table.

---

April 9, 2011

When Mio arrives at the café, Kenji is already there, waiting by the door. Smiling as she approaches. She finally agreed to meet him on Saturday, knowing that as the semester progresses, they'll both be swamped with university work—especially Kenji, with his third-year courses, job hunting, and part-time work. And, well, he's her boyfriend.

Mio smiles back, gives a small wave, then glances down at her phone. She checks the time, then double-checks. She's so used to being the one waiting that she always feels the need to be sure, just in case. No, she's right on time. Still, she checks. Just to be certain.

Kenji greets her with a light hug. She doesn't stiffen, but her arms circle him loosely, like a habit.

"Have you been waiting long?" she asks.

"About five minutes," he says, pulling back. "I'm early. Shall we go in?" He opens the door, and they step inside together, moving toward the counter as they chat.

They study the menu. Kenji picks a latte macchiato; Mio decides on green tea and yōkan. After paying, they settle at a small table near the window, facing each other. Mio silently hopes certain topics don't come up. Not yet. Not here.

"So, how's your second year treating you?" Kenji asks, sipping his drink.

"I told you about the flyers, right?"

He chuckles. "Yeah, but it's still hard to picture you handing out flyers."

"Hey, I didn't do that badly. Not until that girl showed up."

Kenji raises an eyebrow. "Ritsu's latest idea?"

She sighs, taking a sip of her tea. "It's ridiculous. She wants us to write a new song in two weeks. Well, actually, one week now—the week that's left. The new members, too. She made them form their own band."

"A new song? For all of you?"

"Yeah, all of us. We've got the music sorted, more or less, but no lyrics." Mio feels her shoulders tense. "I usually write them myself, but I'm blocked."

"Didn't you bring your lyric notebook? Maybe there's something in there you can use."

"I thought about it. But most of them are from high school, and they're... embarrassing."

"Why?" Kenji asks.

"I don't know, they're... well, just... different." Mio feels her cheeks warm, as if someone else might hear.

"Your lyrics are great, Mio," he says, encouraging. "Even if they've changed over the years, they're still good. You'll find something you like."

She smiles, feeling oddly at ease. She's comfortable with Kenji when there's this distance—this safe, physical space between them. He's more friend than lover now, and somehow, that's exactly what she needs him to be.

"How about you?" she asks. "First week back going well?"

He grins. "Good, actually. I convinced Taro to join the Film Appreciation Club again. We're going to be swamped with studies, work, and club stuff, but hey—I need my weekly indulgence."

"You and your movies," she teases.

"You and your music," he fires back.

"And Taro went along with it? I hope he doesn't end up failing because you're overloading him. Or worse, he stops seeing Ritsu, and then she starts pestering me."

They both laugh, and Kenji leans back. "If Taro has to drop anything, it won't be Ritsu. It'll be his future."

"Same with her. They're made for each other," Mio says, barely hiding a smile.

"By the way, how are the new members?" Kenji asks.

Mio stirs her tea, glancing at him. "They're really different from each other. Which is why I'm curious to see how they'll work as a band. There are three of them."

"Three? What are they like?"

Mio taps the rim of her cup. "Well, there's the first-year—Tamashiro Momoko. She goes by Momo. She's incredibly shy. So quiet, really. And yet she plays drums. None of us can imagine what she'll sound like."

"And then?" Kenji prods.

"Then there's the most popular girl on campus."

Kenji raises his eyebrows. "She actually joined? What's she like? You mentioned she was tall, right?"

Mio grimaces, picturing Liz. "Yes. Very tall. Very intense. Honestly, she's stunning. Like she could be a model, or a rock star's daughter. Even her name sounds famous—Kaji Elizabeth. Though she insists we call her Liz."

Kenji chuckles. "I bet she's overwhelming for you."

Mio nods, taking a small bite of her yōkan. "Standing in front of her it's exhausting." She pauses, savoring the sweetness before continuing. "Liz says if she doesn't 'click' with the girls, she'll leave. She's dying to sing again." Mio sighs. "But how that'll work out, I have no idea. Pairing the most popular girl with the shyest girl I've ever met."

Kenji laughs. "Coming from you? She must be really shy."

"Exactly," Mio replies. "So imagine Momo if I'm saying that. And then there's the exchange student. Poor girl. She's a bit lost, half the time, struggling to keep up."

Kenji's face lights up. "Oh, right! The exchange student! What's she like?"

"She plays bass," she says, as if that's the most telling detail.

"Like you? Bet you were excited to meet her."

"I was," Mio admits. "She's from Spain."

Kenji blinks. "No way! I don't think I've ever met anyone from Spain."

Mio nods. "She's trying her best to adapt. Sometimes she struggles, or takes a bit longer to respond. Sometimes she slips into Spanish without realizing it." Mio chuckles. "But her Japanese is impressive. I'm keeping an eye out for her."

"Always so nurturing, Mio."

Mio blushes. "It's not that," though she knows it is. She picks at her yōkan, clearing her throat. "It's just... on the first day, Ritsu left me alone to greet the new girls."

Kenji's brow furrows. "Why would she do that?"

Mio hesitates. She can't exactly explain Ritsu's real reason, so she just says, "One of her pranks. You know how she is."

"Classic Ritsu."

Mio nods. "Anyway, the Spanish girl was the first to arrive. We ended up talking for a while." She pauses, recalling the memory. "She's really nice. And she's so passionate about music. Listens to all sorts of genres and knows a ton of bands. We actually hit it off. She was nervous about joining, though. Even though she wanted to, she was afraid she'd be a burden because of the language." Mio pauses again, remembering. "She didn't outright say it, but from what she hinted, I think some other clubs weren't very patient with her."

Kenji's mouth twitches. "Poor girl. I'm sure she'll appreciate having friends."

"I hope so. She seems to be getting along with everyone."

Kenji nods, then asks, "What's her name?"

Mio bites her lip, mentally rehearsing the pronunciation. "R—Rivera... Nayara." She's a little unsure, and Kenji laughs. "She told us to call her Naya."

"And what's she like?"

"Pretty different. She speaks louder. Gestures a lot. And she has this sun-kissed skin. Not too dark, but enough that she stands out next to us."

"Is she tall? You know, being European and all."

Mio shakes her head. "Not really. Liz is much taller. Actually, Sachi might even be taller than Naya. She's about my height. Maybe a little taller."

Kenji chuckles. "And here I thought you were one of the tall ones."

"Oh, and her eyes," Mio blurts.

"Her eyes?" Kenji echoes, smiling. "What about them?"

"They're green! I've never seen anyone with green eyes in person. Sometimes, when I'm talking to her, I catch myself just... staring. I hope she doesn't notice. They're just... I don't know."

Kenji grins. "Let me guess—green?"

"Seriously, if you saw her, you'd understand."

"I'd like to meet her someday," Kenji says. "Ask her about Almodóvar and Amenábar." The names come out clumsy, a slight stumble.

"Who?" Mio raises an eyebrow.

"Two Spanish film directors."

"You sound like Yui and Ritsu."

Kenji looks puzzled.

"On her first day, as soon as Naya mentioned she was Spanish, they bombarded her with ridiculous questions. Mostly Yui and Ritsu."

"Ridiculous?"

"Yeah. Things like if she dances flamenco, if she naps every afternoon, or if she eats paella every day." Mio sigh.

Kenji laughs. "It's typical, isn't it? I bet if we went to Spain, they'd ask if we eat sushi every day or watch sumo on TV."

Mio chuckles. "True. But still, you're making the same assumption—thinking Naya knows about Spanish films just because she's from Spain."

"Well, if anyone around here does, it's probably her," he says, still smiling.

"Speaking of movies," Mio says, taking another bite of her yōkan, "are you guys planning those film marathons and themed movie nights again this year?"

"Of course. That's the heart of the club," Kenji replies, taking a sip of his drink. "We're also looking at upcoming film festivals, seeing if we can attend any. Maybe even bring in a guest speaker for a talk."

Mio smirks. "Good. Now you can geek out with your club instead of dissecting film angles with me."

"Hey, I'm not the one giving TED Talks about The Beatles."

Mio leans forward. "It's not a TED Talk—it's just a fun fact. The Beatles didn't just record songs; they used the studio itself like an instrument."

"Okay, here we go."

"Back then, most bands just recorded live in-studio, but The Beatles pushed their engineers to get creative. That's why George Martin's called 'The 5th Beatle'—he helped shape their entire sound. And get this, they did it all in less than seven years, before any of them even hit thirty."

"Anyone having a midlife crisis would love to hear that," Kenji replies, smirking.

They both smile, settling into a comfortable silence, sipping their drinks. Mio tries to ignore the small, gnawing feeling that always surfaces in these moments. How easy it is to be around Kenji in public, where things stay light and casual. How, as soon as they're alone, everything becomes complicated. Being his friend feels natural, but being his girlfriend feels strained.

"So," Kenji says, breaking the quiet, "have you started with the piano yet?"

Mio hesitates. "Not yet. We're starting with some basic theory first. The real lessons should begin in a couple of weeks."

"Nervous?"

"A little," she admits. "It's intimidating, but I'm looking forward to it. Plus, I have Mugi to help. I've been asking her about the piano for years, and she's let me play around a bit. Nothing major, but enough to get comfortable with the keys."

"Tsumugi's incredibly supportive. I'm sure she'll help you with whatever you need."

"Yeah, I'm not worried about her. What I'm concerned about is that we have to compose and perform a piece by the end of our second year, and... well, with this writer's block, plus learning a new instrument..."

"That's what you're there for," Kenji says gently. "To learn."

Mio nods, feeling his calm encouragement ease her nerves a bit. He always has a way of steadying her, soothing her doubts. But she can't shake the thought that keeps creeping in—how easy it all feels when she's meeting the expectations of a friend, not a girlfriend.

Mio knows that a good relationship is built on friendship, that a couple should be friends, too. But sometimes she has this feeling that, between friendship and romance, she fell halfway.

Just like her hand as they leave the café when Kenji reaches out to hold it.

---

April 11, 2011

Mio clears her throat in the clubroom that Monday afternoon. "So, I... have these lyrics."

Four pairs of eyes turn her way, eager, curious. The girls lean in around the table, watching her. Mio suddenly feels exposed, like she's giving some grand announcement. She clutches the paper, feeling the weight of their attention on her.

Why did she stand up to say that?

Quickly, she sits, sliding the paper to the center of the table.

"Girls in Wonderland," Azusa reads aloud, her accent making the English sound a little unfamiliar.

Yui's face lights up. "I love the title, Mio-chan! What's it about?"

"Uh..." Mio hesitates, unsure how to put it into words. Inspiration from Kenji's suggestion, old lyrics she had scribbled out in high school—it all feels transparent, like she's handing them her diary. She wrote most of it back then, back when love songs weren't a given. Back when her friends were her whole world. "It's... um... sort of a reinterpretation?"

Her voice fades. Azusa tilts her head in confusion, Yui looking similarly lost, Ritsu raising an eyebrow. Mugi only smiles, patient and encouraging.

"I wrote most of it in high school," Mio continues, glancing down at the lyrics, as though they might help her find the words. "It's... well, it's about friendship, kind of. Or, more like that feeling you get... when you're with people who mean everything to you."

She glances up, just for a moment, and they're still watching her, listening. That makes her laugh, nervously. "I, um, tweaked it to fit our sound now."

"Is that why it's called Girls in Wonderland?" Yui asks, completely botching the pronunciation of the title. "Like... it's us, right? A little adventure, all together?"

Mio nods. "Yes, exactly! It's about... this wonderland we've made together, that feeling of being somewhere only we understand." She tries not to think too much about the older lyrics. Those memories, now edged with something bittersweet.

"So... a love song, but about friendship?" Mugi offers, gentle.

"Yes, something like that. It's about... us. About that kind of platonic love."

A silence follows.

Mio watches her friends study the paper. The weight of their attention hits her again, sparking a sudden wave of self-consciousness.

With a teasing grin, Ritsu slides the paper over to Yui. "Mio's getting all sentimental on us!"

But Yui, absorbed in the words, doesn't seem to catch the joke. She's mouthing the lyrics, her eyes lighting up. "Mio-chan, this is perfect!"

"It's really lovely, Mio-chan," Mugi says, softly. "Friendship, adventure... it's like us."

Mio meets Mugi's gaze. "That's exactly it," she says. "I wanted to put into words what it feels like. Like we're all part of something special. Together."

Azusa's head tilts, her fingers tracing over the paper. "It fits, Mio-senpai," she says. "It's perfect for us."

Mio feels her chest swell with warmth. She glances down, hiding her smile. A light, contented feeling spreads through her. But then—

"You're seriously calling it Girls in Wonderland?" Akira's voice slices through from her spot on stage. "Sounds kind of cheesy, doesn't it?"

Mio opens her mouth to respond, but Ayame's foot connects with Akira's back—hard. There's a sharp thud, a quick intake of breath. "Show some respect, Akira. Not everyone's a cynic like you."

"It's wonderful," Mugi's voice chimes in. "A song about friendship. That's very us."

"Actually, it's refreshing," Sachi calls out from near the amps. "Most songs are about romance or heartbreak. It's nice to have one that's just about friendship."

A soft laugh escapes Mio, and she meets Sachi's gaze, grateful.

The clubroom feels both quieter and fuller at once.

Mio gathers her thoughts, feeling a little flustered, when Liz's voice interrupts. She's sprawled on the couch, notebook in hand, raising a brow. "Well," she says, a sly smile spreading across her face, "we'll just have to see what the artist's lyrics are like, won't we?"

Mio feels her cheeks grow warm. The artist? Is that... her?

"Don't tease her, Liz," Naya pipes up. "Sounds like it'll be amazing."

Momo looks up, her cheeks tinged pink. "I think it's... really sweet."

"Thanks," Mio replies, feeling oddly comforted by Momo's shyness.

"Well!" Ritsu claps her hands, her tone overly serious. "Looks like we've got ourselves a hit single. So, Mio," she leans in, "you're singing, right?"

Mio blinks. Wait, what?

She shoots Ritsu a look of horror. The last thing she wants is to sing this cheesy song in front of girls like Akira. Or, even worse, Liz.

"Wouldn't this song suit Yui better?" she asks, trying for hopeful.

"Nope," Ritsu replies. She's clearly up to something. Mio can sense it. "I think the style suits you more."

"But it's... pretty lively, isn't it?" Mio protests.

"Oh, I'd love to sing it!" Yui's voice rings out, eyes sparkling.

"But we have three days to learn it," Mugi says, kindly.

Three days.

"In three days, Yui?" Ritsu grins. "With your attention span?"

Azusa tries to be diplomatic. "No offense, Yui-senpai," she says carefully, "but learning both the guitar and the lyrics in three days is... well, a bit much for you."

Mugi gently pats Yui's shoulder. Yui's face falls, eyes crestfallen and puppy-like.

And now it's Mio's turn, apparently.

"And you think I can learn the bass and lyrics in three days?"

"Mio, you composed the music with Mugi and wrote the lyrics," Ritsu says, brushing her off with a casual wave of her hand. "You'll have it down by tomorrow."

"Oh, so now I composed the song with Mugi? There's no we involved all of a sudden?"

Ritsu's unfazed, hardly even listening. She's already looking over at Onna Gumi. "So, you guys finished up, right?" she asks them. Ayame gives her a quick thumbs-up. "Then let's take the stage, ladies! Time to make some magic!"

One by one, the girls stand up, stretching and grabbing their instruments, all the usual pre-performance fuss. Mio grabs Ritsu's arm as she passes, tugging her back, her voice barely a hiss. "What's wrong with you?!"

"Training, Mio," Ritsu answers, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"You're still on about that nonsense?"

"If you want to get over your shyness, what better way than to sing a little? Besides," she adds, barely holding back a grin, "didn't you say last year that singing helps with weight loss? You said you read it somewhere. So it's a win-win!"

Ritsu breaks free from Mio's hold with ease. Mentally drained, physically drained—Mio's too drained to keep arguing.

"Come on, everyone!" Ritsu calls, her voice booming over the low buzz of the clubroom. "Let's play!"

The bass weighs heavy in Mio's hands as she pulls it from its case, fingers tightening on the neck. Six pairs of eyes on her. Six. That's how many will watch her bring to life this sentimental piece she poured her heart into, turning it from private words to public confession.

They start. Slowly, working through the parts, finding the rhythm.

Ritsu, of course, is playing too fast. Too loud. Predictable.

Mugi's graceful even on an electronic keyboard. Azusa's intense, the way she always is, furrowed brow and all. Yui—how Yui has the melody down already is a mystery. Perfect pitch, they say.

Talk about talent without effort.

And then there's her own bassline. Simple, thank goodness. It shows her talent, but it's not the most challenging piece she's ever played. Fast, fluid slides and finger work, enough to lose herself in without losing herself entirely. Soon, she's smiling on the small stage.

It's good. Feels good, here, with her friends.

She glances up now and then.

Onna Gumi. The three new girls. Their audience.

Ayame and Sachi are watching intently, nodding along, almost like they're genuine fans. Akira, on the other hand, sits with her arms crossed, doing her best to hide any hint of enjoyment. Not that she's succeeding.

Liz, Momo, and Naya moved to the table, heads together, murmuring over their song. The occasional glance from Liz—a faint smile flickering across her lips. It could be approval. It could be something else. Mio can't tell.

Momo, though—she's captivated. Her eyes dart to the stage, glinting each time Ho-Kago Tea Time hits a new beat. The excitement radiates off her in waves, barely contained, like she might run up and join them if given half the chance.

And Naya. Mio's eyes catch on her, almost unwillingly. The other girl, who's the most distracted of all. Liz nudges her, then again, bringing her back to the present. Mio sees her attention drift—not once, not twice, but over and over, a rhythm in itself.

Each time Mio looks, there's Naya. Already watching her.

---

April 13, 2011

The cafeteria is louder than usual, every table filling fast, buzzing with voices and clinking trays. Mio scans the crowd, eyes darting, searching for somewhere to sit.

"Look!" Ritsu's finger points toward a corner by the window. There, sitting alone, is Naya. She clumsily maneuvers a pair of chopsticks, brows furrowed in concentration, trying to pick up a piece of tamagoyaki. It slips. Drops back onto her tray with a muffled thud.

"Now that's a sight," Ritsu chuckles, elbowing Mio. "Foreign girl versus chopsticks—round one."

Naya sighs, looking around, as though wondering if anyone saw. Embarrassed. Resigned.

"Poor thing," Ritsu muses, her tone almost daring. "What do you say? Bonding moment?"

The group exchanges glances. Mio looks over at Mugi, who's already nodding. "It'd be nice to sit with her. She might appreciate some company."

Mio then looks at Azusa, who seems unsure, slightly wary. "But will she be okay with us suddenly joining her? It might be overwhelming."

Ritsu insists. "Come on, let's make the foreigner feel welcome. Besides, this'll be fun!"

Mio hesitates, her tray wobbling slightly in her hands. She's not entirely sure how Naya will feel about being suddenly surrounded. It's only been a few days since she joined the club, after all—

Too late.

Yui is already halfway there, her tray balanced precariously as she weaves through the crowd with a bright grin plastered on her face.

"Yui, wait—" Mio starts.

But it's no use. Yui's already chirping, "GOOD MORNING, NAYA-CHAN!" loud enough for half the cafeteria to hear.

Naya looks up, startled. She looks around. She looks at Yui. Yui has already sat down next to her. 

Mio feels her lips quirk into a smile. Well, that settles it.

The rest of them follow, gathering around Naya's table.

"Mind if we sit here?" Ritsu asks, sliding into a seat across from her without waiting for an answer.

Naya looks at the group, her eyes unsure in which girl should land. She straightens up a bit, pushing her tray aside to make room, nodding like if she wants to make a small, stiff bow. "Oh, um, sure. Please."

Mio trails behind, unsure if she should sit beside Naya or across from her. Ritsu is already slapping her tray onto the table, grinning wide. "Thanks for saving us a seat, Naya!"

"I didn't exactly—"

"Such a pal!" Ritsu interrupts, grabbing her chopsticks and diving into her meal with a lively "Itadakimasu!"

"Uh... Que aproveche—I mean, itadakimasu," Naya echoes, a bit awkward. "Sorry, I usually eat alone."

Mugi slides next to her, placing her tray down with a gentle clink. "Thank you for letting us sit here, Naya-san."

"Of course," Naya replies, though she still looks a bit overwhelmed.

Mio finally sits down, offering Naya a nod and a warm smile as she takes her seat directly across from her. Azusa sits next to her senpai. Naya's still wrestling with the chopsticks. The tamagoyaki sits there, stubbornly untouched.

"You're eating tamagoyaki!" Yui exclaims, pointing at Naya's tray like it's the most fascinating thing in the world.

Naya blinks, looking down at the small, golden rectangles. "Uh, yeah. Well, I'm trying. The chopsticks have a mind of their own."

"You're using chopsticks wrong," Yui says bluntly.

"Yui!" Mio hisses.

"It's fine," Naya interrupts, smiling sheepishly. "I am."

Yui then eagerly launchs into an impromptu tutorial. "Okay, so you hold them like this—no, no, not like that! Like this!"

"Yui teaching someone proper technique?" Ritsu leans back, smirking. "Now this I've gotta see."

Yui goes on with her animated demonstration. "It's like this! And then you pinch like this, and—oh no, my tofu!" The cube falls onto the table, and Yui gasps as if she's lost a precious treasure. 

"Rookie mistake," Ritsu declares. "You're embarrassing us."

"Embarrassing you?" Mio mutters. Then, she looks at Naya, whose brain is clearly unable to keep up with Yui's rapid and chaotic display. "Having trouble?" she asks, careful to keep her tone kind.

"Yeah. I swear these were invented just to make foreigners look ridiculous." Naya laughs, holding up the offending utensils. "Back home, we just stab stuff with a fork."

Yui gasps, horrified. "You can't stab food! It's sacred!"

Azusa sighs. "Yui-senpai, you're being dramatic."

"Want me to teach you again?" Yui chirps, already reaching for Naya's tray.

"Yui!" Mio snaps. "You can't just take someone's food."

"But I'm helping!" Yui insists, as if that justifies it. "Also, if Naya-chan can't use chopsticks, how does she eat ramen?"

"Carefully," Naya says with a laugh. Her gaze then trails over the group, watching as they eat with ease, almost wistful. "You make it look so easy," she sighs, her chopsticks clutched tightly, another attempt, her fingers tense.

"Well," Ritsu teases, "Japan will turn you into a strong, independent woman soon enough."

Naya huffs, eyes narrowing at her chopsticks as if they're the culprit. "I don't want to be a strong, independent woman. I just want to eat."

"Adjusting to Japan, I see," Ritsu leans in, grinning. "So, how's life here? University, classes?"

Naya's shrugs, her gaze lowering to her tray. "It's... it's a lot," she admits, almost sheepish. "The classes are all in Japanese, and my brain—well, it hurts by the end of the day." She glances down at her chopsticks with a grimace. "And these things? They're my daily battle."

Another attempt—she grips the chopsticks tighter, but the food slips, falling back onto her tray with a soft thud. Her cheeks flush a little deeper as she meets Mio's eyes, almost bracing herself for laughter.

But Mio only smiles. Softly, warmly. She lifts her own chopsticks and holds them steady, demonstrating. Gentle, slow. She picks up a piece of fish, steady, graceful, then gestures toward Naya's chopsticks with a small nod.

"Here," she says, showing her. "Like this. Thumb here, fingers like this."

Naya's eyes flicker from Mio's fingers to her own. She adjusts her hold, her movements hesitant. "Like this?" Her gaze lifts, seeking Mio's approval.

Mio's smile widens. "Yes, exactly. Let the top chopstick do the work. The bottom one stays steady."

Naya nods, concentrating as she tries again, her hold a little firmer, her hand a little more confident. "Alright... I think I'm getting it."

With a tiny burst of determination, Naya finally lifts the piece of tamagoyaki. Her grin spreads, proud and a bit relieved. "Got it! Thanks, Mio. You're a good teacher."

"It's nothing. Just practice."

"Still," Naya says, "thanks for helping."

Mugi laughs. "It's always a bit funny watching newcomers handle chopsticks when they're used to forks."

"Forks are overrated," Ritsu scoffs. "Chopsticks have style."

"And a learning curve that's killing me," Naya mutters. She gingerly picks up another piece, this time holding her breath as she brings it to her mouth, victorious but wary. "I've been here for almost four months. But... I always eat alone, so... no one's shown me how."

Azusa glances at the foreigner. "You know, Naya-senpai, you could always use a fork again if it's easier."

Naya shakes her head, determined. "No, no. No way. I came to Japan to learn, right? That includes chopsticks."

Ritsu laughs. "Spoken like a true bassist. Always stubborn."

"Hey!" Mio protests, glaring at Ritsu. "I'm not stubborn."

"Sure, Mio. Keep telling yourself that."

Naya smirks, watching their banter. "Do you guys always argue like this?"

"Pretty much," Azusa says.

"Yep!" Yui beams, her mouth already full of rice. "It's more fun that way!" 

"It's how we show we care," Mugi adds, her smile never faltering.

Mio sighs, muttering, "Some of us could be a little less caring."

Ritsu leans forward, watching Naya pick a bit warily at the mound of natto on her tray. "Not quite used to Japanese breakfasts, huh?"

Naya shakes her head. "Uh, not really. I'm used to... something lighter. And with sugar."

Yui's head snaps up. "Sugar? For breakfast?"

"Yes, loads of it. Coffee, milk, cocoa, maybe juice, pastries, or toast. Something quick and sweet, not... all of this." She waves her chopsticks over the spread. "This is like a full meal."

"We have to go to Spain," Yui declares, determined. Azusa sighs. "A whole country where breakfast is dessert! I'd have sugar for breakfast every day!"

Naya laughs. "You'd fit right in. Breakfast is light. Lunch is the big meal. Everyone just takes a break. Eats. Relaxes."

Mio nods, watching Naya. "Sounds peaceful."

"It is." She pauses, like she's searching for the right words. "Japan feels different. But I'm starting to like it here." She glances around. "Being part of the club has helped a lot."

Mugi offers her a warm smile. "How are you liking the club so far, Naya-san?"

Naya's face lights up. "I really enjoy it. Everyone's been so welcoming."

"Except Ritsu," Mio teases.

"Excuse me?" Ritsu objects. "I bring life to this club!"

Naya chuckles, looking at each of them. "You're all amazing. Really. Thanks for being patient with me. I feel especially close to Liz and Momo."

Mio is intrigued. Quietly intrigued. Naya, unfazed by Liz's popularity, genuinely at ease around her. There's a natural comfort there.

Azusa nods beside her senpai. "Momo's in my class. She's really sweet—just a little shy. We've had lunch together a few times."

Naya beams. "She's the best! It's like having a little sister. Honestly, I think I love her more than my actual siblings," she laughs.

"How's the song coming along?" Mio asks. "You guys haven't rehearsed yet."

"Oh, we're almost ready." Naya's voice is casual. "We practice in secret. We're keeping it low-key for now."

Ritsu raises an eyebrow. "Wait. So you three have been practicing all this time?"

"Yeah. Momo's a little nervous in big groups, so we wanted her to feel at ease first. Liz and I agreed to keep it low-pressure."

The girls exchange glances. Admiring glances. Mio's touched. She hadn't expected such thoughtfulness from Liz or Naya—not that they aren't caring, but their personalities... well, they're strong.

Ritsu leans forward, smirking. "Can't wait to see what you guys have put together."

Naya laughs. "I listened to you all practicing. You're amazing. The vibe—it just made me happy to hear it." She looks at Mio. "You play the bass so well, Mio. Really, you're amazing. You have this... eh... precision... a quiet intensity. I wish I could play with that kind of focus."

Mio's cheeks grow warm. She clears her throat, hoping her face isn't visibly red. "Thank you," she says, her voice steady but quiet.

Naya glances around the group. "Actually, you're all incredible. Are you sure you're not, like, a semi-pro band?"

"We're going straight to the Budōkan after college, right, Yui?" Ritsu quips, nudging Yui's shoulder.

"Yosh!" Yui cheers, thrusting a fist in the air.

Naya laughs again. "You all have such good chemistry."

"It's our balance," Mugi adds. "Focus and fun."

"Well..." Azusa casts a glance at her two brown-haired senpais. "Maybe more fun than focus."

Mio chuckles. She feels the lightness, the energy in the air around them.

She glances at Naya, her curiosity surfacing again. "I'd really like to hear you play sometime," she says. "I'm curious to see your bass style."

"In a couple of days," Naya says, picking at her tray. "Hope you'll like the song—it's nothing big, but we had fun putting it together. Momo's a powerhouse, and Liz... she's something else. I'm embarrassed, backing her up on vocals."

Azusa's head tilts. "But how did you manage? Liz-senpai wasn't planning to play guitar, and you're on bass. And Momo's on drums."

"Oh! Didn't you play a bit of piano, too, Naya-san?" Mugi recalls. "Maybe you went for keyboard?"

Naya gives a little shrug. "You'll see on Friday."

"Speaking of pianos," Ritsu leans forward, "better watch out, Mugi—they might be coming for your spot!"

Mugi laughs, delicate and soft. Mio sighs, casting a look Ritsu's way. "Don't even start, Ritsu."

But Yui's face lights up, bright as anything, voice spilling over. "Did you know Mio-chan's taking up piano, Naya-chan? She's gonna be so cool playing two instruments!"

Naya looks to Mio with that quiet, interested way she has. Mio shifts, feeling the spotlight a little too much. "She mentioned it," Naya says, easy, light. "I hope you like it, Mio."

"The piano is such a versatile instrument," Mugi offers. "You can play both melody and harmony at once. With Mio-chan's love for music, I think she'll find it fascinating."

"But starting with something so complicated—it's overwhelming," Mio mutters. "I can't even get my hands positioned right on the keys. They're always tense or in the wrong spot."

"Oh, but once you get the hang of hand placement," Ritsu's smile turns sly, "you'll be unstoppable with those big hands of yours—"

A swift kick from Mio silences her, Ritsu yelping.

Naya glances over. "Hands?"

"Yeah," Mio says, exasperated. "Every time I try practicing with Mugi, my hands tense up. It's so frustrating."

Mugi nods in sympathy. "That's very common when you're starting out. Relaxed hands are key."

Naya perks up, animated. "You could try putting a coin on the back of your hands and playing scales, or just a short piece. It'll help keep your... eh... wrists steady. Fingers light."

A pause. The table falls silent; every face is turned to her.

"And," she goes on, almost absentminded, as she fiddles with her chopsticks, "when you sit at the bench, place your hands on your... ah, rodillas... knees first. Keep them there." She takes a small bite. Swallows. "Then, lift them up to the keys so they're... rounded." She moves her hands in small circles. "Imagine you're holding a... a bubble—just bounce it gently as you play." Her chopsticks hover, bouncing. "Or... a ball, maybe."

Five pairs of eyes stay locked on Naya.

"That's such a creative approach, Naya-san," Mugi says, warm as honey. "Where'd you come up with it?"

Naya blinks, as if pulled from a trance. "Eh?" She glances up, startled, then down at her tray. "Oh, um, I dunno. It just... came to me." Her eyes fall back to her tray, food that's suddenly a little too interesting.

Mio raises a brow. It's not the first time Naya brushes off something piano-related.

She mentally notes the tips anyway.

"Alright, alright, less talking, more eating!" Ritsu chimes in. "We've got practice today, and I want to hear those legendary riffs you keep bragging about, Naya!"

Naya blinks. "I didn't brag."

"Oh, come on," Ritsu teases. "You basically dared us to be impressed."

"Nah, I'm nothing special," Naya says, poking at the food in her tray. "But not yet. You'll see me play on Friday."

When lunch ends and they all rise to leave, Naya hesitates, then looks at Mio. "Thanks for sitting with me," she says. "This is fun."

"It's nothing," Mio replies, then adds, "You should sit with us again tomorrow, or any other day. If you want."

Naya's smile widens. "Sure. I'd like that."

---

April 19, 2011

The gig is tomorrow, and Mio can't stop counting.

Naya's pedals are lined up in a neat, meticulous row. Mio counts them, again, quickly—nine.

Nine.

Nine pedals for a bassist.

Each one sits there, all linked together like some kind of intricate puzzle. Mio's never been able to solve it. Her fingers almost itch with the urge to reach out, press one, hear what sound it makes. She's read about pedals, studied their effects, imagined how they warp and layer sound. She's watched videos, browsed articles, stared at pictures. But she's never actually used one herself.

Seeing them here, up close, right in front of her, arranged with such care—it feels different. Tangible.

And she's never seen a bassist with nine pedals.

Usually, it's only one or two—Sachi has a couple; Akira maybe three, and even Azusa's tried a distortion pedal a few times. But this setup? Rows upon rows, each pedal with its own look. Some are compact and subtle, others large and intimidating, like they've got their own personalities.

Ritsu raises her eyebrows, glancing sideways at Mio.

"What on earth is all that for?" she mutters, not hiding her bewilderment.

Mio is just as mystified, transfixed. Pedals. So many pedals. Her mind keeps circling back to the number. She's only seen a handful of pedals here and there onstage. But nine? It feels extravagant. Nine pedals.

Nine pedals.

Each one meticulously placed on the board. Mismatched stickers add an almost quirky character, while scuffed edges speak of regular use. It all fits together into something rough, but charmingly so.

Naya is crouched on the floor, looking completely absorbed in what she's doing, as though she doesn't even notice the attention her setup is drawing. She handles each pedal like a finely tuned instrument, with a rhythm all her own, her hands moving through each one in a kind of meditative dismantling. Her backpack lies open nearby, each foam compartment empty and ready to cradle the organized collection. She clicks each pedal off one by one, wrapping cables as she goes. Calm. Unhurried. Precise. An almost meditative ritual.

Momo and Liz stand by the side of the stage, waiting without a word. Clearly, they've seen this routine before.

"Ready to hand over the room?" Liz grins, glancing at Naya and then at Mio and the other girls. "We'll be out in a sec—just as soon as Naya's done packing her toys."

Naya looks up, catches Mio's gaze, and gives her a casual smile. Like she hasn't just transformed a tangle of metal and wires into something so balanced.

"Just some gear I use," she says, as though that explains everything.

Mio blinks. 'Just some gear' doesn't even begin to cover what she's looking at.

Ritsu nudges Mio with her elbow. "What's with the look? Thinking of swiping her setup?"

Heat rises to Mio's cheeks. She clears her throat, trying to play it cool, but her gaze keeps wandering back to the pedals. She watches Naya place each one in its spot in the backpack.

There's a fuzz pedal, she notices, a distortion pedal. Another one—some sort of switcher. Clever. Complex.

Ritsu raises her voice, still peering at the array of gear. "Oi, check out her whole arsenal! How many of these do you need, Naya?"

Naya shrugs, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "All of them."

With a wry smile, she resumes packing. Her fingers move deftly, lifting a pedal, wrapping the cable, tucking it into place. Mio can't look away.

She's never seen the awkward, laid-back, almost clumsy Naya like this—so precise, so completely in her element. Just yesterday she wasn't able to eat with chopsticks.

Ritsu leans in closer, stage-whispering to Mio. "What, still mesmerized? Gonna go sneak one after she leaves?"

Mio's face flushes again, but she doesn't respond, her eyes drifting back to Naya's setup. There's something so fascinating about this careful, practiced ritual.

Her own bass suddenly feels bare by comparison. What kind of sound does Naya create with all these layers?

Naya catches her staring again and grins. "A bit overboard, right?"

Mio nods, feeling her words stutter somewhere in the back of her throat.

Naya holds up a pedal, almost as if to say, This is a part of who I am, too.

Predictably, Yui pipes up. "Whoa, Naya-chan! You have all this? Just for bass?"

"Yeah, they... help me shape the sound," Naya explains. "Add textura—texture. Depth."

Azusa inches closer, kneeling beside the board. "Do you use every single one?"

"Mostly. Some are for specific effects."

Mio steps forward. She can't resist. "Naya," she says, "could I... maybe take a closer look?"

Naya's face lights up. "Of course, Mio. Go ahead." She steps back, gesturing to the pedals—some tucked away, some still spread across the floor.

Mio kneels down, studying each one, her eyes tracing the knobs, the labels, the subtle signs of wear. Each pedal has a purpose, a role in creating her unique sound.

One pedal is scratched and plastered with stickers, another gleams as though it's fresh out of the box, and a third is so worn its label is barely legible under layers of chipped paint. Each is its own instrument, a piece of Naya's arsenal.

Ritsu leans over Mio's shoulder. "That's a serious collection for a bass player. Why so many?"

Naya laughs, a little self-consciously. "Yeah, it might look like overkill, but each one's got its purpose. They all, uh... change the sound in different ways—some add, some take away. With all of them... I can make the bass sound like just about anything."

Mio's fingers twitch with a sudden urge to reach out, to try one herself. She's thought about it before, maybe even read about it in Slapper's, but she's never actually used a pedal.

Her eyes fall on a small, battered pedal right next to her—squat, with a rough edge and chipped paint. Synth?

Synth.

For a bass?

Next, her gaze shifts to a white pedal with bold red lettering—fuzz, if she remembers correctly. She's read about these pedals in music magazines, back in high school when pedals were just abstract ideas. Now, she's staring at them up close, feeling oddly compelled.

Then she notices a robust, industrial-looking blue pedal loaded with dials and switches, looking more like a control panel than a sound device. Three footswitches labeled 'Overdrive/Distortion,' 'Modulation,' and 'Delay' catch her eye, each surrounded by an array of knobs for tone, compression, noise, and reverb. An expression pedal on the side adds to its intense look.

It's intimidating. And a bit thrilling. She wants to know how each one alters the sound, how they could transform her own bass playing. Her curiosity gets the better of her, and she leans in slightly, her hand hovering in mid-reach.

Naya notices, meets her gaze, and holds it.

"You can touch them," she says with an easy smile.

"Oh, I—no, I just..." Mio stammers, blushing.

"It's fine," Naya says simply. "Take a look. They're all yours to try."

Mio's fingers hover over one pedal, then another. "I've read about these," she murmurs, almost to herself. "But I never thought I'd see someone using so many. You must have a whole spectrum of sounds."

Azusa raises an eyebrow. "But nine pedals? For bass? Isn't that a bit... much?"

Naya shrugs, her gesture casual, almost bashful. "It's just my setup," she replies, straightforward. "Each one brings out something different. Depending on what I want to create."

Different sounds. Mio has always preferred the raw, unaltered tone of her bass, keeping it simple—just her and Elizabass. But here's Naya, seemingly crafting an entire language with her pedals.

"What do they all do?" Mio asks, her curiosity finally spilling over.

Naya kneels down, tapping lightly on one pedal. "This one," she taps on the metal surface, "it's for fuzz. Makes the bass sound... eh... thicker, like it's got extra weight." She moves to another. "This is overdrive—gives it a gritty, edgier tone."

Mio nods, absorbing each explanation. Every pedal seems to have its own purpose, its own voice.

"And this one?" she points to the synth.

Naya's face lights up. "Oh, that's the synth. I love it." She taps the pedal. "Makes the bass sound like... a synthesizer. Sometimes, you'd never guess it's a bass."

A bass that doesn't sound like a bass?

"What about this one?" Mio now points to a blue pedal with a kind of glitter effect.

"That's the looper," Naya grins. "You can record a riff and play it on loop while you play something else."

What the...

Mio feels her mind race, but Naya's already moving on, explaining each pedal with her distinct accent, her pauses slow, as if she's introducing old friends.

"EQ pedal. Controls the frequencies." Her finger brushes another pedal. "Compressor. Keeps everything steady."

Mio watches, mesmerized. It's like watching an artist blend colors on a palette—each pedal adding something new, a different hue, a fresh tone.

"It's... a little unconventional, eh?" Naya's voice is almost shy. "But it lets me push boundaries. Go places just one tone couldn't."

"But why so many?" Mio blurts out.

"Options." Naya says it simply, with a small shrug. "Versatility. Being able to switch things up mid-song."

Options.

Mio thinks of her own bass. Simple. Minimal. No extras. No embellishments.

Ritsu breaks the quiet. "Naya, how do you even keep track of what each one does?"

"Good question! Sometimes I think I'm more of a pedal player than a bass player."

Mio can't help but ask, "Do you have a favorite?"

Naya's gaze sweeps over the pedals, landing on a white one with large, bold red letters. "This one, probably." She rests a hand on it. "Fuzz. Makes a huge, thick sound. Like a wall."

Mugi, who's been quietly watching, chimes in. "It's incredible, Naya-san. You must have such a unique sound."

Naya shrugs. "I like experimenting. Trying things out. Sometimes..." She glances at Liz, who's smirking. "Sometimes it feels like... too much." Liz's smirk seems to say, You're ridiculous, but I like it.

Ritsu grins, wide and amused. "Sounds like you're a whole orchestra by yourself!"

"Something like that. I just... enjoy having options. Keeps things interesting."

Mio nods, her curiosity deepening. Interesting, indeed.

Then Naya turns to her, almost as if on a whim. "You don't use pedals, do you?"

Mio blinks, thrown off-balance. "No, I... I never have. Just... clean tones."

Naya nods, as if she expected this. "Clean is great. But distortion—it adds bite. And fuzz... depth." She lifts a pedal, a slight offering. "Changes everything."

Mio's hand drifts over a striking blue pedal. She knows this one—a compressor. She remembers reading about how it shapes tone, smoothing out every note. She's thought about trying one. But something always held her back.

"Could I hear it sometime?" She asks, almost shy, eyes fixed on the pedals.

Naya's smile is open, as usual. "Of course, Mio! Anytime. Starting tomorrow."

Liz raises an eyebrow at Naya, a wry smile in place. "Let's pack up before we get booted out. Gotta let these guys rehearse."

Naya nods. "Yeah, yeah. We're clearing out."

Mio can't take her eyes off Naya as she carefully places the last pedal into her backpack. It's a tiny one, barely the size of a deck of cards. But she senses—it's just as powerful as the rest.

The Onna Gumi girls file in, their voices filling the room as they settle. A passing "hello" here, a "goodbye" there. They pay little mind to the new members or the pedals, unaware of the quiet revolution being packed away, pedal by pedal, into Naya's bag.

But Mio knows.

She's noticed it all.

Tomorrow, she tells herself.

Tomorrow.

Notes:

Yay, the fourth chapter is live! It's been almost a month with this story—hope you're enjoying it so far.

Originally, I planned to end this chapter with the mini-gig, but it got too long. So, I decided to save the gig for the next chapter. Since K-ON! is about both life and music, it feels right to dedicate a full chapter to it.

Oh, and here's a fun detail: This is Naya's bass. And for anyone curious, here's a breakdown of Naya's pedalboard:

• Fuzz Pedal: Electro-Harmonix Big Muff Pi – delivers that classic, thick fuzz tone.
• Overdrive/Distortion Pedal: Boss DS-1 Overdrive – versatile for both subtle crunch and aggressive distortion.
• Synth Pedal: Electro-Harmonix Bass Micro Synth – perfect for creating a range of synth textures and envelopes.
• Chorus Pedal: Boss CEB-3 Bass Chorus – adds shimmering depth and warmth without sacrificing the bass's low-end clarity.
• Multi-Effects Pedal: Boss ME-50 – covers modulation, delay, and reverb all in one.
• EQ Pedal: Boss GE-7 Graphic EQ – lets Naya adjust frequency bands to shape her tone.
• Compressor Pedal: Boss CS-3 Compression Sustainer – keeps dynamics balanced and ensures smooth sustain.
• Pitch/Octave Pedal: Electro-Harmonix POG – adds octave effects and pitch shifting for extra depth.
• Looper Pedal: DigiTech JamMan Solo – great for recording, layering, and live looping.

I did my homework, and all of these pedals should be available in 2011, when the story takes place, so hopefully, everything checks out!

Thanks so much for reading, and see you at the mini-gig next time—this time, for real. And as always, don't forget to leave a comment and/or kudos if you feel like it. It makes my day!

Chapter 5: Nine Types of Light

Summary:

Mio's entire concept of music is now transformed.

Notes:

One month into this fic—yay!

Big thanks to Jules (tsuki_anne) for beta-reading and being amazing!

Nine Types of Light, by TV on the Radio, was released on April 11, 2011.

April 20, 1011

Mio regrets her outfit immediately.

The moment they leave the dorms, it starts. The overthinking. The self-awareness. The quiet panic.

She tugs at the hem of her oversized lavender T-shirt. It's loose, with a bold word—Rhythm—printed across the front in a geometric font. Red and yellow accents streak through the fabric. Bright. Loud. Retro. It's artistic. It's striking. It's—

Too much.

The neckline drapes off one shoulder. Her collarbone feels exposed, vulnerable. She keeps tugging at it, but it's no use.

Her red leggings don't help either. They cling. They shine. They match the red in her shirt perfectly, which might have been fine. Until she paired them with brown ankle boots. Soft, slouchy, comfortable boots.

An outfit Mio bought with Ayame one day. An outfit Mio would never dream of wearing. Until today.

It looked fine in the mirror. Or she convinced herself it did. Now she's not so sure.

It's not even a big concert. Just a showcase at the club. Three bands. Eleven girls. One song per band.

Mio knows nine of them already. She's played with most of them before.

Why did she try so hard?

Ritsu doesn't help. She smirks, taking in Mio's flushed face, and leans closer. "You do know this isn't Budōkan, right?"

Mio doesn't answer. She doesn't trust herself to.

"What's with the boots? Trying to catch Liz's weight?"

"Shut up."

Ritsu cackles. Her yellow hoodie looks annoyingly comfortable. She's wearing jeans. Normal.

Yui skips ahead of them in red overalls and a pale pink T-shirt. She looks like a child. It suits her.

Mugi trails behind, serene as always. Her soft white dress and light blue cardigan—draped neatly over her shoulders—make her look like she's going to a tea party. Azusa walks beside her, neat, polished. A cream cardigan, a dark pleated skirt, and gray tights.

And then there's Mio, looking like she's about to film a music video, walking like she doesn't know how to walk anymore.

"Why are you walking so stiffly?" Ritsu prods her.

"I'm not."

"You are."

Mio huffs.

"C'mon, it's cute," Ritsu says, grinning.

"Cute is not what I'm going for."

"Oh, trust me. We know."

Mio groans. The club building looms ahead. Yui is already bouncing at the entrance, clutching the strap of her guitar case. Mugi and Azusa chat softly behind her—something about the song, something about college. Mio doesn't hear much. She's too busy tugging at her shirt again.

Why did she take it so seriously?

It's just one song.

But her reflection in the mirror earlier hadn't cared about that. It had stared back, critical and unkind, insisting that she try harder. If you're going to perform, it doesn't matter if it's for six girls, two hundred, or two thousand. And so every casual outfit she'd picked felt wrong. Too lazy. Too indifferent.

This is what she gets for caring too much.

They step inside, and everyone is already there. Warm light, friendly voices, familiar faces. Everyone turns to greet them. Waves. Smiles. Chatter.

Mio pretends not to care. She pretends she doesn't notice the eyes on her. She scans the room instead to distract herself.

Her gaze lands on Akira first. Striped black-and-gray fitted T-shirt dress, solid black leggings, ripped at the knees. Practical, cool.

Then Sachi. Understated elegance. A sleeveless white dress with delicate gray stripes. Simple yet polished—the kind of outfit Mio knows she could never pull off.

Ayame is next. Impossible to miss. Bright blue apron-style jumpsuit with playful ruffle at the chest and a long-sleeve white shirt underneath. Very Ayame.

And Liz.

Liz doesn't count. Liz always looks perfect, like she walked out of a magazine. Black boots, tight leather pants, a maroon top, a black denim jacket. Flawless. Maddening.

Mio glances down at herself again.

Red. Lavender. Yellow. Brown. Retro. Loud. Awkward.

A fashion disaster.

Poor Momo. She's trying so hard not to be seen. It's adorable. The white shirt, the suspenders, the shorts, the black tights, the maroon tie that hangs a little too low. She's cute. Endearing, even. But it's Momo. Always Momo.

And then there's Naya.

Mio exhales, relieved.

Because if Liz is the standard, then Naya—bless her—is the loophole. The exception. The reminder that perfection is overrated and effort, unnecessary—at least, when it comes to Naya. Because, as far as fashion goes, Naya is a public service to anyone's self-esteem.

Skinny, ripped black jeans—again. How many pairs does she own? Her hair looks like she's combed it with a fork, and she sports an oversized, short-sleeved maroon tee with yet another band logo.

Another day. Another band shirt. Today? Arctic Monkeys. 

Mio blinks.

Oh, I know this one.

She hums the opening riff of Fake Tales of San Francisco in her head. Or maybe it's Dancing Shoes. She isn't sure.

She wonders—not for the first time—how many bands she'll recognize from Naya's tees. How many tees Naya has. How much of her closet is just maroon and black, denim and cotton, all distressed and deliberate.

The thought makes her smile. But not for long.

"Anyone nervous?" Akira's voice cuts through the room. Hands on her hips, chin raised, surveying them like a general before battle.

Momo raises her hand. Barely. Her wrist looks limp. Like lifting it takes all her strength. "I think I'm going to fade from existence," she whispers.

Liz grins, throwing an arm around Momo's shoulders. It doesn't help. Momo shrinks further into herself, looking impossibly smaller.

"You'll be fine," Liz says. She inhales deeply, theatrically, and exhales just as dramatically. "Just breathe. Like this."

Momo stares at her, then the floor. "I might still fade."

Yui bounces on her toes. "I'm not nervous! It's just for fun, right? Like practice. But louder!"

"Yui-senpai, it's a showcase. Not a karaoke night."

"Same energy!"

Azusa opens her mouth to argue. She looks ready to lecture but decides against it.

Mugi leans closer to Mio. "What about you, Mio-chan? Nervous?"

"No," Mio says, too quick. Too defensive.

Ritsu snorts.

"Really," Mio adds, trying to sound convincing.

Ritsu's smirk grows. "Sure."

Mio clears her throat loudly. "Should we decide the order?"

Liz releases Momo. "We'll go last."

"Why last?" Azusa asks.

"Because I like dramatic endings."

"Of course you do," Mio mutters under her breath. Ritsu hears her and laughs.

"Oh, saving the best for last, are we?" Akira crosses her arms, one eyebrow raised.

Liz doesn't even flinch. "Obviously. Unless anyone's uncomfortable. We can go earlier."

Mio considers. Last means more time. More waiting. More thinking. More stewing.

But first?

"If we go first, we get it out of the way," she says, half to herself.

Ritsu glances at her sideways, smirking. "You mean if you go first."

Mio glares.

"Onna Gumi will go first," Akira announces. Her tone is final and absolute. She turns to Ayame and Sachi, pointing at each. "We're semi-pro. Let's show Liz what real talent looks like."

Liz nods. "Looking forward to it."

Akira smirks. "Good." She nods sharply at Ayame.

Ayame pumps a fist into the air. "Showtime, baby!"

Sachi just nods. "We don't mind going first."

Ritsu leans back onto the wall, arms crossed. Her gaze shifts to Naya.

"And you, foreigner?" Her voice is teasing but curious. "Nervous?"

Naya shrugs, casual as ever. Probably still translating half the conversation in her head. "Not really."

Of course not, Mio thinks.

Yui's hand shoots up like a kid with the answer in class. "What's that?" she asks.

They all turn.

Next to the small stage, it sits. A pedalboard. Cables snaking and coiled, lights blinking in chaotic reds, greens, and blues. A tangled mess that somehow fits together.

"Ah," Naya says, like she forgot it existed. Like it's not this big, sprawling thing right there. "My pedalboard."

Oh, right, Mio remembers. The nine pedals.

"You brought that?" Ritsu's voice cuts through, incredulous.

"Yeah. I play with it."

"When?"

"Always."

"No," Ritsu deadpans. "When did you bring it?"

"Ah. This morning." Naya brushes past them, unbothered. "I came early to set it up. It takes a while, and I didn't want to bother you." She kneels next to it, checks a cable, then glances up. "If you don't mind, I'll leave it here. Ready to go."

No one objects.

Mio watches the way Naya's hands move—precise, like she knows exactly what she's doing. Her outfit doesn't match. Mio bites back a smile. It's always the jeans, the same distressed denim. Different day, same chaos.

Naya looks up and catches her. She smiles. Mio looks away quickly.

"Seriously, Naya-chan," Ayame's voice chimes in. "What the heck are you doing with all of those?"

"Noise."

That earns a laugh from Akira. "Good noise, I hope."

"We'll see," Naya replies, sheepish, her shoulders rising in an almost-shrug.

"Then it's settled!" Ritsu claps her hands. "The Light Music Club mini-gig begins!"

"Yay, Akira-chan!" Yui yells, her voice way louder than necessary.

Akira blushes and curses under her breath something about Yui being a handful.

The rest of them settle into the couches. Their usual spots. Mio sinks into hers, Ritsu dropping down next to her.

Lights dim, just a little. Enough to change the mood. Akira steps forward.

"So. We're Onna Gumi," she says, direct as ever. "Ayame on drums. Sachi on bass. And me—Akira. Vocals and guitar. And we're playing Kiba o Toge."

She glances at her bandmates and nods. Ayame raises her sticks and clicks them together. Once. Twice.

And so, it begins.

---

Onna Gumi — 牙を研げ (Kiba o Toge)

The first note slices through the dark. Immediate.

Akira's guitar growls to life. Distorted, cutting. Every note demands attention. It doesn't ask—it claims. The riff erupts, raw and blistering, ricocheting off the walls. The crowd flinches—caught off guard—but then they lean in, hoked, drawn closer.

Then the drums crash in. Ayame's sticks strike hard, relentless. Each hit commands, snaps, thunders. Her rhythm is sharp, explosive, tightly controlled—a perfect counter to the snarling chaos of Akira's guitar. Each beat pulls the audience deeper. Nod. Stomp. Sway. They follow without thinking.

Mio watches, mesmerized.

Ayame moves like the music is alive—like she's pulling it from the air itself. Arms blur, precise but wild. Her grin flashes under the dim light. Not cocky—just joy. Raw, reckless joy.

Then comes the bass. Sachi's fingers glide over the strings, steady and sure, practiced. The bassline growls low beneath the storm. It doesn't scream for attention. It doesn't need to. It's there, strong and present, holding everything together.

The chaos. The thunder. It all ties together in Sachi's bassline.

Mio feels it, deep in her chest. Her hands twitch on reflex, fingers moving without a thought. They mimic the line. Pluck. Slide. Thrum. The sound resonates in her bones.

The three of them—Akira, Ayame, Sachi—move as one. Like a force of nature. Every note, every beat, every pluck—seamless, connected. They don't just play together—they are together. Hours of practice, endless mistakes. Now—this.

Akira steps to the mic. Her voice cuts through the storm, low, commanding, unapologetic. Every word a challenge. Every syllable a dare. It pulls the listener closer. Closer. Feel it.

Mio feels it.

Her pulse quickens. Her hands curl. She doesn't realize she's holding her breath until the verse ends, and Ayame snaps the snare.

The storm surges on.

♪ The voice locked away echoes in the night,
A surge that tears through the darkness—reach out!
Though there's nothing left to lose,
What is it you seek to protect? Cast away your doubt. ♫

The lights shift. Gold and crimson bathe Akira as if she's stepping into fire. Her guitar screams, slicing through the space around her. She leans into it, wide stance, commanding, daring the music to push back.

Ayame follows. The rhythm drives harder, her kick drum pounding like a heartbeat, relentless, primal. Each cymbal strike shimmers, bright and piercing, cutting through the dark weight of Sachi's bassline. Together, they build it—higher, faster, louder. It surges forward like a battlefield, like a roaring storm of sound.

♪ Just press forward—
Into the battlefield.
Set fire to your fearful heart.
Sharpen your fangs, right now! ♫

The crowd moves, a sea caught in the music's pull. Heads bobbing, hands raised, feet stomping. The energy vibrates through the air—alive, binding everyone in its wake. Akira steps back, her guitar grinding into a steady, rhythmic chug. Sachi's bass pulses alongside it, locking together like clockwork. Ayame shifts the rhythm. The tension coils tighter and tighter, ready to snap.

♪ Let your roar echo far and wide.
Sharpen your fangs! Take flight!
Shout the song of freedom! ♫

Akira's voice cuts through it all, defiant. The lights flash, pulsing with every beat, throwing shadows across the stage. Sachi's bassline grooves heavier, deeper, her fingers steady and sure. Ayame's drums drive them forward—a force that refuses to falter.

Then the solo begins. Akira steps forward, the guitar slung low against her, fingers poised. She bends a single note, lets it wail, piercing, electric. Her fingers blur, launching into a cascade of rapid sound. Climbing, falling. Every note precise, yet wild. Untamed. Crimson and gold lights flicker across her, framing her in a fiery glow.

Mio can't look away. The way Akira moves—fluid, commanding—it's like the guitar is part of her. Every motion deliberate, yet somehow free. Every note cutting, yet natural.

Ayame builds beneath the solo, a rolling thunder, crescendos crashing with each beat. She grins, twirling her sticks mid-play, her energy infectious. Sachi anchors the chaos, her bassline unwavering. She climbs to meet Akira's fire with something heavier, darker.

The rhythm shifts—faster, harder, louder. The crowd surges closer. Their voices merge with the music—a singular roar that threatens to consume the room.

And still, Mio can't look away.

♪ Sharpen your fangs! Slice through!
The sky, tainted by darkness,
Burn it away with light,
And fight on—forever! ♫

The words cut through the air, raw and relentless. The final chorus crashes over the room, thunderous and consuming. Ayame's drumming surges, relentless, hammering each beat like war cries. Her arms blur, sticks pounding skins with impossible force. Sachi's bass hums beneath, steady, grounding, a pulsing heart in the chaos. It vibrates through the floor, the walls, her chest. Akira's voice climbs higher, rasps harder, fierce and defiant. She commands the stage, the crowd, the moment—her hands gripping the mic like a lifeline.

The final note pierces. It hangs. It lingers.

Then silence.

For a breath, nothing.

The room erupts. Cheers, applause, shouts of awe.

Akira steps back, grinning sharp and cocky. She turns, glances at Liz—a challenge glinting in her eyes. Silent and provocative. Beat that. Ayame twirls her drumsticks once, twice, and tosses them high. She catches them without missing a beat, grinning wide, radiant, untamed. Sachi adjusts her bass strap, collected. Her nod toward the crowd feels understated and powerful.

Together, they bow. A unit. A force.

Mio watches them—Akira, Ayame, Sachi—shining under the stage lights.

This, she thinks. This is what it means to own the stage.

---

Ho-Kago Tea Time — Girls in Wonderland

Mio stands at the edge of the stage.

Onna Gumi's set still lingers. It clings to the walls, the floor. To her skin. Akira's snarling guitar, Ayame's explosive rhythms, Sachi's rumbling bass. The buzz of it hums in her chest.

She swallows.

Her eyes dart to Liz, lounging on the couch like she owns the place. The spotlight might as well be on her. Gray eyes pierce through the haze. Perfect posture, quiet confidence, her outfit unapologetically flawless. Under the dim lights, it shines.

Liz is next. Her band. Her voice.

And then... Then, there's her. Mio. Caught between Onna Gumi, a semi-pro band, and Liz, a semi-pro singer. A voice that silences rooms. An aura that turns heads.

A terrible, terrible place to be.

She glances at her friends. Yui, bouncing on the balls of her feet, carefree. Mugi, smiling from behind her keyboard, calming. Azusa, adjusting her guitar strap, focused. Ritsu, tapping her drumsticks against her knee, confident.

Ritsu catches her eye and grins. Mio glares. Ritsu winks. Mio exhales. She turns her back to the small crowd, closes her hands into fists and opens them. Closes again. Opens. Her right hand rises and scribbles kanji into her palm with her left. Once, twice, three times.

Person. Person. Person.

She presses her lips together and pretends to eat the imaginary words. A familiar ritual. It helps. A little.

Over her shoulder, Yui is already holding the mic, grinning like she owns the stage, beaming like the sun.

"Alright!" Yui exclaims, stepping forward. A spotlight for no reason. She grabs the mic with both hands and rocks on her heels. "Hello, everyone! We're Ho-Kago Tea Time!"

Applause. Scattered, but genuine.

"This is my sister, Azu-nyan! Our amazing guitarist!"

Azusa flushes. "Yui-senpai, I'm not your sis—"

"And this is Mugi-chan! She's super good at keyboards and also super nice!"

Mugi offers a warm smile. Her fingers dance lightly over the keyboard in a playful prelude.

"And Ricchan! The loudest drummer in the world!"

"Thank you, thank you," Ritsu says, mock bowing from behind her drum set.

"And, of course, our very own Mio-chan! She's our bassist, and she wrote the song we're playing today!"

Mio's breath catches. She forces a stiff wave, fingers curling halfway through. "Uh... hi."

"She's shy," Yui adds unnecessarily. The audience chuckles lightly. Mio deadpans. "And me, Yui! Rhythm guitar and the heart of this band!"

"Heart of chaos," Ritsu mutters.

Yui keeps going. "We're so excited to be here with everyone! It's been so long since we performed together in front of an audience! Doesn't it feel like high school all over again?"

Mio flinches. Not now, Yui.

"And," Yui announces with a flourish, "we're going to play a new song today! It's called Girls in Wonderland! Mio-chan wrote it for us. Isn't that sweet?"

Some giggles. Heat rises to Mio's cheeks.

Ritsu raises her drumsticks. "One, two—"

"It's about us!" Yui ignores the count. "About the friendship we've shared over the years. From high school to now. How we've grown together. And how—"

Ritsu freezes mid-count, sticks suspended. "Yui—"

"How even though we're all different, we make such a good team—"

"Yui." Ritsu lowers her sticks.

Yui doesn't hear it. Or pretends not to.

"Oh! Did I ever tell you all about how we started the band?"

"Yui." Ritsu's voice, clipped.

"It's a really great story!" Yui barrels on. "We were in high school, and—"

"Yui."

"—I remember the day we met—"

"Yui!"

"—I didn't even play the guitar, but Ricchan said—"

"YUI!"

Yui blinks, turning around, wide-eyed and innocent. "What?"

"Wrap it up," Ritsu mutters, drumsticks tight in her grip.

"Oh, right! Sorry, sorry." Yui's sheepish grin is almost enough to disarm. "You can start now, Ricchan."

The crowd laughs. Ritsu exhales and lifts her drumsticks. "One, two, three—"

"Please enjoy our song!" Yui chirps.

"Yui, I swear—"

"Okay, okay!" Yui laughs, gripping her guitar, settling into her spot. "Now I'm ready."

Ritsu exhales again and lifts her drumsticks one more time. "One, two—"

"Oh! And I almost forgot! Mugi-chan brought cookies for everyone later!"

The crack of the snare drum is loud enough to silence the room.

Ritsu stares. Her voice is calm. "Yui. Shut. Up."

Yui blinks. "Oh. Right."

Finally.

Ritsu counts off. "One! Two! Three! Four!"

The crash of drums. Energy cuts through the air.

And just like that, they begin.

The drumbeat starts. Energetic, steady. Pure Ritsu. The rhythm fills the air like the opening heartbeat of something alive, something unstoppable. Azusa comes in next with her chords, clean-cut and sure. She knows her place in the mix and claims it without hesitation. Mio can almost see the way her fingers dance across the strings—mechanical, perfect, almost too perfect.

Then Yui. Carefree, reckless, brilliant Yui. Her lead guitar bursts in like sunlight through storm clouds. Effortless, chaotic joy. Mio envies her. Always has. But it's a passing thought, one that's buried under the rush of sound building around her.

Mugi follows. Her keys slide in smooth and unassuming, weaving playfulness into the edges of the chaos. Playful, but never out of place. Mugi has a way of making even silence musical.

And then, Mio.

The bass hums under her fingers, steady and fluid, binding everything together. She feels the rhythm settle into her hands, her arms, her chest, until it's a part of her. Until she isn't just playing it—she is it.

Her lips brush the microphone, and she sings.

♪ All fiction falls short to our Wonderland
When the five of us approach, it's bizarre.
I've written the truth in my diary.
Now I've read it and I can't calm down. ♫

Mio steps forward, just slightly. The edge of the stage feels closer now, the light brighter. She doesn't look at the audience—not yet. Her fingers glide along the neck of her bass as if on instinct, the song pouring out of her as if it was never written, just always there.

Ritsu grins behind her kit. She knows that grin. It's the "we've got them now" grin, the one that promises this crowd won't leave until they've wrung every ounce of energy from them.

Mio smiles. Her voice cuts through the melody, a thread of confidence she wasn't sure she had. It surprises her how it fits, how it finds its place among the instruments without effort. Her fingers move instinctively. The bassline flows, rising and falling along the neck of her instrument as though the bass itself is alive, guiding her.

Mugi's riff answers—playful, lilting, light. Mio replies without hesitation. Another layer to their wordless exchange.

The crowd shifts, leaning closer. Tapping feet, nodding heads. First small movements, then more pronounced. Their attention sparks like static against her skin.

Mio risks a glance. There's Liz, arms crossed, leaning back, a smirk teasing the corner of her lips. Momo sits beside her, her foot tapping in time with Azusa's guitar, her head nodding slightly.

And Naya.

Naya is watching her. Directly. Intently. Watching her fingers move, her mouth spilling lyrics. Green eyes catching the stage lights like they were made for her. Mio feels her heart stutter—just for a beat. She looks away and keeps playing anyway.

The pre-chorus swells.

♪ It wasn't supposed to be this way?!
These high school days are way too high.
It's a very Fantastic World.
But I'd gladly give in to a happy miscalculation. ♫

Yui's animated backing vocals pulling at the edges of Mio's voice—bright against bold. Mio leans harder into the rhythm, her bass rising to meet the challenge. For every flourish from Mugi, she offers one of her own, seamless, like they've done this forever. They have.

She glances at Azusa, laser-focused. Her guitar crisp, perfect. At Yui, hair bouncing, strumming like the entire song lives in her hands. At Ritsu and that grin, wide and wild, every cymbal crash is pure energy. At Mugi, fingers dancing over the keys. Composed, content, completely at home.

It's perfect.

The chorus erupts.

♪ What will happen on the pages of tomorrow...?!
I wonder what's written there
Today's heart and beat are already at their max
I've begun to think this way every day. ♫

The entire band is in full force. The girls' voices weave together, harmonic. Instruments collide and layer—a vibrant, joyful wall of sound. Yui's guitar is playful, Ritsu's drums relentless, and Mugi's keyboard riff dances like sunlight skipping across water.

Mio's bassline anchors it all, solid and steady. She feels her grip tightening on the rhythm as her voice climbs higher. She leans into the lyrics. Feels each word take shape. Feels the room respond.

Yui catches her eye mid-chorus. A beam. A carefree grin that says it all: This is fun. This is supposed to be fun.

Mio smiles back. Then, she focus.

♪ The innovations of miracles are a bit scary, but I can't stop
Believe me
Our luck goes on!! ♫

By the second verse, she feels lighter. Her fingers glide across the strings. Her voice settles, rises, fits into the rhythm like it's always belonged.

♪ No kind of art can depict our funny faces,
The faces determined by our five senses and honest emotions.
Just like conversations, our photographs have piled up
Everyone's always giving the peace sign. ♫

She knows this song inside out—every note, every beat, every tiny hesitation that no longer feels like hesitation. It feels natural. Mugi adds a jaunty riff, playful and quick. Mio matches it. The room reacts. She improvises—just a little. Just enough to show off.

The pre-chorus comes in strong.

♪ That's the way it was!!
We were fine even if we cried.
It's a very peaceful world
With our warm music and friends. ♫

And then, the second chorus.

It doubles in energy. Triples. She no longer counts frets, no longer thinks about where her hands need to be. They know. Muscle memory guides her. Confidence lifts her. Her voice climbs higher with the melody, each note clearer, louder, easier than the last. She leans closer to the mic, fingers wander daringly higher up the fretboard, uncharacteristically daring.

The small crowd notices. They cheer.

♪ What will happen with the finder of the future...?!
I wonder what kind of faces and scenery will be reflected on us.
Even if reality strikes hard against us
We'll just hum our favorite phrases. ♫

Her confidence bursts. Her voice soars—higher, stronger. Pure instinct now. The bassline holds her steady. The microphone carries her forward. The words—her words—fill the room.

♪ Singing only of courage and love,
We'll be fine
Our dreams will come true!! ♫

The instrumental break arrives. Yui's solo is quicksilver, clean notes leaping off the strings. Her fingers move faster than Mio expects, faster than anyone expects. Mio's eyes narrow, tracking the blur of motion. It's a reminder—beneath Yui's bubbly, scattered exterior is a guitarist you can't underestimate, somehow.

And then Mugi answers. Her keyboard solo cascades—a waterfall of bright, intricate notes weaving around Yui's. A dialogue of sound, a conversation, seamless and fn.

Even Akira—stoic, indifferent Akira—seems captivated.

The crowd reacts. She hears them, but she doesn't look. Mio doesn't need to see them to feel it—it's in the air, in the way it shifts. A ripple of awe. The kind that comes when talent disarms expectation.

Her gaze stays on Yui. Yui, who's grinning, somehow. Still grinning as her fingers fly across the fretboard like they're running a marathon. It's ridiculous. And brilliant.

♪ I can only see what's in front of me, there's no turning back.
Today I'll go on with all my might, simply surrounded by what I "love". ♫

The break ends, and it's just Mio. Her and Ritsu now. Drums and bass. Nothing else.

Ritsu pounds out a steady rhythm. Mio's bass carries the melody. Her voice rises, clear.

♪ What will happen to us tomorrow?!
No one knows! ♫

The crowd leans in, quiet. Waiting. Mio feels it—the weight of their attention, the stillness before the next storm. Mio grips her bass. Her fingers move, the notes rise. And then—

The chorus. Louder, higher. All of them explode into it together—Yui, Azusa, Mugi, Ritsu, Mio. Perfectly synchronized. Mio's voice climbs, carrying the lyrics higher, harder. The energy surges. Every instrument rises an octave. Mio's voice follows. No strain, no falter—she's there. Completely there. In the music, in the moment. Her voice, her bass, her friends. Together.

♪ What will happen on the pages of tomorrow...?!
I wonder what's written there.
Today's heart and beat are already at their max
I've begun to think this way every day. ♫

Yui harmonizes with Mio. Mugi's keys swell, adding a fullness that feels cinematic, impossibly big for such a small stage. Azusa grounds them, her guitar cutting clean, incredible as always.

Mio glances down. Her fingers move across the strings with a lightness she rarely lets herself feel. Her bass vibrates under her hands, deep.

♪ The innovations of miracles are a bit scary, but I can't stop.
Believe me.
Our luck goes on!! ♫

The ending comes in a flurry. A storm. Each of them showing off one last time. Their instruments blend, clash, harmonize. It feels effortless.

The final note lingers, ringing out, held and stretched like a sigh after a sprint. Their instruments hum together before silence takes over.

A collective pause.

And then—applause. Wild, unrelenting, like a wave crashing down.

Mio exhales and lowers her bass. Her heartbeat slows, but not completely.

She looks up. Just as the five of them have played a song too big for this space, the six girls in the audience respond like they're an in arena of twenty thousand.

Ayame and Sachi cheer loudest, like true Ho-Kago Tea Time superfans. Akira claps, her usual stoicism softened with something that might even be admiration. Liz sits back, smirking with one brow raised, her body language saying impressed. Momo's hands hover mid-air, clapping over and over, as though she can't stop herself.

And Naya—

Naya isn't looking at the band. She isn't looking at the stage.

She's looking at Mio.

Mio's chest tightens. The rush of adrenaline lingers there, settling into something softer. Heavier.

She glances at her bandmates. Yui's grinning wide, her hand high in the air, waving to the small crowd. Ritsu throws her drumsticks up and misses the catch, but laughs anyway. Azusa stands tall, still holding her guitar, quiet satisfaction written all over her. Mugi waves like royalty, serene, her keys shining in the dim stage light.

Mio steps back from the mic, her bass a steady weight against her shoulder. She doesn't speak. Doesn't wave. She turns to them instead—her bandmates, her friends.

The warmth of their smiles feels louder than the applause. The lingering hum of the music still vibrates in the air between them.

They were born to do this. Together. Always.

Mio smiles. In the space between breaths, in the heartbeat before the next moment, she feels it. The flutter in her chest.

No amount of applause could ever match it.

---

The New Trio — Shatterdance

Naya crouches on stage. She places her pedalboard in front of her microphone stand, adjusting its position with meticulous precision. Her fingers linger on a knob, a cable, a switch, like she's done this a thousand times before.

Mio watches, intrigued.

Naya brushes her bangs out of her eyes. They fall back, stubborn. She pauses, scanning the stage from behind her fringe. Checking. Double-checking. Everything is where it should be. She stands up.

Her candy-apple red bass, battered and worn, catches the light. The color is vibrant against the dull stage setup. She picks it up with the same ease Mio imagines she'd use to hold a book or a favorite sweater. Something familiar. Something hers.

Then she does something unexpected. She pulls a wristband from her bass case, black and snug, and slides it onto her left wrist. Mio notices the brightly colored picks tucked into its slots—neon orange, electric blue, a flash of yellow.

"What's that weird thing, Naya-chan?" Yui asks, out loud. Of course.

Sometimes, Mio appreciates Yui's lack of filter.

Naya blinks at her wrist, then at Yui. "Oh. It's a wristband. For picks."

Azusa raises an eyebrow. "Why do you wear it?"

There's a pause. Naya shrugs, her shoulders barely moving. "I drop them a lot while playing," she admits. "So I keep spares handy."

The silence that follows is small. Awkward. Mio feels it settle like dust in the room.

"Even when you're only playing one song?" Ritsu asks, grinning.

Naya twists the wristband on her arm. "You never know," she mutters.

Mio can't decide if she's impressed by the over-preparation or amused by it. Maybe both.

Liz claps her hands once. Loud. "Alright, alright," she says, her voice smooth and commanding. "Let's move on. I'm Liz, the vocalist who's going to blow your minds." She sweeps an arm out dramatically, gesturing to her left. "Behind me, we've got Momo on drums. Don't be fooled—she's a beast."

Momo raises her drumsticks shyly. Her eyes dart to the floor. She tries to shrink into the shadows of the stage. It doesn't work.

"And to my right," Liz continues, her smirk audible, "we've got our Mediterranean seasoning—Naya on bass. Or rather, on pedals."

Naya's expression freezes. Then she steps forward and bows, quick and stiff.

Liz narrows her eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Saying hello," Naya replies. Her voice wavers, like she's unsure if this was the right move.

Liz exhales, long and slow. "Naya." She drags a hand down her face. "You don't have to bow for everything. This is a showcase. Everyone here knows you."

"Ah. Okay." Naya straightens, awkward. She looks at the crowd. Then at Liz. "Sorry." She hovers, vibrating with unspent energy, and bows again. Smaller, quicker.

The girls laugh.

Ritsu leans close to Mio. "Maybe she'll bow to the music."

Mio side-eyes her. "Ritsu, don't be like that. She's trying to fit in."

But she knows Ritsu has a point. Naya's awkwardness on stage is as glaring as a spotlight. She says she's not nervous, but she looks too tense to look relaxed, yet too relaxed to look serious. Mio wonders how someone so awkward can play bass, stomp nine pedals, and sing backup all at once. A person who drops picks so often she wears them on her wrist for a single song.

"Anyway," Liz says, unfazed, "this is our song, Shatterdance. I hope you're not too tired, because we want you to move a little. Or maybe we'll leave you so stunned that you can't even react." Liz chuckles.

Mio can't decide if Liz's confidence borders on arrogance or not.

Liz looks at Momo. Momo nods, quick and stiff. Then Liz glances at Naya. Naya's face betrays an inner debate—whether to bow or stand straight, to nod or remain still. Her indecision lingers a moment too long.

And Momo doesn't count.

Instead, she and Liz look at Naya, expectant, as if Naya, suddenly, is the leader. As if she's the one who decides when to start.

Naya steps forward. Not a big step, but enough to reach the pedals. She plants her foot, deliberate. Mio thinks it's the synth pedal.

A single bass note reverberates.

It doesn't sound like a bass at all. It hums—low, mechanical, otherworldly. The notes come next, one after another, steady as a clock ticking. A small riff, simple, unassuming.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

And then—

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

Naya stomps the pedal. Then another. Then back again. Quick, precise. Mio doesn't even catch the movement.

Boom.

The sound erupts.

The bass transforms. Distorted, monstrous. It growls. A sound that grips Mio's chest and squeezes tight. The riff continues, but now it's a shadow, a backbone. behind something bigger.

The room hums with the vibration. Mio sits up straighter, observing.

This isn't just bass. This is everything.

Mio doesn't understand.

Mio has seen Naya eating with chopsticks. Useless. She has seen her bowing. Stiff. She has seen her walking around with an easy, clumsy stride. Seen just her. Awkward, doubtful, like she's laid-back but also self-aware.

But now Naya's playing bass and stomping pedals. And Mio doesn't recognize her.

Even her face has changed. That easy smile she always has—the one that says she doesn't understand half the things people say, but enjoys them all the same—gone.

Now, there's something sharper. Mocking. A daring smile that says, I know what I'm doing. And I know I'm great at it.

Those hesitant steps she takes around the club, as if afraid to be too close, too loud—gone, too. Now her feet move in a calculated dance.

Step. Press. Shift. Stomp.

And the bass roars in dozens of different languages.

Vibrations buzz through the walls. Through Mio's ribs. Through the floor. Naya doesn't hesitate, doesn't hold back. The uncertainty she wears like a second skin? Stripped away.

The music is loud. Controlled. Electric. And it's just her.

Two days ago, Naya was fumbling with chopsticks at breakfast. Yesterday, she stared at Mio blankly as Mio repeated herself twice, slowly, because Naya couldn't catch the words, even though she'd never admit it.

But now, she delivers a flawless bass solo. One riff after another. Her foot moves between pedals in a studied choreography. Her hands pull melody after melody from four strings. And her bass? A storm. A choir. Two, three, four instruments at once.

Mio watches. Watches the contrast between Naya's everyday clumsiness and her stage presence. Her skill, her power, her playing. She is not the awkward foreigner fumbling for words, trying to translate her thoughts faster than her mouth allows. She is not the exchange student who tries to hide her nerves with humor and an overly tense laugh.

She is this. A bassist who sets the room on fire.

Mio realizes—this is Naya.

It's not a mask. It's not a performance. It's who Naya is. When she's playing, she's not a foreigner fumbling to find her place. She's not hesitant. Not self-conscious. Not holding back.

She is this.

Unstoppable. A contained hurricane. And now, Naya has let the storm loose. And she's the center.

Mio's heart stops. She barely recognizes the person on stage. The contrast is staggering—this isn't the awkward girl fumbling through introductions. This is someone else entirely.

Naya. In control.

Her fingers move across the strings—fast, definite. Mio's eyes struggle to keep up. The notes spill out in a torrent, shifting like a living thing, each riff more daring than the last. The bass speaks, demands, carries the entire song. And Naya's foot stomps a pedal, and the sound shifts, darker now, deeper. The room pulses with it. The air feels alive, vibrating with each pluck of the strings. Mio feels it in her chest, in her ribs. It pounds through her lungs, her heart.

She doesn't know when she started holding her breath. The bass snarls, feral and untamed, locking the rhythm in place. Naya moves with the music, her body fluid, her movements confident. It's hypnotic. It's impossible to look away.

And then—

The drums.

Momo.

Mio blinks, startled by the sheer force of it. The shy girl she spoke to the past weeks—gone. Her arms are a blur, striking with precision and power. Every beat carves its way into the room, relentless and raw. The rhythm builds, fierce and unyielding. The kick drum thuds, pounding. The snare cracks again. Cymbals hiss, crashing in bursts of chaos. Each sound lands with purpose, forming a rhythm that feels alive.

It doesn't just fill the room. It consumes it.

Momo matches Naya's energy, hit for hit. The bass and drums collide, an electric storm of sound. A conversation, a battle. Each note, each beat, pushes the other higher, louder. Two instruments, two people, but it sounds like an army.

Mio's heart stumbles. The vibrations rattle her bones, her thoughts. Her entire being.

The synthesizer riff fades. Mio doesn't even notice when Naya hits another pedal. She's too entranced.

And then Liz begins to sing.

♪ The mirrorball falls,
And with it, my shadow breaks.
Under neon's fractured gaze,
We spin through this endless maze. ♫

Her voice is like velvet, rough around the edges. It dares you not to listen. Momo's drums hit Liz's every syllable with an impossible precision. Each beat tightens the tension. Building. Building. And Naya—her bassline dances beneath it all, fingers gliding over the fretboard, weaving melodies that clash, that complement, that create something layered. Complex. Addictive.

Mio watches. She's still. Completely still. Except for her pulse. It thrums with every crescendo and fall, syncing to the rhythm like a second heartbeat.

Liz commands the stage as if it's hers. The microphone is her weapon and her voice, a force of nature, untamed.

Mio has heard powerful voices before. She's listened to recordings of vocalists who filled stadiums. Voices that soared. That climbed. That hit notes she thought only instruments could reach. But Liz? Liz tears the words open, wrenches them apart. Unfiltered emotion, raw and jagged. Her voice bends through the midrange. It soars high, crashes down. Gritty, gravelly, unrelenting.

She moves with the music, but not like someone who practiced every gesture. No. It's natural. It's instinct. The rhythm seems to direct her every step, every sway, every smirk. Her grip on the microphone stand is tight like it's the only thing keeping her grounded. Her gaze sweeps over the audience, fierce, daring. Daring them to look away.

No one does.

Mio doesn't.

Liz steps closer to the edge of the stage. Her voice dips low, rough, like the scratch of a needle on vinyl. It feels like she's singing to every single person in the room.

It feels like she's singing to Mio.

Mio's breathing matches the pacing of the song. She doesn't notice at first. Her chest rises and falls in time with Liz's crescendos. Her pulse pounds.

And then, the pre-chorus hits.

♪ The world's a mirror of shattered light
And I'm chasing pieces, losing ground
But the music pulls me in. ♫

The bassline climbs. Slowly, then all at once. Distortion swells, surging like a storm. Building. Gathering strength. The drums shift, rolling thunder. It fills the spaces between beats, driving forward like ticking clock, counting down to something inevitable. Something unspoken. It says, Get ready. This is going to hit harder than you think.

And it does.

The chorus detonates.

♪ We're falling into this shatterdance,
Caught in the chaos of a trance.
Fractured glass beneath my feet,
A fragile world, a fragile beat. ♫

Liz's voice soars. A cry, a wail, a battle cry wrapped in melody, ripping through the sound like lightning tearing through the storm. Mio feels it first in her chest, then her ribs, then her bones. It's not just music—it's a force. A presence. The fuzzy, distorted bass owns it all, dragging melody, rhythm, and emotion in its feral, snarling grasp. It growls, then screams. Wild, massive, untamed. Yet somehow, it doesn't overwhelm.

Mio's eyes can't leave Naya. Her hands move like they're carving something out of air. Calm, controlled. But there's a fury in them. The bassline twists and bends beneath her fingers, screaming distortion, jagged riffs.

Four strings. Mio almost can't believe it. Just four strings.

Then the snare cracks. A gunshot in the quiet. The drums explode, relentless, rising to meet the bass. Blow for blow, beat for beat, tians locked in combat. The rhythm pounds in time with the heartbeat roaring in Mio's ears.

Mio's gaze shifts to Momo. Small, quiet Momo. The girl who apologizes for everything. For nothing. Who can barely speak. Here, Momo is someone else. Her hands move, quick, confident. Like they're part of the drum kit itself. Sticks blur in the dim light. Toms thunder. Cymbals hiss, cutting crashes that punch through the air. Each note lands with purpose. Every beat calculated, deliberate, like she's fighting something. Or proving something. And maybe she is.

Mio stares. Momo. Shy, uncertain Mom—gone. In her place is a thunderstorm.

Momo's head tilts. Her movements flow, seamless, from a groove to a fill, from chaos to calm. Her arms rise and fall like waves striking toms, cymbals, snare. Perfect timing. The rhythm shifts, weaving complexity into the song. Then, she slows. Not because she's tired, not because she falters, but because she knows. Knows when to step back. Knows when to let Naya's bass, Liz's voice, take the lead. Her hands ease. The hi-hat simmers beneath the melody. The beat doesn't fade. It holds, steady, solid.

Naya doesn't flinch. Doesn't falter. She leans into it—into the controlled chaos, into the weight of the sound. The bass growls again, jagged and feral, and for one moment, Mio swears it's alive. A creature born of noise and fury. A shadow with a voice.

The wall of distortion roars. The air shakes. Mio's chest vibrates again. It's too much. It's everything. And still, it holds the foundation of the song.

♪ Thousands of me in every crack,
Thousands of breaths in every break,
We dance to forget, but also to feel—
Every shattered piece,
All sharp and real. ♫

A crash erupts. The rhythm shifts. The energy swellsm visceral, thrilling, like a heartbeat turned electric.

The bridge hits like a revelation. Liz sings again. Her voice is a blade, smooth, then raw. The lyrics cut through the air, slicing clean and deep, binding everything together. Mio hears the words:

♪ The smoke of color blurs my view.
The edge of reason? Fading, too.
My fingers trace the cracks in time,
And they draw patterns, crossing lines. ♫

The bassline takes over. A solo. A break. A moment. It layers and loops, impossibly dense. Clean, raw, then chaotic. A contradiction that shouldn't exist—but does. Because Naya makes it exist. The bassline unravels, slipping into something new, dissonant, funky, heavy rock with a groove that feels impossible. Yet it works. And it works because of Naya. Her fingers glide across the fretboard, certain. Her right hand strikes. Her left hand races, climbing the neck, commanding each note with an ease that defies logic.

Mio watches, entranced, the way Naya's bassline transforms. Again. The way it pushes boundaries, blending textures that shouldn't coexist. But they do, and it's beautiful.

The distortion recedes. Not gone—just restrained, like a held breath. Like a pause before a storm. The bass imitates a guitar, a whisper on the edge of a knife. Then, it shifts once more—it grows, twists, builds. Alive. The bass returns—thick, angry, a wave crashing, shaking the walls of the clubroom, reverberating in Mio's chest, rattling her bones. The melody rises above it all, a scream and a prayer, pleading for release. The drums answer. Furious, relentless, like a heartbeath with no place to hide.

The beats pound through her, loosening something she didn't know was tied down.

Then, Naya answers. She owns the sound now. It's more than music—it's a pull, a gravity, drawing everything and everyone toward her. The room shakes. The air vibrates. Her bass is alive—snarling, twisting, wild.

Mio knows bass. She's lived it, breathed it, mastered its rhythms and stories. It's her world. Her identity. And yet, she didn't know this. Didn't know it could sound like this.

And the details catch Mio. The way Naya moves—body loose, head swaying with the rhythm. Emerald shining darker behind untamed bangs. Her posture is casual., almost lazy, but her hands say otherwise. Intentional. Every pluck, every slide, every muted note drives the song forward.

A pick slips from her fingers mid-verse. She doesn't flinch. Her hand flows to fingerstyle, then back to the pick—a pick she takes from her wristband in a fluid motion, as if it was planned. It might as well have been.

Mio's eyes fix on her fingers, moving so quickly, so seamlessly against the dark strings. How do they not falter? How does she play so much—yet leave so much space?

The chorus hits again. It's electric. Explosive.

♪ We're falling into this shatterdance
Caught in the chaos of a trance.
Fractured glass beneath my feet
A fragile world, a fragile beat. ♫

And then—Naya looks up.

Her eyes find Mio's.

Green meeting gray-blue.

Mio stops breathing.

Then, Naya smirks. Her green eyes catching the light, piercing.

Naya tilts her head toward Momo, who punctuates with a crash cymbal. It's synchrony, pure and raw.

♪ The air is still. The shadow stays.
In the cracks,
In the shattered glass
The music still plays. ♫

The song shifts. A breakdown, simple, stripped bare. Just bass and drums now—syncopated. Tight. Naya pares the sound down to its bones, pulling the rhythm apart. It's raw. It shouldn't be this good, but it is. The bassline relaxes, softer, cleaner, melodic. The verses return, quiet now. Naya plucks the strings lightly. The tone is warm, resonant, almost tender. Vulnerable and intricate, her playing carries the song, guiding it.

Mio's fingers twitch against her knees, itching to play. To feel. She wants to press her hand to the strings, to pull out voices like these. Voices that command. That breathe.

She leans forward, elbows on her knees, chin resting on clasped hands. She's not just watching anymore. She's absorbing.

Naya takes a step forward. Her foot slams onto the pedalboard again. And again, the bass explodes. Fuzzed-out, towering, electric. It swells, filling the room, roaring with a sound too immense for a single player. As though an entire band has joined in.

Mio feels it. In her chest. Her throat. The soles of her feet.

How does she do this?

Four strings. One instrument. And yet, not one voice but many. A clean hum. A synthetic growl. Raw fuzz. A melodic undertone. The versatility is staggering.

The bass isn't supporting the song. It isn't commanding the song. It is the song.

The final chorus erupts. Harder. Louder. Heavier than anything before. It's like the song has been waiting for this moment. Holding back its power. Its weight. Its chaos. Until now.

♪ We're falling into this shatterdance.
Caught in the chaos of a trance.
Fractured glass beneath my feet.
A fragile world, a fragile beat. ♫

Liz's voice cuts through it all, expansive. It stretches across the room, punching through the steady synthetic growl of Naya's bass and the relentless rhythm of Momo's drums. The sound is immense. Almost tangible. Relentless. Unforgiving.

Mio can't look away. She barely breathes. Every note. Every beat. Every strum reverberates deep in her entire being. Like it's pulling at something buried. Something aching to be heard.

♪ The air is still, the shadow stays.
In the cracks,
In the shattered glass
The music still plays. ♫

Liz leans into the final note, dragging it out. Endless. Impossibly vast. The sound cuts through Mio like lightning, leaving her raw, exposed.

The note lingers. Distorted. Decaying. Fading.

And then it's gone.

The silence that follows is thick, pregnant. As if the entire room—no, the girls themselves—needs a moment to process what just happened.

Applause doesn't come immediately. It begins slow, scattered. A clap here, another there, hesitant, almost reverent, as though no one dares break the spell Liz cast. Then it grows, louder, swelling. A tidal wave of noise. It's deafening, almost feral.

Mio claps too, mechanically. Her hands move, but she doesn't feel them. Her thoughts spin, faster than she can catch them. Faster than she can keep up. What she just saw. What she just heard. What she just felt.

She isn't just mesmerized. She's spellbound.

Liz doesn't bask in it. She doesn't need to. She takes a step back from the mic, her hand brushing it. The movement is lazy, intentional. The mic sways slightly under her touch. She smiles, knowing. Magnetic.

Momo flinches at the noise. Her eyes dart up, wide, startled, like she doesn't realize the applause is for her. She looks small, hunching her shoulders as though to shrink away. But she smiles, shy. She raises a drumstick and waves it stiffly.

And then there's Naya. That easy smile of hers. Unassuming. Like she has no idea of the havoc she's wreaked. Like she doesn't know the room is hers. She glances down at her bass, fiddles with the strap, then looks up again and scans the crowd, all smooth movements, but awkward edges. Another stiff bow. She can't help herself.

Liz steps forward, tilting her head, and speaks into the mic.

"Thank you." Her voice is low. She pulls her hair back. Loose ponytail. As if she needs to ground herself. "Hope you enjoyed it," she adds. Simple.

She steps back. The mic sways slightly again.

It's over.

Momo ducks her head, muttering something Mio can't hear. Liz laughs, patting her shoulder, while Naya leans in. She whispers something that makes Momo grin, shy and fleeting. The moment feels intimate. Too intimate. Mio feels she shouldn't be watching, but she can't stop.

Her chest tightens. Her skin prickles. Her palms feel damp. She sits back, tugging at her collar, glancing away.

The others. She needs to focus on the others.

Akira's mesmerized, staring at Liz like she's a revelation. Ayame's looking at Momo like she's some kind of goddess. Sachi's studying Naya, frowning slightly, as though deciphering a puzzle. Mugi's smiling. Azusa looks impressed. Yui's practically bouncing in her seat. And Ritsu—

Ritsu's smirking. At her.

Mio frowns. "What?"

"Nothing," Ritsu says, her tone light, her smirk growing. It's not nothing. It's never nothing with Ritsu.

Mio huffs sharply and looks back to the stage.

Back to Naya.

The bass. The sound of it still lingers, running through her chest, reverberating in her bones.

It wasn't hers. It was Naya's. And Mio wonders if she's hearing it for the first time. Not just the technicality of it. But the artistry. The emotion.

A shapeshifter. A chameleon. A monster.

Her fingers twitch, restless. It's overwhelming. Because this is the kind of playing that makes you ache. The kind that changes you. The kind Mio didn't think a bassist could reach until now.

---

The girls are talking. Sharing. Laughing. "Your song was so good." "You played so well." "You did amazing!" Praising each other. Sharing the cookies that, as Yui eagerly announces again, "Mugi brought!"

Mio stands to the side, watching. Silent. She doesn't know what to say. Or to whom.

What could she add? What could she tell Onna Gumi that they don't already know? Sachi knows Mio admires her. Ayame knows Mio loves her band. Akira knows it too.

And the three new girls?

Liz. Momo. Naya.

Mio doesn't even know where to begin.

Liz, who seems born for the stage. What could Mio say to her without it sounding too practiced? Momo, who would turn red and hide behind the sofa at the first hint of praise—despite how she transformed into a whirlwind behind the drums. And Naya...

Naya.

The bass. The pedals. The sound.

She carried an entire song on her shoulders with nothing but the bass. An instrument meant to accompany. To sit in the background. Never to lead. But she made it lead.

Mio wouldn't know where to start.

And anyway, Naya is surrounded. Sachi, naturally, is already there. Azusa too, delving into technical details that Mio doubts Naya fully grasps in Japanese. Yui joins in, her curiosity insatiable. And Ritsu adds to the chaos, jumping between teasing and genuine questions.

Naya can't keep up. But she tries.

Mio steps back further.

"Hey."

Velvet. Smooth.

Mio flinches.

Liz.

She turns her head, and there's the redhead, towering despite the heels of Mio's boots.

"You have an amazing voice, Akiyama-san."

The words are calm. Honest. Like Liz truly believes them.

Mio blinks, caught off guard. "Ah. Thank you," she murmurs, unsure where to look.

"Have you taken singing lessons?"

Mio shakes her head. "No. Never."

Liz hums thoughtfully, her gaze steady. "You should think about it. If you have the time. Or the desire." She smiles. "You sing very well. A few lessons could help you. Breathing. Voice control. Throat care. You know." She chuckles. "The throat's an instrument too. One we don't take care of at all. Not for singing. Not for talking. Not for anything."

"I could think about it," Mio says, thoughtful. "I've just... been so focused on the bass. And since Yui and I switch off on vocals..."

"Well," Liz says, her smile widening. "It's just a suggestion. For health reasons, if nothing else." Her tone shifts slightly. "There's nothing I could tell you about the bass that you don't already know, though."

Mio feels her cheeks warm.

"You're very good."

Liz's smile lingers. Mio flushes faintly. "Thank you."

Liz leans forward, her expression earnest. "I mean it."

Mio nods. She feels the weight of Liz's words but doesn't know how to respond. She looks up.

"You surprised me," Liz continues. "You're so kind. So quiet. But on stage..." Liz gestures vaguely, fingers curling as if trying to capture something intangible. "You transform. Even if you don't mean to. It's amazing what comes out of us when we're with the right people, in the right place. Doing what we're meant to do."

Mio follows Liz's glance across the room. At Naya. At Momo. At the quiet hum of a moment shared.

"You guys were amazing, Liz," Mio says finally. Warmly. Sincerely. "All three of you. Your voice is something else. You were born to be on stage. And Momo—she's incredible."

Liz smiles. "Momo is like you. She transforms. A total powerhouse on the drums. None of us expected it. She seems like a completely different person, but I love seeing her like that." Liz's voice softens. "You can tell she's enjoying herself."

Mio nods, smiling. "And Naya..."

She trails off. Thinking.

Liz chuckles, filling the silence. "Naya's thing..." She pauses. "Her instrument is creativity. And pedals."

Mio blinks. "Pedals?"

"When we were working on the song, she said she'd play the bass like it was a synthesizer, turn the melody into a loop, then add fuzz effects for the chorus." Liz laughs and shakes her head. "Momo and I just stared at her like she was insane. But then..." Liz snorts. "She did it."

Mio listens. Quiet. Focused.

"Naya's not the best musician here," Liz says plainly, without hesitation. "Not the best bass player. Not the best songwriter. Not the best singer, by a long shot." She laughs again, light and honest. "But she sees beyond. Beyond the music, I mean," Liz explains. "Where the rest of us look at the music, she's already standing on her toes, looking over it. She doesn't care that she only has a bass in her hands. She'll make it work."

Mio smiles.

"And she doesn't care if people laugh at her," Liz continues. "Or think she's crazy. Or tell her it's impossible. She does it anyway."

Mio's gaze drifts to Naya again. Awkward. Trying to cope.

"But it's not just that," Mio murmurs. "She seems... different when she plays. More confident."

"Because she loves it—music. More than anything else in the world." Liz says simply. As if it's obvious. "You've noticed how she gets a head start when she talks about her favorite bands? She completely lets her guard down."

Mio thinks. Recalls. "The first day..."

Liz raises an eyebrow.

"The first day," Mio repeats, "Naya got here first. We talked a little. And there was this moment in which she started rambling about the bands she listens to. Gesturing, talking loudly, with her thick accent." Mio chuckles. "Then, she stopped and apologized."

Liz shakes her head, smiling. "That's Naya for you." Her expression turns thoughtful. "Working with her these past two weeks, I've realized something. Naya is always on alert."

"On alert?"

Liz nods. Her smile fades, just slightly. "In everything she does. Physically, she's different. She speaks louder, she gestures more, she has an accent, she answers slowly. Sometimes she doesn't understand what we say."

Mio stays quiet. Listening.

"She doesn't want to be like that. She knows she is, but she doesn't want to be. She doesn't want to be a bother, or the center of attention, or pitied. She just wants to be like us. But she knows she can't be." Liz smiles faintly. "So she goes through life as she is. Relaxed, but tense. With that adorable awkwardness of hers. But on stage..."

Liz glances across the room again. At Naya. Mio follows.

"On stage," Liz whispers, "she goes somewhere else. Another plane entirely."

There's a silence neither of them knows how to fill.

Liz leans in suddenly. "By the way," she blurts out, lowering her voice. "Don't tell the others yet, but I'm staying."

Mio glances at Liz.

"You are?"

"Yep. I'll give you all the forms on Monday."

"So, Naya and Momo are okay with being a semi-pro band?"

Liz hums. Her gaze flickers, first to Naya—cornered, enduring rapid-fire questions from the others. Then, to Momo—curled into the corner of the couch, small and almost invisible.

"I don't know. But I don't care. We clicked," Liz says finally. Her voice lowers, quieter now, like she's sharing a secret. "Momo and Naya are two truly unique girls. Momo is an absolute sweetheart, while Naya plays the independent, aloof card, but she's a teddy bear in disguise. I think being in a band is just what they need. A chance to build friendships and find their place."

Mio absorbs the words.

"Call me Mio," she says suddenly. Without thinking.

Liz pauses. Her lips curl—not into a smirk but a real smile, warm and genuine. Like Mio's suggestion isn't strange at all. "Mio," Liz repeats, testing the name. It settles easily.

Liz glances across the room, then back again. There's a flicker in her expression—thoughtful, like she has more to say. But she doesn't. Instead, Liz steps back and offers another gentle smile.

"I'm going to chat over there, if you don't mind."

Mio nods and watches as Liz slips into the conversation, effortless. Like she's always been there.

And then, Mio sees Momo.

Alone, by the couch, half-hidden behind a cushion. Her drumsticks balance precariously on her lap, tapping lightly against her fingers. Her head is down, shoulders drawn inward.

Mio takes a breath and steps closer.

"Hey, Momo," Mio says. Quiet. Careful.

Momo startles. Her head jerks up, and wide eyes meet Mio's before darting away again.

"Akiyama-senpai," Momo murmurs.

"You can call me Mio," Mio says, crouching slightly. Not looming, not towering—just meeting Momo's gaze. Or trying to. "You were amazing today."

Momo's fingers fidget, tightening on her drumsticks, then loosening. Her cheeks flush deep red. "I—I didn't—"

"You did," Mio interrupts, soft but firm. "You were incredible today. I couldn't stop watching you."

The words hang between them. Momo freezes. Her hands stop moving. Her grip eases. Slowly, she glances up.

"Really?" she whispers.

"Really," Mio says, smiling now. Warmly. Truthfully. "You're so talented, Momo. And on stage..." Mio pauses. Lets the words settle. "You're powerful. The way you played, your energy, your focus... It was inspiring."

Momo blinks. Her lips part slightly, then close again. Her gaze drops to her lap.

"I was so nervous," she admits, voice still soft. "But... it felt good. On stage." A pause. Her fingers twitch. "It felt good."

"That's what matters."

Mio smiles again. Gentle. Understanding.

"You should be proud of yourself, Momo. Really."

Momo's head lifts. Her eyes shine now, bright and tentative.

"Thank you," she says. It's soft and earnest. From the heart.

Mio straightens and gives her a small nod. She doesn't push, doesn't linger—just lets the moment settle. Behind her, she hears Liz's laughter. Ayame's voice. Ritsu's teasing. The hum of conversation.

Mio steps back, away from Momo to let her relax. Let her process the moment. She doesn't want to overwhelm her. So she turns.

And nearly collides with her.

She stumbles, catching herself at the last moment.

"Oh," Mio says. Or maybe just exhales.

Naya is right there. Hand mid-air, like she'd been about to tap Mio's shoulder. The other rests casually in her pocket. Her eyes widen briefly before softening, her easy smile already forming.

"Sorry," Naya says. She then chuckles. "You know," she adds, warm amusement slipping into her tone, "with those boots, we're practically the same height."

Mio blinks. The comment is unexpected. Naya laughs again, like she truly finds the thought funny.

"By the way, your outfit is cool. Retro vibe," Naya blurts. "It fits you. You look very pretty."

She says it as it costs her nothing.

Mio blushes. She doesn't know what to say.

But Naya does.

"I just—" She pauses, clearing her throat. "I wanted to say..." A breath. A steady gaze. "I loved your band."

Mio freezes.

"And you."

Mio feels it. Her cheeks. Burning.

"I mean, you especially," Naya continues, unfazed. "Your voice. Your playing. Everything."

It's so matter-of-fact. So sincere.

Mio swallows, her brain scrambling to keep up.

"You were amazing," Naya says. Like it's the simplest truth. Like it's obvious. "Your band. All of you. But you..." She stops, lets her gaze linger. "You were incredible. You're... on another level."

Mio looks away, blushing, words caught somewhere she can't reach.

"I was even embarrassed, you know," Naya continues, laughing now. "To play bass after you. You're that good."

Mio's head snaps up. She goes blank. Completely blank.

She doesn't know what to say. Doesn't know what to think.

Embarrassed?

Naya?

After her?

Mio looks at Naya. Takes her in. Her awkward presence. Her easy smile. Her hands tucked away in her pockets like she doesn't have a care in the world.

"You're joking," Mio blurts out, disbelief slipping into her voice. "Naya, I've never seen anyone play like you. Ever."

Naya shrugs. "Eh, I just step on a few pedals. Nothing special."

"Nothing special?" Mio's voice rises.

Naya shrugs again, lighter this time, as if it truly is no big deal. "Anyone can do it."

"No, they can't," Mio says, sharper than intended. She breathes, steadies herself. "You made the bass carry an entire song, Naya. That's..." She hesitates. "I didn't even think that was possible."

Naya chuckles. "You're being too kind, Mio. Really."

"I'm not." Her voice is firm now. Sure.

Naya watches her, silent. There's something unreadable in her gaze.

"You're incredible," Naya says again, certain. "And I mean it. Every bit of it. Your voice is beautiful. And your bass playing... You're not just a good singer or a good bass player, Mio. You're the best bass player in this club. By far."

What the f—

"That's not true," Mio blurts.

"It is."

"It's not," she insists, the words tumbling out.

Because she just watched her.

Watched Naya transform the bass into something entirely new. Watched her bending its limits and reshaping its essence. Layers upon layers, loops, distortion—all crafted seamlessly. A single player, a single instrument, weaving melodies together, each building on the last. Four strings that held the weight of an entire song, producing endless, unexpected tones that defied what a bass should be capable of.

"Naya," Mio says, voice quieter now. "You don't understand. What you did out there—it was—"

She stops herself.

She can't find the words.

But Naya shrugs again, that easy shrug of hers. Mio doesn't even know what that means, and Naya does that a lot. Is it a tic of hers or something?

"Like I said, I just stepped on a few pedals. That's all."

"That's not all."

Her voice is too honed this time. Too pointed.

Naya tilts her head, watching her. Waiting. "It's nothing special," she says again. "I just have fun."

Mio stares at her. Tries to understand how she can say that. How someone who just transformed her entire concept of music can say that.

"It is special," Mio says, quietly. Firmly.

Something flickers in Naya's eyes. Recognition. Maybe understanding.

She doesn't say anything.

The silence stretches, heavy and full.

Then, Naya smiles, gentle and warm. Like she's letting Mio win this one.

"Thanks," she says. "But I still think you're better."

It feels like she really means it.

Mio opens her mouth. Closes it. She nods instead. She doesn't know how to respond. She can only stare at Naya's easy grin, at the light in her emerald eyes.

And then Naya steps back and offers a small wave. Her awkward, stiff bow. "I'll let you get back to the others," she says. "See you around?"

Mio nods slowly. "Yeah," she murmurs. "See you."

She watches as Naya walks away. Unbothered. Leaving Mio standing there.

Watching. Thinking.

Feeling like she's just witnessed something she doesn't quite understand.

Notes:

So, yeah. Writing this chapter was both fun and a challenge. Describing music and live performances... not my strong suit. Hopefully, the chapter is okay—or at least somewhat decent!

By the way, Mio's outfit is the one from Listen!!, just without the bow in her hair. I'm not sure if it's totally appropriate, but I really like that outfit—it's one of the most 'normal' ones she wears in the endings, so it felt fitting.

As for the performances, I'll admit I don’t know exactly what Onna Gumi sounds like since the K-ON! College manga was never adapted into an anime. But in the manga, they're described as a "powerful" and "thick" band. So, in my head, they sound like BAND-MAID. In fact, Onna Gumi's performance here is loosely inspired by DICE. (And yes, I made up the title and lyrics myself, so don't come for me—I know I'm not a songwriter or lyricist.)

Oh, and about K-ON! College: I know the manga shows a ton of different bands in the Light Music Club, but for simplicity (and my sanity), I reduced it to three bands with a total of eleven members. It just makes things easier to write and follow, and keeps it closer to the anime's vibe.

Now, about the new trio! They're based on Royal Blood, but with three members instead of two—Momo on drums, Naya on bass (with pedals and effects), and Liz on vocals. The song they perform is loosely based on Oblivion from Royal Blood’s album Typhoons. Seriously, it's a great album—highly recommend the band!

And of course, Ho-Kago Tea Time's song is Girls in Wonderland, from the NO, Thank You! single. (Another amazing song. Honestly, why are the endings so good? They didn't have to go that hard, but they did.)

That's it for now. If you've read this far, thank you so much—I really appreciate it! And once again, huge thanks to Jules (tsuki_anne) for beta-reading! :)

See you in the next chapter! And, of course, feel free to leave kudos and/or a comment if you feel like it!

Chapter 6: Perfectionist

Summary:

Mio feels behind.

Notes:

Huge thanks once again to Jules (tsuki_anne) for being the best beta ever! Your feedback is like gold. Seriously. :)

Perfectionist, by Natalia Kills, was released on April 1, 2011.

April 21, 2011

Mio flips through her notes. The classroom is almost empty now. Only a few voices echo faintly from the hallway. A door slams.

She looks down at her notebook. Words scribbled in the margins. Sentences she's written. She skims them but doesn't absorb anything.

Pedals.

It's not like she doesn't know what they are. Or how they work. She's read about them before. Researched them. Over the years. But never seriously. Never deeply. Pedals never felt like her thing. Her style. They still don't, she tells herself.

But then she saw Naya.

Saw her foot dance over the row of switches. Saw the sound shift. Grow.

And now. Now, she can't stop thinking about them.

"Ready to go?"

Mio looks up. Sachi is standing there, one strap of her bag hanging off her shoulder.

"Uh, yeah." Mio shuts her notebook and tucks it into her bag.

They leave together. Like they sometimes do. Paths that intersect.

The hallway is quieter now. Sachi's boots click against the floor, the sound filling the spaces where neither of them speaks.

Mio wants to ask about piano. About how it feels to start something new. At this stage. But the thought feels too direct. Like pressing a bruise that hasn't quite healed.

Instead.

"Sachi."

"Mm?"

"You use pedals, right?"

Sachi turns her head slightly, glancing at her.

"I mean. I know you use a couple." Mio shifts her bag on her shoulder. "A compressor. Chorus. Stuff like that."

"I do." Sachi nods. "Nothing fancy, though. Just the basics." She pauses. "Why?"

Why?

Mio hesitates. Looks away. "No reason." And then: "Maybe it's because I'm the only bassist in the club who doesn't."

Sachi hums. It's a low sound. Thoughtful.

"Compressors and chorus pedals are nice, sure," Sachi says. "But they're not indispensable. I only use them for consistency. Akira likes to add a bit of reverb here. Some delay there. But nothing overboard."

Mio nods. Keeps walking. Says nothing.

And then Sachi chuckles. It's quiet. Knowing. "You're asking because of Naya-chan, right?"

Mio doesn't answer.

Sachi's pace doesn't falter. Her tone stays light. "She's different. She plays something else entirely. But you like your clean style, don't you? Pedals aren't necessary for that."

"I know that," Mio says, a bit defensive. There's silence. "But even Azusa's been trying them," Mio says after a beat. "She's had a distortion pedal for years. Uses it sometimes in practice."

Sachi hums again.

"Do you ever feel weird using them?"

Sachi's steps slow. She tilts her head. "Weird how?"

"Like..." Mio falters. "Like it's not you anymore. Like you're adding too much."

Sachi chuckles. It's short. Quiet. She looks at Mio. "Is this about me? Or you?"

Mio looks down at the floor. Her shoes tap out uneven beats. "I don't know," she admits.

They turn a corner. The sunlight filters through the windows. It streaks across the wooden floor in pale golden lines.

"Look," Sachi says, soft. "You're one of the cleanest players I've heard. If you think pedals will change that, don't use them. Simple."

Mio frowns. "But... Isn't it bad if I don't? Like I'm behind?"

Sachi stops walking. Faces Mio fully.

"Behind who?"

Behind Naya, Mio thinks. Behind Azusa. Behind you. Behind everyone who isn't me.

But she doesn't say that.

"I just feel like I should try harder," Mio says instead.

"Trying harder doesn't mean changing who you are. You don't need a pedal to prove you're good, Mio-chan. You're already good."

Another pause. A long one. The kind that feels heavy but also freeing.

"But if you really want to try," Sach breaks the stillness, "you can borrow mine. Or keep reading about them. Sounds like you've been doing that already."

Mio sighs. "I have. For years. It's just—"

"It's not you," Sachi finishes for her.

Mio blinks. "Yeah. I just never feel like trying. Until..."

Sachi's grin is small but teasing. "Until now?"

Mio says nothing.

They pass a cluster of students gathered near the vending machines. Mio doesn't recognize any of them. She lets her gaze linger on their faces for a moment anyway, wondering if she should.

"You ever think about piano?" Mio blurts out.

Sachi glances at her. "What?"

"The piano," Mio says, blushing. "I mean, how are you doing with it? You seem... comfortable."

Sachi smiles. "It's not as scary as I thought. But it still feels like there's a mountain in front of me sometimes."

Mio nods, not pushing further. She knows that feeling too well.

"By the way, thanks for the offer. About the pedals."

"No problem. I meant it. But you're a clean player, Mio-chan. You've always been," Sachi repeats, reassuring. "That's what suits your style. Pedals might just feel unnecessary to you. That's okay."

"But what if I want to evolve? Naya makes it seem so... limitless."

Sachi laughs. It's soft, not unkind. "You're thinking too much. Pedals are tools. They don't define you. If you're curious, borrow one. Experiment. Worst case, you don't like it."

Mio hesitates. "Do you think Naya would mind if I borrowed hers? Just to try some effects."

"Mind? Naya-chan?" Sachi tilts her head, considering. "No way. She'd probably be thrilled, actually."

"You think? She is nice, but a bit... distant sometimes."

"Maybe, but she seems really passionate about this stuff."

"That sounds like her."

They turn the corner, nearing the clubroom.

"You know," Sachi says, "if you're really that interested, why not ask Naya-chan directly? She'd explain it all. Probably better than I could."

Mio chuckles. "With her Japanese? She'll probably explode. I don't want to overwhelm her."

"Well, that's how she learns. And besides, she'd be happy to do it. She'd go out of her way to help you."

"You think so?"

"I know so," Sachi says, simply. "Naya-chan admires you a lot."

Mio doesn't answer. She looks straight ahead.

They reach the clubroom. The familiar sounds of voices and instruments spill into Mio's ears.

They're all there when they walk in.

Akira and Ayame are sprawled on the couch, waiting. Liz and Momo sit at the club table. They're bent over sheet music, flipping pages and murmuring. Ritsu and Yui are near the drum set. They're loud, laughing about something Mio doesn't catch. Mugi watches from her keyboard, smiling faintly. Amused.

And then, there's Naya.

Mio's eyes find her, unbidden.

Naya's crouched on the floor. Her pedalboard is spread out like a battlefield. A faded tee hangs loose on her frame, its logo bold and unfamiliar. Another band Mio doesn't know.

The bass leans against the wall behind her, glinting in the sunlight filtering through the window. Naya twists a knob on a pedal, her other hand braced on her knee. Her bangs tumble into her face. She brushes them back, absent, and they fall again.

Azusa kneels beside her, intent, watching Naya's movements. Mio can't hear their conversation.

She watches anyway.

The precision. The focus. The care.

Mio's gaze lingers on the crease between Naya's brows. The way her hands move—deliberate, deft. She doesn't see the awkward foreigner anymore.

Even if Naya still is.

It's hypnotic. The way she moves. The way she breathes.

Mio forgets herself.

"Mio-chan."

She blinks.

Sachi's standing in the doorway. "You coming in?"

Mio's head shakes, almost imperceptible. "Yeah. Sorry." She steps into the room.

Naya looks up. Just for a moment. Their eyes meet. It's brief. Barely a second. But it burns.

Naya smiles. Casual. Easy.

Mio looks away, her face warm.

Sachi crosses the room, moving to the couch. "What's going on here?"

Akira glances up, lazy. "Pedal chaining. Apparently, it's an art form."

"It is," Naya says. "Otherwise, you'll end up with noise. And not the fun kind."

Azusa nods, earnest. "It's harder than it looks."

Mio's eyes drift back to Naya. She brushes her bangs back again, stubborn strands refusing to stay.

Mio wonders. What does it feel like to care so little about how you look? To exist, effortlessly?

Effortless.

That's the word. Naya is effortless.

Naya glances up again. Her eyes find Mio's.

"Join us, Mio?"

The words are light. Too light.

"Oh. No. I'm fine."

Naya's smile shifts. Wry. Amused. "You're staring."

Mio flushes. Deep red.

Azusa looks up, curious. "You're interested in pedals, Mio-senpai?"

"No," Mio says quickly. Then slower. "Maybe."

"Well," Naya says, her voice lilting, "if you ever want to ask, I'm here."

Mio nods. "Thanks."

The moment passes.

Azusa thanks Naya and moves to join her bandmates. Naya stands, slow, stretching as she does. Her movements are unhurried. She drops into a chair beside Liz and Momo.

Effortless.

Mio watches them, the three of them. Liz cracks a joke. Momo laughs shyly. Naya grins, leaning back in her chair. They've only been here a few weeks. It feels like years.

Mio turns, her eyes catching the calendar pinned to the wall.

Wednesday. Third week of the semester. Three weeks.

She looks back at Naya. At Liz. At Momo.

When did they stop being strangers?

Momo is the most reserved of the three.

Small. Sweet.

Her shoulders hunch, eyes darting. Always hesitant, as if she's surprised to find herself here at all. There's something fragile about her. Something careful. Like she's tiptoeing her way through every interaction.

It reminds Mio of herself back then. Before Ritsu. Before Yui, Mugi, and Azusa. Before laughter chipped at her walls, bit by bit. Before she learned how to take up space without apologizing for it.

Mio wonders if she would have stayed that way. Guarded. Maybe someone like Momo.

Momo clings to Azusa a lot. It's no surprise. They're in the same department. And Azusa—being the kind person she is—has taken her under her wing. Momo follows her everywhere. Small smile, grateful eyes. Like a puppy who's found its safe place.

But then, when they reach the clubroom, Momo shifts. Her eyes flick to Liz and Naya. Standing tall. Confident. Her smile wavers. Flickers. She excuses herself from Azusa's side, tentative, eager. She darts toward them. Ready to prove herself.

Liz is the first to greet her. Warm. Encouraging. Her laugh is low, soft, and Momo's shoulders straighten just slightly. And Naya. Leaned back. Easygoing. She says something casual, and Momo laughs. Startled. Genuine.

Mio notices. The way Momo lights up under their praise. The way her voice—usually so soft—grows stronger.

But then there's the hesitation. It's subtle. But it's there.

Around Akira. When Akira walks by, Momo shrinks. Just slightly. Like she's bracing herself. Akira doesn't notice. Or if she does, she doesn't show it. But Ayame does, cheerful, persistent. She steps in, coaxes something softer out of Akira. Mio catches it now and then. The quiet respect in the way Akira watches Momo play. Even if Akira never says it.

Sachi and Ayame, meanwhile, are wonderfully warm. Sachi, quick with jokes. Always trying to make Momo laugh. And Ayame—Ayame likes to talk about Momo's style.

"It's cute," she says, leaning in with a grin. "But you could use it more, you know? Pastels. Frills. You'd look adorable!"

Momo's eyes go wide. Her lips press together. Her ears turn pink. But Mio sees it. The slight curve at the corners of her mouth. The way she glances down. Almost bashful. But clearly pleased.

Ritsu and Yui, of course, are another story. Dragging Momo into their antics. Trying, always, to make her laugh. To loosen her up. Sometimes, they succeed. Momo's smile breaks through. Fleeting. But mostly, she looks overwhelmed. Still, she doesn't dislike it, Mio can tell. There's something curious in the way Momo watches them. Unsure, but appreciative.

Mugi is different. Softer. Gentler. She notices when Momo feels overwhelmed. Steps in quietly, offers a snack, a kind word. Or just her calm presence. Momo gravitates toward her.

But it's Mio that Momo admires the most.

Mio remembers that first day. Momo froze the moment she saw Liz and Naya. Stiff. Silent. One step away from bolting out the door. Mio had stepped forward then. Slowly, gently, like an older sister. She'd asked quiet questions, simple ones. Questions that didn't corner, didn't press too hard.

And Momo stayed.

Mio can still feel the stirrings of that moment in her chest. A faint, protective instinct. Subtle but steady. The kind that says, It's okay. I'll watch over you.

She thinks Momo feels it too. She knows, because when Momo looks at her, there's always that glimmer. Trust. Gratitude. Something soft and unspoken.

And then there's Liz and Naya. Loud. Straightforward. The kind of presence that fills a room without even trying. But somehow, they all fit. Liz's boldness, Naya's laid-back charm, and Momo's quiet eagerness. A strange harmony. Together, they work.

Liz and Naya pull Momo out of her shell with casual ease, their kindness unspoken but constant. Momo brightens under their attention, like a flower blooming under gentle sunlight.

Mio watches as Liz leans over, pointing something out on the music sheet. Momo nods, her focus absolute, her eyes wide and eager. Naya says something then. In that melodic tone of hers, with that accent. Momo laughs.

Mio smiles. A small, private smile. It's a good fit. The three of them.

And Liz—Liz is impossible to ignore.

When Liz walks into a room, you don't need to look to know she's there. You feel it. The way the air shifts. Her presence wraps itself around you.

Mio feels it too. Sometimes, it's too much. Liz's energy, her laugh, her voice. It's magnetic, overwhelming. A force of nature you can only hold onto for so long before it wears you down. Mio learned that quickly. But she also learned why people flock to Liz. Why they stay.

Liz bridges gaps without effort. Talks to everyone, pulls them in. Momo. Naya. Akira. Even Mugi.

With Momo, Liz softens. Lowers her voice, teases gently, pushes her forward, step by step. And Momo, despite shrinking at first, grows. Blossoms. Liz knows exactly how far to go.

With Naya, it's different. Naya doesn't shrink. She doesn't react to Liz the way others do. Sometimes she pushes back. Sometimes she lets things slide. It's hard to tell if it's immunity or indifference. Or maybe it's the language barrier. Maybe Naya doesn't catch every word.

And then there's Akira. Stoic, hard to read. Impossible to rattle. But with Liz? Akira lights up. Like a rival. Like a fan. Like someone who admires and envies in equal measure. Mio watches them, the way they clash. Playfully, seriously, constantly. It's fascinating. Exhausting. But always, there's respect.

Sachi and Ayame are careful. They like Liz, yes. But they keep their distance. Watch how she shifts dynamics. How Akira shines around her. How admiration might blur the lines. But Liz wins them over anyway. Because Liz is kind. Not at first glance. She's too big, too much. But it's there. Mio sees it. In her laugh, in her teasing, in the way she adjusts when she needs to.

Yui pulls Liz in easily, natural, like they've been friends forever. And Liz loves it. Loves the ease of it. Ritsu, though, treats Liz like a challenge. Their banter is loud, chaotic and endless. There are no winners. Just noise and laughter.

And then there's Mugi.

Mugi and Liz shouldn't make sense, but they do. Quiet conversations. Polite smiles. Nothing loud. Nothing obvious. Just a connection. Subtle. Theirs.

Mio likes Liz, too. Even when Liz drains her. Even when she's too much. Liz notices, of course. Always does. And when it happens, she pulls back, just enough. It's in those quieter moments that Mio sees it. The admiration in Liz's eyes. For Ho-kago Tea Time. For their music. For their bond.

For Mio.

Mio remembers. Liz said, "Your voice. Take care of it. It's too beautiful to waste." And the way she looked then. Not just at Mio. At all of them. With respect. With awe.

And then, there's Naya.

Mio tells herself she doesn't watch her any more than the others. But somehow, her eyes always find her. Across the room. Between conversations. In the way Naya leans, the way she moves.

It's curiosity. Nothing more. Naya is unlike anyone Mio has ever met, after all.

That's all it is.

The foreigner.

It's not just that, though. It's something else. Something about the way Naya exists. Like she's in two places at once. Belonging. And not.

Mio watches her. The way she moves, smiles, gestures. Too broad. Too expressive. The way her laugh cuts through the room, sharp and sudden, louder than anyone else's. The slip of Spanish when the right Japanese word escapes her.

Naya tries to blend in. Mio sees that. She pulls back, shrinks, folds herself into quieter spaces. Smiles politely. Speaks carefully. Always careful, always waiting for someone to notice. Or maybe for them not to.

But Naya can't disappear.

She stands out. Even when she tries not to. Even when she wants to disappear. Her attempts only make her brighter, louder, more visible.

It's everything about her. The deliberate mess of her hair. The casual, boyish style that feels too loose for the crispness of the room. The sun-kissed skin that glows under fluorescent lights, surrounded by pale faces. The green eyes that dart, searching. Bright. Wide. Full of something that can't be contained. And her smile. So open. Like it costs her nothing. Like it pulls people in without trying.

It's everything. The way Naya exists. Stands out. Tries to fade. Tries to stay.

Mio notices all of it.

It's impossible not to notice her.

The others do too.

With Liz and Momo, it's easy. Naya laughs with them. Her bandmates. Her people. She fits there.

Mugi asks gentle questions. About Japan, about her family, about her favorite things. Always leaning in, always listening like the words are gifts. And sometimes, it's about music. Classical music.

"Do you like classical music?" Mugi asks one day.

Naya hesitates. Smiles. Nods. Meets Mugi's pace. Schubert. Liszt. A scherzo here, a waltz there. Mugi lights up, serene and glowing, and Mio wonders how anyone copes with that kind of knowledge only Mugi understands. Naya does. Somehow.

Azusa is quieter. Reserved, but curious. Always curious. She stares at Naya's pedals like they hold the answers to something cosmic.

"What does this one do?" Azusa points.

Naya answers. Slowly. Carefully. Searching for the right words. Azusa waits. Rephrases when she has to. Always patient. Always kind. Naya likes Azusa. One can tell that.

And then there's Yui and Ritsu. Chaos wrapped in sound. Yui pulls Naya into laughter, sudden and bright. Ritsu pushes, teases, jabs at the edges of Naya's composure. And Naya just smiles. Laughs. Keeps pace. When she falters, they adjust. When they don't, she lets it go.

Even Ayame, Sachi, and Akira have their ways. Ayame, kind but not so much in common. Sachi, chatty, pulls Naya into conversations about music and bands that make her light up before she catches herself. And Sachi just smiles, unjudging. But Akira is blunt. Too blunt. Polite enough but sharp. She doesn't get Naya's belief that music should be fun. But she respects her. Or at least, she tries to.

And then there's Mio.

Naya's quiet space. Her sanctuary.

She looks at Mio like she's something rare. Precious. A quiet place in a loud world.

Naya doesn't cling. Doesn't hover. She just exists, watching Mio as much as Mio watches her. It's not loud, the way Naya gravitates toward her. It's subtle. A glance. A quiet word. When Naya talks to her, she hesitates less. Her voice softens. Her gaze lingers. Her smile stays.

Small things. Tiny moments.

And Mio notices them all.

She noticed them from the start. How Naya's shoulders relax when she's near. How her voice dips lower. How her guard slips just enough. And Mio, patient as always, meets her halfway. Rephrases questions when Naya stumbles. Waits when she falters. Offers kindness without asking for anything in return. Because that's how it's always been. Mio was patient from the very start.

She didn't ask about Spain or the accent. Didn't treat Naya like the foreigner in the room. Just asked how she was. Helped her with chopsticks without making it obvious. Slowed her words when Naya struggled to keep up.

Small things. Tiny gestures. Yet somehow, they matter.

Naya remembers each one of them.

Mio sees it. Feels it. The way Naya leans toward her presence like it's safe. Like she's found something she didn't know she needed. And Mio feels it too. The connection. Unspoken. Quiet. Mutual.

They don't talk much. They don't need to. In the silence, in the shared glances, in the pauses that don't feel awkward—there's an understanding.

And Mio doesn't mind.

Not at all.

"Mio-chan?"

Yui's chirpy voice cuts through her thoughts.

Mio blinks, startled.

"Hm?"

"We were talking about trying new songs," Azusa says.

Mugi nods. "Something like Girls in Wonderland. Do you think we should do more songs like that?"

Mio blinks again. Once. Twice.

"Yeah," she says finally, glancing at Ritsu. "More energetic songs. So Ritsu has an excuse to rush the drums."

"Hey! I have my own style!"

Mio snorts. They all do.

They all know each other—how to fit into the rhythm of one another's hits and misses.

Her gaze drifts back to the new trio. The ones sitting at the edge of the clubroom.

To Naya.

It's different. The way she plays. The way she leads.

Mio's brow furrows. How does someone make the bass the center of a song? Not a foundation. Not an accompaniment. The center .

Naya does it effortlessly. Her bassline isn't a backdrop—it's the stage itself. She pushes it forward, commands it to shine, to fill every corner of the sound. It's bold. Unique. Hers.

Mio thinks about her own playing. About clean tones and steady rhythms. About staying within the lines. She's always seen her role as supportive. Grounded. Solid.

Naya rewrites that. Breaks it apart. Turns it into something else.

The bassline is harmony and melody, all at once. A heartbeat. A voice. And Mio wonders. How do you get that style? That sound? What shapes someone to play like that?

Her eyes drop to Naya's tee. To the bold logo printed across it. Another band Mio doesn't know.

She wonders if they shaped her. If their songs molded her into the bassist she is now.

Her pen twitches.

The Asteroids Galaxy Tour.

She doesn't know them. Yet.

Her eyes flit to her notebook. Closed, but within reach. Fingers twitching.

Should she?

Mio's hand is already moving.

The notebook flips open. Her pen presses down. Letters take shape before she even notices.

The Asteroids Galaxy Tour.

She underlines it. Once. Twice. Her pen lingers. Taps.

Voices circle her. Laughter. Yui's. Azusa's light scolding. Ritsu's exaggerated defensiveness.

Mio glances at the tee again. Her pen traces over the letters, slowly, adding unnecessary flourishes.

The voices fade. Her pen stops. Her eyes linger. The band name fills the top of the page.

Mio shifts in her seat, tapping her pen one last time, the rhythm light against the paper.

She can still hear Ritsu. Yui. Azusa. Mugi. Their voices fill the room, but her focus has drifted.

Her eyes flick back. To the tee. To Naya. To the band name, underlined twice.

---

Mio sits at her desk that night.

The lamp casts a pale circle of light, isolating her from the dim expanse of the room. Her laptop whirs with a faint, constant sound, just barely noticeable.

Her bass leans against the wall. Silent. Waiting.

Mio's fingers hover over the keyboard.

G o o g l e

bass pedals

A list of search results fills the screen. Familiar terms stand out. Compressor. Chorus. Overdrive. She knows these. Understands them. Mostly.

She pauses. Scrolls. Opens another tab.

G o o g l e

what does a looper pedal do

A blog appears. Amateur musicians sharing advice. Loopers for layering. For recording. For solo practice.

Her brow furrows. She types again.

G o o g l e

do bassists need looper pedals

The answers are split. Yes, for creativity and live performances. No, for practicality. She hesitates, pen brushing against her notebook. Then writes:

Looper Pedal. Layering. Recording.

Her pen presses harder with each word.

She exhales. Another search.

G o o g l e

synth pedals for bass

The page loads slowly.

A video catches her eye. A bassist plays, and the sound morphs—bends and twists into something alien. It's not a bass anymore. Not really.

Mio leans closer. Rewinds. Watches again. Her brow furrows deeper.

G o o g l e

what does a synth pedal do for bass

Dense text fills the page. Oscillators. Filters. Envelope followers. Words she barely grasps.

Her gaze skips down. Finds something she understands:

"Ideal for experimental players."
"Transforms your bass into something electronic."
"Turns bass into an entirely new instrument."

Synth Pedal. Experimental. Transformative.

She taps the pen against the paper. Once. Twice. Thinks of Naya. Of her hands, deftly moving between pedals. Her foot tapping, shifting, commanding. The sound expanding. Growing.

G o o g l e

chorus pedal bass sound

She knows this one. Knows what it does. But still.

The video loads. A bassist strums. The sound swells. Richer. Fuller. The notes shimmer, overlapping like ripples on water. Mio nods. She understands this.

Chorus Pedal. Depth. Warmth.

G o o g l e

best distortion pedals for bass

She bites her lip. The results appear. Lists. Rankings. Reviews. She's seen these before. Read them a thousand times.

Her fingers move anyway. Click. Scroll. Another link.

"Adds grit and character to your tone. Great for heavier genres."

Another video. The sound grates—harsh, aggressive, and definitely not hers. Her fingers hover. Then type again.

G o o g l e

do clean bass players use distortion

The responses flood in. Contradictory.

"Only if you want to change your style."
"Sometimes, for contrast."
"Not necessary."

Distortion Pedal. Grit. Character.

Her pen taps against the margin. Rhythmic.

Her bass sits quietly in the corner. She thinks of its tone. Warm. Steady. Familiar.

And then she thinks of Naya's. The way it roars. Bold. Gritty. Limitless. Mio can hear it now. How it fills the room. How it refuses to be ignored.

G o o g l e

best fuzz pedals for bass

The results are predictable. The Big Muff. She's seen it. On Naya's board. A name she knows. A sound she knows. Thick. Aggressive.

Aggressive.

Her gaze flicks to her bass. Still propped against the wall. Untouched. But not unloved.

G o o g l e

should bassists use pedals

More scrolling. More answers.

"Depends on your style."

Mio leans back. Eyes tracing the cracks on the ceiling.

Her style. Clean. Supportive. Grounded.

Not like Naya's.

G o o g l e

EQ pedal bass

Dense articles. Frequencies. Mids. Lows. Boosting. Cutting. She doesn't understand it all. But she reads anyway. And writes.

EQ Pedal. Fine-tuning. Control.

The notebook fills. Looper. Synth. Chorus. Distortion. EQ.

Her thoughts drift. To the clubroom. To Naya crouched by her pedalboard. To the sound. To the possibilities.

"You're staring."

G o o g l e

what happens if a bassist doesn't use pedals

"Nothing. Play your style."

Mio stares. Reads it again. Her pen pauses. Writes.

Nothing. Play your style.

She underlines it.

Twice.

The words linger on the page.

She adds one more.

Borrow?

The notebook snaps shut. The lamp clicks off. The room falls silent.

Her thoughts are still loud.

---

April 22, 2011

The classroom feels colder than usual for a Friday in late April.

The piano stands there. Sturdy. Imposing. Waiting.

Mio exhales. Her legs move on autopilot as she steps inside.

Her teacher is already there. Flipping through sheet music. Her head lifts, her smile kind. "Good afternoon, Akiyama-san."

Mio bows slightly. "Good afternoon." Her voice feels steady. It isn't.

She sits, placing beside the bench. Her hands move without thought—adjusting the bench. Straightening her posture. Her fingers brush the keys briefly. The smoothness feels foreign. Too polished. Too perfect.

"Let's begin with the scales we practiced last time," the teacher says. Her tone light. Encouraging. She sets a metronome on the piano's edge.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Mio's fingers hover. They don't move. The teacher waits. Silent. Patient.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

C. E. G.

The first note is soft. The second unsure. The third wavering. It feels hollow in the room. The sound stretches, hangs, and fades.

Mio swallows. Her throat dry. She presses again. A few more notes. A shaky rhythm.

The teacher nods. "Good. Let's continue."

Good.

Mio's hand falters on the next scale. Her finger slips, striking a sharp instead of a natural. The sound rings out, discordant. Jarring. She flinches.

Her teacher doesn't. "Again."

The room feels heavier. The air denser. Her fingers tremble slightly as they fall back into place.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

She plays again. Hesitant. Careful. The scale starts to take shape. The notes uneven, the rhythm still unsteady.

It's not like the bass. The bass feels like breathing. Alive. An extension of her heartbeat. Each string familiar. Each vibration warm. Her hands know what to do before she does.

The piano? Cold. Distant. Demanding. The keys push back. They require precision. Exactness.

Her fingers trip. Another discord.

"Don't stop," her teacher says. Steady. Unyielding.

Mio breathes out slowly. Tries again.

This time, the notes flow smoother. The sound connects. Imperfect, but whole. Her teacher nods.

Mio adjusts on the bench, her back straighter. Her fingers move with more purpose.

It's still not natural. It doesn't feel like hers. But it's progress.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Another scale. And another. It's not perfect. Not even close. But her teacher smiles anyway.

"Good. Now again."

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The metronome is steady. Too steady. Mio's fingers stumble between the keys, breaking the rhythm. She flinches at the discordant sound.

But something is there. A melody. Faint. Tentative.

Her hands hover over the keys, unsure. Her teacher waits, watching. Silent encouragement in her posture. Mio swallows.

C. E. G.

Her fingers press again. Slow. Halting. The notes come easier this time. Her shoulders relax—just barely.

It's not smooth. Not even close. But her hands don't tremble as much.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Again. And again. And again.

The metronome stops.

The silence feels loud, but the hum of the piano lingers. It fills the space.

Her teacher nods. "Good. Now, let's add the left hand."

Mio freezes.

Her left hand hovers above the keys. Her dominant hand. Her strongest hand. Yet it feels heavy. Useless.

"It's okay," her teacher says, voice even. Patient. "One step at a time."

Mio exhales. Her shoulders drop slightly. Her fingers brush against the keys, hesitant. Uncertain.

C. Then G.

The sound is clunky. Jarring. Her two hands don't match. The rhythm collapses.

She frowns. Brow creasing. Lips pressing together in a thin line.

"Don't overthink it," her teacher says gently. "Feel it."

Feel it.

Mio's gaze drops to the keys. Her hands move again. Stumbling. Faltering. But trying. C. G. Then again.

Her mind wanders.

Mugi.

Mugi's hands on the piano. Smooth. Beautiful. Mugi had made it look so easy. So natural.

Mio's fingers twitch. Her left hand drops slightly, brushing against the keys. It's not easy. It's not natural. Not for her.

But she wants it. She wants to learn.

C. E. G.

Her teacher's voice breaks her focus. "Good. Now let's move to the piece we discussed last week."

Mio pulls the sheet music from her bag, smoothing the creases. Her hands hesitate as she sets it on the stand. The notes blur slightly. Too many lines. Too many markings.

The teacher taps a pencil lightly against the page. "Remember, no tension. Relax your wrists."

Mio nods. Her hands hover over the keys. Again. The first note rings out. Then the next.

The melody is simple. Basic. She's played it before with Mugi. But today, here, in this room—it feels different. Larger. More significant.

Her teacher watches. Patient. Correcting with quiet words. Small gestures.

"Good. Keep the tempo steady."

Mio tries. She really does. But her fingers stumble. Press the wrong key. The sound is sharp. Harsh. Wrong.

She flinches. "Sorry."

"No need to apologize," her teacher says calmly. "You're doing well. Don't rush. Go back. Try again."

And she does. Over and over. Until her fingers ache.

Her teacher steps closer. Points to the next bar on the sheet music.

"This part needs fluidity. Think of it as one motion—your hand should flow, not jump."

Flow, not jump.

Mio nods. Tries to imagine it. Smooth. Connected. Like water.

She plays.

It's awkward at first. Her hand hesitates. Stutters. She grits her teeth and keeps going, over and over, until—finally—it feels almost natural. Almost.

"Better," her teacher says. "See? You're getting it."

Mio glances up. Meets her teacher's eyes briefly. Looks away. Doesn't speak. But her chest feels lighter.

Her teacher steps back. Gives her space. "Again. From the beginning."

Mio nods. Places her fingers on the keys. Breathes in. And starts.

The melody is slow. Hesitant. But it's there. Each note finds its place. Her hands start to move in rhythm. It isn't perfect. Timing falters. Some notes are sharp. Others dull. But she doesn't stop.

By the end, the silence feels heavier than the melody.

Mio lowers her hands to her lap. Waits.

Her teacher smiles. "Much better." She gestures at the sheet music. "We'll stop here today."

Mio glances at the clock. Fifty minutes gone. Almost an hour.

When did time stop dragging?

Her teacher stands. Gathers her things. "You've made great progress," she says, smiling again. "Practice this section during the week. Slow and steady."

Mio nods. Mumbles a quiet thank you. The weight in her chest lifts. Just a little. Enough.

The door shuts. The footsteps fade.

Mio stays.

One note. Then another. A chord. Imperfect. But hers.

She plays the melody again. Slowly. Thoughtfully. Her hands find the rhythm again, this time less guided by thought and more by instinct. Determination.

The notes echo softly. Filling the empty room.

Her thoughts wander. To Mugi. To the quiet encouragement Mugi had given her last week.

"You'll be great, Mio-chan. Just give yourself time."

Time.

Mio slips her notebook into her bag. Time feels so precious. But maybe, just for this, she can give herself a little.

She walks out of the classroom. Her teacher's parting words linger in her ears.

You're doing well. Don't rush.

Her fingers twitch at her sides. Ghosting over phantom keys.

Flow, not jump.

---

April 23, 2011

The cafeteria is noisy that Saturday.

Not unbearable. But enough to press at Mio's temples, faint and persistent.

She sits with her friends, tucked in a corner table. Azusa is beside her. Ritsu sits across, wedged between Yui and Mugi. Yui's laughing, her voice high and full of energy. Azusa scolds her. Ritsu eggs them on, her grin wide and unbothered. Mugi smiles serenely, watching the chaos unfold like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Momo is there too. Seated beside Azusa. Her posture is straight. Always. She nibbles at her food, her eyes darting to Yui and Ritsu now and then. Quiet. Guarded. Like she's still deciding if she belongs here.

Azusa leans in and says something to her, low and casual. Mio doesn't catch it. But Momo smiles—faint, soft. A little less tentative.

Mio's gaze drops to her tray. Rice. Miso soup. Fish. Simmered vegetables. Balanced. Simple. The opposite of the noise in front of her.

Yui leans forward, chopsticks in hand, recounting some mishap from her last class. Her chopsticks slip, clattering onto the table.

Mio sighs. Picks them up. Hands them back. "Try not to drop them next time."

Yui beams at her. "Thanks, Mio-chan! You're the best."

Ritsu snorts. "Enabler."

"Loudmouth," Mio mutters back, without heat.

Mugi asks Azusa about her morning classes. Yui gushes about a dessert from the campus bakery. Momo stays quiet. She picks at her food, her gaze flicking between the others. Watching.

Mio watches her too.

There's something familiar about her. The way she hovers. Quiet. Shy. Like Azusa, when she first joined the Light Music Club.

Back then, Azusa would stand by Mio's side. Admiring. Hesitant.

Mio wonders if Momo feels the same about Azusa now. If Azusa notices. If she cares.

Azusa leans in again, her shoulder brushing Momo's. Whatever she says makes Momo smile wider this time. Brighter.

Mio smiles too. It's routine. Familiar. She likes it.

Except—

Her eyes fall to the empty spot beside her. She hadn't realized she left it open.

For Naya.

Not that she's expecting her. Naya doesn't come to the cafeteria much. But Mio remembers. The time she told Naya she could join them. For lunch. Anytime. Whenever she wanted to.

Naya didn't.

They've shared meals. A few. But only when Mio invited her. Naya doesn't join unless someone asks.

And today, Mio hadn't asked.

Her chopsticks pause mid-air. A flicker of guilt.

She takes a bite of fish. Chews. Swallows.

Her mind lingers on it anyway.

If she doesn't invite her, Naya doesn't come.

The thought sticks.

It bothers her.

A little.

She looks down at her tray. Half-empty. The bowl of miso soup drained. A few grains of rice. A single cucumber slice, pushed to the corner.

Mio picks it up. Moves it to the other side.

"Mio-senpai."

Azusa's voice pulls her back.

"Hm?"

"Could you help me later with my theory assignment for class tomorrow?"

Mio nods. Sets down her chopsticks. "Sure."

"Azu-nyan," Yui whines, dragging out the nickname, "don't bring up homework! It's lunchtime."

"You haven't started yours, have you?" Azusa asks, already knowing the answer.

"Of course not!" Yui chirps. "But I'll do it tonight. Ritsu will help me."

"I didn't agree to that!" Ritsu protests, her mouth full of rice. "Do your own work, Yui."

"And this is said by the one who always comes running to me for help with her homework?" Mio retorts, eyebrows raised.

Yui pouts. "Mugi-chan will help me, then."

Mugi giggles. "I'd love to, Yui-chan, but I think you're better off asking Mio-chan."

Mio sighs. Loudly. "Don't drag me into this."

The conversation swirls around her. Yui and Ritsu bicker. Mugi smiles, amused. Azusa sighs. Momo laughs, softly, but her eyes flick toward Azusa, seeking permission to join in. Mio doesn't say anything else.

She's not really listening anymore.

Her chopsticks hover over her plate. Her gaze drifts. Catches on Liz. Across the room. Near the opposite corner.

Liz is laughing. Loud. Confident. The kind of laugh that makes people turn their heads. She's leaning back, surrounded by a group of students Mio doesn't recognize. They're looking at her like she's the center of their universe.

She always is.

Mio looks away. Back to her table. Back to her friends.

Yui says something ridiculous. Azusa sighs. Mugi chuckles. Ritsu grins. Momo smiles again, tentative, glancing at Azusa like she's waiting for approval.

Mio picks up her chopsticks again. Then—

"Do you think Naya eats alone a lot?"

The words come out before she can stop them.

The table quiets.

Ritsu tilts her head. "What's this about Naya?"

Mio hesitates. "Nothing. Just wondering."

"She eats with Liz-san sometimes," Mugi says. "But not always."

"Or she eats alone," Azusa adds. "I've seen her sitting by herself a few times."

"She seems fine with it!" Yui chimes in brightly.

"Maybe she likes being alone," Ritsu offers.

Mio hums. She doesn't believe that.

"D–Do you think Naya-senpai feels left out?" Momo's voice is soft. Almost apologetic.

Everyone looks at her. She shifts in her seat. Glances down.

"She mentioned it once," Momo continues. "That people talk to her because she's foreign. But they don't really... talk to her."

Mio's chest tightens.

"She said that?" Azusa asks.

Momo nods. "To me and Liz-senpai. A few days ago."

Mio stares at her plate. At the rice and vegetables she hasn't touched yet.

The table grows quiet again. Their chatter slows. Lazes. The noise of the cafeteria fades as students trickle out, leaving behind a scattered hum of voices. Mio stands. Picks up her tray. Her movements feel automatic. Detached.

They head for the exit together. Talking. Laughing. Momo lags behind, sticking close to Azusa. Mio glances over her shoulder once. Twice. Making sure Momo's still there.

And then—

They see her. Naya. Near the vending machines. Surrounded.

By students. A small group. Three, maybe four. Naya stands in the middle. Her smile is fixed, polite. Her head tilts slightly as one of them speaks. Her eyebrows lift, faintly. In understanding. Or confusion. Mio can't tell.

"Looks like she has a fan club," Ritsu jokes, nudging Mio.

Mio doesn't laugh.

"Oh, you see?" Momo says, her voice light, as though it doesn't weigh. "She mentioned that sometimes people come up to her like that. To ask her things."

Mio hums. But her eyes don't stray.

It's Naya's smile. That easy, practiced one. The one that reaches her cheeks but never her eyes. The shift in her posture—small, so small—like she's folding in on herself. Her gaze flickers between the students, scanning. Searching.

For what? An exit, maybe.

And then, it hits.

They're not talking to her. They're talking to the idea of her. The foreigner. The accent. The novelty. Not Naya. Never Naya.

Mio hates it.

"Mio-senpai?"

Azusa again, her voice soft, cutting through.

"It's fine," Mio says quickly. "She's fine."

Azusa frowns. But they keep walking.

Mio doesn't.

Her steps falter. Her gaze lingers.

Naya meets her eyes. Just for a moment. But it's enough.

Mio feels it. The pull. The weight of it. Heavy. Dense.

And then it's gone.

The students shift. Naya disappears behind them, swallowed whole.

Mio exhales.

And keeps walking.

---

April 24, 2011

Mio's room is quiet. It usually is on Sunday nights.

The soft yellow glow of her desk lamp casts long shadows across the room. Her textbook lies open on the desk, its pages untouched. A pen rests neatly on the paper, perfectly still.

She leans back in her chair, headphones snug in her ears, but no music plays. She stares at the ceiling.

And thinks about Naya.

Not deliberately. Not intentionally. It just happens.

The way those students surrounded her yesterday. Their voices too loud, too curious. Questions that weren't questions. Polite words dripping with fascination. As if she were a novelty. Something to observe. Not someone to know.

"Do you know how to use chopsticks?"
"Can you say something in Spanish?"
"Can you even handle Japanese food?"

Mio had been there. Not for long. Long enough to see. To feel the discomfort in Naya's stiff smile.

And then she had walked away.

She frowns now. Shifts in her chair. Her arms cross tightly over her chest. The memory loops in her mind, unbidden. The press of bodies. The careful tone in Naya's voice. Her gaze darting, searching for escape.

Mio should have done something. Said something. Anything. But she hadn't.

Her eyes flicker to her notebook. To the page left open. Her handwriting, precise and clean. Intentional. The name stares back at her.

The Asteroids Galaxy Tour.

Underlined twice.

It almost glares. Accusing.

Mio's laptop is within reach.

She reaches. Opens it. Types.

The search results load in seconds. A band website. A Wikipedia page. Interviews. Photos. Her gaze settles on one photo in particular. Several men fade into the background. In the center, a woman. Blonde. Charismatic. Elegant. Nordic.

Beautiful.

She also notices the song titles. And an album. Fruit. Their debut album.

The music starts, vibrant and loud. Funky beats tumble out of her headphones. Synths shimmer. Guitars hum. The sound fills her room in waves. It's playful. Bright. Layered.

Mio leans back in her chair again. Lets the groove wash over her. The music swells. Fills her ears. Drowns her thoughts.

She can hear it. The influence. The echoes of this music in Naya's playing.

Her foot taps lightly against the floor. A slow, steady rhythm. She closes her eyes, letting the sound pull her in.

Funky. Groovy. Bright.

Behind her eyelids, the music paints vivid colors. Shapes she can't quite name but can feel.

The second track begins. She listens. Her foot taps a little faster. The song shifts, softer this time. Melancholic, hidden beneath its upbeat tempo.

Mio tilts her head. A new rhythm follows. Brighter.

Her eyes open. They find the screen again. The album cover. A tiny burst of space psychodelia. She types a quick note. About the bass. The groove. The rhythm that won't leave her mind.

She stares at the screen. But she's not seeing it. The music flows through her. Around her. She hears it now. The way Naya's playing borrows from this.

Her foot taps harder.

She pictures Naya. The way her fingers move on the strings. The way she sways to the beat. The mosaic of sounds she creates, layer by layer.

Mio leans forward. Resting her elbows on the desk, she taps her fingers. Lightly at first. Then with the beat. The music makes her feel something. She wonders if Naya feels it too. If this is where her music comes from. If this is where Naya comes from.

The album plays on, and Mio doesn't stop it. Each track adds another layer to the picture she's building in her mind.

Her mind, full of music now.

The last song ends, and she closes her laptop. The room is quiet again.

The rhythm lingers.

---

April 25, 2011

Monday.

The air is warmer today.

Warmer, but Mio feels cold.

She walks to class, her notebook tucked tight against her chest. Her steps are slow, rhythmic, deliberate. Each one echoes Monday. The courtyard. The faces. The laughter.

The way Naya's shoulders tensed, her smile brittle. Polite. Strained.

She didn't step in. She could have. She should have. But she didn't.

The notebook presses harder against her chest, a weak shield against the ache spreading there. She doesn't want to think about it, but it plays anyway, looping in her mind.

When class ends, Mio lingers. She isn't avoiding anyone. Not really. She's just... waiting. For what, she doesn't know.

The hallway empties. The hum of voices dims to quiet. Mio's feet move on their own.

Toward the clubroom.

Not yet.

She veers off. Her steps carry her to the vending machines instead. She stares at the rows of bottles, the blur of colors behind the glass. Picks one without thinking. A green tea. The bottle is cold in her hand. Mio doesn't drink it.

She doesn't want it.

Instead, she stares. Watches the condensation gather. Watches it bead, drip, pool into her palm. Her mind replays Saturday again. Like a song she can't stand, stuck on repeat.

Naya had laughed. Loud. Forced. Not like herself. The words—awkward. Stilted. Trapped between Japanese and English, between wanting to explain and wanting to disappear.

The crowd leaned in. Smiled too wide. Too eager.

And Mio did nothing.

The bottle is colder now. Mio presses it against her temple. Lets the water trail down her skin.

Naya handled it. Of course, she did. She always does.

Polite. Patient. Like it doesn't bother her. But it does. Mio knows it does.

She's seen it before. The way Naya's shoulders sag afterward. The way she rubs her temples, her face unreadable, when she thinks no one's looking.

Mio had looked away on Saturday. Pretended not to notice. Told herself it wasn't her place.

She regrets it now.

---

April 26, 2011

Mio doesn't mean to stare that Tuesday.

She tells herself it's just curiosity. Professional curiosity. A bassist's curiosity.

But her eyes don't move. They linger. On Naya. On the pedals spread out before her. On her hands, tweaking knobs. Flipping switches. The bass slung casually over Naya's shoulder buzzes softly. She strums a string. Adjusts a dial. Strums again.

The sound shifts. It swells. Expands. Fills the room.

It's not loud—Naya never plays loud during setup. But it's enough. Enough to make Mio sit straighter in her chair.

"Big Muff?" Akira asks.

"Yeah." Naya doesn't look up. She keeps turning the knob, focused. "Layering fuzz with the POG. Adds some grit to the octave."

Akira hums, impressed.

Mio tries to follow. She knows what a Big Muff does. She's heard of the POG. But the way Naya talks about them—calm, assured, almost second nature—it makes Mio feel like a beginner again.

Naya bends down. Twists a knob on the EQ pedal. The hum shifts again. Warmer now. Fuller.

And then, Naya plays.

A riff. Simple. Clean. It's familiar, but it hooks Mio instantly.

Then Naya steps on the fuzz pedal. The sound transforms. It growls. Roars. It fills the room with a richness Mio feels in her chest.

Mio listens.

The riff loops. Builds. Layers. Naya's foot taps the looper, adding another phrase. Then another.

It's mesmerizing. Hypnotic.

Mio feels the pull.

The sound Naya creates—it's like nothing Mio has ever played.

"Damn, Naya. That's insane," Ritsu says, grinning wide.

Naya shrugs, sheepish. As if she were allergic to praise. "Just experimenting."

Experimenting.

Mio frowns. Her clean, classic basslines feel small.

"How do you come up with all that?" Azusa asks.

"I dunno." Naya shrugs again. A casual gesture. "I just flow."

Flow.

Flow, not jump.

Naya glances up, briefly. Their eyes meet.

Mio looks away.

---

Their rehearsal ends.

The room vibrates with the last note of their final song.

Ho-kago Tea Time. Together again.

Mio feels the weight of her bass as she loosens the strap, setting it carefully against the wall. Her shoulders drop. Tension escapes her body, but her mind refuses to quiet.

It never does.

Rhythms. Phrases. Harmonies. All imperfect, tumbling through her thoughts.

Yui's laughter cuts through. Loud. Carefree. Ritsu mirrors her energy, drumming on the edge of the table with two pencils. Mugi wipes down the keyboard, her serene smile unbroken. Azusa, ever diligent, begins sliding her guitar into its case.

Mio lingers.

Her fingers twitch at her sides, phantom chords pressing into her skin.

Then, the sound of footsteps.

Not Yui. Not Ritsu. Someone else.

Mio turns.

Liz stands there, leaning casually against an amp. Arms crossed. Her presence—like always—commands the space, pulling all attention toward her without trying.

Yui notices first. "Licchan!" she chirps, her voice bright and unrestrained. "Did you like it?"

Liz smiles. Casual. "Yeah, I did. You've got great energy."

Yui preens, bouncing on her heels. Ritsu glances at Liz, her grin already sharpening into something teasing.

But Liz's attention shifts. To Mio.

"As I told you before, you've got a great voice," Liz says, her tone measured.

Mio freezes. Her throat feels tight, the compliment unexpected and too direct. "Hn. Thank you," she manages, the words clipped.

Liz steps closer.

"So does Yui," she adds, glancing back at Yui. "Both of you. Strong, distinct voices. That's rare in a band."

Yui gasps. "Mio-chan! Did you hear that? She thinks we're amazing!"

Mio blushes. She nods, unsure of where to look or what to say.

Liz chuckles. "You are amazing. Both of you. But..." she pauses, her voice steady, her gaze sharpening, "you're not taking care of them, are you?"

Mio frowns. "What do you mean?"

Liz tilts her head, the way someone does when they're deciding how honest to be.

"The voice is an instrument too," Liz says. "Just like your bass. Or Yui's guitar. And it's fragile. More fragile than you think. You have to take care of it."

"Take care of it?" Yui repeats, tilting her head.

Liz nods. "Warm-ups. Rest. Hydration. Even little things like speaking softly after rehearsals."

Mio feels Liz's words pressing into her. Heavy. She isn't wrong. Mio knows it. Her throat still aches from the last set.

"I'm not saying you need lessons or anything," Liz continues. "Just... care. A voice like yours, it'd be a shame to lose it."

The weight lands squarely in Mio's chest.

Yui, of course, bounces back first. "Licchan! Will you show us? Like, give us tips?"

Liz laughs, easy and low. "Another time. Today's your day."

Yui cheers, spinning toward Azusa, already chattering about lyrics.

Liz lingers for a moment longer. Her gaze finds Mio again, something quiet in her eyes.

Mio wants to respond. To thank her. To ask what "care" really means. But Liz moves first, stepping away, her boots tapping against the floor as she heads for the door.

"Good work today," Liz says, glancing back once. "Keep it up."

And then, she's gone. Momo follows her like a shadow.

Mio stares at the empty doorway.

The room fills with noise again. Yui's laugh. Ritsu's teasing. Mugi's soft hum.

But Mio.

Mio stands still.

The echo of Liz's words circles her mind. Strong. Distinct. Rare. Don't waste it.

She doesn't know why those words feel heavy. Why they press down like a weight. Like a challenge. Like everything is against her. Her style. Her voice. Her bass. Her everything.

She knows Liz meant well. It was a compliment. She knows that. But all Mio can think is:

I'm not enough.

Her simple voice. Her clean basslines. Her classic, steady approach. Dull. Outdated. Small.

"Mio-chan?" Mugi's voice cuts through the haze. "Are you okay?"

Mio blinks. Looks up. "Yeah. I'm fine."

Is she?

The thought lingers, clinging to her like static. It's not that she doesn't want to grow. To evolve. To push herself. But every step forward feels like losing something. A piece of herself. The parts that make her... her.

Her gaze falls to her hands. Steady hands. Strong hands. But inside, there's a tremor. A voice. Quiet but persistent.

You're not enough.

The clubroom fades around her. Voices. Laughter. The hum of instruments being packed away. Mio sits. Alone with her thoughts.

Am I being left behind?

The question loops, over and over.

She doesn't notice as the others trickle out. Ritsu and Yui leave first, still laughing about something Mio didn't catch. Mugi follows, Azusa at her side, their voices low. Companionable.

By the time Mio looks up, the room is almost empty. Almost. Because Naya is still there. Of course she is.

She crouches on the floor, picking up her pedals. Nine of them, lined up like soldiers. Cables coiled neatly at her side. She's in no rush. Naya is never in a rush.

Mio lingers near the door, her hand resting on the frame.

Naya taps one of her pedals with her foot. Once. Twice. The amp's off, so there's no sound. Just the motion. Mio's bass case shifts on her shoulder. The sound catches Naya's attention. She looks up, bangs falling into green eyes.

"Oh," she says lightly. "Still here?"

Mio freezes. "Uh. Yeah. Just... waiting."

"For what?"

The question is innocent. But Mio has no answer. She looks away, pretending she hasn't been watching Naya for the past five minutes.

Naya smiles. A teasing edge. "You can ask, you know."

"Ask what?"

"About the pedals." Naya gestures vaguely to the board. "You've been watching."

"I wasn't—" Mio cuts herself off. She sighs. "Okay. Maybe I was."

Naya's laugh is soft. "It's fine. You're curious, right?"

Mio doesn't answer. She glances at the board again, the neat rows of pedals. Each one strange. Unfamiliar.

"It's just..." she starts, then stops.

Naya waits. Patient. Silent. Unbothered.

"Your sound," Mio says finally. "It's different."

Naya smiles. Easy. "Good different?"

"Yes. No. I mean—it's good. Really good. But it's not just that. It's..."

Naya's smile widens, playful now. "Different?"

Mio flushes. "You know what I mean."

"Yeah," Naya says, sitting back on her heels. "I get it. Bass isn't supposed to sound like this, right?" She gestures again, this time to the pedals. "But that's the fun part. Making it sound like something it's not."

"Why didn't you choose guitar?" The question slips out before Mio can stop it.

Naya snorts. "I've been asked that more times than, 'Do you know how to dance flamenco?'"

Mio winces.

"I like the feeling," Naya says, ignoring the awkward silence. "The way it vibrates. Through the amp. Through the wood. Through you."

Mio nods.

"Whenever I listen to a song on headphones," Naya continues, "I hear the guitar. The drums. The keyboard. The vocals. But the bass? The bass, I feel. In my chest. It's visceral. It stays with you. You get it, right?"

Mio nods again. She gets it.

But she also doesn't.

She hesitates. "Doesn't it feel... weird? Like it's not you anymore?"

Naya shrugs. "No. This—" she says, picking up a pedal, "—is me."

Mio nods again. Slowly this time. She doesn't fully understand.

But she wants to.

---

Mio decides to unwind that night.

The book lies open on her lap. Its spine bent, its pages slightly crinkled where her thumb presses too hard. She doesn't notice at first. Not until her phone buzzes against the nightstand, faint and persistent.

Her gaze flicks down. Slowly.

Kenji.

The name glints there. Backlit by the soft, uneven glow of her lamp. Her hand hovers, fingers brushing the edge of the phone as if testing its weight.

It rings again.

Mio breathes out. Presses accept.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey, Mio." His voice is warm. Familiar. Almost too familiar. "Am I interrupting?"

She shifts. "No." The book slides off her lap as she sets it aside. "I was just reading."

"Ah. Should've guessed." There's a pause. His laugh filters through the receiver, low and easy. "Anything good this time? Or is it another one of those old, pretentious classics you secretly hate but can't stop reading?"

Her lips twitch. Almost a smile. "It's good," she says.

"You don't hate them?" He teases. "Not even a little?"

"Maybe just parts of them," she admits. "But that's not the point."

"No," he agrees. "It's not."

The quiet settles in.

"Done with classes?" Mio asks, her voice a shade lighter.

"For the day, yeah. Finally. Film Appreciation's turning into Film Overwhelm," he says. "We spent the whole seminar dissecting Citizen Kane. Again."

"Rosebud?" she asks, a faint smile returning.

Kenji groans. Loudly. "Rosebud," he echoes, dragging the word out. "I swear, if I hear that word one more time, I'm quitting the club."

"You wouldn't," she says, leaning back against her pillows. "You like it too much."

"True," he relents.

Another pause. Not uncomfortable. Just there.

"So," Kenji breaks the stillness, his tone shifting slightly. "How's everything? Classes? The Light Music Club? Still killing it on bass?"

Her fingers brush over her comforter, tracing an unseen pattern. "Classes are fine," she says. "The club's busy. We've been working on a few things."

"And bass?"

Her thumb lingers on a fold in the fabric. "Bass is..."

Futile.

"Bass is bass."

"You sound thrilled."

Mio laughs softly. Fleetingly.

Kenji's voice picks up again, teasing, "Come on, tell me something exciting. What's new? Any progress on the piano?"

She hesitates. Just a beat too long. "I'm getting there," she says finally. "It's hard, but... it's not as bad as I thought it would be."

"Hard to imagine anything being hard for you," he says. His voice is warm again. Encouraging. "You're probably already better than half the people who've been playing for years."

"Hardly." She snorts. "You're exaggerating."

"When have I ever lied to you, Mio?"

Her eyebrow quirks. "Plenty of times."

"Oh yeah? Name one."

"You told me Hausu was a cinematic masterpiece," she deadpans.

"It is," Kenji insists. "You just don't get the artistry. The subtext. The sheer brilliance of its absurdity. But it was nice, you clunging up to me when you were scared."

Mio hums. Twirls a loose strand of hair around her finger. "What about job-hunting? Any luck yet?"

Kenji sighs, the sound stretching longer than usual. "Not really. There's this internship I've got my eye on, though. Small production company here in Tokyo. They do indie films."

"Sounds perfect for you," Mio says. Keeps her tone light. "When's the application due?"

"End of the month," he replies. "I'll probably spend the week polishing my portfolio."

"You'll get something," Mio says, firm. "You're too stubborn not to."

Kenji laughs. A short, self-deprecating laugh. "Gee, thanks. It helps. Hearing that from you."

"Good," she says. "Because you will. I'm sure."

"Thanks, Mio. I'll try not to let you down."

"You never do," she replies. Smiling.

A pause. Comfortable. Easy.

"So," Kenji says after a moment. His voice shifts. Lighter, teasing. "I was thinking..."

"Uh-oh," Mio murmurs. Half a tease. Half an escape route. He laughs again.

"No, seriously," he says. "It's been a while since we hung out. Want to catch a movie this Saturday? My treat."

"A movie?" Mio echoes. Tilts her head. She considers. "What's playing?"

"Hankyu Railways. You might like it. Plus, popcorn. You can't say no to popcorn."

She chuckles, soft and brief. "You know me too well."

"I try," he says, and she can almost hear the grin through the line.

"All right," Mio agrees. "Saturday works. What time?"

"Afternoon. Maybe two-ish?"

"Sounds good," she says. Nodding. Even though he can't see her.

"Great," Kenji says, his voice warm. "It's a date."

Mio stills. Her fingers tighten slightly around the phone. "A movie outing," she corrects. Light. Teasing enough to keep things casual.

"Right," he says, laughing. "A very casual, non-date movie outing."

"Exactly," she says. Her lips quirking up.

"I'll text you the details," he says. "You can veto if you hate my movie choice."

"I always do," Mio replies, smirking.

"And yet, I always win," he counters.

"Only because you're stubborn."

"And because you secretly love my picks," he adds smugly.

Another pause. This one quieter. Less filled.

"Mio," Kenji says. His tone dips slightly. Careful. "You're doing okay, right? With everything?"

"Yeah," she says. After a beat. "I am. College is... busy. But good."

"Okay," he says. "Just checking. You know you can tell me if it's not, right?"

"I know. Thanks, Kenji."

"Anytime," he says, his voice lightening again. "By the way, I've been thinking about... something else."

Mio swallows, fearing where this may lead. Please, not now.

"What if we did something?" Kenji says. "Like... went somewhere? After the semester ends. Before your summer camp thing with the club."

Mio blinks. This isn't what she expected. She doesn't know if it's better or worse. "Somewhere?"

"Yeah. Like a trip. Just us. A weekend, maybe. Or longer, if you're up for it."

She doesn't respond immediately. Her fingers trace the strands of her hair. Restless. A trip. Just the two of them. It's not a bad idea. Not inherently. But something catches in her chest. Stops her.

Kenji fills the silence. "It doesn't have to be far," he says quickly. "Maybe Kyoto. Or somewhere by the coast. I don't know. I just thought it might be nice. To get away for a bit."

"Maybe," Mio says. Her voice softer now. "I'll think about it."

"Take your time," Kenji says. His voice is calm, steady. "We can talk about it next Saturday. No rush. I just... thought I'd put it out there."

"Thanks," Mio says. And she means it.

The pause that follows is heavy. Not uncomfortable, though. It just sits there.

Mio listens to it. Feels it settle between her ribs. She tries to untangle the knot in her chest. But she doesn't know how.

"Alright," Kenji says after a moment. "I'll let you get back to your book. Don't stay up too late, okay? Rest a little."

"I won't," she promises.

"Talk to you during the week. Goodnight, Mio."

"Goodnight," she echoes.

She ends the call.

The phone drops into her lap, still warm from the conversation. She stares at it for a moment. Then at her book.

Her thoughts buzz. Restless. A trip. The movies. Next Saturday. It's simple. Easy.

So why does it feel so heavy?

Mio shakes her head. Picks up the book again. Flips to the last page she remembers. She reads. But her mind drifts.

Back to him. Back to the weight. Back to the knot she doesn't know how to untangle.

The movies. Saturday.

She tells herself the popcorn will be nice. The movie too.

She reads. The words blur.

She turns the page, even though she hasn't finished the one before it.

Notes:

This chapter didn't originally start out this way, but it somehow turned into an introspective deep dive into Mio's mind. Honestly? I like how it turned out. It's quite different from the other chapters—less dialogue, more inner monologue, or introspection, or whatever fancy word you want to use. But hey, Mio is the protagonist, and let's face it, our Mio is an overthinking, introspective, sensitive girl with a ridiculously rich inner world. Gotta love her for it.

Oh, and here's Fruit by The Asteroids Galaxy Tour. Cool album, cool band. Seriously though, why aren't they making music anymore? Sigh.

I really enjoyed writing this chapter, and I hope you enjoyed reading it! Huge thanks, as always, to Jules (tsuki_anne) for being an amazing beta! :) And of course, if you feel like it, don't hesitate to leave kudos and/or a comment—it totally makes my day!

Chapter 7: Miedos y Otras Fobias

Summary:

Mio is playing it safe.

Notes:

Shoutout to Jules (tsuki_anne) for being the MVP of beta readers! :) And huge thanks to (aineiru) for your super insightful feedback on the canon!

Miedos y Otras Fobias (Fears and Other Phobias), by Cajón De Sastre, was released on May 30, 2011.

April 27, 2011

Naya is quiet on Wednesday. Too quiet.

The energy is missing.

Mio notices first. She always does. She glances up at Naya, notices another band on her tee—Röyksopp this time—and writes it in her notebook.

Naya is in the corner, her bass cradled against her, fingers on the tuning pegs. Adjusting, readjusting with a precision that borders on obsession. But Mio knows. It isn't focus—it's avoidance. Disappearing.

Naya's face is still. No sly remarks about her favorite bands, no quips that go over everyone's head, no playful stumbles through her second language.

Just silence.

Mio's pen hovers. She looks at Mugi. Mugi looks back. Azusa catches them and follows their gaze toward the corner.

"Is it just me," Mio whispers, "or does Naya seem... off?"

Azusa nods. "She hasn't said a word. It's weird."

"Really weird," Mio says.

Mugi tilts her head, watching Naya. "Do you think she's okay?"

"I don't know," Mio murmurs.

"Maybe she's tired," Azusa offers.

But it's not tired. Mio just knows.

The door creaks open. Liz enters, humming, red ponytail bouncing. She stops mid-tune. Her eyes sweep the room. Land on them.

"What's going on?" Liz asks, dropping her bag.

Mio hesitates. She doesn't want to gossip. "It's Naya," she finally says. "She's... quiet. Too quiet."

Liz follows their eyes to Naya, hunched over her pedalboard. Then, Liz laughs.

"Oh, that," she says.

Mio blinks. Azusa frowns. Mugi tilts her head again.

Liz leans against the table. "She's toning it down."

"Toning it down?"

"She feels like she's too much sometimes. Too loud, you know? Too foreign."

Azusa's brow furrows. "What does that even mean?"

"She doesn't want to stand out. She's trying to blend in."

Stand out. Blend in. The words hang in Mio's head.

"But she doesn't need to," she says.

Liz sighs. "It's not about what we think, is it? It's about her. She notices things. The stares, the questions. Like she's a novelty."

"But she's not—" Mio starts. Stops.

Liz gives her a small, knowing smile. "I know. You know. But she feels it anyway."

Mio glances at Naya. Shoulders hunched. Shrinking into herself.

The ache in her chest spreads.

"She doesn't have to change herself," Mugi says softly.

"We like her the way she is," Azusa adds.

Mio nods. They all do. But does Naya know?

Liz smiles. Small, but real. "Don't worry, it's not like she wants to change. She just pulls back sometimes."

Mio feels it again. The weight in her chest. Heavier now. She doesn't want Naya to feel like that.

"Naya shouldn't have to," Mio murmurs. It's soft. Almost to herself.

Liz catches it anyway. Her smile stays. "She knows," Liz says. "I think she just needs a day like this, every now and then. Give her some space. But don't forget to remind her later, you know? That it's okay for her to just be."

Be.

A tiny word. But at this moment? It feels monumental.

Naya looks up then. She catches them, watching her. Her lips twitch. A faint smile, almost apologetic. She raises a hand. Waves. And Mio thinks—there she is.

It's not her usual smile. Not easy, not bright. It's smaller, quieter, just a glimpse. But it's there. It's enough.

Liz grins. "See? She'll bounce back."

Mio nods. She watches as Naya adjusts her pedals again. Her movements are less stiff now.

Still, the thought lingers. She shouldn't feel like she has to hide. Not here. Not with them.

Mio resolves. To talk to Naya later. Say something. Not to push. Just to remind her.

It's okay. Be yourself.

---

In the end, Mio doesn't talk to Naya that morning. And she regrets it.

She doesn't know why she can't reassure her. Be there for her, be the friend Naya needs. She doesn't know why it's so hard to just ask.

Why can't she just say, "What bands do you like?" Why does it feel like a mission?

Röyksopp.

She opens her laptop. Types the name.

A website loads. Then a Wikipedia page. Then photos. Two men—one blonde, one black-haired. From Norway, she reads. The Asteroids Galaxy Tour is a Danish band, she remembers.

Nordic music, huh?

Four albums. Melody A.M.. The Understanding. Junior. Senior. Mio stares at the list.

Naya's voice surfaces in her mind.

"Melody A.M.," she'd said to Liz one day, reverent. "Nothing's come close to that sound. Is unreal. Like nothing I've heard."

Mio hesitates. She searches for the album. Finds it.

Electronic music. It's not her style.

Her fingers hover over the play button. Her head tilts. Considers. It's just for musical knowledge, she tells herself. It's curiosity.

She presses play.

Sound floods her headphones. The room feels smaller. Like it's closing in. Or maybe, expanding. There's something strange about it. Something vivid. Something like stepping into another world.

She closes her eyes.

The sound deepens. Fills the empty spaces in her mind. And there she is again. Naya.

Different. Eclectic. Something Mio doesn't quite understand, but wants to.

"It's just music," Mio whispers to herself. She opens her eyes.

She looks at her notes. Her handwriting is small, careful. Secretive. No one else would know what they meant.

It's just music.

She falls asleep to the album, the sounds weaving through her dreams in vivid colors she can't quite recall when she wakes up.

---

April 28, 2011

Mio sees her again on Thrusday morning.

Naya. Surrounded. Again.

A small group of girls. Bright. They're all there, talking, laughing. Faces turned toward her like she's the center of the universe.

And Naya, in the middle. Smiling. Always smiling. But not quite.

Mio notices it. The shift. Barely there. But there. The way Naya's shoulders don't relax. The way her smile sits on her face, like it's borrowed. Like it's not really hers.

Not really.

Mio hates it. Hates how obvious it is. Hates how no one else seems to notice. Hates how she's frozen. Again.

She shouldn't care. She tells herself. Naya's fine. She's always fine. Isn't she?

But there it is. Again. That flicker. A glance downward, quick, like she's bracing for something. Like she's holding something back.

Mio steps forward.

Stops.

She doesn't know why. Or maybe she does.

What could she say? What would she even do? Naya isn't asking for help. She doesn't need it. Does she?

She's handling it.

Handling it.

Mio looks away. Pretends she's imagining it. It's fine. Everything's fine.

It isn't.

The group doesn't notice. They keep talking, loud, animated, oblivious. Naya's just another piece of the picture. Easy to miss if you don't look too closely.

But Mio looks again. She can't stop. She tells herself to leave. To walk away.

She doesn't.

She watches. And waits. And wonders.

If this time will be different. If this time, she'll step forward. Say something. Do something. Anything.

But the group shifts. Slowly. Someone says goodbye. Another waves. The crowd thins. One by one.

Until it's just Naya. Standing there. Alone. Again.

Her hands tuck into her pockets. The smile fades. Her head tilts down. Just slightly. Like the weight of something unseen is pressing against her.

Mio sighs. She's about to turn away when their eyes meet.

Just for a second.

Naya's smile returns. Lighter. Softer. But there. Always there. Small. Like she's telling Mio, It's okay.

It's not.

Mio knows it's not.

She doesn't smile back. But she nods.

Naya starts walking. Mio turns away.

She hates it.

She hates herself more.

---

Mio sits at the far end of the room, notebook open, pen in hand. Her handwriting is neat, lines filled with band names she's been collecting. Bands Naya wears on her tees. Bands Naya mentions. Bands Naya plays during rehearsal.

St. Vincent. That's today's tee.

Mio stares at the name printed across Naya's chest. Remembers the day they met. Naya called it one of her favorite bands.

She underlines it. Taps her pen. Stares a moment longer.

She reminds herself: later. Tonight. She'll listen.

Across the room, Naya plays.

Liz's voice carries the melody. Momo keeps time, relentless, precise, her face calm but her hands fierce. And Naya—

Mio watches her.

The bass hums. A fuzz effect, deep, resonant. Naya switches pedals. Compressor, cleaner, tighter. Every note sharp, every sound deliberate.

The solo comes.

Naya stomps on the distortion pedal. Power chords roar, one after another. Another stomp. Fuzz, now, for the riff. A short, brash cry from the strings. Back again. Distortion. Fuzz. Distortion. Fuzz.

One person. One bass.

The pedals dance under Naya's foot like extensions of her hands.

And then—

Naya turns a tuning peg mid-riff.

Mio blinks.

The sound shifts, changes pitch. A moment later, Naya twists it back, fluid, seamless.

Mio wouldn't have thought of that. Wouldn't have even tried it. She'd have slid her fingers, or moved frets. Or something else entirely.

But not that.

The riff continues, relentless. Another stomp. An EQ boost. Subtle but purposeful.

It's not just the sound, Mio realizes. It's the way Naya plays it. The way she stands.

Feet steady. Bass slung low against her hips. Her fingers moving with precision and grace. Every motion deliberate.

Effortless.

Mio's gaze drifts lower. The pedalboard. A maze of knobs, switches and wires. It should intimidate her. Instead—

It pulls her in.

"Mio-senpai."

She's startled. Blinks. Azusa is beside her, holding out a sheet of music.

"Can you check this?" Azusa asks.

Mio nods. Takes the paper. But her eyes flick back to Naya. Just for a moment.

The note fades. Naya presses another button. The sound shimmers. Chorus effect. Rippling, fluid. Like water.

Mio feels it too. The ripple. Quiet, subtle. But undeniable.

---

Mio finishes her homework early. As usual. Always on schedule. Always responsible. Always reliable.

It's not dinner time yet, so she sits back in her chair. Reaches for her headphones. She scrolls through her playlist and queues up Actor by St. Vincent.

The opening notes come in soft, experimental. Strange, but not uninviting. Mio adjusts her headphones and leans back further. She doesn't think about why she's doing this.

It's just for musical knowledge.

She reads as she listens.

Anne Clark. St. Vincent. One of the best guitarists of the 21st century, according to several critics. Known for her melodic playing. Distortion. Fuzz.

Mio pauses.

Distortion. Fuzz. Guitar pedals.

Her thoughts flicker. One of Naya's favorite musicians.

Mio looks back at the screen, and scrolls down. St. Vincent's riffs take hold of her ears, unexpected and sharp. The beats steady her breath.

She closes her eyes for a moment, letting the sound pull her in. Then opens them again, focused.

Is this where Naya comes from?

Her mind drifts, unbidden. To Naya's face. Naya's voice. That spark in her eyes whenever she talks about music.

Mio doesn't know what she's doing anymore.

But she picks up her pen, opens her notebook, and writes down the name of each track that catches her.

That night, Mio lies in bed.

Five minutes pass. She turns onto her side. Ten minutes pass. She turns onto her back. Fifteen minutes pass. She stares at the ceiling. Twenty. Thirty. Forty-five. One hour.

Sleep feels impossible.

Her fingers twitch beneath the blanket. Without thinking, she taps out a rhythm. Four beats. Then eight. Then she falters.

It's useless.

She closes her eyes. Opens them again. Her thoughts won't settle. There's a hum in her head. Music. A bassline, low and steady, building and crashing like waves.

Her bass.

She glances at the clock. The glow of 2:13 a.m. fills the dark.

Mio exhales.

She sits up, brushing her hair back. Her gaze falls on the instrument propped in the corner. Her notebook on the desk. It used to be full of lyrics. Now?

Now it's not.

Her legs swing over the edge of the bed, toes brushing the cool floor as she rises.

The notebook snaps open.

Pages filled with scribbles. Band names. Albums. Notes on pedals she doesn't fully understand. Her handwriting starts out neat. But as the pages go on, the lines grow frantic. Tone. Effects. Silence. Space. Rhythm. The weight of pauses in music.

The margins brim with questions.

Questions.

About bass. About music.

But are they really about bass?

Am I limited in my playing?

The words are there, scrawled messily in the corner of one page. Circled three times.

Her playing. Always careful. Always controlled. Always safe.

She thinks of Sachi. Her subtle confidence, sharp precision. A knife wrapped in silk. And Naya. Bold. Daring.

Damn Naya.

She's the one who started all of this.

Naya transforms the bass. It becomes raw in her hands. Experimental. A lead when she wants. A foundation when she doesn't. Melody and harmony, all at once.

They play with freedom.

Mio thinks of her own playing. Clean. Polished. Predictable.

She turns another page.

Am I holding myself back in life the way I hold myself back in music?

The thought presses heavy against her chest.

Her pen hovers. Her fingers graze the page as her mind wanders.

Kenji. His touch. His kindness. His patience. Too much patience, maybe. Letting her set the pace as though she might shatter if he didn't. She tells herself it's sweet. But her body flinches, even when her mind whispers, It's okay.

He's everything she thought she wanted. Everything she thought she needed. And yet.

And yet, the gap remains. His hands on her skin feel wrong. Her own body betrays her. Rejecting, retreating, no matter how much she tells herself to lean in. To stay.

She blames herself. Her shyness. Her inexperience. Awkwardness.

It's her fault. It has to be.

How much of her life is spent leaning away?

Am I too passive in life, as I am in music?

The words on the page glare back at her. Her own handwriting feels like an accusation. She sets the pen down. Her hand runs through her hair, tugging lightly at the roots.

Does she hang back because it's safer? Because it's easier? Because stepping forward feels like stepping out onto a fragile bridge?

She thinks of her basslines. Supportive. Reliable. Always in the background. Never too much. Never too little. Guarded. Predictable. Safe.

Her relationships mirror her music. Someone else always leading. Always pacing.

Ritsu, who reached out when Mio wouldn't. Who formed the club in high school and dragged Mio along with her. Sachi, who bridged the silence when Mio wouldn't dare. Kenji.

Always someone else.

Her gaze drifts back to the notebook.

Do I depend too much on others?

Mio glances at her bass. Standing silently by the desk. Towering. Its shadow stretches long across the room in the soft glow of the moonlight.

She loves it. Loves the way it feels. Loves its role. Its sound. Its weight in her hands. But does she love how she plays it?

She thought she did.

Does she?

Does she play the way she does because it's who she is? Or because it's who she thinks she should be?

Why am I so comfortable in the background?

Because it's safe.

The words burn at the edges of her mind, but she doesn't write them down.

She thinks about Kenji. Leading. Always leading. Her friends. Pulling her along. Sachi, already finding her voice with only three years of bass playing. And then Naya. Turning heads everywhere she goes.

Mio. In the background.

The reliable one. The supporter. The bassist.

Her pen scratches against the page. Quick, jagged lines.

Do I define myself through others?

The question feels heavy. She presses her pen harder against the paper.

Am I scared of standing alone?

Her chest tightens. She breathes through it. Breathes deep. Flips to a blank page and stares at it for a long moment.

Am I afraid of vulnerability?

Her shyness. Her hesitation. Her aversion to touch. Her hesitation with Kenji.

Mio thinks about touch. About intimacy. About the way she flinches when Kenji holds her hand. The way her body resists even as her mind wills herself not to.

Her pen hovers again. Her heart beats louder in her ears.

Can I be more than I am now?

Her chest aches. She flips another page. The sound is sharp in the quiet room. New words come, but they feel like old wounds reopening.

Am I afraid of stepping into the spotlight?

Her gaze drifts back to the bass. It stands tall. Still. A shadow in the moonlight.

Why do I play the way I do?

Her lips press into a thin line.

Do I like it? Or have I never allowed myself to try something different?

The questions sting. They are too big. Too sharp. Too much.

Am I playing it safe?

In music. In love. In everything. Kenji's face flashes in her mind. She swallows hard.

What am I afraid of?

The vulnerability.

Her grip on the pen tightens.

Why can't I let go? Why can't I let anyone in?

Not Kenji. Not anyone.

The thought sits heavy on her chest. She hates it. Hates the way her body pulls back, even when her mind wants to stay.

Why can't I just let him in? Why does my body resist the touch my mind craves?

The parallel feels like a slap.

Her pen trembles against the page.

Am I holding back because I'm afraid? Because I don't know who I am?

The words stop.

She puts the pen down.

The dorm is quiet. The kind of quiet that presses against her ears.

Her bass looms in the corner, half in shadow, half catching the glow of her desk lamp. Silent. Waiting. She stares at it for too long. For the first time, it feels like it isn't hers. Like it belongs to someone else.

Her gaze drops to the nightstand. The clock reads 3:02 a.m.

She exhales, sharp and frustrated, and closes the notebook with a snap.

The chair creaks as she stands. Her bed is too close. The walls are too close. Everything is too close.

She climbs back into bed. Pulls the blanket up to her chin. Closes her eyes. Sighs.

"What am I afraid of?"

The question hangs in the air.

Her bass doesn't answer.

The shadows don't move.

And the silence stays. Long after she turns off the lamp.

---

April 29, 2011

The clubroom is quiet this Friday morning.

It feels strange. Unfamiliar.

Quiet isn't a word Mio associates with this space. Not with the music. Always the music.

Mio sits at the keyboard. Mugi stands beside her, warm and steady, the way she always is. Late April sunshine filters through the window. It stretches across the keys, casting faint, golden shadows.

"Start with this," Mugi says, pressing a key.

C. A low, resonant note hums in the air.

Mio mimics her. The sound feels heavy under her fingers. Solid. Steady.

"Now this," Mugi says.

C. Another note. Then another. F#.

A simple pattern.

Mio follows. Clumsily at first. Her timing uneven, her hands uncertain.

Mugi hums approval. "Take your time, Mio-chan."

Mio nods slowly. She breathes in. Her fingers hover above the keys, light and unfamiliar. It feels like they don't belong to her.

She presses the first note again.

C. It rings out. Soft. Alone. It feels like a beginning. Or maybe an end.

"Good," Mugi says. Her voice floats in the quiet, soft as a breeze.

Mio presses on.

C. E. The sound wavers. Uneven. But it holds.

Her finger slips. A wrong note—G. The discord makes her flinch.

"Relax," Mugi says, calm, unshaken.

Mio exhales, shaky. She presses the keys again. Slowly. The notes begin to take shape.

Mugi hums along.

"Better. See? It's coming together."

It doesn't feel like it.

"Relax your hands."

Mugi's touch is light. She adjusts Mio's wrist gently, like she's shaping something fragile. "Here," she says. "Think of it like holding water. Gentle and fluid. Let the sound flow."

Flow.

"It's like painting," Mugi adds. "You don't have to know every stroke before you start. You just let the brush guide you."

Mio tilts her head, thoughtful. "But music is precise. Structured."

"It can be," Mugi says, her smile faint. "But it can also be alive. Organic. It's about balance, don't you think? Between control and freedom."

Control and freedom.

Mio stares down at the keys. Her fingers press again. Hesitant. Faltering.

She tries again. The notes connect. Still shaky. Still unsure.

"That's it," Mugi says. Her smile is steady, unwavering. "You're doing well."

Mio frowns. "It feels stiff. Awkward."

"That's natural. It's a different kind of expression."

Mugi's hands drift to the keys. They move with practiced ease. A melody rises, simple and fluid.

"See?" Mugi says. "It's not about perfection. It's about finding the connection."

The way Mugi's fingers glide.

How her hands seem to float above the keys, weightless before pressing down, each note deliberate. Certain. Resonating like it belongs.

It's not like the bass. Not at all.

"The piano," Mugi says, her voice soft but steady, "demands balance. Harmony in both hands. Melody and accompaniment. They work together."

Mio nods, almost automatically. Her gaze falls to her own hands. They hover, unsure, above the keys. Her fingers—so sure on the bass—feel awkward here. Stiff. Out of place.

She thinks of her bass. The solid weight of it against her. The smooth curve of its neck under her hand. The way it fits. Her playing is precise, measured and safe. Always supportive.

Always in the background.

"Do you ever feel..." Mio starts, then stops.

Mugi waits.

Mio swallows, her mouth suddenly dry. She looks down again. At her hands. Her fingers. At the keys beneath them. She presses one, softly. A timid C echoes through the room. She presses another. E. Another. G.

A chord.

It feels wrong, like the keys are resisting her touch. Or maybe she's resisting them.

The piano doesn't move with her. It's too rigid, too still. But it doesn't push her away. It waits.

Her left hand joins the right. The notes clash. They stumble, awkward and uneven.

Mio's hands drop to her lap. "It's no good."

"It's better than you think, Mio-chan."

Mio looks at her. Mugi's smile is soft and reassuring.

"How do you make it look so easy?" Mio asks.

Mugi laughs, a quiet sound like the chime of a bell. "It's not. I promise."

"You're a natural."

Mugi shakes her head. "No one's a natural. It's all practice. And patience."

Patience.

Mio's fingers twitch against her thighs. Her gaze flickers to the keys again. The silence between them stretches, but it's not heavy. It's not uncomfortable.

"I don't know if I can do it," Mio admits.

"You can," Mugi says simply.

Mio looks at her, searching her face. There's no hesitation there. No doubt. Only quiet confidence.

Mugi's fingers rise to the keys again. They move, slow and deliberate. A melody spills out, soft, steady, like water trickling over smooth stones. Her hands dance, each note falling into place as if it was meant to.

Mio watches. Listens.

When the melody fades, Mugi looks at her and smiles. "Your turn."

Mio huffs, her cheeks warm. "I can't play like that."

"You don't have to," Mugi replies, her voice light. "Play like you."

Like me.

Mio's hands rise again. Her fingers brush the keys. She presses one. Then another. Then another. The sound is hesitant, wavering. But it's hers.

"That's you," Mugi says.

Mio's lips twitch. A small smile forms, barely there, but real.

She presses more keys, the notes coming slower than before. Uneven. Imperfect. But hers.

"You know," Mugi says, leaning slightly closer, "your bass playing is like this too."

Mio pauses. "What do you mean?"

"It's supportive. It's the foundation. You hold everything together."

Mio's hands falter. "But is it enough?"

Mugi tilts her head, her expression thoughtful. "Of course it is."

Mio's fingers hover above the keys again. "I keep thinking—maybe I'm too safe. Too passive."

Mugi is quiet for a moment. Then, softly, she says, "Being supportive isn't passive, Mio-chan. It's powerful. It's essential."

Mio presses another chord. The sound fills the room. It resonates.

"Music isn't about being perfect," Mugi continues. "It's about finding yourself in it."

Mugi plays a higher note. Then another. A melody blooms above Mio's steady rhythm.

"See?" Mugi says. "You're already playing."

Mio's fingers falter. Mugi doesn't stop. The melody weaves around her, gentle. Encouraging.

"It's about balance," Mugi says. "Harmony and melody. Supporting and leading."

Mio looks at the keys beneath her fingers. They feel strange.

"You're good at this," Mugi says softly.

Mio's fingers still. "At what?"

"Finding balance. Holding everything together."

Mio doesn't know what to say.

"Music is conversation," Mugi says, glancing at her. "The piano lets you speak in harmony and melody at the same time. But it doesn't mean the voice of one is more important than the other."

Mio nods. She's not sure she understands. Her hands hover uncertainly above the keys.

Mugi plays another note. Then another. A simple melody. Rising. Falling.

"Try," Mugi says. Her smile widens just enough to feel like sunlight.

Mio presses a key. Then another. The sound feels clumsy and mechanical. But Mugi doesn't flinch. Doesn't correct her. She keeps playing, weaving her melody around Mio's hesitant notes.

They clash at first. Off-key, awkward. Mio frowns. Her fingers hove, unsure.

"It's okay to make mistakes," Mugi says. Her voice as steady as her playing. "Mistakes are part of the conversation too."

"It's not the same," Mio blurts. Her hands falter mid-scale.

"Not the same as what?"

"My bass."

"That's because it's a different language," Mugi says. "But music is still a conversation."

"I'm not sure I know how to speak it."

"You do," Mugi says, her voice certain. "You just don't realize it yet."

Mio exhales. Her fingers find another note. Then another. They don't quite match Mugi's melody, but they don't disrupt it either. A tentative rhythm begins to form. Uneven, but there.

The notes fill the room. Bright. Low. Warm. Cool.

Mugi adjusts. Her melody shifts to accommodate Mio's uneven rhythm. Seamless and natural, like she's inviting Mio into something bigger than the piano. Bigger than the music.

"Do you hear it?" Mugi asks.

Mio pauses. Listens. Harmony. Melody. Rhythm.

"I think so," Mio says softly.

Mugi nods. "Bass is a glue, isn't it? It holds everything together."

"Yes. But sometimes it feels like... I'm just holding things together. Not creating anything on my own."

Mugi presses another key. Her melody slows. Softens. "Bass isn't just glue, Mio-chan. It's a foundation. It gives others the courage to build."

Mio's fingers move again. Hesitant. But this time, there's purpose. A conversation. She listens to Mugi's melody. Responds, tentative and careful. The music begins to shift.

"You see?" Mugi says. "It's about harmony. The way each note complements the other."

Harmony.

Mio's hands falter. Her eyes shift to the keys. "And melody?"

Mugi tilts her head, her blonde hair catching the light. "Melody is the voice. Harmony supports it. Gives it context and depth."

Mio presses another key. This time, she holds it longer. Waiting for Mugi's chords to join. They do.

"And rhythm?"

"Rhythm is the heartbeat. The foundation." Mugi's smile deepens. "This is like building a foundation. Basslines are like that too, aren't they? They hold everything together."

Basslines.

The bass glues everything together—harmony, melody, rhythm. Her role. Her sound.

"Is it enough?"

Mio's voice is soft. Barely audible over the faint hum of the piano. Mugi glances at her but doesn't speak. Just waits.

"Think of it as layers," Mugi says finally. "Harmony and melody. Together, they build something whole."

Harmony and melody.

Mio thinks of her bass. Of the way it supports, gounds, connects. Her hands flex in her lap, phantom strings under her fingertips. It's always been enough, hasn't it? The role she's always played. Supportive. Reliable. In music. In life.

But is it enough for her anymore?

"You're thinking too much again," Mugi says suddenly. Her voice is gentle, the words strike like an observation rather than a reprimand.

Mio looks up, startled.

"Your bass playing is beautiful," Mugi continues, as if reading her mind. "You have a way of holding everything together. That's a gift, Mio-chan."

A gift.

Mio's eyes drop back to the piano keys.

"I've been thinking about my playing," she says abruptly. "My style."

Mugi plays a soft chord. It lingers. "What about it?"

"It feels..." Mio presses a single key, watching it sink. The note is steady. Controlled. Safe. "It feels like I'm holding back. Like I'm stuck."

"Growth doesn't mean losing who you are."

The words catch her off guard. She looks at Mugi, but Mugi's expression remains calm and patient.

"It's about adding to what's already there," Mugi says simply. "Expanding and exploring."

Exploring.

The word feels foreign. Dangerous. Her hands slip from the keys. She stares at them. At the spaces between her fingers.

"What if I'm holding back?" she asks quietly.

"What makes you think that?" Mugi tilts her head, her curiosity genuine.

"I don't know. It just feels like... like I can't break out of what I already know."

"Maybe it's not about breaking out," Mugi says. "Maybe it's about building on what you already have."

Mio blinks.

"Think of the piano," Mugi continues. "It's not just melody, or harmony, or rhythm. It's all of them, together. Each part complements the others. That's what makes it whole."

Whole.

Mio presses another key. Slowly, hesitantly. Then another. A simple melody emerges—tentative, but clear. Mugi's chords follow, slipping into place like they belong there.

"See?" Mugi's tone is light. Encouraging. "You're exploring already."

Mio glances at her. Then down at her hands. A faint smile tugs at her lips, small and quiet. But it's there.

They continue playing. Mugi's chords shift to support and elevate Mio's melody. Their notes weave together, filling the space around them.

For a moment, the questions fade. The doubts fall silent.

There's just the music. Just the sound.

Just harmony.

---

The bass hums beneath her fingers. Steady. Unrelenting.

Mio plays through Samidare 20 Love. The rhythm embeds itself in her hands, the flow as natural as breathing. Her fingers glide over the frets, instinctive. Practiced. Each note lands exactly where it should.

Her eyes flicker to the clock.

Not because she's bored. Never that. But time feels different here, in the clubroom. Stretched. Compressed. A paradox she's grown used to.

She glances at Yui, who grins, strumming a carefree chord. Azusa, focused, narrows her eyes, her guitar pristine. Mugi's hands glide over the keyboard, serene. Ritsu's on the drums, pushing the beat, rushing like always.

Mio keeps the pace. The bassist. The anchor. The glue holding them all together.

Her gaze lifts.

Naya.

She's standing by the amp, bass slung low against her hips. Watching.

Not the group. Not the song.

Her.

Mio's fingers falter barely. A fleeting mistake. One no one else would notice.

But Naya does. Mio knows it. She feels it.

Naya's eyes shift, quick. Barely perceptible. Back to her, focused and precise.

Mio's chest tightens. She pretends to adjust her grip. Pretends not to feel the weight of that gaze.

Naya tilts her head, just slightly. Mio feels it. That quiet intensity. Observant. Not harsh, not critical.

It unnerves her. But it isn't unwelcome.

She presses on. The bassline anchors her. It's hers—every beat, every subtle shift in tone. Every note a piece of her. But now she feels it. That gaze. Not on her playing, but on her. Mio tightens her grip on the strings.

Hypocrite.

She's been watching Naya for weeks. But it's not the same. Mio's gaze wanders. Naya's stays. Static. Persistent. Burning.

Heat crawls up Mio's neck. She looks away.

Focus.

And the song ends.

Silence, for a beat. Then—

"That was great!" Yui cheers, clapping her hands. Beaming.

"Not bad, not bad," Ritsu says, twirling a drumstick. Smirking.

Azusa sighs, but her smile betrays her. "It's getting there," she says.

"It's sounding lovely," Mugi adds.

Mio sets her bass down carefully. The strap falls limply against her side. Her fingers feel light without it. But the weight in her chest remains.

"Hey."

She turns.

Naya stands beside her, close but not too close. Her bass still slung over her shoulder like it belongs there.

Mio's eyes wander for a moment. To her shirt.

The Horrors.

She looks up again, quick. But Naya noticed. Of course she noticed. Her eyes never leave Mio's.

Naya glances down at her own shirt. Then back at Mio.

"Do you know them?" Naya asks, casual.

Mio shakes her head.

"They're cool." Naya shrugs. "English indie band. Like garage rock, but with shoegaze? They're releasing an album this year. They have two already. The second one, Primary Colours, is pretty... dope. There's this song, Sea Within a Sea—eight minutes of pure life."

Mio chuckles. Naya's rambling again. She always rambles like this when she talks about music. Mio notices her Japanese is better now. Hesitant still, but better.

"Anyway, I'm rambling, sorry." Naya's grin is sheepish. "You were amazing. As always."

Mio blinks. The words hit her like confetti—light, scattered, impossible to catch. Naya always says things like this. Casual. Effortless. Like breathing.

"Thank you," Mio manages.

Naya doesn't look away. "Seriously. Your voice is just—wow."

"Y–Yeah, we were doing some warm-ups with Liz before, so..."

"And your bassline!" Naya beams, leaning slightly closer. "It's incredible. The transitions, the funky vibe, the way it carries the whole song—it's astounding."

Mio's cheeks warm.

"Did you write it?"

The question catches her off guard. Mio suddenly feels self-conscious.

Naya just smiles. Waiting.

"Yes," Mio says finally. "I composed it."

"Of course you did." Naya's grin widens. "It's so you."

Mio looks at her, brow lifting. "So me?"

Naya nods. Her eyes don't waver. "Like, it fits the song perfectly, but also stands out on its own."

Mio doesn't know how to respond.

"Do you have the sheet music for it?" Naya asks. Her tone is light, curious. "Or the tabs? If you're okay with sharing it, I'd love to play it."

Mio stares. At the faint pink in Naya's cheeks. At the brightness in her green eyes.

"You want to play it?"

Naya nods again. "Yeah. I'd love to see how it feels to play something like that. It's brilliant."

Brilliant.

The word echoes in Mio's mind.

"Sure." She swallows, her heart racing. "I–I can give you the tabs."

"Thanks, Mio." Naya's voice softens even further. Her usual stiff bow is absent now, replaced by a warmth that feels closer. "I'd really love that."

Mio nods. Her heart beats faster than it should. She looks down at her bass. Her fingers trace the strap absently.

"Mio."

Her gaze lifts again.

Naya's smile hasn't faded. "You're proving my point, you know."

Mio tilts her head slightly. "What point?"

"That you're the best bass player in the club."

The words land heavier this time.

Mio tries to speak. Fails. Naya's grin widens, but she doesn't say anything else.

---

Later, Mio sits at her desk. The bass tabs for Samidare 20 Love spread out before her.

Her handwriting. Each note, each pause, carefully marked.

She stares at the page. The lines blur.

Naya's words echo in her mind. Her gaze. That quiet intensity.

Her heartbeat spikes.

Her fingers trace a note on the page. Her own name, written there. As if touching it will steady her. As if it means something more now.

She thinks of the way Naya looks at her.

She watches Naya. And Naya watches her.

The music playing in the background fades. Sea Within a Sea. It ends. And with it, Primary Colours.

Eight minutes of pure life.

---

The others don't notice. Or maybe they do, but they don't say anything.

Ritsu teases her about something Mio doesn't catch. Yui offers her a strange candy, wide-eyed and earnest. Azusa and Mugi just watch, amused. Mio smiles. Nods. Mutters something vague.

She's not really there.

Her eyes keep drifting. Back to Naya.

To the way one of the girls steps closer to her. Leans closer. Closer than necessary. But Naya doesn't step away. Doesn't flinch. She just smiles, polite and patient.

Mio's fingers tighten on her notebook.

She takes a step. Hesitant. Then stops.

What are you doing, Mio?

She doesn't know.

It's fine. She tells herself. It's fine. Naya is fine. The crowd is smaller. The energy, softer. Naya doesn't look as tense. Not yet.

But the smile is the same. That smile Mio knows.

Mio watches. Feels her pulse quicken. Her stomach twists. She should say something. Should do something.

But she doesn't.

Time stretches. The scene plays out the same—Naya nods, laughs, says something, the others laugh too. Then Naya flinches. It's small, so small no one else would notice.

But Mio notices.

Her feet move before she can think. A single step. Two.

"Mio!"

She stops. Turns.

It's Ritsu.

"You coming or what?" Ritsu waves her over.

Mio hesitates. Looks back at Naya. Their eyes meet, just for a second.

She turns back to Ritsu.

When she looks again, the crowd is gone.

Naya stands alone, headphones in. Her foot tapping to the beat of a song Mio can't hear. She smiles.

Mio exhales. The tightness in her chest loosens. Just a little.

But the regret remains.

---

Ritsu leans back, arms stretched wide, her legs casually sprawled across the floor in Mugi's room. "Man, I can't wait to see Taro this weekend," she declares, loud and exaggerated. "It's been ages !"

Mio glances at her, eyebrow raised. "It's been a week, Ritsu."

"Nope. Actually, it's been a month."

"You two literally hung out last weekend," Mio says, flat.

"So? More than enough time! Weren't you supposed to be the romantic one here, Mio? With all your princesses and knights and swoony love stories? You'd think you'd be counting the hours 'til you see Kenji."

The words strike too close to home. "I also like being here with you guys," Mio says, defensive, quick, too obvious. "It's different." 

"Yeah, sure. Different," Ritsu says. Then she grins, teasing. "But let's be real. There are some things the girls can't do, right?"

Mio doesn't think. Her hand flies up. Smack.

"Cut it out!" Her face burns. She can feel the heat spreading to her ears.

Ritsu yelps, rubbing the back of her head. "Okay, okay! Geez, Mio. Touchy much?"

Azusa's voice cuts in. "I just realized something. Mio-senpai, Ritsu-senpai—you're the only ones in the club with boyfriends, right?"

Mio blinks. She glances at Ritsu. Ritsu glances back.

"Well..." Mio starts, hesitant.

"Now that you mention it," Ritsu says, "it's true."

"Are you jealous, Azu-nyan?" Yui chirps, wrapping her arms around Azusa's shoulders.

Azusa squirms. "I'm just saying!"

Mugi, sitting primly on her bed, tilts her head. "Wasn't Akira-chan dating that senpai of hers?"

Ritsu snorts. "Oh yeah. But Ayame says it's... kinda weird."

"I don't like that guy," Mio frowns. "He only cares about looks."

"Akira-chan deserves better!" Yui declares.

Ritsu leans forward, elbows on her knees. "Speaking of boyfriends," she says, slow, "do you think the new ones have boyfriends or something?"

The room falls into a brief, contemplative silence.

"I don't think Momo has a boyfriend," Mio says after a while. "She's too shy for that."

"Well, you're shy as hell, and you have one," Ritsu shoots back.

The reflex is faster this time. Smack. Harder.

"What now?!" Ritsu protests, clutching her head. "What did I say?"

"Stop being an idiot!" Mio snaps. Her face burns hotter.

Azusa nods. "I don't think Momo has a boyfriend either. But Liz-senpai? She definitely does. Or, at the very least, she has a bunch of admirers. She's cool and pretty. And if she was the singer of a semi-professional band..."

Mio hums in agreement. Liz does seem like that kind of person.

"And she's tall!" Yui adds. "She looks like a rockstar model!"

Ritsu turns her attention to Mio, her grin still intact. "And what about Naya?"

Mio looks up. Blinks. "Why would Naya have a boyfriend here?"

"Why not?"

Azusa considers. "Maybe in Spain?"

"But why not here?" Ritsu presses.

Mugi taps her chin. "Naya-san is staying for a year. It would be difficult for her to engage in a relationship for that short time."

"Maybe that's why she doesn't get super close to people," Azusa says, thinking out loud. "She's got her own thing going on."

"Who said anything about serious?" Ritsu grins. "Maybe she's into casual flings."

"Naya?" Mio says, skeptical. "That doesn't suit her."

"Doesn't it?" Ritsu waggles her eyebrows. "She's got that vibe, doesn't she? Laid-back. Go-with-the-flow. Have you seen her play the bass?"

"She's good," Mio admits, quietly.

"And she's got a fan club!" Ritsu continues. "She could pick anyone she wanted."

Mio winces at the mention of Naya's fan club. "May I remind you," she deadpans, "we attend a women's university, Ritsu?"

Ritsu gasps theatrically. "Mio-san! You're so traditional!"

"I'm just stating facts."

Yui chimes in, innocent as ever. "Do you think Naya-chan could like girls?"

The room falls silent. The pause stretches. Then they all blush. Mugi's eyes widen. Her smile does too.

Heat crawls up Mio's neck, she doesn't know why. She feels something. It stirs. It knots. She doesn't know what it is, but it's there. Pressing. Prodding.

She doesn't look directly at anyone.

Mugi considers. "Do you think someone like Naya-san sees relationships differently? She's from another culture. Maybe it's not about labels for her."

"I... I don't know," Mio stammers. "Why does it even matter?"

"C'mon, Mio, we're just curious," Ritsu replies, too casually. "She's got that cool-girl vibe, don't you think? Like, she doesn't care what anyone thinks. Bet she could charm anyone, boy or girl. I mean, have you seen her? She wears boy's clothes." 

"And?" Mio counters.

"And she has short hair," Ritsu adds, matter-of-factly.

Mio narrows her eyes. "Akira's hair was shorter last year. Also, your hair is about the same length as Naya's."

Ritsu gestures lazily to her head. "But I take care of my hair. She doesn't even comb!"

Azusa pipes up. "And you do, Ritsu-senpai?"

"Nakanooo!" Ritsu wails.

"That reminds me," Mugi interjects, sweet, "of that time Mio-chan and I were busy with our hair after bath. Naya-san stepped out of the bath, and we saw her drying her hair with a towel. Then she shook her head and left, just like that."

"And yet," Mio sighs, "she looked on point. As always. I wish it was that easy."

"See?" Ritsu points at Mio, triumphant. "It's not about what she wears or how her hair is—it's about... the vibe, you know?"

"Anyway, what does it matter?" Mio says it flatly. She doesn't look up, eyes fixed on the floor. "Boyfriend or girlfriend—it's the same thing." She folds her arms, feeling the weight of her words. "I'm just saying it wouldn't be pleasant, having a partner when you know you're leaving for the other side of the world. It's not ideal."

A pause.

Then Ritsu. Predictable, loud, Ritsu.

"Not everyone's as romantic as you, Mio. Some people just want to have a good time."

Another pause.

Another smack.

"Exams are coming up!" Ritsu pouts.

"It's not like that would change anything," Mio retorts.

"Hey, let me ask you this," Ritsu adds, rubbing her head. "Do you think Naya stands out in her country?"

Mio stares at her. Suspicious. "What kind of question is that?"

Ritsu smirks, undeterred. "She stands out here. 'Cause she's different. But does she in Spain?"

Mio blinks. Stares harder. "How would we know? We're not there, you know."

"Maybe Naya-san stands out because of how chill she is," Mugi adds. "Like, she's not trying to impress anyone."

Yui tilts her head. Almost thoughtful. Almost. "Maybe it's like Mugi-chan! You know, with her European vibe."

Azusa sighs. "Spain is in Europe, Yui-senpai."

Yui gasps. "Like London?"

Azusa sighs louder.

Mugi laughs softly. "But Naya-san is different from me, too."

Ritsu nods. "True that. Naya's got that tanned, Mediterranean thing going on. And her antics? Love 'em."

"And her eyes," Mio says, almost too quietly. The words slip out before she can stop them. "I was pretty struck the first time I saw them." She blinks. Looks up suddenly. Startled by her own honesty. "I–I mean, I never met someone with green eyes before."

The room goes quiet. Uncomfortably quiet for Mio's liking. Then Azusa's voice.

"By the way, have you noticed Naya-senpai never calls us by our names? Except for Mio-senpai. Or Liz-senpai. Or Momo."

Mio straightens. "Oh, that's because she probably forgot your surnames," she says matter-of-factly.

The silence that follows isn't like the others. It stretches. Too long. Too heavy. Mio shifts. Uncomfortable.

"... What?" she asks.

No one answers.

"She what?" Ritsu finally says.

"When we met at the club, she called me Akiyama." A pause. "And after a moment, she added 'san.' Then she did this... awkward bow of hers. I could tell it's not natural for her, so I told her she could call me by my name. She told me to call her Naya, after all, so..."

Ritsu tilts her head. "Huh. Foreigners and their quirks, huh?"

Yui leans forward. "But she can call us by our names too!"

"She won't if you don't tell her," Mio explains. "It's obvious she's trying really hard to adapt to our customs. She doesn't want to offend anyone. Unless you say it directly, she won't do it. And since she doesn't remember your last names... she avoids addressing you altogether."

Yui gasps. "Oh no! That's terrible!"

"We can tell her tomorrow," Mugi suggests.

"So Naya sticks to you, huh, Mio?" Ritsu teases, her grin stretching wide. She leans in, her elbow nudging Mio's arm.

Mio glares. Defensive. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing!" Ritsu says.

Mio sighs. "She's probably just... attached to me because I was the first person she met." Her voice rises. Defensive. Again. "I'm patient with her, that's all. Or maybe it's—" She hesitates. "Maybe it's just... something foreigner-ish. How would I know?"

Ritsu gasps. "My god, Mio-san! You, racist? Who would have thought you'd be such a conservative lady!"

Mio's hand swings. Automatically. The smack lands with a sharp crack.

"I have no problem with her!" Mio snaps. Her cheeks puff in indignation.

"It's funny," Yui chimes in suddenly, bright-eyed, unintentionally cruel. "Because I do think Naya-chan likes Mio-chan a lot!"

Mio freezes. Her blush deepens. "W–What?!"

"I think what Yui-chan is trying to say," Mugi explains, "is that Naya-san seems very interested in you, Mio-chan. She studies you a lot when you play bass."

"She does," Ritsu nods. "She's always around you when she's not with Liz and Momo. You made one hell of a first impression."

Azusa cuts in. "But Naya-senpai doesn't really talk to anyone, have you noticed?"

The room falls silent. They freeze, their eyes shifting to Azusa, then to each other.

"What do you mean?" Mio asks. "She talks to everyone."

Azusa shakes her head. "Not really. She only responds when people approach her. If nobody did, she wouldn't say a word. Only to Liz and Momo. And to you, sometimes."

Mio blinks. She can feel her lips part, as if to argue. As if words are meant to come out, but none do. She looks to the others.

Ritsu tilts her head. Thoughtful. "Actually, that's true..."

Mugi nods. "She's polite to everyone. But she never starts conversations."

The quiet grows. It presses down. They think, all of them, pieces clicking into place. Mio sees Naya in her mind. Surrounded, but alone.

Always surrounded. Always alone.

Mio exhales. "Naya really never talks to anyone, does she?"

Ritsu smirks. "Well, maybe she's saving all her words for you, Mio."

The blush is instant. Hot. Furious. Mio glares at Ritsu and scrambles for a retort, but Yui is faster.

"Maybe Naya-chan has a crush on Mio-chan!" she sings, innocent as ever.

"Stop saying weird things!" Mio snaps, her voice too shrill. "That's ridiculous!"

"Is it?" Ritsu teases. "You're kind of her safe space, you know. Everyone can see it."

Azusa's gaze moves between them. "It's not a bad thing, though. She feels comfortable with you, Mio-senpai. That's nice."

"Maybe she just doesn't know how to reach out," Mugi says.

Ritsu grins. "Or maybe..." She pauses. For effect. Always for effect. "... she just likes Mio too much to care about the rest of us."

Mio smacks her again. Hard. Ritsu laughs anyway.

---

Naya arrives late on Friday. Not too late, but later than usual.

The clubroom is alive when she walks in. Chatter, laughter, activity. It's not chaotic—yet. But the energy is already building.

Yui notices her first.

"Call me Yui!"

No hello. No greeting. Just that.

Naya freezes mid-step. Her bag still slung over one shoulder, her hair windswept from the walk.

"What?"

"Call me Yui!" Yui repeat, loud and bright. Like it's the most natural thing to say.

Ritsu snickers. Mugi hides a smile behind her hand. Azusa looks torn—halfway between laughing and scolding Yui for being too direct.

Naya blinks. Once. Twice.

Mio, already seated at the club table, glances up briefly. Their eyes meet for a fraction of a moment before Mio looks down again. Her pen moves.

Another band. Another name. Another note in the margins of her notebook.

When she looks back up, Naya is still standing there, staring at Yui like she's just encountered a rare, perplexing species.

"You can call me Yui, too!" Ritsu chimes in, grinning.

Naya's confusion deepens.

Mio feels the corners of her lips twitch.

"It's because you don't use their names," she says, voice calm. A quiet explanation amid the noise.

Naya turns to her. "Eh?"

"You don't call anyone by name. Except Liz and Momo. And me."

A pause.

Naya shifts her weight, a little sheepish. "I didn't realize."

"You're being polite," Mio adds.

Naya opens her mouth to respond, but Yui jumps in again.

"Well, don't be polite! Call us by our names!" Yui insists, bounding over and gripping Naya's hands in hers. "Just call me Yui, okay? Not 'you' or anything else. Yui. Yui-chan is fine, too!"

"... Okay?"

"Okay!" Yui beams, satisfied. She spins on her heel and skips back to Ritsu's side, her enthusiasm trailing behind her like a comet's tail.

Naya stays standing there, bemused.

Mio chuckles. Then she remembers.

"Ritsu," Mio says, turning to her best friend, "have you finished the application form for the club yet? You know it's due soon."

Ritsu waves her off, dismissive. "Eh, it's just paperwork. I'll get to it."

Mio frowns. "You should be more responsible, especially since you're the president. We can't have any members without the forms."

Azusa crosses her arms, narrowing her eyes. "Abusing your power again, Ritsu-senpai?"

Before Ritsu can retort, Akira walks over holding a stack of papers. She fixes Ritsu with a stern look.

"We need the application forms by the end of today. If someone doesn't hand it in, they can't officially join the club."

Ritsu sighs, leaning back. "Yeah, yeah, I know. No worries."

From the corner of her eye, Mio notices Naya's gaze flicker—from Ritsu to Akira and back again.

"What was that?" Naya asks.

"You need to submit the club's application form by today," Mio explains, slow. "Or you won't be able to officially join."

Naya nods slowly. Processing. "Ah... right."

"Today," Akira emphasizes. "No exceptions."

Naya scratches the back of her head. She looks a little lost. "Sure. Does the form have to be filled out entirely? Can I leave anything blank?"

Akira shakes her head. "It has to be completely filled out."

Naya grunts softly. "Okay, thanks."

She glances toward Mio. Their eyes meet again. Briefly. Mio lowers her gaze back to her notebook. But soon, Mio's focus drifts again.

Naya is at the club table now. Her bass and pedalboard rests beside her chair, cords looping like tangled vines. She's frowning slightly. Her pencil taps against the edge of her notebook.

"Maybe Naya-chan has a crush on Mio-chan!"

Mio blushes and looks down. Her own notebook lies open, blank. She draws, aimless. Shapes that mean nothing.

A sharp snap breaks her line of thought. Naya's pencil lead, broken in two. She exhales, frustrated, and brushes the lead away with her fingers.

"I'm patient with her, that's all."

Mio stands without thinking. Without hesitation.

"Hey."

Naya looks up. Automatic smile. Polite. Surface-level.

Mio holds up a form.

"Have you filled this out yet?"

Naya blinks. Looks at the paper, then at Mio.

"For the club," Mio clarifies. "The registration form."

A pause. Naya drums her fingers against the table.

"Not yet."

"You need to submit it today."

"I know." Naya's voice is tight. "Writing in Japanese is not my forte."

Mio tilts her head. Calm. Curious.

"Do you need help?"

Naya hesitates. The air sharpens around them.

"No," she says, too quickly, smiling again. "It's okay. But thanks, Mio."

Mio nods, unbothered. She sits beside Naya and slides the form across the table.

Naya stares at it. Then at Mio.

"I don't need help," she repeats.

Mio hums, noncommittal. "Okay."

"But thanks."

Another nod.

Mio doesn't move. Doesn't leave. She stays. Calm, quiet, unyielding.

Naya's gaze shifts—from the form, to Mio, and back again.

Her sigh is almost imperceptible. She picks up the pencil again.

Mio watches. The lines of kanji are hesitant, uneven. Naya's strokes falter—stopping, starting, then pausing again. Her brow furrows deeper with each one.

Mio doesn't speak. She waits.

It isn't until Naya sets the pencil down, exhaling sharply, that Mio leans forward.

"Here."

Naya looks at her confused, guarded.

Mio takes the form gently, carefully. Her eyes trace the text.

"You're close," she says softly. "Just a few corrections."

Naya stiffens.

"It's okay," Mio adds quickly. Her tone is steady. Reassuring. "I'll help you."

Naya hesitates. Bites her lips. Then nods.

Mio places the form back on the table and slides it closer to Naya. She writes, slowly, guiding Naya through each correction, steady. Naya watches. Listens.

"This part here." Her voice is low. Patient. "Just like this."

Naya leans in, her hand hovering before it moves, carefully following Mio's example.

The tension eases gradually.

"See?" Mio says when they finish. "Not so bad."

Naya huffs a quiet laugh. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Their eyes meet. Brief. Warm.

Naya looks away first. Runs a hand through her hair. Leans back in her chair. Relaxed now. Shoulders loose.

Mio smiles to herself. The clubroom fills with noise again.

"I'll, eh, give the sheet to... Akira," Naya says, suddenly standing. Her voice is soft but quick, like she's rushing through the words. "Thanks again, Mio."

Mio watches her go.

She sees Naya cross the room, handing over the form. Akira barely glances up before taking it. Naya murmurs something—too quiet for Mio to hear—and then she's coming back, her expression unreadable.

"I'm going to, eh... set this up next to the stage," Naya says. She's not looking at Mio anymore. Her gaze is somewhere near the floor. "Lots of mess, you know."

Mio nods, smiling. "Okay."

Naya doesn't linger. She turns quickly, bass now slung over one shoulder, pedal board in hand.

Mio watches her settle near the amps, sitting cross-legged on the floor. The scene is quiet for a moment, except for the faint scuff of pedals being rearranged.

Mio notices that, while she's setting up her pedals, Naya is constantly hugging her bass.

---

April 30, 2011

Saturday.

The last weekend of April.

The semester feels new. Still light. No assignments looming. No rehearsals filling her evenings. No late-night cramming sessions stealing her sleep.

Mio doesn't know what to do with the quiet.

Kenji is already waiting when she arrives, standing by the theater entrance. He waves when he sees her. That familiar smile. Mio waves back and quickens her steps.

"You're early," he says.

She rolls her eyes. "Not really. You just like to arrive first."

He laughs. "Maybe." Then, gesturing toward the doors: "Shall we?"

Mio nods.

The theater is quiet inside. Almost empty. A few patrons drift across the lobby, clutching tickets and cups of popcorn. Mio glances at the posters lining the walls. Bright colors, bold fonts.

She spots it. Hankyu Railway: A 15-Minute Miracle. The one they came for.

Kenji buys the tickets. She protests lightly, just for fun, but he brushes her off with a grin. "Next time, then," he says.

They find their seats. Center row. Not too close, not too far. Just right. The lights dim. The previews roll. Mio clasps her hands loosely in her lap.

Kenji leans in, his voice low. "You'll like this. It's your style."

She hums softly in response, her gaze fixed on the screen.

The movie is exactly as Kenji described—quiet, sweet, a little wistful. Nostalgic in the way that creeps in slowly. Mio feels herself sinking into its rhythm, its gentle storytelling.

She glances at Kenji.

He's focused. His face illuminated by the glow of the screen. There's a slight furrow in his brow, like he's trying to absorb every detail. He always watches movies like this, as if there's something he might miss if he blinks.

His hand rests on the armrest between them, motionless.

Mio turns back to the movie.

She notices the way his gaze lingers on certain scenes. The way his hand twitches slightly on the armrest between them, as if wanting to reach out.

But he doesn't.

And neither does she.

Mio looks back at the screen.

The movie ends.

Kenji stretches, his arms rising, fingers interlocked, a slow exhale. Mio sits still. The credits roll, the screen casting shifting shadows across his face. She doesn't move, her fingers brushing lightly against the edge of her bag.

He looks at her, expectant. "Well? What did you think?"

"It was nice," she says. And she means it.

He beams. "Told you."

They step outside. The afternoon sun has shifted, casting long shadows across the pavement.

"Hungry?" Kenji asks.

Mio shakes her head. "Not really. The popcorn, you know."

Kenji hums. "Want to walk for a bit?"

She glances at him. Nods. "Sure."

They walk.

The park is quieter than the theater.

A breeze drifts through the trees. Scattered petals fall, catching in Mio's hair. She brushes them away, her fingers linger on the strands.

Kenji walks beside her. Close, but not too close. His pace matching hers. It's pleasant.

They find a bench near the fountain, sheltered by overhanging branches. Kenji sits first, legs stretched out, relaxed. Mio joins him, delicate.

For a while, they don't speak.

The sound of water fills the space between them. Children laugh. A jogger passes by, earbuds in, oblivious.

Mio watches Kenji. The way his hair falls over his forehead, the way his fingers tap lightly against his knee. He's handsome, she thinks. Kind. Patient.

So why does it feel like there's a wall between them?

Kenji speaks first.

"I'll be busy from now on."

Mio glances at him. He isn't looking at her. His gaze is on the sky, tracking the drifting clouds.

"Busy?" she echoes.

"Yeah." He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Third year's no joke. Classes are tougher. The Film Appreciation Club's getting more intense." He pauses. Glances at her. "And I got that job I told you about."

Mio blinks.

"You did?" she says, genuinely happy. "That's amazing, Kenji."

"Thanks," he says, smiling. "But you know what that means. I'll be pretty busy, so... we won't see each other that much. Sorry."

Mio nods slowly.

"It's okay," she says. "I get it."

"Do you?" His tone is light, teasing. But there's something behind it. Something heavier.

She doesn't answer.

Kenji exhales. "Mio," he says, his voice now careful.

She looks at him again. He doesn't meet her gaze. His eyes are on the fountain instead, on the shifting sunlight on the water.

"I've been thinking," he says.

Mio's stomach tightens. She doesn't say anything.

Kenji sighs. "It's just... we get along so well, you know? We laugh. We have fun. But..."

She nods. Slowly.

But.

She knows where this is going.

"But..." He shifts, his hands clasping together. "It's different when we try to be... closer. Physically, I mean."

Her heart sinks.

"It's like... you pull back." He pauses, glancing at her. "Do I make you uncomfortable?"

"No!" she blurts. She hates how defensive it sounds.

"I don't want to pressure you," Kenji says quickly. "I don't. I just... I'm trying to understand. Is it me? Is it something I'm doing?"

"No," she says again, too quickly. "It's not you."

Kenji looks at her. Searching. "Then what is it?"

Mio shakes her head. Her fingers curl into her lap. "I don't know."

Kenji waits. Silent. Patient.

"But it's not you," she repeats, quieter this time. "I promise. It's just... me. I don't know why."

He nods, his expression unreadable. "I've been trying to figure it out. If it's something I'm doing wrong or—"

"It's not," she cuts in. "You've been nothing but kind and patient."

He smiles faintly. "Thanks. But I can tell it's hard for you. And honestly... it's hard for me too."

Mio looks down at her hands. Her fingers twisting together.

"I like you, Mio. A lot. I just... I don't know how to move forward from here."

Her throat tightens. She wants to say something. Anything. But the words won't come.

"I want to make this work," he says. "But it feels like... like I'm doing something wrong."

"You're not," Mio says. Her voice is small. "I swear, you're not."

Kenji leans back. His gaze drifts to the trees above. "Maybe it's just timing," he says, almost to himself.

"Maybe," she whispers.

A long pause. The sound of the fountain fills the air again.

"Remember what I told you last week? About the trip?"

Mio nods.

"I don't know if you've been thinking about it," Kenji says. "But I think it would be good for us. Just the two of us. Somewhere quiet. Relaxing."

Mio doesn't know what to say.

A trip. Just the two of them. It should sound nice. Appealing. Exciting, even.

But all she feels is unease.

She doesn't answer, her voice caught somewhere between her chest and her throat. Kenji mistakes her silence for hesitation.

"It doesn't have to be anything big," he says quickly. His words rush out like he's afraid she might say no. "Just something simple. I thought it might be nice."

"A trip," Mio finally says, her voice thin.

"Just a short one," he continues. "Maybe Kyoto, or Hakone. Somewhere nice. We could use the break, don't you think?"

Her mind races. Kyoto. Hakone. Somewhere nice. A trip.

Just the two of us.

She hears her own voice respond. Soft. "Hn. That... that would be nice."

But the words don't feel like hers.

Kenji smiles. His shoulders relax, like he's just crossed some invisible line into safe territory. "Great. We can plan it together, then. After finals."

"Yeah," Mio says. "After finals."

The silence between them stretches, but it's not uncomfortable. Not for him, anyway.

The park is quiet now. The evening air is cooler, the sun sinking lower. A breeze stirs the leaves above them.

When they finally stand to leave, Kenji offers his hand. Mio hesitates, just for a moment. Then she takes it.

His grip is warm. Steady. Reassuring, in the way she thinks it should be.

They walk side by side. Her hand in his.

Mio glances down at their shadows on the pavement.

His is taller. Broader. Hers is slight.

They don't overlap.

Not at all.

---

May 1, 2011

It's a slow Sunday afternoon. The kind where the sky hangs low, heavy and gray, swollen with unspent rain.

Mio sits at her desk. Her chair feels stiff beneath her. She taps her pen against the edge of a notebook, trying to focus. The assignments stare back, lifeless, unyielding.

She sighs and starts to write again.

"Mio."

She turns. Ritsu is sprawled across the bed, a manga resting loosely on her chest. Her eyes stay fixed on the pages.

"What?" Mio says, her tone clipped. Not annoyed. Just tired.

Ritsu flips a page. "What's up?"

Mio frowns. "Nothing's up."

"You sure?" Ritsu doesn't look at her. Doesn't need to. She waves a hand in the air, like the answer is floating there, obvious, tangible. "You've been weird."

"Weird?"

"Yeah. Like, moody and quiet."

"I'm always quiet."

"Not like this."

Mio exhales, sharp. "I'm fine."

"Sure, you are."

Ritsu sets the manga aside. She sits up, stretches, her arms reaching high before she slouches forward. Elbows on knees. Her eyes meet Mio's.

"Talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"Bull."

Mio's pen stills in her hand. "I said I'm fine."

"And I said bull," Ritsu says. "C'mon, Mio. You think I can't tell when something's eating you?"

A pause. Too long. Heavy, like the sky outside.

Mio sighs. "It's stupid."

"Try me."

The pause stretches again. Mio looks down at her notes, but the words blur. She presses her lips together, hesitates, then speaks.

"I feel... behind," she murmurs.

Ritsu blinks. "Behind?"

Mio nods. "As a bassist."

There's a beat of silence. Then Ritsu laughs. Loud and unapologetic.

Mio glares at her. "I knew you'd laugh."

"I'm not laughing at you," Ritsu says between chuckles. "It's just—seriously? Behind? You?"

"Yes."

Ritsu snorts, leaning back on her hands. "Mio, you're the best bassist I know."

"That's because I'm the only bassist you know."

"That's not true! There's Aya. And Sachi. And Naya."

"Exactly."

"Wait, you're comparing yourself to them? Aya idolizes you, Sachi's been playing for, like, three years, and Naya—she's got her pedals, sure, but she's not you."

Mio shakes her head, turning her gaze back to the notebook. "You don't get it."

"Then explain it to me."

She taps her pen on the desk. Once. Twice. Then stops.

"I feel like I'm playing it safe," she says finally. "Like I never take risks. Like it's... predictable. Always the same."

"And that's a bad thing?"

"It feels like it is."

Ritsu leans back, crossing her arms. "You're overthinking it," she says.

Mio exhales sharply. "Maybe. But—"

"No buts." Ritsu's voice is firm. It doesn't match her usual easygoing tone. "You're overthinking it, Mio. You always do."

Mio's shoulders sag.

"It's not just the playing," she murmurs. "It's me. I think I hold back in everything. Music, life, relationships."

Ritsu's brow furrows.

"This is about Kenji, isn't it?"

Mio doesn't answer.

The seconds pass by.

"Remember when you wanted to quit playing the drums in high school?" Mio asks suddenly.

Ritsu blinks. "You want to quit playing bass?"

"No," Mio says quickly. "But..."

Ritsu tilts her head, waiting.

Mio doesn't elaborate.

"I wanted to be in the spotlight back then," Ritsu then says. "Do you want to be in the spotlight?"

Mio doesn't answer right away. She doesn't look at Ritsu either.

"No," she says at last. "Not really. But... sometimes I wonder if I'm just... hiding. Playing it safe because it's easier."

Ritsu leans forward, elbows on her knees, fingers laced under her chin. "You like playing the bass, though, don't you?"

Mio nods. "Yeah. I do."

"Why?"

The question makes her pause. She fumbles for an answer but can't find one that doesn't sound trite. "I like supporting everyone," she says at last. "Keeping things steady. I don't stand out too much, but I'm not invisible, either."

"Then what's the problem?"

"I don't know." Her voice cracks on the last word. Barely. But it does. Her eyes squeeze shut for a moment before she opens them again. "Maybe I'm scared to try something different. To fail."

Ritsu smirks. "That's stupid."

"Thanks."

"You know what I mean." Ritsu's smirk falls away. "You're amazing, Mio. But if you wanna try something new, do it. Experiment. Push yourself. But don't do it because you're comparing yourself to anyone else. Do it for you."

Mio finally looks at her then.

Her eyes search Ritsu's face, looking for something—maybe permission, maybe proof.

"You really think I can?"

"Of course you can." The smirk is back now, but it's encouraging. "You're Akiyama Mio. You can do anything."

Mio feels a small smile tug at the corner of her mouth. She doesn't fight it.

"Thanks, Ritsu."

"Eh, I owed you one," Ritsu says, leaning back again. "Remember last year? When I thought I sucked compared to all of you as a drummer?"

"And you haven't improved one bit," Mio fires back, deadpan.

Ritsu gasps in mock offense, clutching her chest like Mio's words are a mortal wound. "Ouch! Rude, Mio-san."

Her mockery lasts all of two seconds before she flops back, grabbing the manga she'd left on the cushion beside her. "But seriously, stop brooding. It's weird."

Mio laughs softly. It's a quiet sound. But it's real.

"I'll try."

---

The thoughts are loud tonight.

"You look very pretty."
"You're doing well with the piano."
"You're the best bass player in this club. By far."

Lies.

Her body is imperfect. Her piano skills are mediocre at best. She's safe in her bass playing—predictable, uninspired. Not pretty. Not skilled. Not trying hard enough. Not writing songs. Not a good girlfriend.

Not enough.

Everyone is better than her. At everything. Even at the things she thought she was good at. Everything anyone ever told her she was good at.

Liz is prettier. Sachi plays faster. Even Ritsu—Ritsu!—is better at romance.

And the bass.

The pedals.

Naya.

Mio didn't even know a bass could sound like that. Didn't know it was possible. How could she, if she never tried? Never thought to try?

"You're thinking too much. You need to stop trying to force it. Let things happen naturally."

Flow. Not jump.

She's trying. But it's not that simple. Not for her.

"Have you tried being crazy? You know, just let go and stop overthinking everything."

Ritsu's words. Stupid advice. Annoyingly stuck in her head now.

"Time to let loose, Mio. Do something wild."

But what is wild when you're constantly on edge? When even the idea of letting go feels like unraveling?

Always bracing. Always holding back.

"Second year of university? That's prime time to get a little crazy."

Is it?

"You've always been the serious one. The careful one. But maybe you don't need to be so careful all the time."

Careful. Always careful. Careful to the point of suffocation.

"Push yourself. But don't do it because you're comparing yourself to anyone else. Do it for you."

Push for herself. Not for the band. Not for Kenji. Not for Naya.

But is there a self left to push?

The ceiling stares back at her. Empty. Blank. Silent. Her chest is tight. Her head, louder.

And somewhere, in the midst of it all, the pedals.

The sound.

It circles back. It always circles back.

---

May 2, 2011

Second Monday of May.

Mio lingers at the door. Again. The Samidare 20 Love tab in her hands, glued to her notebook. Everybody has left already. Naya is still there.

Of course she is. Sitting on the floor, picking up her pedals. No rush.

Naya is never in a rush.

The looper clicks off.

Naya leans back, stretching her arms above her head.

Mio hesitates. Opens her notebook. Pages filled with band names and notes. Questions. Ideas. About pedals. About tone. About Naya's playing.

She closes it.

"Naya."

Her voice is small, but it carries.

Naya looks up. And there it is. That smile. The one Mio gets to see. "Yeah?"

Mio steps closer. Her hands extend. "Here."

Naya takes the sheet, scanning it. Then, she remembers. Her face lights up. "Ah!" Her smile widens. "Thank you, Mio! I look forward to playing it."

Mio nods. And then, silence. Naya keeps gathering her things, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

Mio shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Her mouth opens. Closes. She breathes in. "Did they..." She stops. "Did they accept your application?"

Naya flinches, just a little. Her voice is casual. "Yeah. Thanks for helping me with that." She glances over. "Sorry if I was rude about it."

"Don't worry. It's okay," Mio says. "I'm glad you're staying."

"Thanks. Me too." Naya frowns. "But I feel bad, though. You're always nice to me." Her laugh is light, but off. "We all have days like that, right?"

Mio hums.

Another silence.

Why is it so hard to ask something so small?

"Can I... ask you something?"

Naya looks up again. Her smile widens, easy and warm. "Sure. What's up?"

"It's about pedals."

"Pedals?"

Mio nods. "I want to understand them better."

"You're interested?"

Mio nods again. "Kind of. I've been thinking about them. And you."

Naya blinks. A pedal almost falls out of her hands. "Me?"

"Your playing!" Mio clarifies quickly, blushing. "The way you use them. It's impressive."

"Ah." Naya chuckles, sheepish. "Thanks."

Another pause. Mio takes a step closer.

"Do you think... Do you think you could show me? Sometime?"

Naya leans back on her hands. Her grin is easy. Effortless.

"Sure." Like it's nothing. "When are you free?"

Mio blinks. "Really? You don't mind?"

"Of course not." A shrug. A smile. 

"I don't want to bother you. With your classes or your studies or... your free time."

"It's no bother. I'm happy to. I'll teach you whatever you want to know. You can borrow them if you want."

The warmth in her voice spreads through Mio's chest, tight and heavy.

"Thank you." Mio says. "Tomorrow? After practice?"

"Tomorrow." Naya considers this. Then nods. "It's a date."

Mio freezes. Her heart skips. She turns red. "A what?!"

Naya laughs, standing now. "Figure of speech," she says. "Relax."

Mio huffs.

She doesn't relax.

Notes:

This chapter has been a journey, but honestly? I think I like where it landed. You could say all the cards are on the table now. (Hopefully, I didn't leave a joker in there by accident.)

Anyway, I don't have much to say about the chapter... I think? Or maybe my brain's just fried after editing the draft for the millionth time. English is not my native language, and let me tell you, writing this felt like running a mental marathon. Where's my gold medal? Or at least some ice cream?

I really hope you're enjoying the OCs (Kenji, Naya, Liz, Momo). I'm a bit worried about how they're coming across, but I do love how they interact with the canon characters. Is it self-centered to say that? Maybe. But hey, I'm having a blast writing these scenes! Poor Kenji, though—I didn't mean to feel so bad for him... and yet here we are. Oops.

Oh, and speaking of K-ON!—the bassline from Samidare 20 Love? Absolute peak K-ON! bassline. Fight me.

Thanks so much for reading! If you enjoyed this, feel free to leave kudos and/or a comment—I'd love to hear your thoughts! :) And once again, endless gratitude to Jules (tsuki_anne) for the beta magic and (aineiru) for your canon expertise.

Chapter 8: Howl of the Lonely Crowd

Summary:

Mio explores pedals.

Notes:

This chapter dives into some little technical details about pedals and music theory, but don't worry—if you have no idea what that's about, it's not too complicated to follow.

And if you do know anything about pedals or music theory… well, apologies in advance for what you're about to read. Seriously, forgive me.

By the way, I usually don't translate what Naya says in Spanish to make it more realistic (since it's from Mio's POV, and Mio doesn't understand Spanish). But here's a quick crash course on two of Naya's favorite words:

• Mierda: literally means "shit," but can also mean "damn."
• Joder: literally means "fuck," but it’s also used like "damn," just more… aggressively.

Thank you again, Jules (tsuki_anne), for being the best beta ever! :)

Howl of the Lonely Crowd, by Comet Gain, was released on May 23, 2011.

May 3, 2011

Five minutes past practice.

Mio lounges on the clubroom couch, busying herself with her bass, plucking strings with unnecessary focus.

Bags shuffle. Voices rise. Steps echo toward the door. They leave, one by one, in a rhythm that feels too predictable. But Mio's hyper-aware of the buzz in the clubroom as everybody gathers their things to leave. 

Except her.

And Naya.

"Not leaving?" Ritsu's voice breaks through, closer than Mio expects.

Mio looks up. Ritsu squints, slinging her bag over her shoulder with an air of suspicion.

"No," Mio says. Too fast and too sharp. She clears her throat. "No, I—uh—just staying. With Naya."

Ritsu's squint deepens, leaning forward like she's trying to read the fine print of a contract. "With Naya? Alone? Why?"

"For..." Mio's mind blanks. A single, helpless beat of silence. "... Pedals," she mutters, barely audible.

"What?"

"Pedals," Mio repeats, louder now. She feels her face heating, voice rising in a desperate bid for normalcy. "She's going to, um, show me her pedals."

It sounds worse than it should.

"Pedals, huh?" Ritsu raises a brow, her mouth tilting into a grin.

"Yes. Pedals." Mio crosses her arms over her chest, defensive. "For bass. I'm exploring new styles."

"Ohhh," Ritsu says, dragging the sound out, amused. "Exploring, huh?"

Mio doesn't dignify that with an answer.

Yui's head pops up over Ritsu's shoulder, her grin wide. "That's so cool, Mio-chan! Pedals make those whooshy, boingy sounds, right?"

"Boingy isn't a sound," Mio deadpans.

"It could be."

Azusa sighs. "Yui-senpai..."

Ritsu leans closer, her grin growing. "Experimental territory, Mio?"

Before Ritsu can push further, Mugi steps in, calm and serene as always. "That's wonderful, Mio-chan. Exploring new sounds is important. Naya seems like the perfect guide."

Mio smiles, grateful for the out. Mugi probably thinks this is progress.

Sachi perks up, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "Finally, Mio-chan. You've been playing clean since high school, haven't you?"

"Clean works," Mio mutters, but her ears burn.

"Sure, but stepping out of the comfort zone? That's huge." Sachi grins. "Didn't think you'd leave your 'pure bass' life."

"I'm not leaving—" Mio stops herself. Sighs. "It's not a big deal."

"Oh, but it is," Sachi drawls. "You're entering dangerous, distortion-filled waters. Tread lightly."

Mio doesn't trust herself to respond without snapping, so she focuses on her bass instead, plucking another open string. She glances toward Naya. She's across the room, adjusting her pedalboard.

Maybe she didn't hear. Or maybe she's pretending not to.

Naya's wearing a Muse tee. Mio doesn't need to write that down.

Liz chuckles, leaning toward Naya. "Alone with Mio, huh?" she whispers. "Don't break anything."

Naya glances up, her expression comically neutral. "Should I leave the door open for chaperones?"

Yui gasps, delighted. "I could stay!"

Naya doesn't look up as she coils a cable, her voice casual. "Feel free, Yui."

"Really? Can I stay and watch?"

Naya shrugs. "Sure. If you're interested—"

"Nope." Liz's voice cuts through the air. "You shouldn't stay, Yui."

Yui tilts her head, puzzled. "Why not?"

Liz pauses for half a second. Then, a sly smile blooms on her face. "Because Naya and Mio need focus. Pedals are serious business. Right, Naya?"

Naya blinks. She's still crouched by her pedalboard, hands mid-tangle in cables. "What?"

"See? Serious. Let's not get in their way."

"But pedals sound fun!" Yui insists.

"But, Yui," Liz says, dropping her voice to a stage whisper, "you're needed elsewhere to do... something."

Yui blinks. "Something?"

Liz nods solemnly. "Yep. Very important. Super urgent. Like, life-changing. Come on, Momo." She grabs Yui's arm and starts toward the door. Mio catches something about snacks whispered in Yui's ear, and like clockwork, Yui is distracted. Mugi follows gracefully. Momo shuffles after the group without a word.

"Have fun," Ritsu calls over her shoulder, slinging her bag as she heads for the door. She's grinning. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"Like practice?" Azusa deadpans.

Ritsu's laugh echoes as the door swings shut behind them. The quiet that follows is sudden. Almost violent. The clubroom feels bigger, empty in a way Mio doesn't like.

Mio adjusts her bass strap. It doesn't need adjusting.

"So." Naya's voice pulls her out of her thoughts. She's standing now, one hand on her hip, the other gesturing toward the pedals on the floor. That easygoing smile is back. The one Mio hasn't quite figured out yet. "Pedals?"

"Right." Mio nods quickly from the couch. "Pedals."

"You wanna try, or should I explain them first?"

"Maybe... explain?" 

"Okay." Naya crouches again, shuffling cables with nimble fingers. "So. Uh." She glances up, sheepish. "I'm not a great teacher. Like, really not great. Fair warning."

Mio blinks, startled by the honesty. Startled more by the grin that follows. Crooked, yet kind.

"You seem fine to me," she says, standing up and going towards Naya.

Naya laughs, self-deprecating. "That's because I haven't started teaching yet. You'll see."

Mio tilts her head, watching as Naya fidgets with a stray cable. Her movements are deliberate, but there's a nervous energy to them. Like she's trying too hard to act casual.

It hits Mio then. This is the first time they've been alone since they met that first day at the club. Truly alone.

"It won't be that bad," she says, trying to sound reassuring. Trying to reassure herself, too.

Naya snorts, amused but skeptical. "We'll see." Her accent is thicker now, curling faintly around her words. "Let's see if I can actually explain this without confusing you—or myself."

"I'm sure you'll do fine," Mio insists.

"You say that now," Naya mutters. She digs through her bag with purpose. A moment later, she pulls out a small stack of papers. They're wrinkled at the edges, like they've been handled too many times. "Here." She holds them out. "These are for you."

Mio takes the pages gingerly. Their fingers brush for the briefest moment. Naya pulls away too quickly for it to mean anything.

"What's this?" Mio asks, staring at the uneven scrawl on the top page.

"Notes," Naya says, scratching her cheek. She doesn't meet Mio's eyes.

Mio blinks again. "Notes?"

"Descriptions," Naya clarifies, still avoiding eye contact. "Of the pedals. I, uh, wrote them out last night. Just in case I... get stuck explaining. Or, y'know, if I forget words or something."

Mio looks down at the paper again. The handwriting is uneven, bold, and determined. It looks like it fought the paper and won.

She scans the first line: Distortion – Adds grit, overdrive, or crunch. Good for heavier parts. The words are simple, but the effort behind them isn't. Mio realizes, with a quiet pang, that Naya must have spent hours on this.

"You can just read those if I start rambling too much," Naya adds hurriedly. "Or, you know, if you want to remember later. You can look at these anytime."

Mio looks down at the papers in her hands again. The writing is messy—lines slant unevenly, characters smudge into each other, kanji are scratched out, replaced with simpler hiragana. She tilts her head, her eyes scanning the first page. The words jumble together for a moment before they start to make sense. Some sentences are strange—awkward, incomplete—but the effort is there. It's there in every uneven stroke.

"Sorry if it's hard to read."

Naya's voice pulls her from the page. It's quick. A little rushed.

"Writing in Japanese is still..." Naya hesitates. "... still kind of hard for me."

Her voice dips quieter.

"It's not great, I know."

Mio flips to the next page. Then another. Each one is filled with Naya's efforts—descriptions written in a mix of uneven kanji and hesitant hiragana, lines scribbled out and rewritten, and small, scattered doodles. Little sketches of knobs and cables.

She notices a line, messily replaced by clumsier hiragana.

It's endearing.

"Did you stay up late doing this?" Mio asks.

Naya shrugs, too casual. "A bit. But I wanted to make sure it was clear. About... a couple hours? Maybe more. I don't know."

Mio looks back at the papers.

A couple hours.

She looks up again. Naya isn't meeting her eyes.

"It's really thoughtful. Thank you."

Naya sighs. "Hope you can understand it. My handwriting in Spanish is bad enough."

Mio laughs, soft. "This isn't bad. It's just... unique."

The corner of Naya's mouth twitches. A smile, maybe.

"Seriously, it's good," Mio says. Then, softer: "It's really good. I can read it just fine."

Naya's shoulders relax, just a little. "You sure? It's kind of a mess."

Mio shakes her head. "It's fine. I can read it."

And she can. Mostly.

"Sorry if the sentences don't make sense," Naya says.

Mio shakes her head. Again. Harder this time.

"No, it's—it's really good. I mean it." She says it like she needs Naya to believe it. Like it's important, somehow.

Naya tilts her head, skeptical. "I just didn't want to waste your time."

That strange warmth in Mio's chest again. A flicker of something quiet but strong. She glances at the papers, then back at Naya. Her eyes. Searching, waiting. For what? A scolding, maybe.

"You didn't," Mio says. "Really. Thank you. You didn't have to."

"I wanted to," Naya says. Her shrug this time is quick. Almost dismissive. Then, reaching into her bag, she pulls out a notebook.

"This is, uh, my cheat sheet. For me."

"Cheat sheet?" Mio leans in closer. The notebook looks old. Bright blue cover, edges worn soft. A small sticker peeling in the corner.

When Naya flips it open, the pages are full. Neat rows of romanized Japanese. And, under them, notes in small, slanted handwriting. Spanish.

Mio's brow furrows. She points. "Is that Spanish?"

"Some of it. Not everything," Naya says, tapping the page lightly. "Mostly Japanese. Romanized, though. Like... how it sounds. You know, when you say it."

Mio's eyes move across the lines. Distortion - jisutooshon. Reverb - ribābu.

"I wrote it the way it sounds in Japanese," Naya continues. "So I don't, y'know... butcher it. When I try to explain."

Mio stares. At the notebook. At Naya.

"I didn't want my accent to get in the way," Naya says. Her voice is softer now. Nervous. Like she's said too much.

Mio blinks.

"You did all this for me?"

Naya freezes mid-page-turn. Her ears turn pink.

"Well... yeah," she says, voice uneven. "I didn't want my accent or—uh, anything else—to mess it up. It's not that big of a deal."

Not that big of a deal.

Mio's hands tighten around the papers she's holding. She looks at the messy but careful notes again. Then at the notebook, with its perfect, deliberate rows. At Naya, whose brow furrows just slightly as she fiddles with the edges.

"You put a lot of effort into this," Mio says.

"It's just so I can explain better," Naya says quickly. "You know, without sounding... dumb."

"Dumb?" Mio's brows knit. "You don't sound dumb."

Naya snorts, but her eyes dart to the side. "If you say so."

Mio looks again at the edges of the notebook, frayed from too many flips. At the furrow in Naya's brow. At the way her hand rests on the page.

"You went all out for this," Mio says.

Naya runs a hand through her hair. "I just wanted to make sure you'd actually, you know... enjoy it."

Mio opens her mouth. Closes it again. What is there to say?

"You didn't have to go this far," she finally says. "But I really, really appreciate it."

Naya shrugs again, but the pink on her ears spreads down her neck. "Eh. It's nothing. Let's see if it actually helps." She crouches by the pedalboard, gesturing like she's presenting some grand reveal. "Shall we?"

Mio nods slowly. She sets her own notebook down, hugs her bass and crouches beside Naya, keeping her knees together. Their shoulders almost touch. Close. But not quite.

Naya stays quiet. Her hand hovers over the knobs of her distortion pedal, fingers twitching like the idea might land if she waits long enough.

She glances up and catches Mio watching her.

"What exactly are you looking for?" she asks.

Mio blinks. "What?"

Naya leans back on her palms. "What are you looking for? With your... sound. Your style." She pauses, searching for the right words. "What do you want to do?"

The question hits Mio harder than she expects.

What does she want?

Her mind stumbles.

She thinks about the mini-gig. Naya's hands dancing across her bass. A voice. A force. Effortless. Commanding.

The memory lodges itself in her chest. A dull ache.

Her fingers tighten around the neck of her bass. She's always liked her sound—clean, steady, reliable. A reflection of herself.

At least, it used to be.

Her gaze drops. Maybe that's the problem. Her sound. Her style. Her everything.

Too safe.

Always in the background. Never reaching. Never risking.

She shifts, her fingers pressing harder into the strings. "I don't know."

Naya's brow quirks. Waiting.

Mio tries again. "I mean..." The words tangle, stubborn and unwieldy. "I've been playing the same way for years. Clean and simple."

Safe.

The word scrapes at her.

"It worked," Mio says. "It felt right. But..." Her grip tightens on the neck of her bass. "I'm not sure it's who I want to be anymore."

The confession hangs in the air, heavy.

Mio risks a glance at Naya, bracing for pity. Confusion.

Instead, Naya is looking at her. Intently. Earnestly.

Listening.

"It's just..." Mio hesitates. The words hover, too fragile to land. "I saw you play. And I realized I've been holding back. Playing it safe."

"Safe?"

Mio nods. Her fingers pluck a soft, aimless note. "I guess I'm curious about how you play. How you use the bass as... more."

"You mean, as the whole sound."

Mio nods again. "Yeah. That."

"Do you want to sound like me?"

Mio's head snaps up. "What? No!" The words come too fast. She feels her cheeks warm. "I mean... I don't think so. But I'd like to learn. To expand what I can do."

Naya's fingers brush over the pedal's dials. "You don't have to change completely," she says. "Pedals... don't replace what you have. They bring out more of it."

Mio watches Naya's hand. The subtle way it moves. She also listens, searching for the right words. "I don't want to copy you. I just... I want to make my sound... more."

"More." Naya echoes. She leans back on her hands again, looking at Mio with quiet consideration. "There's nothing wrong with how you play, you know. Your sound—it's clean. Pure. It's you."

Mio's fingers hover over the strings of her bass. She looks down. Doesn't respond.

"But," Naya continues, her tone lifting slightly, "if you want to... explore, experiment—there's nothing wrong with that either. Although you're already great as you are."

Mio glances up. There's no teasing in Naya's expression, no trace of condescension. Just honesty.

"You think so?"

"I know so. You're a great bassist, Mio. You know I think you're the best here."

Mio's lips part, but Naya isn't done.

"But if you want to try something new, that's awesome too. If pedals help you find it? Great. If not, that's okay too." She gestures at the pedals scattered across the floor. "These are just tools. They don't... make you a great bass player."

Mio shifts, her legs tucked beneath her. Her grip tightens on the bass strap slung across her shoulder. Talking about herself feels strange. Uncomfortable.

Her eyes drop again. "What about you?" she asks.

Naya raises an eyebrow.

"How did you figure out your sound? I mean," Mio adds, "it's so distinct."

Naya looks at the ceiling, thinking for a moment.

"It's the pedals," she starts, tapping the edge of one with her foot. A faint click. "But it's also not just the pedals."

"Not just the pedals?"

"Yeah," Naya says, crouching forward, adjusting the knobs of her distortion pedal. "They're part of it. But the sound? That's a journey."

Mio leans forward, curious.

Naya smiles at that. "You don't just wake up one day and go, 'This is it. This is the sound.' At least, I didn't."

Mio nods, captivated.

"It was a lot of trial and error," Naya continues. "And a lot of noise."

"Tell me," Mio says.

Naya blinks.

"You want the whole story?"

Mio nods.

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

Naya leans back, crossing her arms over her knees. "It's a long story," she says. "Or maybe short. But with a lot of accent and... rephrasing," she jokes. "You sure you wanna hear it?"

Mio's mouth curves. "Yeah. I'd like to."

"But warning—you might get bored."

Mio doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away.

Naya grins again. Crooked. Warm. "Alright. But don't say I didn't warn you. The story is... a bit chaotic."

Mio adjusts her bass, shifting it across her lap. "Chaotic sounds about right."

"Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence."

Mio smirks. "Just setting the tone."

Naya concedes with a nod. "Fair." She taps her chin. "So. Where do I start?"

"The beginning?" Mio offers.

"Logical," Naya says, with mock solemnity. She clears her throat dramatically. "Okay. Here's the thing."

Mio leans in, waiting.

"I didn't start out knowing anything," Naya says. "I thought pedals were for guitarists. You know, flashy stuff."

Mio hums. "I've heard that before."

"But then," Naya says, her tone brightening, "I heard Muse. You know the band, right? You told me you did. Chris Wolstenholme? Bass god?"

"I've heard of them. But I haven't listened much."

Naya gasps. Dramatic. Clutching her chest. "Mio. Please. My fragile heart."

Mio's lips twitch. "Guess I'll have to add them to my list."

"You better," Naya teases. "Anyway. Hysteria blew my mind," she says. Her eyes catch Mio's, holding them there. "I didn't even know bass could sound like that. Like it was saying, 'Pay attention to me.'"

Mio listens, her fingers idly brushing the neck of her bass. She doesn't mean to, but her gaze flicks to Naya's hands. They're moving, gesturing—like the story's still alive in her head.

"I wanted that," Naya continues. "So, I begged for a bass. Got a secondhand one. Junk, honestly. But it worked." Her laugh is sudden, self-deprecating. "And pedals. Joder, tía. I had no idea what I was doing."

Mio smiles. She watches as Naya waves a hand toward the pedals at her feet, like they're artifacts from some long-forgotten quest.

"So, yeah. I was fifteen. And—wait, hold on." Naya frowns, searching. The words come haltingly. "¿Cómo se dice...? Ah, sí. Obsessed. I was obsessed. With Muse. Like, obsessed."

Mio raises an eyebrow. "Obsessed how?"

"Posters. Everywhere. Every album. Every single. Live DVDs, bootlegs—anything I could find. I even wrote 'Muse' on my bass case with a marker." Naya groans, tipping her head back. "Not my best idea."

Mio laughs. "Sounds committed."

"Committed, yes. And deeply uncool." Naya snickers. "But I didn't care. I wanted to play bass and sound like Wolstenbeast. Like every note could shake the ground. Like—"

She growls low in her throat, her hands miming the motion of playing bass, the notes crashing out of invisible strings.

"You know?" she asks, grinning.

Mio bites back a smile. "Sure."

"So, imagine fifteen-year-old me. Una friki. Awkward as hell. Obsessed with Absolution. Playing Origin of Symmetry on repeat. Those albums? La hostia. They hit like nothing else."

Her fingers reach down, brushing over a small orange pedal. "I researched and begged my parents for pedals. They got me an overdrive first. Not this exact one, but similar. It made my bass growl. I was hooked."

"Growl?" Mio asks, tilting her head slightly.

Naya nods. "Like... grit? Crunch? Crunchiness?"

Mio chuckles. "Crunchiness works."

A flash of laughter escapes Naya. "Right. Then this baby came along. Boss DS-1. Christmas gift. No di la turra con él ni nada. And I swear I didn't stop playing for three days straight." She points to the pedal again. "Just me, my bass, and this little orange box."

Mio's smile pulls wider. "You must've driven everyone crazy."

"Oh, I did. My mom threatened to throw it out twice."

"And did it?"

"Did what?"

"Make you sound like Muse."

"Pfft. Nope. Not even close. But it was dirty and loud and..." Her voice trails off. She pauses, frowning. "¿Satisfactorio? Like, good enough?"

"Satisfying?" Mio offers.

Naya nods, appreciative. "Yeah, that. Thanks. Then came the Big Muff Pi. Pure distortion. Way too much for my little amp. My parents were not happy."

"Let me guess," Mio starts, fighting a laugh. "It sounded terrible?"

"Like my bass was dying, Mio. Choking."

Mio giggles. "And you kept going?"

"Of course!" Naya exclaims. "Every day. Plugging it in, cranking it up. Playing the messiest, most distorted E-string you can imagine."

"Were you any good?"

"Absolutely not," Naya admits. "But it was my noise. My chaos. And I loved it." She pauses, her gaze drifting to the pedals again. "That's how it started. Just me, a cheap bass, and two pedals I didn't know how to use."

Mio nods, her fingers brushing against the frets of her bass. She's not sure why, but the image of a younger Naya, clumsy and determined, fumbling through cables and knobs, is oddly endearing.

While Mio was drinking tea with her friends, Naya was on the other corner of the world, somewhere else entirely. Twisting. Turning. Learning.

Experimenting.

"And the octave pedal?" she asks, gesturing toward the setup.

"Ah, the POG. Happy accident. I stumbled across it in a music store, and the guy there let me try it out. Blew my mind. It was like... like my bass was two instruments at once."

"That's actually really cool," Mio says, leaning in slightly.

"It was!" Naya's eyes shine with enthusiasm. "But also very... intenso. Intense. My parents hated it. But I didn't care. Because it was like I was playing with a full band." She pauses, tilting her head as if reconsidering. "Or maybe I just liked that it made me sound cooler than I was."

Mio shakes her head. "I doubt you needed a pedal to sound cool."

"I needed a pedal for everything back then. Anyway," Naya says, fingers drumming against her knee. "That was the beginning. Heavy and raw. I wanted to be loud, you know? Like, really loud."

"Did you figure it all out on your own?"

Naya snorts. "Not even close. I spent hours messing with settings. Twisting knobs, breaking things—" She pauses, grinning faintly. "—or thinking I did. It was mostly trial and error. Heavy on the error. But when something clicked? Joder, it was fun."

Mio glances at the pedals. A chaotic array of knobs and switches. "So that was... your first era?"

Naya grins wide. "Era... Yeah, I like that. My Muse Era." She gestures, miming the flip of a page. "Fast forward a year. Enter funk and disco. Total groove overload."

"Funk? You like funk?"

Naya straightens. "¿Perdona? Of course I like funk. I'm a woman of culture."

"But funk? Really? I pictured you all about rock."

"Hey, it's a vibe. A whole mood. I wanted people to move, feel the bass. Not just hear it."

Mio tries to picture it—Naya grooving to disco beats. It doesn't quite fit. "How did you go from Muse to disco?"

Naya shrugs. "My mom loved disco. She'd blast it while cleaning. So loud the walls vibrated. I hated it at first, but then... I started listening. The grooves, the rhythm. It got to me. So I went full disco girl."

Mio's lips twitch. "Interesting transition."

"Right?" Naya laughs. "From heavy rock to disco in, like, two seconds. So, I got a chorus pedal. The CEB-3. Made everything shimmer. Then an envelope filter. For that funky... what's the word?" She pauses, thinking. "Wah-wah." She waves her hand, mimicking the sound.

"Wah-wah," Mio repeats, trying not to laugh.

"Yes. Wah-wah." Naya nods, mock-serious. "Very technical term. Very important. Why are you not writing it down in your notebook?"

Mio giggles. Naya's grin only widens.

"The thing is, it makes the bass sound... like it's talking. Hard to explain. You just feel it, you know?"

Mio nods slowly, imagining. "And the EQ?"

"For tweaking. Getting the low-end just right. Punchy. Danceable. I went from headbanging in my room to pretending I could dance while I played." Naya chuckles, leaning forward. "Spoiler: I can't dance."

Mio stifles a laugh, the image vivid in her mind. "And after funk?"

"Then..." Naya leans back, her voice dipping into something almost reverent. "I discovered Daft Punk."

"Of course you did."

"Hey." Naya points at her. "Daft Punk? Game changers. Them and Justice. Their bass lines were... mmm." She waves a hand, like words aren't enough. "And Discovery? Disco and electronic? I was obsessed. Again. Are you sensing a pattern?"

Mio's smile deepens. "Definitely."

"I begged for an Akai Deep Impact—impossible to find now. And a Bass Micro Synth. That's when I got really nerdy. Synths are like... layers within layers. You can take one note and make it sound like a galaxy."

Naya's words come in a rush, her hands moving as if they're sculpting the sounds out of the air. Mio listens, caught between amusement and fascination.

"Sounds complicated," Mio says.

"It is." Naya laughs, short and bright. "It was my favorite. Made my bass sound like a robot. But I blew out my amp once. My parents were... not thrilled."

"That's dramatic."

"Welcome to my life."

Mio chuckles. "So then what?"

"Then came St. Vincent. And The Asteroids Galaxy Tour. I wanted to make my bass sound cinematic. Psychedelic. Like... ¿Espacial? Like... it was floating through space."

"Another obsession?"

"Obviously. I got a multi-effects pedal. It had everything—delay, reverb, chorus. I spent hours just messing around. It was like painting, but with sound."

Mio watches her. Watches the way her hands gesture, the way her eyes brighten. She feels like she's seeing Naya in a way she hasn't before.

Naya's fingers trace the air above the pedals on the floor, as though they're an orchestra she's conducting. "St. Vincent changed everything. Puta Anne Clarke, tía, es la putísima ama. Made me see pedals as more than just effects. They're instruments, too."

She stops suddenly, glancing at Mio.

"Sorry. I'm rambling too much. Even in Spanish."

"No." The word slips out before Mio can think. "I like hearing it. It sounds amazing."

Naya smiles, shy now. "It was. But overwhelming."

"How do you manage all these?" Mio asks, nodding at the pedalboard.

Naya points at one pedal in particular. "This. The Octa-Switch. Organizes everything. It lets me switch effects without... tripping over myself."

"Efficient," Mio says.

"Exactly." Naya leans back on her heels. "Long story short? I just kept messing up until it worked."

Mio doesn't say anything at first. She's too busy absorbing it all. The passion. The effort. The way Naya talks about her sound like it's a part of her.

"That's incredible," Mio finally says. "You've done so much."

Naya shrugs, like it's no big deal. "Eh, just a lot of trial and error. A lot of late nights. And a lot of noise complaints."

Mio smiles. "Sounds worth it."

"It was." Naya looks at the pedals again. "It still is." She pauses, looking up. "I guess my sound is just... bits and pieces of everything I love."

"You've really thought about this."

"Had to. It took years to figure out what worked for me. But, honestly? The biggest lesson wasn't from the pedals. It was from funk and disco."

"Funk and disco?"

Naya nods. "Yeah. Funk and disco taught me that even if the bass is in the background, it's still there. You feel it. Always." She smiles, looking down. "The bass doesn't need to shout to be heard."

She glances up at Mio.

"That's what I like about you."

Mio blinks, turning red. "Me?"

"Your playing!" Naya clarifies quickly, blushing. "The way you carry the songs and stand out without making a show of it."

"Oh." Mio chuckles, sheepish. "Thanks. But I don't know about that..."

"I do," Naya says. "You're not like me. You don't need to use..." Naya gestures vaguely to the pedalboard. "Nine pedals to be heard. You can do that by yourself." Naya smirks. "But if you want to try them out, that's cool, too."

Mio sits quietly, letting the words settle.

"What about before?" she asks after a moment.

Naya arches a brow, confused. "Before?" she echoes.

Mio nods, curious now. "Before bass. Did you play anything else?"

There's a pause. A long one. Then Naya shrugs, looking away. "Nothing important."

"You mentioned piano once," Mio presses gently.

"Ah! Yeah. I play a little. Like two keys."

"Two keys," Mio says, deadpan.

"Two whole keys," Naya repeats, nodding sagely. Her laugh is awkward. Her hand waves dismissively, quick and practiced. "Just enough to fool around. Nothing worth mentioning. And speaking of piano," she blurts suddenly, her tone forced casual, "how's that going for you, by the way?"

Mio blinks.

The pivot catches her off guard.

"Oh. Um. Fine, I guess." She fidgets, shifting the notes in her lap. "It's... a lot, though. More than I thought it'd be," she admits. "A lot to juggle, I mean. But, um, I'm managing."

Naya tilts her head, her cheek resting against her palm. "Managing, eh?" There's a slight raise of her brow, her lips quirking just so. "Sounds like code for, 'I'm dying inside, but I'll be polite about it.'"

"I guess I'm still getting used to everything. Practicing, playing alone... I thought I was good at sheet music until I had to—" She winces. "—take solfège. It's embarrassing to admit, but it feels like I'm always behind." She sighs. "But I don't want to bother you with—"

"Oh, you'll see when you get to Movable Do."

Mio stops. Blinks again.

Naya grins, leaning forward. "Or cadential six-fours. Or Neapolitan chords. The theory will drive you insane. And that's before you even touch inversions!"

The words spill out effortlessly. Natural. Like it's nothing.

Mio glares, amazed.

"How do you know that?"

Naya's grin falters. Just a flicker. "It's... nothing," she says quickly. Her grin returns, a little too wide. Her hand waves vaguely. "Just things you hear."

Mio narrows her eyes.

"Things you hear? You just casually rattled off advanced music theory terms," she says.

"You know I'm a music nerd. You pick up stuff when you're around music long enough. People talk about it all the time."

"Who are these people?"

"Musicians."

"And where are they?"

"... Around."

"Naya."

"Mmm?"

"How do you know about Neapolitan chords?" Mio leans forward. "You know all this music theory—"

"Anyway!" Naya interrupts. Her voice is bright. Overly cheerful. "What about pedals? Got your eye on any yet?"

Mio stares at her.

"You're deflecting."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Naya says breezily. "I told you," she continues. "I only play a little. Like, kid stuff. Twinkle Twinkle Little Star levels of little."

"That doesn't explain how you know about Movable Do—"

"Let's talk about pedals again!" Naya grabs a random pedal and shoves it into Mio's hands. "The chorus pedal. Great for a dreamy sound."

Mio blinks, glances down at the pedal, then looks back at Naya.

"Naya."

"Mio?"

Her voice is light. Comically cheerful.

"Why are you so weird about this?"

"I'm not weird. You're weird." Naya points at Mio, an accusatory finger in the air. Then she freezes. Slowly, she lowers her hand, clearing her throat. "Sorry, I mean—I just—look, can we not make this about me?"

Mio raises an eyebrow.

But she lets it go.

Instead, she picks up the notes Naya had written for her, scanning the uneven scrawl.

"Thanks," she says after a moment.

Naya glances at her, her brow furrowing slightly. "For what?"

"For all this." Mio gestures vaguely at the pedals, the notes, the quiet effort that lingers in the air between them. "For... you know."

Naya shrugs again. "Don't mention it." Then, she glances at the clock in the clubroom. "Oops."

"What?"

"It's getting late. And I kind of talked a lot."

Mio glances at the clock, too. Thirty minutes. Maybe more. Mio isn't sure. Time moves strangely when Naya is around.

Then, she smirks. "You did."

Naya flinches, mock-dramatic. "Ouch."

"But it was interesting."

Naya's grin returns, genuine. "Well, that's something." She leans back, resting on her palms, her grin a lopsided tilt that Mio thinks might as well be a trademark. "But now I feel like I owe you an actual lesson."

Mio tilts her head. "Lesson?"

"Yeah." Naya gestures vaguely at the pedalboard sprawled on the floor between them. "Y'know, pedals. The thing I'm supposed to be teaching you instead of rambling about my entire bass journey."

"I didn't mind. It was interesting hearing you talk about it."

Mio looks at the papers in her hand. The uneven scrawl. The scratched-out kanji. The small doodles that seem more nervous than artistic. It's endearing.

The thought creeps in uninvited. It sits heavy, awkward. Like her bass strap when it digs into her shoulder just a little too much.

Naya doesn't look at her. She's crouched by the pedalboard, adjusting a cable like it's a delicate surgical procedure. Her movements are precise but hesitant, fingers brushing against dials like they're something delicate. She's focused. Quiet. The same bracing energy from earlier lingers—controlled, precise, like she's trying not to misstep.

Mio watches.

She shouldn't be staring, probably. But it's hard not to. There's something hypnotic about the way Naya moves, adjusting the pedal with a faint crease between her brows. Mio tries to look away, but fails.

Naya meets her gaze.

"You good?"

Mio grips the neck of her bass tighter. "Fine. Just—watching."

Naya raises an eyebrow, amused. "Well. Don't let me stop you."

Silence returns, easy, but charged.

It strikes Mio that Naya isn't always like this. This cautious. This careful. It's not her usual effortless confidence. Not the Naya who cracks jokes about wah-wah sounds or teases Liz with casual smirks.

No, this Naya is different.

Nervous, maybe. Or trying not to show it.

And Mio doesn't know why that matters, but it does.

"It's a lot of effort," Mio says, trying to fill the silence. "The notes, I mean. You didn't have to do all this."

"I wanted to," Naya mutters. She doesn't look up. Her fingers twitch against the cable before she lets it go entirely.

Mio wants to say something. But what?

"You're a good teacher," she blurts instead.

Naya looks up, one brow quirking. "I haven't taught you anything yet."

"You're thorough," Mio adds quickly, holding up the notes as if that proves her point. "You've prepared."

Naya snorts, soft. "Yeah. Sure. Let's see how thorough I am when we actually start."

Mio hesitates. She glances at the pedalboard. At Naya. She doesn't know why, but something about this feels easy. Like they've done this a hundred times before.

Except they haven't.

"Well, we're not getting anywhere if we keep stalling," Mio says. "Show me."

Naya grins at that. Lopsided. "Alright, sensei's first lesson," she says, reaching for the distortion pedal. "This one's simple."

Mio shifts beside her. Close enough to feel the faintest brush of Naya's sleeve against her arm. Close enough that she catches the faintest scent of something like citrus. And something else. Something softer.

"What's the first lesson?" Mio asks, trying not to focus on that.

Naya doesn't answer right away. She's fiddling with the knobs now, her brow furrowed in concentration. "First lesson," she says finally, looking up. "Is to not blow out your amp."

"That's a thing?"

"Oh, it's definitely a thing. And it's a pain in the ass. Trust me."

Mio snickers. "Noted."

The sound of her laugh seems to catch Naya off guard. For a moment, she just looks at Mio.

Then it's gone.

And she's grinning again.

"Alright. Let's make some noise."

And so they do.

They talk. They test. They tweak knobs. Naya explains distortion, reverb, and delay like she's telling a story, and Mio listens. She doesn't just listen—she soaks it in. Every word. Every note.

It's not like practice. It's not like anything, really.

It's Naya's voice, her accent, her hands, her enthusiasm spilling out in waves. Her unguarded self. And Mio, sitting close enough to feel the edges of it. To feel its weight and its warmth.

Time slips away without them noticing. It's only when Naya glances at her phone that she freezes.

"Ah, mierda," Naya mutters.

Mio glances at her. "What?"

"It's late," Naya says, standing quickly. Her hands fumble with the pedals as she starts to pack them up. "I didn't even—ugh, I didn't teach you anything. Damn it."

Mio blinks, startled by the sudden shift. "You did."

Naya looks at her, skeptical. "What? No, I didn't. We barely started."

"You explained a lot," Mio says, standing now too. She brushes imaginary dust from her jeans, just to keep her hands busy. "And you wrote all this for me." She holds up the notes again.

Naya pauses. Her hands still. "Yeah, but..." She frowns. "It's not enough."

Mio tilts her head. "It's fine. Really."

Naya looks at her. Searching for something. Whatever she finds seems to settle her, just a little.

"You wanna meet again? So I can actually teach you something this time? Or am I asking too much?"

Mio glances up. There's a lightness to Naya's tone, but underneath it—a hesitation. Like she's expecting rejection.

"Why would it be too much?"

Naya shrugs, not meeting her eyes. "You've got your classes. Your piano. Your friends. Your boyfriend. I don't wanna take up all your free time."

Mio shakes her head. "I don't mind, Naya. I asked you for this."

Naya's eyes flicker to hers—doubtful, yet grateful. "You sure? I've been talking your ear off all afternoon and barely even started with the pedals."

Mio smiles. "I was the one who asked how you got your sound. I wanted to know. And I still do."

That earns her a grin—faint, but genuine. "Okay," Naya says, finally looking at her. "Thursday, then?"

"Thursday?" Mio repeats.

"Tomorrow's out. Japanese course," Naya explains with an apologetic shrug. "But Thursday works. Same time?"

Mio nods quickly. "That works."

"Cool." Naya taps a pedal with her finger, looking thoughtful. "I'll bring the whole board again and let you try them out for real."

"I'd like that," Mio says.

Naya's grin softens again. "Okay, then. Thursday." Naya shifts, her hands finally stilling. "I'll bring more notes. Hopefully less messy ones this time."

"You don't have to," Mio says. "This is enough. Really."

Naya shrugs, casual and careless, but her ears are pink. "It's no big deal," she says. "I like—" She stops. Clears her throat. "It helps me practice too, you know. Explaining stuff."

Mio parches a brow. She doesn't buy it, but she doesn't press, either. Instead, she stands, smoothing her jeans unnecessarily. She puts her bass back on its case and picks up the notes Naya had written for her. "Thank you for this," she says.

Naya waves her off. "It's no big deal."

"It is," Mio insists, clutching the notes Naya had scribbled for her. "You've put so much effort into this."

Naya laughs, a little sheepishly. "Haven't taught you anything yet."

Mio giggles. She doesn't move. She should. But she doesn't.

"You can head out if you want," Naya says after a moment, crouching again to pack up the pedalboard. "I'll clean this up."

Mio shakes her head. "I'll stay."

Naya glances up. "You don't have to."

"It's fine," Mio says, already kneeling beside her. "I'll help."

For a moment, Naya just looks at her. Then she smiles—small, warm.

They kneel by the pedalboard together, their shoulders brushing occasionally.

Mio pretends not to notice.

They work in silence, but it's not uncomfortable. Naya hums softly under her breath—a tune Mio doesn't recognize but likes anyway.

When the last pedal clicks into its case, Naya exhales, satisfied. "All set," she says, standing.

Mio nods. "Thanks. Again."

Naya tilts her head, that crooked grin flashing. "Stop thanking me already."

Mio opens her mouth to argue, but Naya waves her off before she can.

And that's it. Almost.

Mio should go. She says as much. "I should go," she murmurs, taking a step toward the door.

Naya nods. "Thursday, then."

"Thursday," Mio echoes. "See you tomorrow?"

Naya nods. "Tomorrow."

Mio's hand brushes the door handle. She hesitates, glancing back.

"By the way," Mio blurts, "I already told you, but..." A pause. "If you wanna join us for breakfast tomorrow—or whenever... you're welcome."

Naya looks up, meeting Mio's gaze. Green meeting onyx in a silent exchange. She says nothing for a moment.

Then, she smiles—easy, polite, a quiet warmth in her expression.

"Thanks, Mio."

And that's it.

Mio watches Naya for a moment longer, her thoughts swirling in ways she can't quite grasp. There's something about Naya—something that makes her feel both at ease and off-balance all at once.

It's unsettling.

And strangely comforting.

Naya is crouched again, tucking the pedalboard into her bag. Focused. Thoughtful. A faint smile lingering on her lips.

Mio doesn't say anything, doesn't move.

She just watches.

For a moment.

Then she steps into the hallway, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

---

May 4, 2011

The morning Wednesday rush hums with energy—trays clatter, chopsticks click against bowls, and conversations swell and fade like waves in the busy rhythm.

A rhythm Mio finds comforting. Usually.

Today, her attention is fractured.

Mio stirs her miso soup. It doesn't need stirring. Steam rises in faint ribbons, curling and twisting like threads unraveling in the air. She watches it dissipate, as if following the pattern will reveal something she's missing.

Across from her, Yui beams, already mid-bite, a bowl of rice cradled like treasure. Ritsu slouches beside her. Azusa sits primly, nibbling at pickled radish. Mugi arranges her dishes with practiced precision.

Momo startles as her tray clatters down. She apologizes twice. Nobody minds.

Ritsu laughs, waving it off. "Relax, Momo. You didn't break anything."

Mio glances at Momo as she settles into her seat, her hands hover awkwardly around her tray before finally picking up her chopsticks.

The chatter around the table swirls—a mix of laughter, the clink of chopsticks, and the occasional thud of trays hitting tabletops. Mio listens, not fully part of it. The words flow past her, but none seem to land.

Her thoughts drift elsewhere—to a blue notebook, pages filled with messy handwriting, and the sound of a voice speaking about chaos as if it were art.

"Earth to Mio!"

Ritsu's voice cuts sharp. Mio flinches, her hand stilling over her soup. Five faces are staring at her, expectant.

She blinks. "Huh?"

"You were zoning out," Yui says, leaning forward so far her chin nearly grazes her tray.

"She's probably thinking about her pedal session," Ritsu chimes in.

Mio sighs. She knew this was coming. "No."

Azusa tilts her head. "Speaking of which," she says, "how was it? Your pedal session with Naya-senpai"

Mio hesitates.

It was good. Better than good. But saying so feels too much. Too big.

"It was fine," she says instead.

"Just fine?" Ritsu presses, leaning in. "Come on, Mio. Spill. What did you two talk about?"

"Pedals," Mio says.

"And?"

"It was mostly pedals. She told me about her bass journey and how she got into music. Stuff like that."

"Naya-chan's bass journey?" Yui echoes, wide-eyed. "What's that?"

Mio pauses. Her gaze drifts, unbidden, toward the cafeteria entrance. Empty. Just as it was five minutes ago. And five before that.

"She's really passionate about it. About music. About experimenting with her sound," Mio says finally.

Mugi smiles, hands folded on the table. "That sounds wonderful, Mio-chan. It must've been inspiring to hear."

"It was," Mio admits. Almost shyly. "She's interesting."

"Interesting how?" Azusa asks.

Mio fumbles. She sets down her chopsticks. "She's really into music. Like, deeply. It's not just playing for her. It's—" She searches for the word. "It's who she is. She explained her setup and even wrote notes for me."

"Notes?" Mugi echoes.

Mio nods. "Yeah. Detailed descriptions. She put a lot of effort into it. And her handwriting is... unique."

"Unique bad or unique cute?" Ritsu interjects, her grin sly.

"That's not the point."

"But it is a point," Ritsu counters.

"It's not."

"It is."

"It's not."

"Wow," Yui says, her voice airy with wonder. "That's so nice of her!"

"It was," Mio murmurs, her gaze dropping back to her bowl. "She's really passionate about music."

Mugi hums thoughtfully. "Naya-san is very polite. Reserved, even. It's hard to imagine her being overly expressive."

"That's not true!" Yui exclaims. "She laughed at my joke yesterday!"

"Which one?" Azusa deadpans.

"The one about cats playing bass!"

"That wasn't a joke, Yui-senpai."

"It was funny!" Yui chirps, her chopsticks suspended mid-air.

"No, it wasn't."

"It was!"

"It wasn't."

"She was fun and polite," Yui says suddenly as she slurps her miso soup. "Like a quiet river!"

Ritsu snorts. "More like a stagnant pond."

"She's not like that with me."

The words leave Mio's mouth before she can stop them.

The table goes silent. Mio's chopsticks hover in the air. She can feel their eyes on her.

Too late to take it back.

"She's not like that all the time," Momo says softly, her voice barely rising.

All eyes shift to her now.

Momo stiffens and her chopsticks pause. She doesn't look up.

Ritsu leans forward. "Oh? Spill, Momo. What's Naya like when she's not quiet?"

Momo hesitates. "She's... nice. Really nice. And passionate, like Mio-senpai said. But she..." Momo fidgets, setting her chopsticks down. "She usually holds back. Like, she doesn't want to... open up too much."

The table falls quiet again. Yui slurps loudly, oblivious.

"Holds back?" Azusa repeats.

Momo nods. "She doesn't... share much. Not unless it's about music."

Mio blinks, her chopsticks still in her hand. A thought strikes her, sharp and sudden.

She does hold back.

Except, maybe, with me.

"Interesting," Mugi says. "She must trust you, Mio-chan, if she opened up like that."

Ritsu raises an eyebrow. "Trust? Already? She's only been around a few months."

"I think it's more about comfort," Mugi says gently, placing her hands neatly in her lap. "Naya-san doesn't seem like someone who opens up easily, but if she does, it's probably because she feels comfortable."

Comfortable.

The word swirls in Mio's mind.

Comfort. Trust.

She pictures Naya crouched by her pedalboard, her hands moving with deliberate care. The slight hesitation in her voice when she handed over those handwritten notes.

Naya—passionate and eager, yet always holding back.

She keeps glancing toward the cafeteria entrance. It's not intentional. She's not waiting for anyone. Not specifically.

The thought sneaks up on her, unbidden: maybe Naya would join them. They'd been fine yesterday. Better than fine.

But Naya doesn't appear.

But that's okay, Mio tells herself. She's not waiting.

She's not.

But she notices the empty space beside her.

And she doesn't like how it feels.

She thinks about the way Naya had spoken yesterday. Words alive with energy and excitement. The way she handed over those scrawled notes, almost sheepish, as though unsure of how they'd be received.

She realizes something.

She's seeing a side of Naya that others don't.

Her chest feels warm.

She busies herself with her meal.

Yui leans closer to Momo. "I didn't know you knew Naya-chan so well, Momo-chan!"

Momo's voice is soft, halting. "W–Well, we're in a band together," she says, eyes darting between them. "Liz-senpai knows her better. Naya-senpai's... interesting, but she doesn't talk about herself much."

Ritsu blinks, her grin sliding into something teasing. "Wait, she talks less in your band than she does in the club?"

A nod, quick and awkward. "Liz-senpai talks a lot. Naya-senpai mostly... listens."

"Still." Mugi's voice is kind. "It sounds like you have a lot of respect for her."

Momo nods again. "I do."

Ritsu leans back, folding her arms behind her head. "So, Mio's seeing a side of Naya the rest of us don't get to?"

The chopsticks tap once against the edge of Mio's tray. Her voice, flat. "Stop that. It's not like that."

Mugi chuckles, soft. "Do you think you'll try more pedals next time, Mio-chan?"

"Maybe. I'd like to."

It's true.

She's curious. About the pedals. About Naya. About the strange, magnetic way Naya's voice lingers in her thoughts.

Her gaze drifts to the cafeteria doors again. Empty, as expected.

But still, a hollow ache tugs at her chest. Persistent, irrational. She pushes it down, buries it beneath the weight of logic. She knew Naya wouldn't come. She knew it.

But part of her had wondered. Hoped, maybe.

They had been so at ease yesterday. Casual, comfortable, nice. Easy in a way Mio rarely feels with anyone. She'd even mentioned breakfast, offhand. A fleeting, open invitation.

But Naya isn't here.

The ache deepens.

"Earth to Mio!" Ritsu's voice cuts through the haze. A hand waves dramatically in front of Mio's face.

She startles. "Sorry. I was just thinking."

"About what?" Ritsu presses. The grin is back, full force.

"About..." Mio falters. About Naya? About her crooked grin? About how she'd stayed up late writing those notes?

Ritsu snorts. "You're overthinking again, aren't you?"

Mio doesn't answer. Not directly. Maybe she is, maybe she isn't. Maybe it's not just the pedals she's thinking about.

Or maybe it's nothing at all.

"The pedals," she says finally. Neutral and noncommittal. "How they could change my sound."

Yui beams. "You know, Mio-chan, you should invite Naya-chan to breakfast! She'd like it."

"Maybe," Mio says, smiling.

She doesn't mention that she already has. More than once.

Her gaze flicks back to the entrance. A reflex. A habit.

The doors swing open again and again. Face, voices, trays clattering. But none of them are hers.

The disappointment knots in her stomach, almost tangible. She tries not to feel it.

Fails.

She continues eating, but more out of compulsion than appetite. She listens to the rhythm of her friends' chatter, to the noise that fills the spaces in her head. Pretending.

Pretending she isn't waiting.

For what?

She doesn't know.

But she waits anyway.

---

May 5, 2011

Mio's bass rests against her thigh. Her fingers trace over the strings, lightly, testing. She plays. A note, then another, then another one. The vibrations crawl up her arms, spread through her chest.

She adjusts the tuning peg, strikes the string, and listens. The sound sharpens. Yeah, that's better.

Her lips curve into a small smile.

The world fades to the background—it's just her and the bass. She closes her eyes, breathes in, and plays a note. Then another. And another. Each one untangling something deep inside, something words can't touch. The bass speaks for her.

Her hands glide across the fretboard, fluid and instinctive. She shifts her weight, and the strap tugs at her shoulder. The low rumble flows through her fingertips, through her bones. It fills her.

Her fingers move faster. A rhythm takes shape, a hint of melody emerging. Each note weaves into the next, drawing her deeper. The sound is raw, true—it says everything she can't.

She loves this. She loves this. She loves this.

A voice pulls her back.

"Sounds good."

Mio startles, her fingers muting the string mid-note. She looks up. Naya is sitting beside her, cross-legged on the floor, one hand propping up her head, watching her.

Mio hadn't noticed her there. Hadn't noticed her at all.

"Sorry," Mio says, adjusting the strap. "Got carried away."

Naya shakes her head, smiling. "Don't apologize for that. You looked happy."

Mio doesn't know what to say, so she doesn't. Instead, she picks another note and lets the sound linger between them.

"You love that, don't you?" Naya asks.

Mio nods. "I do."

Naya's gaze drifts to the pedalboard. She picks up one of the pedals, tilting it, inspecting it like it's a puzzle piece. "Try this," she says, handing it over. "See what you think."

Mio takes the pedal, plugs it into the chain, taps it on. The sound changes instantly. It growls, rough and alive. She plucks a slow riff, then tries a faster one with heavier strokes. The bass snarls, and Naya grins.

"Not bad, right?" Naya says.

Mio nods, adjusting her grip. "It's interesting."

Naya's grin softens. "Mio, can I ask you something?"

Mio glances up. "Sure."

"What do you know about pedals already? Like... everything I've been explaining—am I... being patronizing?"

The question throws Mio off for a second. "No, you're not," she says, shaking her head. "I've done some research, read a bit here and there. But I haven't really tried them out before. Just the ones we used last Tuesday."

Naya exhales, her shoulders relaxing. "Okay. Because sometimes I go overboard and forget who I'm talking to." She looks up then, meeting Mio's eyes fully. "You know more about bass than I ever will."

Mio flushes at the compliment but doesn't comment. Naya continues, gesturing to the pedals scattered around them.

"Let's change that, though. You'll learn faster by messing around with them. Try different things. See what clicks."

Mio steps closer, fingers hovering over another pedal, uncertain.

"You won't break them," Naya teases, her smile widening.

Mio presses down. The sound warps—echoing, haunting. She plucks the string again, slower this time, letting the note bloom. "It's beautiful," she murmurs.

Naya's smile turns triumphant. "Reverb," she says. "Amazing, isn't it?"

The room fills with sound. Notes that shift and shimmer. Distorted, stretched, twisted. Mio experiments, plays, listens, and plays again. Her fingers move confidently now, testing the limits.

Naya watches her, adjusting knobs and offering suggestions. They fall into a rhythm—Mio playing, Naya guiding, both having fun.

Mio smiles. She's not sure if Naya notices.

The air buzzes with sound, with energy. Mio glances at Naya. She's leaning forward, her eyes sharp, her foot tapping lightly in time with the beat.

Passionate. That's the word.

It's in the way Naya gestures, her hands painting invisible pictures in the air, talking about signal chains and tone sculpting like she's crafting art.

Naya's voice grows louder, a little faster, words tumbling out in an excited rush. Snippets of Spanish slip in, unnoticed by her. But Mio notices. And Mio doesn't mind.

Then, Naya catches herself, pulling back. Quieter now, almost reserved.

Mio notices that, too—the shift. The moments when Naya retreats, her guard snapping up. The confident, easygoing facade smoothing over, hiding whatever vulnerability peeked through.

Naya catches herself, pulling back as if afraid she's shown too much.

And Mio realizes how hard Naya is trying, how much effort it takes to make herself understood, how lonely that must feel.

The realization lingers, settling heavy in Mio's chest as she listens, as she watches.

Then comes the question.

"How does this one differ from the first reverb?"

Naya meets her eyes and freezes. Her lips part, but no sound comes out. Her brows furrow in confusion.

"Wait—sorry," she says, blinking rapidly. "Can you repeat that? I didn't catch it."

Mio smiles, nods and repeats, slower. Rephrasing. "What's the difference between this reverb and the first one?"

"Oh. Okay." Naya nods. "Thanks. Uh... this one..." She stops mid-sentence, her mouth tightening. "You didn't get it at first because of my accent, right?"

Her voice carries frustration.

"If my accent makes anything unclear, just tell me. I won't be offended."

Mio blinks.

"It's not your accent," she says. "I understand you fine."

Naya glances at her with an unreadable expression. Then nods. Then explains.

Then, they continue.

Naya explains again, but there's a hitch in her delivery. She stops mid-sentence, presses her lips together. Mio sees it—the thinking, the translating in her head, the search for the right words.

"What's the difference between fuzz and overdrive?" Mio asks, later.

Naya blinks, laughing nervously. "Ah. Right. Um..." She clears her throat. "It's, uh..." She frowns, trailing off. "Joder, I can't think of the word," she admits. "Perdón—sorry."

"It's okay," Mio says. "Take your time."

Naya looks at her. Her expression shifts. She sits straighter, her tone quieter.

"If I don't make sense... if anything I say is weird because of my accent or whatever... just tell me, okay?"

Mio nods. "Okay."

A brief smile. Then Naya continues.

But Mio sees it. The exhaustion, the weight of trying to fit in, of translating thoughts into words that don't always come.

Naya laughs it off. "Brain's fried," she mutters, scratching her head. "I hate this. Knowing what you want to say but just... not being able to." She gestures vaguely, hand falling limp.

Mio's chest tightens. "It's okay," she says.

Naya doesn't look convinced. She sighs and runs a hand through her hair. "Thanks for putting up with this. I know I'm slow."

"You're not," Mio says, firmly.

Naya exhales. "It's frustrating," she admits. "Not being able to say what I mean. Especially in Japanese. I've been practicing, you know? Like... going over all these terms in my head before I explain them to you. And I still mess it up."

Her confident exterior falters. Her cheeks flush slightly.

She looks away.

"You're not messing up," Mio assures her. "You're doing great."

Naya looks at her, silent. Then she smiles.

"Thanks for being patient with me. I know I ramble too much. I must be a bother."

"You're not," Mio says simply, not thinking before she speaks. "You're amazing."

Naya blinks. Her smile falters, like she doesn't quite know what to do with the compliment. Then, she laughs. "You're too nice," she says. "Seriously. You're, like, the easiest person to talk to."

Mio doesn't say anything. She just watches.

Naya adjusts another pedal, her hands steady, her voice calmer now. But Mio sees it—that, beneath the ease, the loneliness still lingers. She sees it in the way Naya hesitates before speaking, in the way her smile fades when she thinks Mio's not looking.

Then Naya laughs—a little brighter this time. "I feel comfortable with you."

Mio doesn't know what to say to that, so she just smiles. It's small, but it's there.

By the end of the session, they're packing up. The amp hums quietly now, replaced by the shuffle of cables and the click of cases. Naya stretches, glancing at the clock.

"Mierda, we're late again," she says, sighing. "And we didn't even cover half the stuff I wanted to."

"It's fine," Mio replies, winding a cable. "We got a lot done."

Naya grins, sheepish. "Feels like we barely covered anything."

"Don't worry about it."

And they fall into silence. It's not uncomfortable, not really. It's just quiet. Until—

"Hey, um..." Naya's voice cuts through. She hesitates.

Mio looks up.

"Do you want to..." Naya fidgets with a cable, then scratches her shoulder, then the back of her neck. "Make this a thing?"

"A thing?"

"Like, a routine. Tuesdays and Thursdays. After practice." Naya glances away. "If you're free, I mean."

Mio stares at her, but says nothing.

Naya rushes to fill the silence. "I mean, only if you want to. If you're too busy, it's okay. I get it."

Still, Mio says nothing.

"Forget it," Naya laughs awkwardly, waving a hand. "You've got piano, your studies, your friends, your boyfriend... I don't want to take up your free time. I don't want to—"

"Naya," Mio interrupts, voice firm but soft. "I don't mind. I have fun here, with you."

Naya blinks. "But what about—"

"What I'm worried about," Mio cuts her off again, "is taking up your time. These are your only free afternoons, right?"

Naya waves it off, casual but not quite convincing. "Oh, that's okay. Tuesdays and Thursdays, I'm usually just alone in my room. Unless Liz drags me out."

The words hit harder than Mio expects.

Alone.

She hears what Naya isn't saying, sees it in the way her gaze drops. The loneliness, the withdrawal.

Mio doesn't say anything to that, either. She just watches as Naya busies herself with the last of the cables. Her movements are tense, her shoulders hunched.

Naya's lonely, Mio realizes. More than she lets on.

These two afternoons with her, with Mio, have probably been the most time Naya has spent socializing. The most fun she's had, even if she won't admit it out loud.

When they leave the clubroom, walking side by side, Mio glances at Naya's profile. And she decides.

"Next Tuesday," Mio says simply.

Naya looks at her, surprised. Her face lights up. Mio's does, too.

They walk in silence after that.

Naya looks up at the sky.

"It's funny," she says. "Do you know that when I wake up, my family is already asleep?"

Mio looks at her.

"They don't even say goodnight to me anymore," she laughs dryly. "Time zones."

Mio glances upward, too.

The same sky, 10,000 kilometers away.

---

Mio sits on the edge of her bed, her hair still damp from the shower, clinging to her shoulders. The scent of lavender shampoo lingers. A drop of water slides down her arm, cold against her skin.

The room is quiet. The soft glow of her desk lamp casts long shadows, stretching and bending in the corners of her mind. Her towel hangs forgotten from the back of her chair.

She stretches her legs out in front of her and stares at her hands. Fingers flexing, searching. Searching for strings that aren't there. Her eyes close, her thoughts drift.

Back to the clubroom.

The pedals. The amp. The bass. The sound. The feeling.

It wasn't just fun.

It was more.

The kind of more she hadn't felt in months. Her fingers danced, drawing sound from nothing, bending it into something alive. She'd forgotten how good it felt. How freeing.

Her lips twitch upward.

She doesn't remember the last time she smiled like this.

The notebook on her desk catches her eye. The bass in the corner gleams faintly in the lamplight. Her heart stirs. It's been so long since either had called to her like this.

So long since she let herself answer.

Mio stands, her hair clinging to her neck as she crosses the room. The chair creaks softly as she sits. She reaches for the notebook, flipping it open. A blank page stares back, daring her. The pen in her hand hovers over the lines.

Her mind is a storm. The words tug at her. Shapes and fragments. Nothing concrete, but they're there. They thrum under her skin, pressing, urging.

The bass. The sound of Naya's laugh. The way the pedals turned safe into something wild.

The pen moves, halting and tentative. The ink bleeds into the paper.

Sometimes there aren't words for what binds your heart.

She write. A word, then another, then another one. They tumble out, raw and hesitant. She doesn't think, doesn't stop. The lines fill—uneven, messy and alive.

Mio pauses, reading the words back. Her pen taps against her lips, and her lips curl upward. Laughter bubbles out of her, soft and unbidden. Absurd and joyful.

She doesn't stop writing. The words come in bursts. Fits and starts. Each line pulls the next from her like a thread, unraveling something deep, somewhere she can't quite reach but always feels.

Her hand moves faster. The pen skates across the page. A rhythm forms—natural, effortless.
It flows.

She writes about sound. About connection. About youth and passion and the unspoken language of music.

About the bass. Her bass. A bass that isn't just an instrument—it's a voice. Her voice.

My fingertips release a vibration
That'll teleport everyone to paradise.

For the first time in months, she doesn't second-guess. It's just her and the page, and the pen knows the way.

She thinks of her friends, the laughter, the noise, the way they pull her into their world when she's too afraid to step in herself. She thinks of the stage, of standing there, heart laid bare, the music rising up and carrying her with it.

She thinks of Naya.

This is youth, she realizes.

Not the kind from movies. Not the stories she's read, with their glossy perfection and neat endings. It's messy and imperfect. It sneaks up on her in quiet moments, filling her chest with an ache so sweet, so sharp, it's almost unbearable.

That's it.

That's what it feels like. The throb of life buzzing in her veins. The endless potential. The deep, thrumming joy of being young, of playing music.

Of simply being.

Her pen moves faster, then slower, then it stops.

She leans back and glances at the page.

It's just a draft, but it's hers. Her first draft in months.

Mio reaches for her headphones, her hand brushing against the laptop's trackpad. A playlist. Funky basslines. The kind that makes you move without realizing it.

She presses play.

The music fills the room, threads through the air. It wraps around her, tugging her along with it. Her fingers tap the edge of the desk in time with the beat. The smile returns to her lips, unguarded and soft.

She loves this. The music, the bass, the way it speaks when words fail. She loves the sound, the vibration, the endless possibilities in every note. She loves her friends, her music, her life.

Tonight, she loves being young.

The music plays on. Her hand steadies. She picks up the pen again. She knows what she wants to say now.

The lines flow again, imperfect and vivid. They spill across the page, sparked by each bassline, each memory, each connection she hadn't noticed before.

The hours slip away.

Mio doesn't notice the passage of time until her pen slows.

She stretches her fingers and leans back, looking at the filled page.

It's rough. Uneven. Some lines scratched out, rewritten in a frenzy. But it's real, and it's hers.

For the first time in forever, she feels like herself again.

She sets the pen down. The room is quiet now. The music long since ended.

For the first time in forever, she loves her life again.

The smile spreads. Her chest feels light and full. Alive.

Tomorrow, she thinks. Tomorrow, she'll show them. Her friends, the club.

Maybe even Naya.

Tomorrow, she'll play again. And she'll love every second of it.

Notes:

Before I forget: Mio is writing Seishun Vibration. An absolute banger. Like, seriously, how is every single song in this anime so good? Who composed these masterpieces? I just want to talk.

Anyway. This chapter was a pain to write. Probably because I've barely had time to write all week, and there were days when I couldn't even squeeze out a single word. I hate that because it always feels like I lose my flow. But hey, if my beta likes it—and I trust my beta more than I trust my cousin—that settles it.

I wanted to show a bit more of Naya navigating a country full of customs she doesn't understand (we'll dive deeper into that later). Also, I wanted to touch on Naya's pedal journey. With nine pedals… yeah, it was a thing.

I really hope Naya and Mio have chemistry. At least I find them fun to write. Honestly, I didn't intend for the first session to get so long or detailed, but once they start talking, it's like the dialogue writes itself. I don't know why, but these two just click. Which is funny, considering Naya doesn't even exist in the K-ON! universe.

Oh, and I highly encourage you to check out the artists and albums Naya mentioned. The girl's got good taste.

Anyway, I never know what to say in these notes, so I'll just stop rambling. If you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading! I hope you're enjoying this story. And of course, feel free to leave kudos or comments if you feel like it—they mean a lot!

And a huge thank you to Jules (tsuki_anne) for being an amazing beta! Seriously, you're the best. Your notes on food etiquette, Asian culture, and all the little details have been so helpful. Thank you <3

Chapter 9: Helplessness Blues

Summary:

Mio finally made a friend on her own.

Notes:

The end notes in this chapter are packed with trivia and fun facts, so if you're curious, I highly encourage you to check them out. Please make my struggle with HTML worth it.

Disclaimer: This chapter contains bad puns. Like, a lot. You've been warned. Proceed with caution (and a sense of humor).

Special thanks to Jules (tsuki_anne) for beta reading—you're the best as always! :)

Helplessness Blues, by Fleet Foxes, was released on May 3, 2011.

May 17, 2011

Two weeks in May. Two week since the pedal sessions began.

Two weeks of music spilling out like secrets, basslines looping through distortion, and ideas ping-ponging between them like sparks from a match.

Two weeks of quiet experiments, of afternoons dissolving into evenings, the world beyond the clubroom slipping away, fading until it's just the two of them and the sound.

Two weeks of scribbled notes. Slanted kanji. Margins smudged with graphite. Mio's notebook, once barren, now a tangled forest of lyrics. Fragments, thoughts, half-finished lines that pulse with life.

Two weeks. And she's finally writing again.

The melody plays in her head as she walks, her bass case snug against her back, notebook tucked under her arm. Sachi walks beside her, matching her pace, her voice cutting through the rhythm of Mio's thoughts.

"You seem brighter lately, Mio-chan."

Mio blinks and turns, her hair shifting with her movement, falling softly over her shoulder.

"Do I?"

"You do." Sachi smiles, light and knowing. "It's good to see. You're smiling more. And don't tell me you're not," she adds quickly, catching the denial forming on Mio's lips. "Like you've figured something out."

Warmth rises to Mio's cheeks as her eyes dart to the pavement. "I didn't notice."

"Well, it's there." Sachi tilts her head, curiosity evident but unintrusive. "So, what's changed?"

Mio doesn't answer immediately. She doesn't know how to, really. How do you put into words the feeling of rediscovering yourself? Of music finally feeling like home again?

She looks ahead, watching the campus trees sway lightly in the breeze, their shadows stretching across the path.

"I've been experimenting with pedals," she says at last. "Naya's been helping me. Showing me different effects, teaching me how they work. She's good at this stuff. Patient, too. She's even written notes for me and all."

Sachi's eyebrow lifts. "Notes for you?"

Mio smiles. Soft. Almost imperceptible. "Yeah. Handwritten."

"With her kanji?"

"She even added little explanations for each one." Mio shakes her head, a touch of fondness slipping into her tone. "It must've taken her forever."

"She's full of surprises, huh?"

"She is."

The words come naturally, unbidden, and Mio realizes her smile hasn't faded.

There's a pause, just their steps on the pavement and a breeze rustling through leaves.

Then Sachi grins. "So that's what it is."

Mio tilts her head. "What's what?"

"That spark."

"Spark?"

"In your eyes." Sachi's grin widens. "You're falling in love."

Mio chokes on her breath. "I—I'm not—!"

"With music, Mio-chan," Sachi interrupts, laughing.

"Oh."

Heat flushes Mio's face, and she looks down, absently scratching at the edge of her notebook.

They walk in silence for a moment before Sachi speaks again.

"It's a good thing, you know. You were stuck before. But now? Now you seem more like yourself. The Mio-chan who loves music."

Mio glances at her, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Thanks."

"So," Sachi continues, "what've you been experimenting with?"

Mio hesitates briefly before answering, her voice gaining momentum. "Distortion and delay, mostly. Naya's teaching me how to layer sounds better. How to really listen to what I'm playing. It's fun."

"And you're writing again, aren't you?"

Mio freezes mid-step, turning to Sachi with wide eyes.

"How did you know that?"

Sachi laughs, the sound cutting through the muffled chatter of passing students. "It's obvious," she says, swinging her bag higher onto her shoulder. "I don't know, Mio-chan. You just have that look—like you're carrying secret lyrics around in your head. Plus, I saw you at the club yesterday. You've been scribbling more often."

Mio brushes her hair behind her ear. "Maybe a little," she admits, her voice quieter now. "I've been experimenting with pedals, with my playing, my sound, even my lyrics. Something about these past few weeks has just... sparked something in me. Like I'm finally remembering why I love music in the first place."

Sachi grins, wide and easy. It matches the warmth in her voice. "That's good. You're too talented to let it go to waste."

Talented.

The word catches Mio off guard, and for a moment, her breath hitches. "Thanks," she murmurs, the word feeling too small for how much she means them. "It feels nice. Like I'm finally finding my rhythm again."

"And what's been your favorite so far?" Sachi asks.

"My favorite?"

"Pedal."

"Oh." The question lingers in her mind, echoes for a moment. "The looper," she says finally. "It's fun. Makes you rethink the way you play. How you layer things."

Sachi nods. "Sounds like you're getting back into your groove. That's good. I was starting to worry you'd burn out."

Burn out.

Mio's steps falter, just for a moment. She feels it again—the weight of those words, pulling her back to the weeks when she couldn't write, couldn't play, couldn't breathe. When the music felt like static in her veins instead of life.

And then... Naya.

Sitting across from her. Tapping footswitches. Her eyes bright with the spark of an idea. Her voice—accented, steady—explaining something that Mio hadn't realized she'd been missing.

"I guess I just needed a reminder," Mio says.

They walk in silence for a few more steps, the distant hum of voices filling the space between them. Sachi shifts her bag again and glances sideways at Mio. "What about compressors or chorus? Have you tried those yet?"

Mio shakes her head. "Not yet. But I'm curious. You use those in Onna Gumi, right?"

Sachi nods. "Yeah. Compressor's great for balancing volume. Especially when Ayame and I are messing around, and Akira's being her usual 'serious musician' self."

Mio chuckles at the image: Akira with her arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed, frowning while Sachi and Ayame laugh.

"I noticed. Your live sound is so clean," Mio says. "But you're still not serious about music? You're practically professionals."

"Oh, we are. But Akira's the serious one. She keeps us grounded. Ayame and I just... go along for the ride."

"That's nice. To have that balance."

"It is," Sachi agrees. Then, quieter: "Kind of like you sound right now."

"What do you mean?"

"Like you're having fun again," she says with a soft smile.

Fun.

Mio thinks of the past few weeks. The notes Naya left in her notebook, messy and half-formed. The way her laugh breaks through even the most frustrating moments. The little sparks of excitement when they test a new sound—layered and raw and unexpected—and it makes them both laugh.

It's fun.

"I think I'm starting to love it again," Mio says.

"Love what?"

"Music."

"So Naya-san's a good influence, huh?"

The words hit Mio faster than she can prepare for them. Her cheeks warm again. "It's not just her," she says quickly. "I mean, it's not her specifically. It's—" she stumbles for the words, feels them slip through her fingers, "—it's nice to share music with someone who gets it."

Sachi smiles. "Yeah. That's rare."

"But it's not just her," Mio says again. "It's..." She pauses, breathes, and tries again. "It's remembering why I started playing in the first place."

"Well, keep experimenting. It's obvious how much you're enjoying it. But don't overdo it. Subtlety's key."

Mio smiles. "I'll keep that in mind."

The sun is warm on their backs. The campus paths are alive with chatter, footsteps, laughter drifting and fading.

Sachi slows her pace just slightly. "You know, Mio-chan," she says, her tone almost tender, "you've always been good at connecting with music. It's part of what makes you such a great musician. Seeing you like this—it's inspiring."

Mio's steps falter, just for a moment. "I don't know about that," she says quietly, her gaze dropping to the ground, to her shadow stretched thin by the afternoon light.

"You don't have to know," Sachi replies. "Just keep doing what makes you happy. It's noticeable—your happiness. It's contagious."

Mio doesn't answer. Instead, her mind drifts—back to the scrawled notes in her notebook. to Naya's voice explaining how a simple loop can be layered and twisted into something entirely new, to the way Naya's eyes would light up, her hands moving in sync with her words as she shared her passion.

"I'm just curious," Mio says eventually. "I want to understand more."

Sachi glances at her, a searching look in her eyes. "You're serious about this."

"Is that bad?"

"No," Sachi says, shaking her head. "No, it's good, Mio-chan. Really good. You're in love with music again."

In love.

The words linger in the air between them.

Mio looks up, feeling the sunlight warm her face. She lets out a soft laugh, realizing she hadn't noticed just how obvious it was. She'd  been so focused—consumed by the intricacies of tone and texture, by the way music could unfold into infinite possibilities.

By the way Naya's passion seemed to radiate, pulling her along with it.

"You should keep at it," Sachi says suddenly, her voice encouraging. "Whatever you're doing, it's working. I mean, look at you."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you're glowing."

Sachi's words are matter-of-fact, her expression unwavering. "Seriously, Mio-chan. It's nice to see."

Mio doesn't respond immediately. Her gaze drops again, to the notebook clutched against her chest, to the scrawled lines filling its pages.

It is nice, to feel this way again. To remember why she loves music. Why she started in the first place.

Not for perfection. Not for applause. But for the love of it.

For the love of music.

As they near the clubroom, Mio feels the faintest twinge of excitement—a spark she hasn't felt in months. It's there, humming quietly, like the first pluck of a bass string.

Ready to be tuned. Ready to resonate.

The door opens to the sound of laughter. The hum of a guitar string. The faint tap of drumsticks against the edge of a chair.

Ritsu waves lazily from the couch. Yui beside her, munching on what looks like a stolen snack. Azusa smiles—polite. Mugi beams, serene as always.

And then there's them. Liz, Momo.

And Naya.

Two weeks. Four sessions.

Mio marvels at how quickly it's become routine. Tuesdays and Thursdays. Two bassists. Four sessions. Eight strings. Nine pedals.

She's writing again.

Lyrics. Words that don't fight her. Lyrics that spill out of her pen with the kind of ease she hasn't felt in months. Ideas flow like they used to. It's been so long since this happened that it feels almost surreal. She writes about music, about basslines that echo in her chest. About the wild possibilities of youth. Friendship. Even love.

Superficial, though. No one in particular. Just feelings, abstract and undefined. Shapes. Shadows.

Just—feelings. Detached. Undefined.

But the lyrics are good. Not amazing, but promising. The kind of work she hasn't felt capable of since the wall of her writer's block sprang up.

Mio writes until her hand cramps, until the edges of her world feel brighter, sharper, more alive.

And the music—oh, the music. That's the heart of it all.

Mio feels it. Confidence, inspiration. The bass alive beneath her fingers, its notes sharper, richer, more vibrant than she's ever known. The sound coils around her like something untamed, thrilling and new. Music feels different now. Changed.

And Naya—

Naya feels like part of the change.

She's fun. Easy to talk to. She listens without cutting in, as if she has all the time in the world for Mio's thoughts. And for the first time, Mio feels like she's found someone. Someone who understands. Not just the catchy hooks or singable lines, but the soul of it. The messy, magical depth of music.

It's unexpected. Surprising. Like the laughter sneaking up on her during their pedal sessions. At first, those moments felt routine. Mechanical, maybe. But Naya, with her easy grin and bursts of Spanish—casual, unfiltered—makes everything different. Lighter. Brighter.

Mio doesn't even notice herself laughing until she hears it. Startling and unguarded. Real. It's not the quiet chuckles she controls, but something freer. Effortless. Something Naya pulls from her without trying.

She looks forward to these sessions now. Not just for the music, but for Naya. For a new friend. A friend she made. The tilt of her head when Mio mentions an unfamiliar band. The scribbled notes in her messy handwriting. Or the way Mio finds herself jotting down the names splashed across Naya's tees or mentioned in passing.

There's something about Naya.

Not just her music or her pedals, but her presence. Effortlessly calm, yet alive with an undercurrent of creativity.

At the club, though, Naya is different. She's lively, but also reserved and polite. The ease and humor Mio now knows—the waves of her hands, the half-jokes Mio doesn't always catch—are quieter here. Muted.

And it bothers Mio. A lot.

She notices now. How Naya holds back. The jokes, quick and clever, delivered cautiously like she's testing the water. The laugh she gives at something Yui says—a light chuckle, not the full-bodied laugh Mio knows. The one that's too much sometimes but also—Mio admits—endearing. Startling in its carefreeness.

Mio watches her now, puzzling over it. Annoyed.

Because Naya, as she is in private, is incredible. Loud, vibrant, overwhelming in a way that feels cultural but also uniquely hers. And Mio wants her to be free. To be herself. Everywhere.

Even if she doesn't know why it matters so much.

She shifts her bass case to the floor and finds a seat next to Mugi. Her notebook is still in her hands, and she glances at it. At her friends. The noise and chatter around her make her braver.

"Hey, guys," Mio starts.

The room quiets. Heads turn toward her. She swallows. Clears her throat.

"I've been... working on something. Lyrics."

Ritsu leans forward. "No way. Mio's back at it?"

Azusa sits up straighter, eager. "You've been writing again?"

Mio nods. "It's not perfect. But..."

She looks at them. Her friends. Their anticipation. Their warmth.

"I think it's something we could work with," she finishes.

Yui beams. "Show us, Mio-chan! You always write the best lyrics!"

"Is this a love song like the ones you used to write, Mio-chan?" Mugi asks, gentle.

Miol feels a little pang that lasts a second.

"N–No, I mean—I've been writing some of those, too, but..."

Mio shifts her weight on the couch, her fingers clutching the edge of her notebook. Her heartbeat feels louder than the chatter around her.

She hates this part.

She glances down. The lines on the page blur together momentarily before she forces her focus. She can feel their eyes on her, expectant, patient. Mostly patient.

Mio swallows, willing her voice to steady. "It's... not really a love song," she says quickly. "I mean, I've written some of those recently. But they're not polished yet."

She realizes she's rambling. Stops herself.

"This one's... experimental."

A pause.

Mio's throat tightens as the next words tumble out. "Promise not to laugh."

Ritsu snorts. "We're your bandmates, Mio. Why would we laugh?"

Mio glares at her.

"What's it about, Mio-senpai?"

Mio looks at Azusa. "It's..." she hesitates. "It's inspired by..." Her gaze darts to Naya. "By finding my sound again." There's a small silence. Her voice wavers as she adds, "I've been experimenting, and I think this could work."

Mugi nods, her smile warm. "That sounds lovely, Mio-chan. Please share it with us."

Mio exhales. She looks down at the words, raw and personal. She hesitates, then looks up again. Her eyes land on Naya, who's watching her with quiet curiosity.

Mio swallows hard. "Alright," she says, firmer this time. "Here goes."

She reads.

The first line leaves her lips, tentative. Then the next. And the next.

The room is still, the lyrics filling the space. 

The room falls into a hush, the usual liveliness stilled by the rhythm of her voice. The lyrics fill the space in a poem-like rhythm. Mio's voice searching for a melody, waiting to be born. Her voice is steady, but there's a tremor of emotion beneath it, the kind that makes everyone listen a little closer.

Mio reads until the final line. Her voice trembles slightly at the end. When she stops, she keeps her gaze fixed on the page. The silence that follows feels endless.

Then—

"Damn, Mio," Ritsu says, her voice unusually sincere. "That's... really good."

Mio blinks, looking up. Ritsu is grinning, but it's not her usual mischievous grin. There's something softer there. It catches Mio off guard.

"It's amazing, Mio-chan!" Yui's enthusiasm bursts forth. "We should totally make it a song!"

"We will," Mugi says, steady and proud. "The lyrics are beautiful, Mio-chan."

Azusa nods. "It's different from your usual style, Mio-senpai. In a good way. More experimental, like you said."

"I think I like this one better than Girls in Wonderland," Akira chimes in from the clubroom table. "It's not that cheesy—"

"Shut up, Akira," Ayame says, elbowing her. "Mio's a genius."

"As a bassist, I completely relate to the song, Mio-chan," Sachi adds earnestly.

Mio feels a small, unbidden smile tug at her lips. Compliments usually make her squirm, but this—this feels different. The support of her friends is something that feels different.

"I—I really like it," a voice says hesitantly.

Everyone turns.

Momo.

Her face is pink, and she stammers as she adds, "I really like everything you do, Mio-senpai..."

Mio's heart clenches. If she could, she'd adopt Momo on the spot.

Liz grins. "A song about loving your instrument? So you, Mio. I like it."

Mio glances at Naya, her chest tightening. "And what do you think?"

All eyes shift to Naya.

They blink in unison.

Naya is asleep.

She's slouched in her chair, head resting on her arms. Her bass leans against the wall beside her, untouched.

For a moment, Mio's heart sinks.

Then—

"I think it's you," Naya murmurs, her accent thicker with drowsiness. "And it's beautiful. Like everything you do."

Mio's cheeks flush. She ducks her head, her hair falling like a curtain over her face.

"If it's a song about playing bass, the bass should be much more noticeable, right, Mio-senpai?" Azusa asks.

Mio looks up. "I guess?"

"Yeah! A song with great energy," Ritsu chimes in, grinning. "Definitely a Ho-Kago Tea Time vibe."

"We should start working on it right away," Mugi declares.

"Really? You think so?" Mio asks. "We don't need to change the lyrics or anything?"

"The lyrics are perfect, Mio-chan!" Yui bounces in her seat.

"Absolutely," Ritsu agrees, already tapping out a rhythm on her legs. "Alright, Mio. Give us a starting point. What's the mood? The tempo? Spill!"

Mio chuckles, the sound light and unguarded. The tension in her chest eases. The spark is there again—the thrill of creating something new. Ideas start bouncing back and forth as they dive into the beginnings of what will become Seishun Vibration.

Through it all, Naya remains quiet, her tiredness apparent but not overwhelming. Mio watches her from across the room, noticing the way her eyelids droop. How she's yawned twice in the past five minutes.

The brainstorming session drags on, with Ritsu tossing ideas around like candy, Ayame laughing at her own jokes, and Liz chiming in with sly quips.

Through it all, Naya doesn't move much. Her hair is messier than usual, falling over her eyes, and a shadow of exhaustion clings to her.

When the conversation begins to lull, Mio decides it's time.

She crosses the room carefully and slides into the seat across from Naya.

"Rough day?" she asks softly, keeping her voice light.

Naya cracks one eye open. "Not rough," she murmurs, her voice scratchy. "I'm still recovering."

"Recovering from what?" Ritsu cuts in from the couch, raising an eyebrow.

"Life," Naya mutters, deadpan, not even looking up.

"You look dead," Ritsu retorts, grinning.

"I feel dead," Naya replies, yawning. "Thanks for noticing."

Mio tilts her head, leaning forward slightly. "What happened?"

"Eurovision."

Mio blinks. "Euro... what?"

"Eurovision?" Ritsu echoes, tossing a pencil into the air and catching it without looking.

"Yep." Naya straightens just enough to drag a hand through her hair. "I got up at five in the morning on Sunday to watch it."

"But it's Tuesday," Mio points out.

"Exactly," Naya says, yawning again.

There's a beat of silence.

"What's Eurovision?" Yui asks suddenly.

"You don't know Eurovision?"

All the girls shake their heads, except Mugi.

"Okay," Naya begins, her voice still hoarse. "It's this massive music competition in Europe. Countries send artists to perform, and then everyone votes."

"Sounds fancy," Ritsu says, grinning.

"It's not. It's chaotic." Naya gestures vaguely, like the words she's searching for are hanging somewhere in the air. "You get everything from power ballads to..." She pauses. "A guy in a hamster wheel singing about peace."

"Hamster wheels?" Yui gasps, her eyes lighting up.

Naya nods solemnly. "Hamster wheels. Fire cannons. Glow-in-the-dark costumes. It's pretty iconic."

Ritsu's grin widens. "Sounds fun. Can we join?"

"You're not a country, Ritsu," Mio says, rolling her eyes.

"Details."

"So, it's like a talent show?" Ayame asks.

Naya snorts. "Not even close. It's... How do I explain it?" She pauses, her hand hovering in midair. "Okay, imagine the cheesiest, most over-the-top musical performances you've ever seen. Then multiply that by a hundred. Add politics, weird costumes, and bad accents."

"Bad accents? Like yours?" Liz teases.

"Vete a la mierda."

Sachi's eyes light up. "That sounds amazing."

"It is," Naya says, and for a moment, her exhaustion seems to lift. "One year, there was this Finnish band dressed like monsters. Full-on costumes. And they won."

"Monsters?" Yui's gasp is louder this time. Mio winces.

"This year..." Naya trails off. "It's always something. Terrible and amazing. Helps me discover a lot of bands, though."

"So, who won?" Azusa asks.

Naya yawns, rubbing her eyes. "Um... uh... the country... it's—" She frowns, stumbling, before sighing and gesturing with her hands. "Starts with an 'A.' Kind of far. Between Asia and Europe? A lot of oil, I think?"

Mio tilts her head. "Azerbaijan?"

Naya snaps her fingers. "¡Ese! Yes! That one. Thanks, Mio. Azerbaijan. It was fine. Not my favorite. But honestly, I’m here for the fun, not the winners."

"And how did your country do?" Akira chimes in.

Naya shrugs. "Eh. We never do great."

"It sounds like my kind of show," Ayame says suddenly, her voice filled with energy. "How do we watch it here?"

"You don't," Naya says. "Not easily, anyway. I streamed it online. Had to wake up before dawn because of the time zones. The live broadcast is at night in Europe. Totally worth it, though."

Ritsu crosses her arms. "Dedication. I respect that."

"I'm still tired," Naya admits, rubbing her eyes. "But it's fine. Sleep is overrated."

Yui claps her hands. "We should watch it next year! All of us! It'll be fun!"

Azusa sighs, already resigned.

Mio glances at Naya. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Naya blinks, straightening up as if jolted. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

"I'm fine," Naya repeats. "Just Eurovision lag. Nothing a pedal session won't fix."

Mio hesitates. "Are you sure? I mean... if you want to skip the pedal session later, I'd understand. You should rest."

Naya shakes her head. "No way. I've been looking forward to it all day."

The words settle somewhere deep in Mio's chest, steady and warm. She nods, a smile blooming in response. "Okay. But... if you get too tired, tell me. Promise?"

"Promise."

The clubroom starts to empty, voices trailing down the hall like a fading song. Yui and Ritsu leave first, Yui skipping and chattering, Ritsu laughing too loud, their presence filling the corridor even after they're gone. Azusa lingers, exchanging a few words with Mugi before following.

The Onna Gumi girls wave goodbye on their way out, their voices overlapping as they tease each other in that way only they can. And then, it's quiet.

It's just Mio and Naya now.

Naya is crouched near her pedalboard now, fiddling with knobs. Her movements are slow, careful, like she's running on autopilot. Her bangs fall into her eyes, and she brushes them back absentmindedly.

Mio watches her, her bass strap tugging gently at her shoulder. "You don't look like someone ready to make noise," she says.

Naya looks up, eyebrows raised. "I'm calibrating."

Mio tilts her head, unconvinced. "You look like you're calibrating your ability to stay awake."

A quiet laugh escapes Naya's lips. "Fair. I might still be recovering from Eurovision."

"I still can't believe you woke up at five for that."

"Would've stayed up all night if I could," Naya replies. "It's a tradition. You can't miss Eurovision."

Mio smiles and adjusts the strap of her bass, plucking a string. The first note fills the room, vibrating through the walls, and Mio feels that spark again.

Two bassists. Nine pedals. Another session.

Naya catches her gaze. "Loopers first?"

Mio nods. "Always."

They fall into the rhythm of it, the unspoken language they've built over these sessions. Naya explains, gestures, adjusts, and then steps back, watching as Mio takes over. Her presence is constant, steady, like a heartbeat keeping time.

"Okay," Naya says, stepping back as Mio presses the looper's switch. The clean bassline pulses through the room, a steady wave that fills the quiet. It loops back, seamless, building itself layer by layer.

Mio plays, her fingers gliding over the strings, and the sound loops back, layering over itself. She glances at Naya, who nods in approval, smiling. Always smiling at her.

"Now, let's add some grit." Naya's hand hovers over the distortion pedal, waiting.

Mio nods again. She knows what's coming—the sharp, growling edge that distortion brings, the way it transforms the sound into something raw and electric.

Naya taps the pedal, and the bassline shifts, crackling with energy.

"Whoa," Mio breathes, her fingers still moving over the strings. "That's..."

"Good," Naya finishes for her, her grin widening. "Really good."

They fall into a rhythm, experimenting with combinations, layering sounds that shouldn't work together but somehow do. The clubroom transforms, their music weaving into every corner, a messy symphony that's entirely their own.

It's messy and chaotic and absolutely perfect. 

Mio glances up, her gaze meeting Naya's. And in that moment—amid the noise and the chaos—something settles inside her.

This.

This is what she's been missing. The joy of creation. The thrill of discovery. The connection that only music can bring.

"Let's try something softer," Naya suggests, her voice cutting through the haze of sound. "Reverb, maybe?"

Mio nods, adjusting her grip on the bass. Her fingers find the strings again, ready to start fresh. "Yeah. Let's do it."

They play on, time slipping away unnoticed as test sounds, test pedals.

Mio crouches, eyes lingering on the multi-effects pedals. She leans closer, brushing her hair behind her ear.

"I almost went for the GT-10B," she admits, almost shy.

Because Naya is easy to talk to. About pedals. About effects. About distortion, compression, presets, tone-shaping. About that Boss GT-10B she once coveted but could never justify buying.

Naya's eyebrows lift. "Ah, good choice. That thing's a beast." She bends, adjusting a knob on her ME-50. "But..." She taps her pedal. "I like mine better."

"Why?"

"Simple. More stomp, less stress." Naya shrugs, as if that explains everything. And maybe it does.

She taps the pedal again. A fuzzy growl of distortion ripples through the small room. Vibrating. Resonating.

"It's my funky go-to when I want something fresh. Plus..."

Mio raises a brow.

"The color. Couldn't resist."

The laugh slips out before Mio can stop it. Light, unfiltered. She presses her hand to her mouth, but it's no use.

Naya grins wider. A little sheepish, a little proud.

And Mio thinks, at that moment, that Naya is—well—charming.

"The color?" Mio asks, her words catching between soft laughter.

"What?" Naya feigns indignation. "It's a nice blue."

Mio shakes her head. What else to expect from someone who chose her bass for its color, too?

"That's... such a Naya reason."

She feels like she's allowed to say that now.

"Vaya. And what's a Mio reason?"

Mio blinks, considering.

"Functionality," she says finally. "I liked the GT-10B because it seemed practical."

"It's a great choice," Naya admits, turning a dial. "Better in every way—more complex, but weirdly easier to use. If you're serious about it, you should go for it. You'd get a lot out of it."

Mio hums thoughtfully, her fingers brushing the edge of her notebook. The way Naya talks about these things makes her want to try.

Makes her feel like she could.

By the time they pack up, the sun has dipped below the horizon. Shadows stretch across the walls, painted amber and gold. Mio flexes her fingers, feeling the faint ache in her joints.

She doesn't mind. Not at all.

They gather their things, moving to the door. Naya lingers, her bass slung over her shoulder.

"Hey, Mio."

Mio looks up, her notebook tucked under her arm. "Yeah?"

Naya hesitates. Just for a second. "Your song. The one from earlier. The lyrics. It's really good."

The words land softly. Like a warm breeze, gentle and unexpected.

"Thanks," Mio says.

Naya grins. "Keep writing. Seriously. You've got something special."

Mio nods. The words sinking in. Warm. Settling somewhere deep.

"I will."

They step out into the evening air. The rhythm of their footsteps falls into an easy cadence.

These are the little things Mio is starting to associate with Naya.

The orange sky. The click of pedal buttons. The scent of citrus. The easy footsteps. A melody Naya hums absently, unfamiliar, but something Mio wants to know.

She glances sideways.

Naya is looking up at the sky. She does that a lot, Mio has noticed.

Her gaze lowers a little further—to the tee.

Digitalism.

Mio opens her notebook, jotting the name down in the margin. Quickly. Quietly.

Naya notices.

"You never stop, do you?"

Mio snaps the notebook shut.

"When the muses come, they come," she jokes.

Naya laughs. That laugh. The one that lingers. The one that stays with you.

Resonating. Like an echo. Like a loop.

It loops back, seamless, building itself layer by layer.

---

Mio sits on her dorm room floor, papers scattered around her in no particular order, a loose circle of ideas that don't quite connect yet. Her bass leans against the desk nearby, steady, waiting. Silent.

The low, dirty melody of a song fills the air, seeping into her thoughts. The band is unfamiliar—one she scribbled down from the writing on Naya's shirt four days ago.

Digitalism.

A German electro-house duo, Mio found out.

It was easy this time. They only have one album, Idealism. The rhythm pulses—synth-heavy, hypnotic. It's not her usual style, and she doesn't like it as much as other bands she has jotted down from Naya's obscure taste. It's too loud, too raw. But there's something about it. A thread that keeps her pencil tapping against her notebook in time with the beat.

Her notes are chaotic. Lyrics crammed in margins, doodles of pedals and switches trailing into the corners.

She adjusts her headphones, leans back on her palms and lets her gaze drift to the ceiling, where faint shadows flicker and shift, courtesy of her desk lamp.

Somewhere in the music, she loses track of time.

Her phone buzzes against the floor.

The vibration is faint, muffled, but it breaks through the cocoon of her thoughts. Mio jumps. A small, reflexive movement.

Her eyes drop to the screen.

Kenji ❤️

Kenji: Can I call?

Her thumb hovers. She hadn't been thinking about him lately. Not about their trip. Not about them.

That familiar, soft scrape of guilt settles at the edges of her mind. Always there. Quiet. Persistent.

Kenji ❤️

Kenji: Can I call?

Mio: Sure.

The phone rings a second later.

"Hey, Mio," Kenji says, his voice warm, casual.

Mio feels herself smile. It's reflexive. "Hey."

"How's your day been?"

Mio glances at the papers, the mess surrounding her. "Busy. You?"

"Not bad. Work's picking up. Starting to get the hang of things."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He chuckles. "The first week was rough. I think I made every mistake possible. I even gave the director's assistant the wrong coffee order."

Mio snorts softly. "That doesn't sound like you."

"Well, now I triple-check everything," Kenji says. His voice crackles faintly through the line. "It's fun, though. I like it. Small company, but they've got big ideas. It's inspiring, in a way."

Mio pulls her knees to her chest, resting her chin on them. "Do you think you'll stay after the internship?"

"Maybe," he says. "I hope so. I like it here, you know?"

She doesn't. But she hums anyway.

"What about you?" he asks. "How's uni? How's the band?"

"The band's good," she says. Her fingers tighten around the phone. "Actually... I've been writing again."

Kenji makes a surprised sound. "Really? That's great, Mio! What kind of stuff?"

"Lyrics," she says. "New ideas for songs." Her voice softens. "I've also been experimenting with pedals after club practice."

"Pedals?"

"For bass." She shifts, leaning back against the bed. "Naya's been showing me how to use them."

"Naya? The Spanish girl?"

"Hn." The corner of her mouth lifts, just barely. "She's pretty good with them. Layering effects, looping. Stuff like that."

"Sounds technical."

"It is." She shifts again, her hair falling over one shoulder as she leans back. "But it's fun. I think I'm finally starting to get it."

"Starting to rediscover your sound?"

She blinks. Her chest tightens in a way she doesn't expect. "Yeah," she says softly. "I guess I am."

"I'm glad."

Mio shifts again. Her grip on the phone loosens. "And you? Is the work hard?"

"It's a lot of learning on the job," Kenji says. "But I like that. I've even gotten to sit in on editing sessions for a documentary they're producing."

"That sounds like you," Mio says. Almost wistful.

"What about piano? You still playing?"

She hesitates. "Sometimes. Not as much as I should. Only in class. The band and the pedals have been keeping me busy."

Kenji hums. "And the trip? Have you thought about it?"

Her stomach twists. She sits up straighter, the notebook sliding off her lap.

"I... haven't," she admits.

"Ah."

There's a pause. Not heavy, but noticeable. Kenji doesn't sound upset. He rarely does.

"It's okay," he says eventually. "I just figured we could start planning soon."

"Right." Mio fiddles with the corner of her notebook. "I'll think about it."

"Take your time," Kenji says, his tone light.

It makes her feel worse.

"I'll look into it tomorrow," she offers.

"You don't have to rush, Mio," he says, laughing gently. "I know you've got a lot going on."

She breathes out, her shoulders relaxing. "Thanks."

The conversation flows easier after that. Little things. Classes. Mutual friends. A band Kenji's been listening to lately. She scribbles the name in her notebook, out of habit, even though she doesn't think it'll stick.

When they hang up, the room feels quieter. The song she'd been listening to has ended, leaving only the faint hiss of the headphones.

Mio places her phone beside her and picks up her pencil again. She stares at the blank space in her notebook.

The lyrics don't come this time. Not like before.

She sets the notebook aside. Her gaze drifts to her bass. She doesn't play it tonight.

Instead, she leans back against the bed, pulling her headphones over her ears again. The next song starts, and she lets herself get lost in it.

---

May 24, 2011

May rolls on.

Classes continue. Piano remains intimidating. Exams grow more frequent. Mio's notebook fills steadily with lyrics and names of bands she hasn’t yet heard but surely will.

Tuesdays and Thursdays are slowly becoming her favorite days of the week.

And the new trio still doesn't have a name.

"Mio!" Liz's voice cuts through her thoughts, sharp even after the clubroom door swings shut. "You're just in time."

Mio stops mid-step, blinking. "In time for what?"

"To help us name our band," Liz announces, sitting up straighter on the couch and tossing her hair over one shoulder like a diva.

Yui's hand shoots up. "Oh! Oh! I wanna help! It's so much fun to come up with names!"

Momo shifts quietly in her spot beside Liz, her face half-hidden behind long hair. Naya raises her hand lazily, her voice calm, almost amused. "What's the rush?"

"The rush," Liz says, looking at Naya like it's obvious, "is that we can't keep calling ourselves The New Trio. It's embarrassing."

"Technically," Naya counters, her tone even drier, "we could. It's descriptive. People would get it."

Liz shoots her a glare. Naya shrugs.

"About time," Ritsu chimes in from her spot at the clubroom table. "What's it been, a month?"

Liz points dramatically in her direction. "Exactly. A month! And we still don't have a name."

Mio makes her way toward the others, her bass case slung over one shoulder. She offers Naya a quick nod as she passes. Naya catches her eye, her grin slow and lopsided. She lifts a hand in a small salute. Mio waves back.

Almost eight pedal sessions, and they're... friends now. At least, that's what Mio tells herself.

Liz, undeterred, presses on. "A band name is important. It's the first impression. The defining element. The mark of who we are."

"So dramatic," Naya mutters, leaning back against the couch with an exaggerated sigh.

Mio settles onto the table beside Mugi and Azusa. "Have you thought of anything yet?"

"Plenty." Liz puffs up her chest, her pride almost tangible. "And they're all brilliant. Ruby Revolt. Scarlet Queens. Firebird."

"Sounds like car brands," Naya says flatly. "How about... Bangers and Mash?"

Liz stares at her, horrified. "What does that even mean?"

Naya shrugs. "It's food."

"It's British food."

"Exactly."

Liz groans and turns to Mio. "What about you? You're good at this stuff. You named your band, right? How did you decide?"

Mio glances toward her friends. "Actually, I didn't. We didn't." She pauses. "Our high school adviser named us. We couldn't agree on anything."

Liz's eyebrows shoot up. "Seriously? What were the ideas?"

Oh god. She shouldn't have said anything.

"Chocolate Melody!" Ritsu calls out gleefully, her grin wide and wicked. "And Pure Pure. Don't forget those gems."

Mio's face burns.

"They were good names," Mio mutters under her breath, though she can feel her cheeks going redder by the second.

"Were they?" Ritsu smirks.

Mio bristles. "Chocolate Melody was a perfectly good name!"

"... For a bakery," Ritsu shoots back.

"And Pure Pure?"

"For a line of hand soap."

"Chocolate Melody does sound delicious, though!" Yui suddenly pipes up, her eyes lighting up like sparklers. "I'd love to have a bakery someday—oh! Mio-chan, we could sell Gâteau au Chocolat! Your favorite!"

"See?" Ritsu drawls. "Even Yui thinks it sounds like a dessert shop."

"It's not—!" Mio sputters, but Yui chimes in again.

"I proposed Sweet Smile! And Hirasawa Yui and the Foolish Sisters!"

"That one wasn't serious," Azusa cuts in, shooting Yui a look.

"So the rest were just extras?" Naya asks.

"Girls' Gang," Ritsu says, practically cackling now. "I still think we should've gone with that. Simple. Classic."

"Boring," Mio retorts, crossing her arms.

Liz stares at her, her face caught between amusement and disbelief. "Wow. That's... very high school."

"It was high school," Ritsu reminds her.

Liz sighs, exasperated. "God, you guys were always so cute it hurt. No wonder your adviser took charge."

"I wasn't trying to be cute," Mio mutters, barely audible.

Ritsu leans back with a smug grin. "And you think you can do better, Liz?"

Liz's sharp eyes gleam. "Oh, I don't think. I know."

Naya's voice cuts through. "What about Onna Gumi?" She glances at the other trio. "How did you come up with that?"

Sachi grins. "I'm a genius, that's how."

Akira snorts. "She scribbled it on a napkin during lunch. No thought whatsoever."

"Genius is instinctive, Akira-chan," Sachi retorts, unfazed. "I thought it sounded cool. Like a gang of awesome women."

Ayame nods solemnly, as though delivering a verdict. "Pure art. Truly."

Liz raises an eyebrow, her mouth twitching. "Strong. Iconic. Noted." Her gaze swivels back to her group. "Alright. Ideas?"

Before anyone can breathe, Liz is already off.

"Crimson Queens. Drumstrike. Vixen's Fury."

Naya's voice is flat. "Too dramatic. Too generic. Too... Saturday morning cartoon."

"Bloodstone."

"Too edgy."

"Venus Vortex."

"Are you... are you okay?"

Liz crosses her arms. "What? It sounds cool."

"It sounds like a bad sci-fi movie."

Liz tosses her fiery red hair over her shoulder. "The Valkyries."

Naya gestures vaguely with one hand. "Of course. If we're planning to go into battle instead of playing music."

"Excuse me, but have you seen us? We are a battle."

Naya sighs. "Never mind."

"Okay, okay. What about Crimson Chaos?"

"What's with you and fire?" Naya asks, her accent dipping into the words, rolling the syllables in a way that makes them oddly melodic. "We're not, like, arsonists."

Liz glares. "Alright, Picasso."

Naya raises a single eyebrow. "Pica-what now?"

"What's your idea?"

Naya leans back. "Names are hard. Especially in another language. Maybe something simple. Like..." She pauses. "Bassically Awesome."

Mio winces.

Liz's reaction is immediate and brutal. "Terrible."

Naya shrugs, unbothered. "It's a pun."

"That was a pun? Nobody is going to get it."

"Then they're not worth our music."

Liz powers on. "Okay, how about this. Black Phoenix. Midnight Sirens. Velvet Inferno."

"Wow," Yui breathes, her eyes wide with genuine awe. "Those sound so cool."

"They sound like rejected metal bands," Azusa murmurs.

Naya drums her fingers on her legs, thoughtful. "How about... Drumroll Disaster? Or... Bass-tastrophe?"

There is a moment of stunned silence. Then Ritsu erupts into laughter. "Oh, I like this one."

"Of course you do," Mio says dryly.

Naya leans forward, completely unrepentant. "Okay. Hear me out—Bass-tastic."

Mio blinks. Liz stares, unblinking. Momo doesn't even bother to look up.

"No," Liz finally says, her voice flat.

"Why not?" Naya protests. "It's catchy. It highlights the bass."

"It highlights how terrible you are at naming things," Liz snaps. "Naya, come on. Be serious."

"I am," Naya replies, her expression betraying no trace of humor. "What about something sarcastic?" she continues. "Like Not a Girl Band. Or... Lads in Disguise."

Mio pinches the bridge of her nose.

Liz drags her hand down her face. "These are terrible."

"I'm thinking outside the box," Naya counters. "Spanish humor. Sorry if it's lost in translation."

Liz groans again. "Someone save me. Momo? Ideas?"

Momo clears her throat and looks up, hesitant. "Um... what about something softer? Like... Rose Petals?"

Everyone freezes. Mio feels her chest tighten. She wants to adopt her.

"Momo, sweetheart," Liz says, careful. "We're a rock band, not a floral arrangement."

Momo shrinks a little, her cheeks flushing, pink creeping up to her ears.

"Oye," Naya jumps in, "I think it's sweet. Maybe not Rose Petals, but something with that vibe. Something... elegant."

Liz rolls her eyes. "Fine. But it has to have an edge. No soft, mushy stuff. We're musicians, not poets."

"What's wrong with poetry?"

Mio doesn't realize she's spoken until the words are out. All eyes are on her now. She wants to disappear.

"Nothing," Liz says, grinning like she knows a secret. "Just not my style."

Naya leans back. "Not everything has to be edgy, you know."

"Says the girl with a candy apple red bass and a pedalboard bigger than my ego."

Naya opens her mouth to retort, but thinks better of it.

Liz sighs, loud and exaggerated. "So far, we've got nothing. Great."

Naya scratches her neck, her expression turning thoughtful. "Hmm... How about... Bass Invaders?"

Liz stares. "What."

"It's a pun," Naya explains.

"Do you ever stop?"

"Fine. Bassic Instinct."

There's a pause. Silence. Mio feels the urge to bury her face in her hands.

Naya looks around, her grin widening. "You know? Like the movie? But with bass?"

Liz squints. "Did you just..."

"I'm just saying."

"Please, stop saying."

"Okay, okay. How about Treble Makers?"

Liz groans louder this time.

"Or The Bass-tards?"

"Stop."

"It's a pun. Because of the bass and—"

"We get it," Liz interrupts.

"Ah. You didn't laugh, so—"

"Of course we didn't."

Momo is quiet, listening, absorbing everything. Mio notices.

"Las Tres Caballeras," Naya suggests suddenly.

Liz frowns. "What does that even mean?"

"The Three... Caballeras. Like the Disney cartoon? Mexican? ¡Ay!, Jalisco, No Te Rajes? No?"

"Mexican? Aren't you Spanish?"

Blank stares.

Naya seems to enter a trance. "Am I being racist with myself?"

Mio exhales, long and slow. This is going nowhere fast.

"What about you, Momo?" Liz asks the petite drummer. "Any ideas yet?"

Momo shakes her head.

"Come on," Liz cajoles, leaning toward her. "Give us something. Anything."

Mio watches as Momo shrinks under the attention. The same way Mio feels the urge to shrink when the group gets loud.

Mugi speaks up, her voice warm and encouraging. "What do you all have in common? Maybe that will help."

Liz's eyebrows shoot up. She nods, appreciative. "Alright. Thanks, Mugi-chan. What do we all have in common? What makes us, us?"

Mio raises a brow. Mugi-chan?

Naya raises a hand. "We're all girls."

Liz stares at her. "Brilliant. Revolutionary. What else?"

Momo's voice comes soft and careful. "We're a trio."

"Trio Girls?" Yui's cheerful voice chimes in from somewhere behind the chaos.

Everyone ignores her.

Liz's eyes narrow, thoughtful. "Wait—bass and drums. We're all about that rhythm."

"You could play around with that," Ayame suggests.

"Rhythm something," Naya says, trailing off. Then, suddenly, her face lights up. "Wait! What about Rhythm Nation?"

Liz chuckles. "That's already a Janet Jackson album."

Naya's enthusiasm deflates fast. "Oh. Right."

Mio hides her smile behind her hand. She tries to stay neutral, but it's hard. So hard not to be entertained by Naya's unfiltered enthusiasm—and her complete lack of self-consciousness.

"Hey," Ritsu says suddenly. "Don't you guys... all wear that color?"

Liz frowns. "What color?"

Ritsu gestures vaguely. "That... dark reddish thing."

"Maroon," Mugi supplies helpfully.

"Exactly." Ritsu nods. "You've all got it. Your hair and boots," she points at Liz, "your hoodie and bass," she gestures to Naya, "and Momo..." She trails off, squinting.

Liz's gaze shifts. To Naya's hoodie. To Momo's skirt. Then down to her own boots. Her maroon boots. Her eyes widen. "Huh. Didn't even notice."

Naya tilts her head. "Me neither."

"I noticed," Momo says, tentative.

Everyone turns to her.

Momo's cheeks flush under their stares. "It's why I... started wearing it too. I thought it looked nice."

Liz's bravado dims, just a little. "Well, it does. Looks good on you, Momo."

"Yeah," Naya says, nodding. "It suits you."

Momo's face turns pink. She ducks her head. But there's a small, shy smile peeking through.

Liz's grin returns, brighter than before. "So, we're a color-coded band. This is amazing."

Naya snorts. "Unintentionally."

"Fate," Yui declares dramatically.

Liz nods, resolute. "Okay. Let's roll with that. Maroon-themed names. Go."

"Maroon Trio?" Naya suggests.

"Too obvious."

"Maroon Blaze?"

"Too aggressive."

"Maroon Sirens?"

"Too... seductive."

"The Maroonettes."

"God no."

"Maroon 3."

Mio snorts before she can stop herself. Liz looks horrified.

"You did not."

"It's genius," Naya drawls. 

"It's a lawsuit waiting to happen," Mio mutters, but the corners of her mouth betray her.

"You're fired," Liz declares. "You're banned from naming anything."

Momo finally speaks up, her voice barely above a whisper. "I kind of like it."

Liz's head whips around. "No, Momo. Don't encourage her."

"Oye," Naya says, feigning indignation. "At least I'm trying."

"Try harder."

"What about similar colors?" Mugi suggests. "Crimson? Burgundy?"

"You're all missing the point." Liz's voice carries an almost theatrical intensity now. "A band name has to say something about who we are. It has to command attention. Like..." She lifts her hand dramatically before letting the words drop like an anchor. "Ruby Carnage."

"Sounds like a wrestler's stage name," Naya mutters.

Momo hesitates, her cheeks coloring slightly. "I... um..." She looks down at her hands, then back up, meeting Mio's eyes for a brief, brave moment. "Ruby Riot?"

The room stills.

Liz sits up straighter. Naya tilts her head, considering. Mio blinks, surprised.

"Ruby Riot," Liz repeats, testing the words. She nods slowly. "That... might actually be... good."

Naya tries it next. "Ruby Riot," she says, her rolling 'r' strong and distinct. "Bold, but not too bold. It's got a nice ring to it."

Momo looks down again, fidgeting. "It's just an idea. We don't have to—"

"No," Liz interrupts, her voice firm, decisive. "It's perfect, Momo."

Naya leans back in her seat. "You're clearly the genius of the band."

Momo turns crimson, her shoulders shrinking inward as her hands nervously twist in her lap. But Mio sees it—the faintest flicker of pride in Momo's expression, shining through the embarrassment.

"Ruby Riot," Liz says again, louder, firmer, like she's claiming it for herself. "Ladies, we have a name."

Mio watches the three of them and feels the tiniest pang of nostalgia. It reminds her of something.

Of the moment she found her own band. Her own family.

---

Later, it's their seventh pedal session.

Mio doesn't know when it happened. When they became friends.

Maybe it was the third session, when Naya leaned against her amp, all lazy smiles, and asked, "What's your favorite pedal, Mio?"

Or the fifth, when Naya brought snacks with a casual, "Figured you might be hungry." Like it wasn't a big deal.

Or maybe it's now. Right now.

Mio sits across from Naya, watching as she tunes her bass on the far side of the clubroom. One leg propped on the amp, a lazy half-smile tugging at her lips.

Mio doesn't like how effortless she looks when they are alone. Like she's never known discomfort, like she's always been at ease with herself.

Mio doesn't like how it distracts her.

"So," she says, her tone carefully neutral, "you're all about bad puns."

Naya looks up, her fingers pausing on the tuning pegs. "What gave me away?"

"Everything you've suggested for the band name." Mio crosses her arms. "And don't even get me started on Bassic Instinct. I had secondhand embarrassment."

"It's witty," Naya says, unfazed. "You just don't appreciate good humor."

"That wasn't humor." Mio deadpans.

"It was Spanish dry humor," Naya says, her accent thickening, as if to make a point. "You wouldn't get it."

Mio raises an eyebrow. "If it were up to you, all your pedals would have ridiculous names."

There's a pause. A flicker of hesitation. Then Naya freezes, fingers hovering over the strings.

Mio narrows her eyes. "Wait." A realization starts to form. "They already do, don't they?"

Naya shifts, glancing at her pedalboard before looking back at Mio. Her lips press together in a thin line of defiance. She sits up on the floor, fidgeting with some cables.

Mio leans forward. "They do." It's not a question now. "You gave them pun names, didn't you?"

"No."

Mio arches an eyebrow.

"Okay, fine. Yes." Naya throws her hands up, a cable dangling from one. "My pedals have names. Happy now?"

Mio's eyes light up. "Really?"

"Don't make it weird," Naya snaps, folding the cable unnecessarily, like busywork might distract Mio.

Mio bites back a smile. "What are their names?"

"No."

"Naya."

"No."

"Please?" Mio softens her tone, letting it turn playful.

Naya sits up straighter, glaring like she's being interrogated. "It's not a big deal, okay? Lots of people name their instruments. Your friend Yui literally treats her guitar like a child."

"That's Yui," Mio retorts. "Yui is... Yui."

"Exactly!" Naya waves a hand as though this proves her point.

But Mio doesn't budge. Her curiosity gleams in her eyes.

"Nope." Naya shakes her head firmly. "Not happening. It's stupid."

"It's not stupid," Mio counters. "It's endearing."

"Don't use that tone."

Mio blinks. "What tone?"

"The tone like you're talking to a stray puppy." Naya's voice is dry, her hand making a dismissive wave. "Anyway, not telling you."

"Why not?"

"Because you'll laugh at me."

"I won't."

"You will." Naya's fingers tap against her thigh. Tap, tap, tap. Like a metronome stuck on hesitation.

"I won't." Mio folds her hands in her lap, straightens her posture, hoping she looks sincere.

Naya mutters something under her breath, her words tumbling out too low, too fast, in a cadence Mio recognizes as Spanish. "You will," she insists.

"Naya." Mio's tone softens. Just a little. Enough to coax her into looking back. "I promise I won't laugh."

Naya doesn't look convinced.

"I won't laugh. I swear," Mio adds, clasping her hands together in a mock gesture of sincerity.

Naya sighs, long-suffering, and mutters something too low for Mio to catch.

"What was that?"

Naya's voice rises, flat with resignation. "Fuzz Lightyear."

Mio stares, uncomprehending. "Excuse me?"

"Fuzz Lightyear," Naya repeats, louder now. Her shoulders tense like she's bracing for impact.

A pause. Mio's head tilts, her brow furrowing.

"The fuzz pedal," Naya clarifies. "Because, you know... to infinity and beyond?"

Mio presses her lips together tightly, nodding slowly. "Okay. That's... creative."

Naya's expression hardens, her gaze flickering to the floor. "The overdrive," she says, her voice tinged with defiance. "Overkillian Murphy."

The corner of Mio's mouth twitches. She bites down on her bottom lip. Hard.

"No. Don't." Naya's glare is immediate, sharp. "Don't you dare."

"I'm not laughing." Mio lifts a hand, trying to appear calm. "Go on."

Naya picks up another pedal, holding it up like it's evidence at a trial. "Chorus pedal. ChoRusell Crowe."

Mio's shoulders start to shake.

"If you laugh," Naya warns, narrowing her eyes, "I'm never showing you my pedalboard again."

"I'm not laughing," Mio repeats, though her voice trembles at the edges.

Naya exhales sharply, her hands moving to the synth pedal. She taps it once, twice. "Synth-i Loper."

A snort escapes.

Naya's finger snaps up, pointing. "You said you wouldn't laugh!"

"I'm not laughing," Mio wheezes, quickly clamping a hand over her mouth.

"You are!" Naya's voice rises, indignant.

"I'm not!" The words come out muffled.

Naya huffs but pushes forward, landing her hands on the multi-effects pedal. "Effector Gadget. EQ pedal: Freddie EQ-cury. Compressor pedal: Sustaina Turner."

Mio lets out a faint squeak.

Naya's lips press into a thin line. "If you laugh at the next one, I swear—"

"I won't," Mio blurts out, clasping her hands together in desperation. "I promise. Go on."

Naya hesitates. She picks up the octave pedal, cradling it in her hands. "Octavia Spencer."

Mio presses both hands over her mouth now, her eyes wide and brimming with suppressed laughter. She's not going to laugh. She's not.

"And," Naya adds, her voice quieter, almost drowned out by the muffled giggles, "the looper pedal is... Loopy Goldberg."

The dam breaks.

Mio's laughter bursts out, loud and bright, completely unrestrained. She bends forward, tears gathering in her eyes as she gasps for air. Her shoulders shake, the sound spilling out in waves despite her efforts to stifle it.

"I knew it." Naya's arms cross over her chest, her voice flat. "You're worse than Liz."

Mio tries to speak, tries to apologize, but all that comes out is a wheezing, breathless sound. She sits, her stomach aching from the laughter that's finally beginning to subside. She wipes at her cheeks, her breath coming in uneven bursts. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," she manages, each word punctuated by hiccups.

Naya, arms crossed, looks away. A faint blush spreads over her cheeks—just barely noticeable but unmistakably there. "Are you done?"

Mio shakes her head, still breathless. "I can't—I just—Loopy Goldberg? Really?"

"Yes. Really."

Mio wheezes, waving her hands in front of her as if to reassure her. "I'm not—I swear, I'm not making fun of you—"

"You're laughing at me."

"No! No, I'm not laughing at you!" Mio insists, though the breathless giggle that follows does little to help her case.

Naya raises an eyebrow. "Could've fooled me."

Mio takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself. "Okay, now I have to ask." She leans forward, grinning. "What's your bass' name?"

Naya's expression falters. Just for a second. "Uh. It's not named."

Mio narrows her eyes. "Really?"

"Yes. Really."

Suspicious. But Mio lets it go. For now. She shifts, her own cheeks warming. "Mine is Elizabass."

Naya blinks. "Come again?"

"Elizabass," Mio repeats, her voice now barely above a mumble.

The silence stretches for a heartbeat. And then—

Naya bursts out laughing. Loud.

"Like Liz?" she asks, her voice breaking from laughter. "And I'm the weird one?"

"Yui named it!" Mio blurts, her face going redder by the second. "I did not—"

Naya doubles over, clutching her stomach. "Yo flipo. O sea, you're giving me crap about naming pedals, and your bass is called Elizabass?"

"It's different!" Mio protests, though the laughter bubbling up inside her betrays her indignation.

"Different?" Naya repeats, snorting. "Yeah, okay. Sure."

Mio tries to frown but can't stop the grin spreading across her face. "It is!"

They're both laughing now. So much that Mio's ribs ache. So much that neither can quite catch their breath.

"Come on, pick up Elizabass," Naya says between giggles, wiping at her eyes. Naya pronounces her bass' name so different. So charming. "We're starting with Sustaina Turner today."

Mio grins. "Loopy Goldberg, though. That one's my favorite."

Naya throws a bass pick at her.

---

May 25, 2011

Mio feels happy. There's no other way to describe it.

Not just happy, but thrilled. Inspired. Rejuvenated.

It's more than the music. It's Naya.

Mio finally made a friend on her own. Without Ritsu as a go-between, without Yui or Mugi or Azusa filling the silences, without the safety net of her band.

Mio has never known anyone like Naya. And maybe that's why she's so drawn to her.

And now—this friend needs her.

The hallways are too loud. Voices crash into one another, a cacophony of chatter. Of footsteps, of rustling bags.

Mio walks with her bag slung over one shoulder, her notebook pressed tight to her chest. Her footsteps light, measured. Sixteen to the stairwell. Thirty to the vending machine. Thirty-six to the next turn.

She counts. It helps.

Until she hears it. A voice she knows, strained and polite, but sharp, beneath the surface.

Mio slows. Her steps falter. She looks.

And there she is.

Naya.

Her shoulders taut, posture rigid. Her hands move, restrained, small gestures that don't feel like her.

Three students. They're around her, faces open but not kind.

One of them leans closer and says something. Mio can't hear it over the noise, but she doesn't need to. Her tone isn't mocking, but it's not kind either.

Naya laughs quiet and forced. It's not the laugh Mio knows.

Her chest tightens.

Her feet move before she's thought it through.

"Ah, there you are!"

The words are too bright. Too loud.

Naya's head snaps toward her, startled. The students turn.

Mio raises her hand in a wave and gestures toward Naya, like this is normal. Like this is rehearsed. Like she's done it a hundred times before.

"We're late," Mio says, her tone easy. Assured. "For the meeting."

Naya's brows lift. She's caught off guard. "Late?"

"Yes. The club thing," Mio says, as if it's obvious. "Remember?"

There's a pause. Too long.

Then—

"Right." Naya's voice is quiet. Dry. She bows to the students, a shallow, small motion. "Sorry, guys. I have to go."

Mio's gaze flicks to the group. Her lips tighten at the edges. Her voice sharpens. "Sorry to interrupt." Polite, but firm. "But we need her."

One of them speaks. "Oh, we didn't mean to keep her."

"I'm sure you didn't," Mio says, her tone clipped. Final. She doesn't wait for a response. "Let's go, Naya."

She starts walking again, her steps are brisk. She doesn't check to see if Naya is following. She doesn't need to.

When they turn the corner, Mio slows.

"I haven't seen you in the cafeteria," she says.

Naya shrugs. "Been avoiding rush hour."

"Why?"

"You saw why," Naya says, quiet. Matter-of-fact.

Mio frowns. "You could sit with us."

"I know," Naya says, her tone nonchalant.

"And?"

"And I don't want to impose."

"You're not imposing."

"I don't want to be a bother."

"You aren't."

Naya doesn't answer immediately.

Her gaze shifts away. She shrugs. "It's not that simple."

"Why not?"

There's a beat.

Naya exhales, looking at Mio, brow arching.

"I don't know," she says.

Mio sighs. Her grip tightens on her notebook.

And then:

"You didn't have to do that."

Naya's voice is soft. Not angry, but not thankful either.

Mio glances at her. "They were bothering you."

"They weren't—" Naya's tone sharpens, just a little. She brushes her bangs back. "They weren't being mean. Just... curious."

Curious? Mio frowns. Stops walking. Turns to face her.

Naya stops too.

"Curious?" Mio repeats, tilting her head slightly.

"Yeah." Naya's tone is clipped. Defensive. "You know. About me. Where I'm from. What it's like."

"That doesn't mean they weren't bothering you."

"They weren't."

"They were," Mio says, firm.

Naya doesn't answer. Instead, she sighs. Looks down. Her bangs fall back into her face.

"They didn't mean any harm," she mutters.

"You don't have to excuse them."

Naya's head snaps up. Her green eyes are sharp. "And you don't have to feel sorry for me."

The words hit Mio like a slap. Sharp. Unexpected.

Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. "I wasn't trying to—" She stops. Exhales. Tries again. "I'm sorry if I overstepped."

Naya sighs. A hand runs through her hair, her fingers catching in the messy strands. "Sorry. That came out wrong."

Mio doesn't respond.

The air feels taut. Brittle.

Naya shifts her weight. "I didn't mean that," she says quietly. "I just... I don't need saving, okay? I can handle it. I've been handling it."

Mio's frown deepens. Her notebook feels heavier in her hands. "It didn't look like you wanted to handle it."

Naya's gaze snaps to hers. Brows knit together.

"I'm serious," she says. Her voice is firmer now. "I don't need—" She stops herself. Exhales sharply.

Mio's grip tightens on her notebook. She doesn't flinch. "I wasn't feeling sorry for you."

"Really?" Naya's laugh is short. Hollow. "Then what was that back there?"

"It was me stepping in," Mio says simply. Her voice is calm. Even. But her chest feels tight. "Because it was wrong."

Naya looks away.

The tension stretches between them. Thin as thread. Brittle as glass.

Mio inhales. Her voice drops. "I just... didn't like seeing that."

Naya's gaze drops.

The silence is heavy. Mio opens her mouth to ask. To say something. Anything.

But Naya beats her to it.

"Look," Naya says. Her voice is quieter now. Tired. "I didn't mean to snap at you."

The words come out clumsy. Rushed. Too casual for how heavy the air feels between them.

Mio nods. Slow. "Okay."

Naya glances at her but doesn't hold the gaze. Her hand brushes through her hair again, catching on a knot. She winces. Mutters something under her breath. Straightens.

"I've got to go," she says suddenly.

Mio's heart sinks. "Now?"

"Yeah." Naya adjusts the strap of her bag. She doesn't look at Mio. "I have something I need to do."

Mio feels her chest tighten. Her grip on the notebook tightens against her ribs. "Oh," she says. Her voice is small. "Okay."

Naya glances at her. Then away. There's a hesitation. Mio thinks, for a moment, that she might say something.

But Naya doesn't. She nods instead, almost imperceptibly. Almost to herself.

"I'll... see you later."

Before Mio can respond—before she can do anything—Naya is already turning. Her steps are brisk but uneven, as if she can't decide whether she's rushing somewhere or just trying to escape.

Mio watches her, rooted to the spot. Her notebook feels heavy in her hand, its edges pressing into her palm. Her bag slips off her shoulder, but she doesn't adjust it.

She doesn't move. Doesn't know what to do. What to think.

The hallway is emptier now. The background noise hums faintly, like it's coming from somewhere far away.

But it feels quieter. Quieter than it should be.

Mio swallows. Her throat feels tight.

What did I do wrong?

Her mind replays the last few minutes. Naya's sharp tone. The way she wouldn't quite meet Mio's eyes. Her apology—forced, not quite sincere.

Mio grips her notebook tighter.

They'd been talking more. Chatting after practice. About pedals. About music. About everything and nothing.

Mio had thought—

She stops herself.

Her jaw clenches, her grip on her notebook firm enough to crease the cover. She doesn't want to finish that thought.

For once, she'd thought she'd made a friend. A real friend. Not the kind that came with Ritsu, or Yui, or Mugi. Not one she inherited. Not one born of proximity or convenience.

Just hers.

And now...

Now, it feels like she's ruined it.

Her chest aches. Her breath shudders as she exhales, trying to steady herself.

Maybe she'd read too much into it. Tried too hard. Maybe—

Maybe it was her fault.

Mio exhales sharply, shaking her head. No. She doesn't want to do this here. Not now.

Her bag feels heavier. She adjusts it on her shoulder, steps forward, slow and mechanical. The sound of her shoes echoes faintly in the empty hall.

It wasn't pity, she wants to say to Naya. It wasn't.

But Naya isn't here anymore.

And even if she was, Mio isn't sure Naya would believe her.

At the vending machine, she stops. Stares at it blankly. Her reflection stares back, distorted in the scratched plastic.

Her chest feels hollow.

She counts her breaths, the way she counted her steps earlier.

One.

Two.

Three.

It doesn't help.

The hallway stretches out before her, long and quiet and dim.

And there she is.

Alone.

Mio presses her lips together, swallows down the lump in her throat, and keeps walking.

Notes:

Poor Mio. Writing conflict is not my forte—it makes me sad lol.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter, though, because it's probably the one I've had the most fun writing. Especially the part where I got to come up with names for the band and the pedals. Bad puns are the best. The "Maroon 3" pun? My magnum opus. My legacy. Honestly, I should retire after that.

First off, the "Finnish band dressed like monsters" that Naya mentions? Obviously, Lordi. Eurovision winners of 2006 and absolute legends. And yes, Azerbaijan won Eurovision 2011 while Spain ranked 23rd out of 25. Oof.

Funny thing: as my beta pointed out, "Riot" in Ruby Riot is an anagram for "trio." I didn't even plan that, I swear.

About Ho-Kago Tea Time, the names I mentioned here were actually proposed in the series. There are also some ridiculously silly names that I didn't include. So high school. They were too adorable for their own good.

I hope I managed to capture Mio's excitement about making a friend on her own because, let's be honest, this never happens in canon. Ritsu is the one who approaches her as a kid, Ritsu is there when Mugi shows up, and the three of them are together when Yui appears. Later, all four meet Azusa. Even Nodoka approaches Mio first when she's in a different class.

In the manga, Mio tries to talk to Sachi when she realizes they share classes but ends up thinking she's such a coward. Later, though, she does feel like she made a friend on her own, which is honestly kind of sweet. So yeah, the idea of Mio stepping out of her shell to approach someone is kind of fascinating to me.

Oh, right—Mio did covet a Boss GT-10B multi-effects pedal in the series. This happens in Season 2, Episode 2, when the band makes money selling an old guitar, and Mio says she could buy a multi-effects pedal and an amp. The pedal is either the GT-10B or something that looks a lot like it.

Also, poor Kenji, lol. I feel like I neglect him sometimes. I really enjoy writing dialogue for Mio and Kenji, but the poor guy just can't catch a break.

And finally, yes, Mio's favorite food is Gâteau au Chocolat. She's fancy like that.

Anyway, thanks so much for reading if you've made it this far! I hope you're enjoying the story as much as I've enjoyed writing it. And if you feel like it, please leave kudos and/or a comment—they make my day!

Thanks again to Jules (tsuki_anne) for beta reading—you're the MVP, as always. <3

And that’s it for my rambling. Until next time!

Chapter 10: I Am Very Far

Summary:

Mio navigates distance and tension.

Notes:

Two months into this fic! Mega-yay!

I hope you're having a fantastic holiday season! Thanks so much for reading <3

And as always, a huge thank-you to Jules (tsuki_anne) for being the MVP of betas! :)

I Am Very Far, by Okkervil River, was released on May 10, 2011.

May 25, 2011

It's loud in the clubroom.

Not unbearable, not over the top, but a noise that layers and folds. Mio feels it. Around her. Over her. Through her.

It makes her want to fold in on herself, but she doesn't. She keeps her notebook open on her lap, pen poised, pretending she's writing.

She isn't.

She's been staring at the same page for ten minutes. Maybe longer. Scribbled lines of lyrics trail off into nothing. A single chord progression written in the corner, incomplete.

"You're off today."

Mio glances up, pen still poised mid-word.

Across the room, Liz's voice carries over the noise, direct and firm. She stands by Naya, arms crossed, an eyebrow raised. Naya holds her bass, the wristband for picks loose around her wrist. A pick dangles from her fingers, another lies on the floor by her feet.

"I know," Naya mutters.

Liz raises her brow higher. "Your picks keep falling out."

"I know," Naya repeats.

"I mean, it's fine, but... you're dropping a lot more picks than usual. Something up?"

"I'm fine." Naya brushes her bangs back, her voice flat.

"Are you sure?" Liz presses. "You seem absent. Like your head's somewhere else."

Across the room, Ritsu snorts. "Maybe it's a bassist thing," she jokes. "Mio's been spaced out all practice too."

"I am not spacing out," Mio says immediately.

"Oh, really?" Ritsu grins. "What were you just writing?"

Mio looks down. The page is blank except for a single line of scribbles. Half-formed lyrics that lead nowhere. She slams the notebook shut, her cheeks heating under the room's collective gaze.

Ayame snickers. "Watch out, Sachi. It might be contagious."

Sachi smirks. "I'll keep my distance."

The room erupts in laughter, light and easy. Mio tries to join in, managing a small smile. But her chest feels tight.

Her gaze flicks to Naya.

Naya laughs along, but it's forced. Tight. She fiddles with her wristband, tugging it tighter, then looser. Her movements are almost mechanical.

"Bad night's sleep?" Liz guesses.

"Something like that," Naya replies dryly.

"Oh, was there another Eurovision?" Ayame jokes.

Naya's laugh is quick. Automatic. "No, not this time."

Mio knows that laugh. It's the same laugh Naya used yesterday in the hallway. Quiet. Forced. Not the real one.

She watches, silent. Unsure. Terrified she's already lost the fragile thing they'd started to build.

She looks down at her notebook again and opens it, pretending to write. But the pen doesn't move.

What is it?

Why?

Is she angry? At her? At... everything?

She doesn't know. She can't know.

Because Naya's looking away, her fingers fiddling with her bass strap, her shoulders taut. She doesn't look angry, but she doesn't look okay either. She's staring at her bass like it holds the answer to a question she can't quite articulate.

She's not fine. Mio knows it. But Mio doesn't know why.

Her chest feels hollow as she stares down at her notebook, at the mess of ink and scribbled-out lines. She's not sure what she's writing anymore. Not sure if it even matters.

Her mind is elsewhere.

Yesterday.

The hallway. The conversation. Naya's sharp tone. Her hurried departure.

She's angry with me.

The thought stings more than Mio expects. More than she wants to admit. Her grip tightens on the notebook in her lap.

Naya glances up. Their eyes meet briefly before Naya looks away quickly.

Mio's chest tightens.

She's definitely angry.

And it's Mio's fault.

She doesn't know what to do with that. With the weight of that thought  coiling in her stomach, twisting tighter with every breath.

Naya reaches for her water bottle, knocking it over but catching it before it hits the floor. Her movements are stiff, unsteady.

Liz leans over, her voice low, laced with concern. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah." Naya nods, half-hearted. "Just tired."

"Maybe take a break?" Liz suggests. "We can pause rehearsal if you need."

"I'm fine," Naya insists.

Liz doesn't look convinced. Neither does Mio. Her fingers tighten around the pen in her hand, her thoughts blurring.

Say something.

Do something.

Anything.

But her mouth stays shut, the words lodged in her throat, a heavy, immovable weight.

Naya catches her looking. Their eyes meet again, just a second. Mio's breath catches. She looks away.

She's angry, Mio tells herself. Because of yesterday. Because I overstepped. Because I—

She doesn't let the thought finish.

Naya's mad. She's sure of it. Mad about yesterday. Mad about Mio stepping in. Intervening when she shouldn't have.

Yesterday was a mistake.

She'd thought she was helping. Thought stepping in was the right thing to do. The only thing to do. Because seeing Naya laugh like that—forced, hollow—had twisted something inside her.

She thought she was helping, but maybe it wasn't help. Maybe it was pity.

Now Naya's mad. And Mio doesn't know how to fix it.

Across the room, Naya shifts again. Her pick falls again. Liz grabs it and says something, but Naya waves it off with a forced grin. Her wristband slips lower, just a little, and she adjusts it. Liz says something else—Mio doesn't catch what—but Naya shakes her head, dismissive. Her voice is too quiet to hear.

Mio's chest feels heavy. Her eyes drop back to her notebook. Her pen presses harder against the page. A line forms. Then another. Half-formed lyrics. Scribbles. Nothing that makes sense.

She exhales sharply, closing the notebook again.

Across the room, Naya laughs at something Liz says. It's light, casual. Real this time.

Mio's chest tightens again, but she doesn't look up this time. She just presses her notebook tighter to her lap and listens. To the noise. To the music.

To the laugh that isn't for her.

---

The room is still. Quiet, in the way that practice rooms are. A piano, well-tuned, waits. A metronome sits on the windowsill, forgotten but ready. The faint scuff of shoes on polished floors. The distant hum of voices through thin walls.

Mio sits at the piano bench. Back straight. Hands resting lightly on the keys. Fingers curled just enough.

"Good posture," her teacher says, standing nearby, arms crossed, watching.

Mio nods.

"When you're ready."

Another nod. A breath in. A breath out. Mio begins.

She presses the keys gently, almost uncertainly. A soft, hesitant melody drifts into the room, uneven and stilted.

The sound isn't quite there yet, but she keeps going. Her fingers stumble at first, the notes jagged and disconnected. She grimaces, but as Mio moves through the piece, her hands find the rhythm. The notes flow more naturally. Her fingers glide across the keys with growing confidence.

"Good," her teacher says. "Your phrasing is better this week."

Mio doesn't look up. Her hands keep moving.

Then—a chord. Wrong. Jarring. She winces but keeps going.

By the time she finishes, the final note hangs in the air, a beat longer than it should. The room feels suspended.

The teacher breaks the silence, smiling. "Better."

Mio's hands fall to her lap. "Really?"

"Really," the teacher replies firmly. "Your flow is much smoother now. Less jumping between notes. It's obvious you've been practicing."

Mio glances at her hands. Her wrists feel stiff. Too high? Too low? She adjusts them. The movement feels awkward.

"Your hands are fine," the teacher says, as if reading her mind. "The notes sound cleaner. You're improving."

Mio's lips twitch upward. Barely.

"I still can't keep up with the rhythm," she mutters. "And solfège is—" She shakes her head. "It's hard."

"It is hard," the teacher agrees. "But you're getting there. Bit by bit."

Gentle words. Words that Mio struggles to believe.

"You've only been playing for, what, two months?" the teacher asks.

Mio nods.

"Then be gentle with yourself."

Gentle.

The word feels foreign. Like it doesn't quite fit her.

"Progress takes time," the teacher adds. "And you're already ahead of where most beginners are by now." She pauses and smiles again. "Remember—flow, not jump. You've been applying that to the keys, haven't you?"

Mio nods again.

"Then apply it to other things as well. You don't need to rush. Let the music come to you."

Mio glances at the sheet music on the stand. The notes blur for a second, their black curves and lines merging, almost like they're taunting her.

She exhales. Presses another key. This time, the sound feels steadier.

"Good," her teacher says again.

Mio waits for the follow-up. She knows it's coming.

"How's the composition coming along?" the teacher asks.

The question makes her hands still. Makes her body still.

"I have some lyrics," she says. "And chords. But... not much else."

The teacher nods, waiting.

"I'm afraid I won't be able to play it," Mio adds. "When the time comes. For the end-of-year showcase."

"Don't worry about that yet."

Mio frowns. "But—"

"You don't have to compose a masterpiece." The teacher's voice is firm. Gentle, but firm. "That's not the point. The point is to create, to let loose. To find your voice on the piano. The rest will follow."

Mio looks at her, uncertain.

"I have a small project for you. Something to study." The teacher hands Mio a sheet of paper. Mio's fingers brush against the smooth surface as she takes it.

"Chopin?" she reads aloud.

"Waltz in A minor, B. 150, Op. Posth.," the teacher confirms. "It's a beautiful piece. Study it. Play it. Let it inspire you. Not just for technique, but for emotion."

Mio looks down at the sheet. The notes seem to blur together for a moment before coming into focus.

"I'll try."

"That's all I ask."

Mio looks up, meeting her teacher's eyes. There's warmth there. Confidence. It's reassuring in a way she didn't realize she needed.

"Thank you."

The teacher smiles one last time before turning away. "Same time next week," she calls over her shoulder as she leaves the room.

Mio stays seated for a moment, the sheet music still in her hands. The notes still dancing in her mind.

---

May 26, 2011

It's the eight pedal session.

The last Thursday in May, Mio realises.

Actually, she's probably been counting them more diligently than necessary. But the number sits heavy in her chest, and she can't help it.

Because today is different.

The atmosphere is tense. The silence is awkward. The weight of it all is strained. The quiet tension hums between them.

Mio can't ignore it.

It's been like this since that day. Since Naya asked if Mio really wanted to continue with these sessions, and Mio—feeling guilty and uncertain—said yes. Said it was fine. Said only if Naya wanted.

And Naya said yes. No problem.

But here they are, not even knowing how to talk to each other.

Mio's heart aches. She was so sure they were friends. So sure. She thought she'd found someone, a friend on her own. And now, she's terrified she's ruined it. Her mistakes lodged between them, impossible to remove.

She steps forward, carefully, and positions herself beside Naya. Close enough to feel her presence, but not so close that it feels natural. Not anymore.

The closeness is strained now.

She kneels, her fingers brushing against the cold metal of the pedal. The red LED flickers on. She adjusts the knobs slowly, turning, testing.

Today, it's the fuzz. She didn't say why. And Naya didn't ask.

Mio's hands are steady. Her chest is anything but.

She doesn't look up. Doesn't know what to say. Naya doesn't either. She's there, on the other side of the pedalboard, kneeling, her bass resting on one leg. The other knee bounces. Her movements are restless, yet mechanical. Her fingers tug at the bass strap, tightening it, loosening it, tightening it again.

The rhythm of it unsettles Mio in a way she can't name.

She adjusts another knob. Just slightly.

"You're good to go?" Naya's voice breaks the silence.  Measured, like she's asking something else entirely.

Mio glances up briefly and meets her eyes for half a second. Naya's watching her with an unreadable expression. Her shoulders are tight, her fingers restless against the neck of her bass. The pick taps the strings absently. A sound that doesn't fit.

Mio nods. "Yeah. If you are."

Naya nods back. "Cool. No problem."

But there is.

It hangs there, between them. Heavy. Unspoken.

Mio's stomach twists. This was supposed to be easy. Familiar. They'd done this nine times before.

But now...

Mio presses her foot to the fuzz pedal. Her fingers find the strings automatically. Muscle memory. A rhythm, a tone, a note that doesn't feel quite right—too much distortion. She adjusts the settings slightly and tries again. The fuzz crackles, abrasive. She adjusts and plucks another note. It's harsh, distorted. She grimaces and adjusts the volume.

Her attempt to capture Naya's sound—her specific, bright-aggressive tone—falls flat. The fuzz is too muddy, not like Naya at all.

She tries again.

And again.

And again.

Nothing feels right.

Naya tilts her head. "That's different from what you usually go for," she says.

Mio forces a small laugh. "I just... wanted to see if I could get your sound."

Naya blinks, puzzled. "But you said you didn't want to sound like me."

Mio taps the fuzz pedal again with her toe. "I know. I guess I just..." Her voice trails off.

She doesn't know how to explain that she's trying to bridge the gap. That maybe, if she can understand Naya's sound, she can understand Naya.

"I changed my mind. Or I just wanted to try. Maybe," she finishes.

Lame. Weak, even to her own ears.

"And?"

Mio hesitates. "I can't. Not really."

Naya straightens, crossing her arms. "Let me hear."

Mio's fingers hover over the strings. She breathes in, then out. She plays a short riff, practiced, precise. The notes are right, but... something's missing. She knows it. Naya knows it.

The sound fades. Mio looks up nervously.

Naya's expression softens, just a little. She leans forward, switches the fuzz pedal off. Steps on the compressor, then the chorus. Her movements are fluid and unhurried.

She picks up her bass.

"Listen," Naya says simply.

And she plays.

The first note rings out, clear and full, warm. It fills the room effortlessly, wrapping around the air like it belongs there. Like it's been waiting to exist.

The melody flows. Easy. Natural. Naya's fingers glide over the strings, her body moving with the rhythm, unthinking. Intuitive. Like breathing.

Mio knows the song.

It's Samidare 20 Love.

Mio watches, breath caught in her chest as Naya plays, each note ringing out with a confidence and ease that makes her heart ache.

Her song.

The bassline she'd written years ago, scribbled on sheet music during high school. Weeks back, Naya had asked for the tab. Mio had handed it over, unsure if she'd even bother to learn it.

But Naya learned it. Every note.

She's playing it now.

And she knows it by heart.

Mio's chest tightens. Something swells inside her chest, fragile and overwhelming. Naya learned her song. Naya likes it. Naya’s playing it on her own, making it hers in a way Mio never expected. Naya isn't angry enough to abandon her music.

But Naya's style is different. Mio hears it, feels it. Familiar notes, reshaped. Naya's attack is sharper, her phrasing bolder, more aggressive. The chorus pedal shimmers beneath Naya’s touch, adding depth and texture. The compressor smooths it all out, balancing, weaving everything together.

It's still Mio's song, but...

It isn't.

Naya looks up, still playing, her gaze locking with Mio's.

"See?" she says, her fingers never missing a beat. "I'm using your line, your tabs, your exact notes. But I don't sound like you. I can't. I'm me."

Mio nods.

"You memorized it," she murmurs. Her voice feels small.

Naya smiles. It's shy and quiet. "I love it. I like it a lot. I play it sometimes, you know. When I'm warming up."

Mio wants to say something, but the words stick. She wants to say that it means a lot, that Naya learned it, that Naya kept playing it. But she stays silent.

Naya finishes the phrase andlets the last note fade. 

"I try to play it like you," Naya says, setting her bass down. "But it's not the same. It won't be. My style's different. Yours is more... precise. Gentle"

She pauses, looking at Mio, then quickly averting her gaze. Her hands fiddle with the chorus pedal's knob.

Mio just nods.

"It's... it's not about the pedals. It's about the player. You could copy my setup exactly—same bass, same strings, same effects—and still sound like yourself. And I could learn your lines, your songs, and I'd still sound like Naya Rivera, not Akiyama Mio."

Mio watches her fingers tap restlessly against the compressor. Naya seems nervous, hesitant.

"And your style," Naya adds, "I think a compressor and chorus would suit you. Like Sachi's setup. It would let your notes ring clearer, more even. It would highlight the subtlety in your playing." She winces as she speaks, as if worried Mio will misunderstand. "I'm not saying you can't do anything else, just that... from what I've heard, it would bring out your strengths."

Mio blinks.

"My strengths?" she echoes.

Naya nods, but her eyes stay focused on the pedal. "Your lines are melodic. They have this warmth. A chorus would make them shimmer. A compressor would keep them steady. Balanced. It's just... something I thought."

"I see."

Naya frowns at the floor, picking at the edge of her pedal.

"And even if we use the same pedals," she says, her voice quieter now, "our touch is different. Our attack. Our phrasing. It's not—" She stops, her shoulders hunching. She's hesitant. Careful. "It's impossible to copy someone's feel. Their... their fingerprint," Naya finishes, her voice softer still.

Mio watches her. The way her fingers tap restlessly against the compressor, how her bangs fall back into place when she runs a hand through her hair. Mio can see the thought forming behind Naya's eyes, quiet and unsure.

"Because it's... not just about the pedal. Or the bass," Naya starts again, voice careful, halting. "It's about who plays it."

Mio doesn't respond right away. Instead, she exhales, soft and steady, searching for something that might make sense of Naya's words. "I... I think I get it," she says quietly, though she doesn't. Not entirely.

Naya's shoulders tighten. Mio notices.

Naya shakes her head, frowning. "No. I'm not explaining it well." She mutters, "It's my fault." Her gaze drops to the floor, her voice heavy with frustration. "I'm sorry."

Mio's stomach twists. She hates this feeling. This... space between them. The unspoken distance. She thinks of last week, of the nagging feeling she couldn't shake—that maybe Naya was angry.

Is she still angry? Or is it herself she's angry at now? Mio isn't sure.

She shifts closer, careful. Always careful. "No, it's not your fault," she says, forcing a small smile that doesn't feel right. "I'm the one who doesn't understand."

Naya looks up, eyes earnest, brow creased. "No, that's not it," she insists, her voice sharper than before, though she softens again. "I'm just bad at explaining. I... I don't know how to say it." Her shoulders drop, and she mutters, "I'm sorry."

Mio nods. She stares at the floor, at the bass resting across her lap. At nothing, really.

She wants to say something, but the words don't come.

Not thanks. Not I'm sorry. Not are you mad at me?

They're all tangled up inside her—twisted, knotted—caught somewhere between her mind and her tongue.

"I'm not saying you can never get what you want," Naya says, breaking the silence. Her voice stumbles, but she pushes on. "Just that... even with the same gear, we won't sound the same. Because we're different players. Different people. It's not—" She stops. Exhales sharply. "I'm not good at explaining this."

She stops again. The silence stretches.

Mio nods slowly, her fingers finding the strings. She plays a note on her bass. The fuzz pedal growls beneath her fingertips. It doesn't sound like Naya.

It sounds like her.

Or maybe it doesn't even sound like that. She's not sure anymore.

Naya watches her, eyes flicking to her fingers, the pedal, then back again.

"I didn't mean to imply you can't get my sound," Naya says, hesitating. "Or that you're not good enough. That's not it. I just..." Her voice trails off, faltering. "I mean—"

"I get it," Mio says, cutting her off.

Naya blinks.

Her lips part slightly, like she might smile. But instead, she grimaces. "I'm messing it up," she mutters.

Mio adjusts the fuzz pedal again. Testing. Another note, another sound that isn't Naya's.

It never will be.

And somehow, she feels oddly relieved about that.

But silence settles, heavy and thick.

Mio sighs, wanting to fix this, to say something that will close the distance, that will bring them back to how it used to be, to them. But she doesn't know how.

She plucks another note. The sound lingers for a moment before fading into quiet. Naya shifts beside her. Mio doesn't look up.

"Wait," Naya says suddenly.

Mio looks up.

"I have an idea."

Mio tilts her head, curious. "What is it?"

"Can I borrow your notebook?" Naya asks.

Mio blinks. Her notebook. Her notebook. One of the most personal, sacred things she owns.

"If you don't mind," Naya adds quickly. "I'm just saying—it's right there, right at hand." Naya gestures vaguely at the notebook, which rests on the floor between them. "But I can grab mine from my bag—"

"No." Mio cuts in. Her voice is soft but immediate. "No, um—sure," she says, managing to keep her tone even. "I don't mind."

She leans forward to pick it up.

And then she sees it.

The list.

The list of bands.

Bands Naya mentioned. Songs she hummed under her breath. Band names printed on her worn tees. A record of Naya, stitched together with pen and ink.

It's there, sitting on the page. Open.

It has been open on that page all along.

Mio's heart hammers. A relentless, uneven rhythm against her ribs.

What do I say? What do I do?

She sneaks a glance at Naya. Still calm, still waiting.

Mio moves quickly, grabbing the notebook and flipping it shut with a snap. Too loud. Her hand clenches the cover, as if holding it closed will somehow keep everything inside—hidden.

But what if Naya saw?

She can't have seen.

... Right?

Act casual. Just act casual.

She holds the notebook out. Her hand is steady. Her smile? Not steady, but tight. Forced. "Here."

Naya reaches for it. Mio's fingers linger, brushing against the cover, reluctant, hesitant. But she lets go, somehow.

"Thanks." Naya takes it casually, thoughtlessly.

Mio fights the urge to check her face. Her expression. Anything that might give her away.

Neutral. Cool. Be neutral and cool.

As if the list doesn't exist. As if she hasn't been secretly jotting down Naya's music tastes. As if she's not hyperaware of every second that ticks by.

Naya opens the notebook and flips to a random page. She picks up her pen.

Stops.

Frowns.

Tilts her head.

Mio freezes. Waiting. Watching. The seconds stretch thin. Naya's gaze stays on the page, but she doesn't flip through. She doesn't react.

She hasn't seen. She can't have seen.

But Mio's stomach twists anyway.

"Uh, wait..."

Naya's voice is casual, smooth.

Mio's heart drops. Their eyes meet.

She's seen it. Mio's sure of it now.

She's seen it, and now she's going to ask.

Why is it there? Why is she writing everything down? Is she stalking her? Obsessed? Another novelty collector—someone fascinated by 'the foreigner.'

Mio's throat tightens.

Naya holds the notebook out.

Here it is. The moment Mio loses her.

"Write something, please," Naya says.

Mio blinks. "Write something?"

"Your name," Naya adds. "Write your name. Please."

Mio stares at her. Then she takes her notebook back, the pen, and looks at a blank page. The pen hovers.

Her hand moves, the strokes smooth, familiar, practiced.

澪
Mio

A part of her.

She looks up. Naya is leaning closer, her emerald eyes warm, curious.

"That's so pretty," Naya says.

Mio feels the heat rising in her cheeks. "It's just my name."

"But your name is pretty. And the way you write it," Naya's finger brushes lightly against the kanji on the page. "This is unusual, isn't it? The way you write it? It means... waterway?"

Mio nods. "A channel. A path for water to flow."

Naya straightens, a laugh slipping from her lips, light and effortless. Mio hadn't realized how much she'd missed that laugh.

"Rivera," Naya says, tapping her chest. "My last name means 'riverbank.'"

Mio's eyes widen.

"We match," Naya grins, her smile widening. "Kind of."

"Really?" Mio's lips twitch into a small smile. "That's... kind of funny."

"Right?" Naya laughs again. "Okay, okay. But back to my point. Can you lend me the pen, please?"

Mio hands it over.

Naya clicks it open, lowers it to the notebook, and writes the same kanji:

澪
Mio

Her strokes are bold and uneven. Clumsy.

She holds up the notebook for Mio to see.

"Look."

Mio does, her gaze flicking between the two versions of the kanji. Her own strokes: clean, fluid, precise, delicate. Naya's: heavier, bold, awkward in places.

"It's clumsy," Naya says, her tone almost apologetic. "Same pen. Same notebook. Same kanji. But—" She gestures to the page, her hand hesitating over Mio's name, "Yours is... beautiful. More precise. Fluid, delicate. Mine's... uh, well. Messy. Uncertain. Kind of ugly, if I'm honest."

"It's not ugly," Mio murmurs.

Naya shrugs. "Point is, they're different. But that's because this isn't my language. It's yours. And even if I practiced forever, I wouldn't write it the way you do." She pauses, looking at Mio. "Because it's not just about skill. It's about who we are. You're you. I'm me. That's what comes through."

Mio looks at her, waiting.

Naya's brow furrows slightly as she continues, "It's about you. And me. You're clean, fluid, precise, delicate. I'm..." She gestures vaguely at the messier kanji. "This."

Mio's lips curve faintly. "You're saying my handwriting is better."

"Yes. Absolutely." Naya chuckles, the sound soft. "And that's the point. Even if I practiced a thousand times, I'd never write it exactly like you. Because I'm not you."

Mio's gaze drifts back to the notebook. Her name. Twice.

The same. But different.

Naya gestures toward the pedals, her voice quieter now. "It's like that. Same tool. Same instrument. But you'll never sound exactly like me. And I'll never sound exactly like you. And that's okay."

Mio nods.

"But..." Naya hesitates, her brow furrowing deeper as she searches for words. Her lips press together briefly before continuing, "I don't know if I'm explaining this right."

Mio looks at her again, the corners of her mouth lifting just slightly. "You are."

Naya's shoulders relax. She exhales, long and quiet. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Mio's gaze drops to the pedal again, then back to the notebook. "It makes sense."

Naya exhales another breath, this one more like relief. "Good. For a second, I thought I was just rambling."

"You were," Mio says softly, daringly. "But it was the kind of rambling that makes sense."

Naya laughs. Unfiltered. Unguarded.

It's nice.

"I'll take that as a compliment," she says, her grin still lingering.

Mio nods, her gaze trailing back to the notebook.

The two versions of her name sit side by side. A quiet harmony of differences.

Mio picks up the pen again and writes another word.

河
River

Naya watches her, eyes softening, lips tugging into a small smile.

But just that.

Mio sees it. The way Naya's gaze drops. The way the smile falters and fades. A moment of hesitation. A flicker of something unspoken.

Regret?

Naya lowers her eyes.

Mio's heart sinks.

She thought she was getting it. Thought they were okay. But it seems she wasn't.

And the session ends with a tension that Mio doesn't fully understand.

She gathers her things, methodical. Her focus fixed on the zipper of her bag, on the angle of her bass case's strap. She tries to push the questions away, but her mind spins relentlessly.

What did I do wrong?

Her thoughts spiral, replaying the entire session, dissecting every look, every word.

Naya's mad at me.

She replays moments from before, snippets of their friendship. Their quiet jokes and shared experiments with chords and pedals. Naya's laugh from two weeks ago,her voice calling Mio's name during a tricky rhythm,her grin when their sounds blended perfectly, like a single thread.

They used to joke so easily, banter back and forth, laughing for real.

But today felt different. Wrong.

Mio replays it all, again and again, searching for the moment it all went sour. But nothing comes clear.

She wants that back. She wants to fix whatever's wrong, to make amends if she has to.

The hallway is too quiet. Her shoes click against the polished floor. She tries to focus on the sound, to anchor herself.

It doesn't work.

Her thoughts pull her back to Naya's laughter. To their pedal sessions. To the way Naya's voice rises when she talks about music, excited and alive.

Mio squeezes her eyes shut.

I ruined it.

Her pace quickens.

And then—

A touch.

Light. Gentle. Warm.

She freezes mid-step.

It's careful, just a light pressure—just enough to make her stop, enough to make her blink and turn.

She meets Naya's green eyes.

One hand resting carefully on her forearm, like Naya knows exactly how fragile she feels. Like Naya knows she might break.

But Mio doesn't flinch. Not from her. She doesn't pull away, even though the touch sends that strange, unfamiliar warmth coursing through her veins. Warmth that spreads where their skin meets.

Naya's holding something.

Mio's notebook.

Her eyes widen. She forgot it. She forgot it completely.

"I—I was calling you," Naya says, pulling her hand back now that Mio's looking. "You left this behind."

"Oh." Her voice comes out too small. She clears her throat. "Thank you. I—I didn't hear you."

Naya studies her. Her eyes are steady and calm. Maybe a little concerned.

"I know you're not... the touchy type," Naya says, hesitant. "But you were distracted. I had to... well, I had to get your attention somehow. I'm sorry if it—if it bothered you."

The touch didn't bother her. Not at all. It felt... nice. Warm. Safe.

Mio doesn't say that, but the thought lingers in the air between them.

"No, it's fine," she says instead, clutching the notebook to her chest. "Really."

Naya nods then pauses, her eyes searching Mio's face. Like she wants to say more. Like there's something on the tip of her tongue.

But she doesn't. She just smiles, small and kind.

"See you tomorrow."

She turns and walks away, her footsteps fading into the quiet.

Mio stands there, notebook pressed against her chest, heart unsteady, mind buzzing. Questions swirl.

The warmth of Naya's hand stays.

It stays with her all the way back to her room.

---

May 27, 2011

Mio sits across from Kenji in a small café, the warm hum of conversation and the soft clatter of cups filling the air. The table between them is modestly cluttered—brochures, folded maps, and a shared notebook spread out in no particular order. Outside, sunlight filters through the windows, casting faint patterns on their drinks. Kenji's coffee sits untouched, a faint swirl of steam rising lazily from the cup. Mio's tea, a light amber color, has already lost its heat, but she doesn't seem to notice.

Their conversation had flowed easily earlier—banter about classes, anecdotes about friends, even a playful debate about the best local pastries. But now, the mood has shifted, the moment Kenji brought up the trip.

"Here," he says, unfolding a map and tracing one of the routes with his finger. "This looks nice." He taps a small dot. "Hakone. The hot springs. The scenery... Relaxing, don't you think?"

Mio nods, her fingers lightly gripping her teacup. "Yeah, it sounds peaceful."

Peaceful. A word to fill the space.

Kenji doesn't look up, his attention still fixed on the map. His finger glides along a dotted line. "And it's close," he continues, his voice light but careful. "Not too far from here. Just a couple of hours by train."

"Mm." Mio's gaze drops to the brochure she brought with her, her eyes skimming over images of serene landscapes and tranquil hot springs. But the colors blur. The words dissolve.

Kenji pauses. His finger stills. "I think we could use that," he says softly. "Some time to just... be together. Away from everything else."

Mio lifts her gaze to him, meeting his earnest expression.

"Yeah," she says after a beat, her voice measured. "It'll be a good break."

Kenji smiles, but there's something else there—something quieter, something that lingers at the edges of his expression. A longing.

"Maybe we can finally catch up. You know," he says with a small laugh, "without the club, or classes. Or... everything else in the way."

Mio tilts her head. "Catch up?"

"Yeah. Like... us." He hesitates. "It feels like we've been stuck on the surface lately."

Her chest tightens at his words. Her fingers trace a faint circle on the rim of her cup.

"We're... close, aren't we?"

Kenji nods, but the small smile he gives doesn't quite reach his eyes. "But it's different," he says slowly. "You know what I mean, right?"

Her hand drifts to one of the brochures on the table, folding its edge slightly, creating a faint crease in the glossy paper.

"Anyway," he says, leaning back in his seat, "I just thought it'd be nice. To have some time. Just us."

Mio nods again, her gaze flicking to the brochure in her hand. She smooths the crease she's made. "It will be."

Kenji smiles. "I'm looking forward to it."

There's something else in his eyes now. A sadness.

"I just... I just miss being closer. Miss you," he says. His voice is quiet, like a confession. "I miss us."

His voice is low, careful, as though he's afraid of breaking the moment.

The words settle heavily between them. Unavoidable. Mio wants to answer, to reach for something that might close the gap she feels between them, but the words won't come.

What comes instead is the sting. The guilt. Maybe that's what the butterflies in the stomach were all along.

She glances down at the brochures again. Her thumb brushes the edge of a page, the sharpness barely registering. The trip takes shape in her mind—Hakone. Hot springs. Quiet dinners. Serene walks through peaceful landscapes.

It should feel comforting. Romantic. Like the kind of scene she's always envisioned, dreamed of, in the stories she reads and the lyrics she writes. A perfect love under a soft, blue sky, pink petals drifting like snow, holding hands in a setting that blurs around them because their eyes can only focus on each other. The world fading away because nothing else matters but the two of them.

That's how it should feel.

But it doesn't.

Unease twists faintly in her chest, coiling like smoke. She doesn't know why. Or maybe she does, but she won't let herself think it.

"Mio?" Kenji's voice pulls her back.

She blinks, looking up. His eyes search hers, gentle and steady.

"What do you think? July 29th to the 31st?" he asks, gesturing to the calendar he's pulled from his bag.

"Oh." Her gaze drops to the small red circles marking the weekends. "That works."

"Okay," Kenji says with a faint smile. "Let's plan for that, then."

She forces a small smile in return, one she hopes looks genuine. "Yeah. Let's do it."

Kenji's smile widens, his eyes lighting up with quiet gratitude. "It's going to be good. Just us. I promise."

Mio nods, her fingers curling slightly around the edge of the brochure.

They lapse into silence, sipping their drinks. The café hums around them, warm and steady. Mio's gaze drifts to the window, where the pale May sunlight filters through the glass.

Kenji speaks again, his tone soft and easy as he sketches plans for their trip—places to visit, things to see, meals to share. Mio listens, nodding at the right moments, smiling when she should. But her mind is miles away.

The idea of Hakone plays out in her head again. The quiet. The serenity. And yet, she wonders if that quiet will be the loudest thing of all.

When they leave the café, Kenji glances at her. "Want to grab something else? Maybe dessert?"

Mio hesitates. "I... actually have some studying to do. Sorry."

"Oh." The disappointment in his voice is subtle, almost invisible. But she feels it. "Another time, then."

"Yeah," she says, forcing a small smile. "Another time."

They walk to the station, side by side, holding hands under a sky not quite blue. A little paler, like a blue that has been exposed to too much sun. The silence isn't uncomfortable, but it isn't easy, either.

At the platform, Kenji stops, turning to her with eyes that are steady. "I'm really looking forward to this trip, Mio."

She nods, her smile small but present. "Me too."

The train arrives, and they board, sitting side by side. Kenji continues to talk about the itinerary, his voice warm and hopeful. Mio listens, nodding and agreeing where she should, but her thoughts remain elsewhere.

When the train reaches her stop, Kenji leans in to give her a quick hug and a small squeeze on her arm. "See you soon," he says.

Mio watches him leave, his figure disappearing into the crowd.

It's cold for late May.

---

Later that evening, Mio sits at her desk.

Her fingers hover at the edge of her notebook, tracing faint grooves in the paper, over and over again. Her bass leans against the wall, silent. Untouched.

The dorm is still.

Outside, faint voices drift through the hallway. Muffled laughter. Footsteps. A door closing somewhere down the hall. But inside her room, only silence.

Her gaze falls to the page. Lyrics she had written earlier. Words that used to feel like something—now, they don't. She reads them, then reads them again. Each time slower, searching for meaning in lines that now blur into nothing.

Blank phrases. Empty thoughts.

She flips the page, stares at the next one.

Blank.

Her pencil hovers. Hovers. Then stills.

Kenji's voice drifts into her mind, unbidden.

"I just miss being closer."

Closer. The word hits her chest, sharp. Echoing. Faint, but impossible to ignore. Closer. Closer. Always closer.

What does that even mean?

Aren't they already close? They're dating. Isn't that close enough?

Mio knows it's not.

The way he said it—his voice, soft, longing. It made her stomach twist. Tight. Uncomfortable.

Her fingers pull away from the page, settling in her lap instead. Still. Unmoving. She stares at them. At hands that don't know what to do. What to hold. What to give.

Kenji has been patient. So patient. So kind. Warm in ways that she knows she doesn't deserve. He waits. Always waits.

And yet.

The guilt lingers. Heavy. Pressing. The kind that builds over time, slow and steady, until it feels unbearable.

She should feel lucky. Grateful. And she does. She knows she does. But at the same time—she doesn't know how to love him the way he loves her.

Maybe it's time. She told herself that at the start. Time will fix this. Time will help.

It hasn't.

And that thought scares her.

He's been so patient.

She repeats it like a mantra. Patient. Patient. Always patient. She owes him something for that, doesn't she? Something for waiting so long. For loving her so completely.

Her stomach churns.

Is that why she's still here? Because she feels like she owes him something?

The thought makes her feel worse. Selfish. Ugly. But she can't shake it. The more she turns it over in her mind, the sharper it feels. The edges catching, clinging, digging in.

If she can't give him what he deserves, then what is she doing? Why is she here?

The answer comes softly. Quiet. Almost like an apology.

Because I don't know what else to do.

The words settle in her chest like stones. They weigh her down.

Maybe the problem is her. Maybe she's too shy. Too reserved. Too broken. Maybe if she just tried harder—pushed through the discomfort—things would fall into place.

Her fingers curl slightly, tightening over her knee. She bites her lip.

Kenji deserves someone better. Someone who isn't afraid to let him in. Someone who can return his warmth without hesitation. Someone who isn't constantly holding back.

Not her.

But he's been so patient. So kind. So understanding. Never asking for more than she's ready to give. Never demanding. Never pressuring.

So why does it still feel like she's failing him?

Her throat feels tight. She swallows.

Relationships shouldn't feel like this. They shouldn't feel like a debt. Should they?

The question lingers, unsettling.

Her gaze drifts back to her notebook. Blank. Silent.

She exhales slowly. Maybe that's why she agreed to the trip. To give him something. Anything. Progress. A step forward. But is that fair? To him? To herself?

Her chest aches with the weight of it all. The guilt. The gratitude. The obligation. She's grateful for Kenji. She is. But the more she thinks about it, the more she wonders—

Am I confusing gratitude with love? Obligation with affection?

Her heart twists.

She cares for him. That much, she's certain of. But every time he leans in, every time he tries to close the gap between them, her body pulls away. Not because of him, but because of something she can't explain. Something buried deep, just out of reach.

He's been so good to me. And I keep pulling away.

The thought stabs at her.

She presses her palms to her face, frustrated.

Maybe it's her fault. Maybe she's not trying hard enough. Maybe if she stopped overthinking, stopped analyzing every little thing, she could be the girlfriend he deserves.

The thought leaves her hollow.

But he hasn't complained. He's never pushed me.

Kenji doesn't push. He waits. And waits. And waits.

How long can she let him wait before it becomes cruel?

The guilt settles deeper.

He deserves someone who can give him what he wants.

The words stab through her, sharp and unwelcome. They repeat themselves, like a scratchy record that won't stop until she hears the truth.

He deserves better.

The thought is small, but sharp enough to sting.

It lingers at the edges of her mind, weaving itself into the silence.

She stands suddenly, the chair scraping softly against the floor. She steps toward the window, arms crossed tightly over her chest. The campus lights glimmer faintly in the distance, blurred through the glass. The world feels far away from here. Detached. Like she's watching it through a screen.

Her reflection stares back at her—pale, tired, distant.

Why can't I feel it? Why can't I just want this?

She's tried. She has. Tried to give him the affection he gives so freely. Tried to want the things he wants. Tried to feel the spark she knows she's supposed to feel.

But the spark never comes.

Her gaze drops to her hands again, curled tightly in her sleeves.

She thinks about Kenji's hand brushing hers. The way she'd smiled—polite, almost obligatory. The way her fingers had stiffened beneath his touch. The quiet panic that followed. She remembers how subtly she'd pulled away. How he'd noticed.

He notices everything.

And yet, he never says a word.

He's waiting for me to figure this out. And I don't even know what I'm trying to figure out.

Her reflection blurs as tears sting her eyes. She blinks them away quickly, angrily. She doesn't have the right to cry over this. Not when she's the one pulling away. Not when she's the one breaking something he's tried so hard to hold together.

Her stomach twists.

She presses her forehead against the cool glass, her breath fogging it faintly.

Is it because she's shy? Because intimacy has always made her nervous?

Is it her? Is she broken?

Or is it something else?

It has to be me. I'm just broken.

Her mind drifts. To Kenji. To the warmth in his smile. To the way he said, I just miss us, like it was something fragile, precious.

And all she could do was nod. Because what else could she say? What else could she do but keep pretending?

She wants to be the girlfriend he deserves. She really does. The one who doesn't flinch when he leans in. The one who doesn't feel that heavy, suffocating weight every time he touches her.

She wants to want the kind of love Ritsu has with Taro. The one Mio herself has always believed in. The kind that's effortless, natural. The kind that sweeps you off your feet and makes your heart race.

The kind of love where time becomes a blur—sometimes inconsequential, other times unbearably significant. It fades into irrelevance when you're together, but looms unbearably heavy when it's time to say goodbye.

But she doesn't know if she's ever felt that. Not with Kenji. Not with anyone.

Maybe I'm just not good at this. At being in a relationship. At being... close.

Maybe love isn't something she deserves.

Her thoughts flicker briefly to another kind of touch. A different kind of closeness. The way Ritsu slings an arm around her shoulders, laughing like it's the easiest thing in the world. Yui's bear hugs, lingering just a second too long for Mio's taste but never feeling heavy. Mugi's hand brushing hers when she helps her at the piano, warm and delicate, unassuming.

And Naya's touch—her hand on her arm, so gentle, so sweet, as if she knew Mio was on the verge of breaking, ready to crumble at any moment.

Those touches don't feel heavy.

But with Kenji...

Every touch feels like something she has to endure. Something she has to brace herself for.

Is it because they're more intimate? More vulnerable? Because they're the preface to something Mio isn’t sure she is ready for? To being stripped bare in all her facets. To being seen, inside and out. Just as she is.

Just as she doesn't like herself.

She closes her eyes and presses harder against the glass.

Why can't I just let him in?

The question claws at her—raw, relentless.

Why can't I just be...

Normal?

The word feels jagged, bitter. It cuts her as soon as it surfaces, leaving behind a dull ache.

Her phone buzzes on the nightstand. She doesn't pick it up. Instead, she lies back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The knot in her chest tightens. Kenji's face flashes in her mind—his smile, his kindness, the way he looks at her like she's something precious.

Something he's waiting for.

I don't deserve that. Not when I can't give him the same in return.

Her thoughts spiral—loud, tangled. Too loud. Too tangled. She wants to silence them, bury them, run from them.

But they stay. The guilt stays.

When she finally steps back from the window, her chest feels heavier than before. She doesn't look at her reflection again.

Instead, she moves to her desk and picks up her pen.

The page stares back at her—blank. Accusatory.

She presses the pen to the paper, forcing her hand to move. Scribbles appear—shaky, uneven. Words she doesn't mean. Lines she doesn't feel. But she keeps writing.

Because the silence is worse.

The words blur together.

Mio closes her eyes. Her hands rest over her stomach. The quiet stretches on—heavy. Suffocating. For a moment, she wishes she could just disappear into it. Into the quiet. Into the nothingness.

But her mind doesn't let her.

She exhales, her gaze drifting back to the page. Still blank. Still accusing.

Kenji deserves someone who can give him what he needs. Someone who doesn't flinch or hesitate when he reaches out. Someone who can be present. Fully.

But isn't that supposed to be me?

The guilt twists. Mutates. Into sadness. Into frustration. Into anger. Not at Kenji. Not at anyone. At herself.

The blank page taunts her. She flips it. Then another. Faster. Stronger. Her hand shakes as she turns page after page, as if she wants to tear them out, to destroy the notebook, to rip apart the emptiness staring back at her.

She stops.

Tilts her head.

Unfamiliar handwriting is scrawled across the top of the page.

Mio blinks.

It's her list. The one with Naya's bands.

Her breath catches.

Another problem she doesn't know how to solve.

She stares at the page. Her stomach churns. Maybe it's better this way. Maybe she was wrong to even make the list. To be fascinated. To care. Maybe she thought she was being a friend, but maybe she was just another novelty collector, fascinated by 'the foreigner.'

But—

Her eyes narrow. The handwriting isn't hers. It's uneven. Clumsy. Heavier than hers, bold, awkward in places.

Her heart stops.

No.

Naya has seen her list.

Naya has added to her list.

Mio swallows. Slowly. Her hands tremble as she reads the words scrawled on the page.

"The Last Shadow Puppets – The Age of the Understatement. (Very Beatles-ish. You like The Beatles, right?)" 

Mio blinks again.

Yes, she likes The Beatles. But she only mentioned it in passing the day they met, if she remembers correctly.

Naya remembered that?

Her cheeks heat. Naya saw. Naya knows. She knows Mio's been taking notes on her music.

Mio's first instinct is to bury her face in her pillow and never come back.

Yet...

Naya didn't say anything. Didn't make fun of her. Didn't tease her. Didn't scold her. Naya stayed. She stayed by Mio's side, writing the kanji for Mio's name in her notebook. Laughing with her, as if she knew Mio missed her laughter, even though she doesn't deserve it.

Mio stares at the note again. Naya wrote it for her. A band. An album. Something Naya thinks Mio would like. Just for her.

Mio doesn't know if Naya is angry, annoyed, or indifferent. The only thing Mio knows is that Naya wanted her to hear this.

She reaches for her laptop and searches for the band. A supergroup—Alex Turner and Miles Kane.

The names sound familiar.

Alex Turner. Arctic Monkeys' frontman. Right.

Miles Kane...

"Do you know Miles Kane?" Naya's voice echoes in her head. "He's a good friend of Alex Turner. They have a band together. Their music reminds me of The Beatles. He released an album earlier this month."

That was during their fifth or sixth pedal session.

Mio checks her notes. Finds it. Colour of the Trap. She hasn't listened to it yet.

She will.

Her hands move again, searching. The Age of the Understatement.

Found it.

Her finger hovers over the play button. She hesitates. Listening to this feels... personal. Too personal. As if her secret isn't hers anymore.

But...

She presses play. And listens.

The sound floods her room, rich and lush. The strings swell, pulling her into their world.

It feels like a conversation between them, distant and intimate. A conversation she's only half a part of.

But at the meeting place, they're stuck in limbo.

Notes:

As always, thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! It wasn't originally going to end this way, but my beta suggested it and, well... why not? Angst. I'm usually more of a fluff enthusiast, but a little emotional suffering every now and then doesn't hurt. Well, okay, it does, but you get what I mean.

I love diving into Mio's introspective side. I know she comes from a pretty lighthearted anime, but all her different facets (even the ones played up for laughs) are so fascinating to explore. The perfect girl. The top student. The shy musician. The traditional beauty with body insecurities. The hopeless romantic. Honestly, isn't she just a walking therapy session waiting to happen? I think she's a really dynamic character who has so much potential in a more adult, nuanced story.

Anyway, I hope you're having a wonderful holiday season. Whether you celebrate or not, I'm wishing you health, peace, and lots of love in all its forms <3

See you next chapter! And of course, feel free to leave kudos and/or comments if you're in the mood—I love hearing your thoughts!

Once again, thank you, Jules (tsuki_anne), for being the best beta ever! :)

Chapter 11: I'm Still Here

Summary:

Mio cares more than she thought she would.

Notes:

Whenever you read this, I hope you're having an amazing holiday season and an even better New Year. Thank you so much for reading—it really makes my day! <3

And of course, huge thanks to Jules (tsuki_anne) for beta-ing this chapter and always being incredible!

I'm Still Here, by Dot Dot Curve :), was released on May 23, 2011.

May 28, 2011

The clubroom is lively. Too lively for a Saturday, Mio thinks.

In their corner, Onna Gumi is at it again—Akira's confident voice leading the charge, Sachi's bass humming below, and Ayame's energetic drumming spilling over everything. It's chaos. But it's coordinated. A rhythm only they could pull off. Mio glances at them briefly, though the sound is impossible to ignore.

Meanwhile, Ho-Kago Tea Time gathers around the table. Azusa, eyes narrowed, scans lyrics like they might bite her. Ritsu, slouched—because of course she is—making comments that only half make sense. Mugi smiles, as serene as ever, offering gentle suggestions. Yui, her face buried in a notebook, her tongue sticking out in concentration.

Mio keeps her notebook in front of her, pen idle in her hand. She's pretending to focus.

But it's hard to focus.

The noise. The movement.

She sighs.

"Ugh, I've got nothing," Ritsu groans, tossing her pen onto the table. It clatters, rolls, and stops at Mio's notebook.

Mio glares.

"You've got nothing because you haven't tried," Azusa says without looking up.

"Hey, I tried plenty!" Ritsu protests, pointing at the lone scribble on her page. A single word: Boom.

"Wow. Genius," Mio mutters—just enough to be heard.

"Oi, what's that supposed to mean?" Ritsu leans over, peering at Mio's notebook. "What've you got then, oh wise one?"

Mio flips the page before Ritsu can see. "It's not finished."

"Uh-huh." Ritsu smirks. "Bet it's just bunny doodles."

"It's not doodles!"

"I think doodles are nice!" Yui says brightly, holding up her notebook. "Look at mine!"

Ritsu leans closer. "Yui, what is that?"

"It's Mio-chan!" Yui beams.

Mio leans over, curious despite herself. She blinks. Stares. Blinks again.

"That's a stick figure, Yui."

Ritsu bursts into laughter. "She did get the hair right!"

"Focus!" Mio snaps. "We're supposed to be writing lyrics!"

"Mio-chan's in her genius mode!" Yui chirps. 

"I am not—" Mio stops herself. Why bother.

Mugi hums. "The stick figure is cute, though."

"Thank you, Mugi-chan!" Yui says, positively glowing.

Mugi giggles. Azusa sighs. This is normal. This is fine.

Then, the door creaks open.

Three figures enter.

Momo, flanked by Liz and Naya, approaches like a tiny general with her towering lieutenants. Her head is down, her steps are careful, and her face is pink. Liz strides easily, her usual charisma radiating even without a word. Naya follows, nonchalant, dropping her bag on the floor when they reach the table.

Ho-Kago Tea Time turns to them as one.

No one speaks.

Yui straightens in her chair, looking delighted. Mugi smiles, gentle as always. Azusa blinks. Ritsu leans back, smirking. Mio sets her pen down.

She meets Naya's gaze. Just for a moment.

I really liked the album.

She wishes Naya could read her mind.

But Naya looks down.

Mio sighs.

Liz nudges Momo forward. A light push, barely there.

Naya follows up with a quiet, "Go on."

Momo shuffles closer. Stops. Looks at the floor. At her hands. Anywhere but at them.

"What's this?" Ritsu asks, grinning. "You bringing us a tribute?"

Momo squeaks. Actually squeaks. Like a startled mouse.

Liz rolls her eyes. "She has a question."

Naya nods, smiling faintly. "Yeah. Go ahead, Momo."

Silence. Tense. Awkward.

Liz nudges Momo forward again. Momo stumbles but halts herself. Naya leans down, her voice low, her tone soft, a stage-whisper meant just for Momo. The tiny general blushes and whispers something back.

Liz sighs, exasperated but amused. She places both hands firmly on Momo's shoulders and pushes her forward another step.

The tension finally shatters when Ritsu clears her throat—loud and purposefully dramatic. "What's this, Momo? An envoy? State your business!"

Momo freezes. Her hands wring together, her face now redder than before. She breathes in, wobbly. "Mio-senpai," she squeaks. Then corrects herself in a rush. "No! I mean—Ritsu-senpai!"

Ritsu's eyebrows shoot up. She looks both surprised and absolutely delighted. "Yes?"

"Could I, um, have the—uh—the Samidare 20 Love drum tabs, please?" Momo blurts out, her words tumbling over each other, her voice so soft it barely reaches across the room.

Everything stills.

Mio blinks.

Yui gasps. Loudly.

Mugi smiles.

Azusa tilts her head. "Wait, what?"

Ritsu bursts out laughing. "What?! That's it? You've got this whole entourage for a drum tab?"

Momo's blush deepens. Her face is so red it's almost purple.

Liz steps forward, grinning. "She found out," she says, her tone dripping with amusement, "that Mio gave Naya the bass tab. Now she wants the drum tabs too."

Naya nods solemnly. "Momo's a fan."

"An enormous fan," Liz adds with a smirk.

Mio stares. Momo looks like she might implode. Or vanish entirely.

Yui claps her hands. "Awww, Momo-chan's so cute!"

Momo hides her face, and Liz pats her back, her grin widening.

"You don't have to be so shy," Azusa says gently, smiling. "We're just... us."

"Us?" Ritsu, predictably, is anything but humble. "Speak for yourself, Nakano. Clearly, Momo wants to be me. And honestly, I don't blame her."

"More like she's already better than you," Mio interjects, deadpan.

Ritsu gapes. "Oi! Take that back!"

Mio doesn't. She smirks instead.

Liz doesn't miss a beat. Her tone turns sly as her gaze shifts. "What about you, Naya?"

Naya blinks. "What about me?"

"No sheet music for piano?" Liz teases, her voice light but pointed.

Naya stiffens. "Why would I—" She cuts herself off, breathes in. "I don't play piano."

Liz's grin widens. "You play 'a little.'"

Naya huffs. "And you talk a lot."

Mio watches, intrigued. It's rare to see Naya so visibly rattled.

"Momo-chan, you should come play with us sometime!" Yui says brightly. "It'd be so fun!"

Momo stares, wide-eyed. "Really?"

"Absolutely!" Yui replies. "Right, Ricchan?"

Ritsu nods. "Totally. We'll make you our protégé or something."

"Don't overwhelm her," Mio chides. "Momo, you can always ask for help. Don't worry about these two."

"She better not surpass me. That's cheating," Ritsu mutters, rummaging through her bag. Finally, she pulls out the drum tabs and hands them over, grinning. "Here you go, kiddo."

Momo mumbles a quiet, "Thank you," and retreats back behind Liz and Naya.

"Well," Liz says, her tone suddenly professional. "Mission accomplished." She flashes a grin. "We're retreating to our corner. Thanks, girls."

The group watches them leave.

Mio notices how Naya lingers a moment longer than the others, as if she has something to say. As if she wants to look at her.

She does.

Then, she sighs and walks away.

"Well, that was something," Ritsu says, leaning back in her chair.

"Something adorable," Yui chirps.

"Something weird," Azusa counters.

"Something fun," Mugi adds.

Mio doesn't join in. She looks at the floor.

Naya forgot her bag.

She should give it back.

Should she?

She taps her notebook with her pen. Once. Twice. Three times.

Should she tell the girls? Let Ritsu or Yui, with their extroversion—or Azusa, with her sense of responsibility—or even Mugi, who Naya and Liz seem to get along with, handle it?

Or should she do it herself?

And face her.

Face that tension. Face the way she doesn't understand this. Not Naya. Not herself.

Mio's lips press into a line. She bites the inside of her cheek.

Her pen taps the notebook again.

She considers. Thinks. Hesitates. She looks at Naya. Naya doesn't notice.

Mio dares.

She pulls a blank sheet from her notebook and stares at it. What should she say? What could she say?

She writes.

"Hiromi Uehara – Place To Be."

A piano album.

She pauses.

It's too much, isn't it? Will Naya think it's a joke?

Mio stares at the words.

Will she think I'm being invasive? Asking her something she doesn't want to answer?

Her breath catches. Her heart beats faster.

Mio tears out the sheet before she can overthink it anymore. She folds it once. Twice. Neatly.

She stands, puts the folded sheet in Naya's bag, picks it up, and walks toward her. Her footsteps feel loud. Her heartbeat louder.

"Naya."

Naya looks up, mid-motion, adjusting her pedalboard.

"Oh. Hey."

She straightens. Her eyes land on the bag Mio holds.

"You left this there."

Mio extends it to her. Naya blinks. Her gaze flicks between Mio and the bag.

"Oh... My head's been a mess lately," Naya mutters, her voice careful. She takes the bag with deliberate focus, ensuring her hand doesn't touch Mio's. "Thanks."

Mio nods, turns, and walks away. Quickly. Her steps faster. Her heartbeat faster still. She doesn't look back, doesn't let herself think, doesn't dare hope.

But in her chest, she wishes, she prays, she begs—that Naya will see. Will listen.

That it's not too late.

That this could be their chance.

Their last chance to reconnect.

---

The dorm bath is humid and warm. Not stifling, but close. Steam curls upward in soft tendrils, clinging to mirrors and settling like a haze. The distant murmur of showers—white noise.

Mio runs her fingers through her hair, slow and careful. The towel slips an inch, and she adjusts it automatically. Her arms ache faintly from scrubbing. From washing. A bottle of conditioner stands nearby, half-used.

She focuses on the strands, methodical, detangling one by one. A rhythm to it. Then the comb. She tilts her head, feeling the pull as it glides through.

Beside her, Mugi hums softly. Pale fingers braid golden strands into a loose twist.

The sound is comforting.

Mugi's gaze shifts. Through the mirror, her eyes meet Mio's.

"You have really pretty hair, Mio-chan."

Mio freezes mid-stroke. Her eyes dart to Mugi's reflection, then away.

"Y–You think so?"

"I do," Mugi replies.

Mio feels her cheeks warm. She looks back down, brushing out the stubborn knots near the ends. "Thank you."

"It's so glossy. Like silk. Do you do anything special?"

Mio shakes her head. "Not really. Just shampoo and conditioner. But taking care of it during winter is a lot of trouble. It gets so dry."

Mugi smiles. A little brighter, a little warmer. "You always worried about split ends in high school."

Mio huffs a quiet laugh. "It still happens no matter what I do. It's a pain. Taking care of it, I mean."

"Is that still the case?"

Mio nods. "Every year. It's like clockwork. It's annoying, but I'm used to it."

Mugi giggles. "Well, you manage it beautifully." She reaches for her bottle of hair oil and rubs a small amount between her fingers.

Silence follows, comfortable. The sound of dryers in the distance.

Mio glances at Mugi, hesitates, then speaks. "I've been working on a Chopin piece," she says.

Mugi's head snaps up with bright eyes. "Chopin?" she echoes. "Which one?"

"Waltz in A minor, B. 150. It's a bit challenging, but my teacher wants me to understand it, whatever that means."

"Oh, Mio-chan, that's wonderful!" Mugi beams, her enthusiasm radiating. "His pieces are so expressive and intricate. And he understood the piano better than anyone."

Mio nods, her fingers still combing through her hair. "It's a lot to take in."

"You'll do beautifully. And, of course, if you need help again, you know I'd be more than happy to."

Mio smiles, grateful but hesitant. "Thank you, Mugi. I might take you up on that... but I don't want to bother you too much. You have your studies and everything."

Mugi waves a hand, dismissive. "Helping a friend isn't a bother, Mio-chan."

And then—

A sound. A familiar sound.

Humming.

Mio's ears prick. Her gaze darts toward the source. The melody is quiet, almost lost in the steam. But unmistakable.

A piece from Hiromi Uehara's Place to Be. The album Mio wrote on that folded sheet of paper. The one she slipped into Naya's bag.

The hum grows louder. Closer.

Mio turns.

Naya steps out of the shower, towel draped over her neck.

Her hair is damp, sticking to her forehead and her neck in messy strands. She's in her pajamas already—a simple tee and loose shorts that hang to her knees.

Casual. Effortless.

And humming. As if she's in her own world.

She listened.

Naya listened.

It's proof. Proof that Naya isn't so upset she's ignoring Mio's recommendations.

Mio bites her lip, fighting the urge to smile.

Naya doesn't notice her. She's towel-drying her hair, shaking it slightly when she's done. The strands fall into place like always—messy but somehow styled. Bangs brushing over her eyes. Her signature tousled look forming naturally, like it's nothing. The kind of carelessness that looks intentional, like a perfect accident.

Mio can feel the envy prickling at the edges of her thoughts. Her own hair requires so much effort. Hours of care. Detangling, drying, styling.

And Naya—

How does she do that? How is it that easy for her?

"She makes it look so simple," Mugi murmurs, watching too, amused.

Mio nods. She can't look away. Naya still hums, oblivious to the attention she's drawing.

Mugi moves first. She steps forward, her voice warm. "Naya-chan, good evening."

Naya freezes. She looks up, just a little startled at first. "Oh. Good evening—"

Naya stops on her tracks.

She sees them.

She sees her.

Hair damp. Pale skin. Slender legs. Body barely covered in a towel.

And Naya's brain breaks.

Her green eyes widen. Her face flushes, red spills across her cheeks, staining the tips of her ears and her nose. Practically shining. She looks away, fast, down, staring at the floor like it's the most fascinating thing in the world.

"Ah—perdón—sorry!" Naya blurts out. Her hands fumble with the towel in her neck, gripping it like a shield. "Yo no—I didn't—! Yo—I mean—sorry!"

Mio blinks. Mugi blinks.

"What?" Mio tilts her head.

"Why are you apologizing?" Mugi asks, tilting hers too.

Naya stiffens. Her shoulders rise. "You're—um—you—ah—eh—you—towels," she stammers. Her words crash into each other like clumsy dancers.

Mugi laughs softly. "And?"

Naya gestures, vague and helpless. "I mean, Mio—towel—I mean—you're in towels—both of you—I—yo—sorry."

Naya coughs.

Mio glances at Mugi. Mugi glances at Mio. Their confusion matches perfectly.

"It's the bath," Mugi says gently. Then laughs, light and melodic. "Towels are kind of expected."

Naya doesn't look up. "It's just... I didn't mean to—uh—intrude," she mumbles. She shifts awkwardly, her fingers tightening around the towel in her hands.

Mugi's smile is kind. "You didn't intrude. We were just finishing up."

"Yeah," Mio adds. "We're in the dorm baths. It's not a big deal."

Naya mumbles something incoherent, her eyes still glued to the floor. Mio watches her, her heart doing something odd. Tight. Then loose. There's something almost... endearing about it. Naya, always so composed, so confident—reduced to this shy, awkward mess over something so small.

Maybe in Spain they don't usually share changing rooms.

That must be it.

She exhales softly and turns back to the mirror.

Mugi steps closer. "Would you like to join us for dinner later, Naya-chan?"

Mio stiffens, just for a second. She doesn't want to make it obvious. She doesn't want it to show—how much she wants Naya to say yes.

But Naya hesitates. Her gaze flickers upward, just briefly. "No, thanks. I'm... not hungry."

Mio's chest sinks.

Not hungry?

That's an excuse.

Because of course it is.

She doesn't look at Naya. Doesn't let the disappointment show.

Mugi tilts her head, curious. "Are you sure? Licchan told me you barely ate lunch."

"Yeah," Naya says, too quickly. "I'll, uh, catch you guys later. Probably."

Mio feels it immediately. The twist. That uncomfortable pull in her stomach. She tells herself it's not what she thinks. That Naya is just tired, or busy, or something else entirely.

But the doubt creeps in anyway, quite and cruel, whispering things she doesn't want to hear.

She doesn't want to be near me.

The thought is sharp, unwelcome, and Mio hates how easily it takes root, like it's been waiting there all along.

Her eyes trace Naya's movements. The way she busies herself with her towel, focused. Her gestures are stiff, like she's trying to hide something.

Then Naya looks up. Briefly. Long enough for Mio to see it. The heaviness in her eyes, the paleness of her skin, usually sun-kissed, now dull. Her movements lack their usual ease—they're slower, almost lethargic. There's a faint heaviness to her steps as she moves toward the sinks.

She's not okay.

"Naya," Mio starts, her voice tentative. "Are you feeling okay?"

Naya blinks. Her expression shifts—just for a moment—before it's hidden behind a faint smile. "I'm fine," she says. "Just tired."

But Mio isn't convinced. She watched her and feels the words bubbling up in her chest. Questions. Concerns. A quiet, gnawing worry that she doesn't know how to voice.

She wants to press. To ask. To say something.

But the words don't come.

So she doesn't say anything.

She doesn't know if she can.

Mugi's smile dims, just a little. "Well," she says, "if you change your mind, let us know."

Naya nods once. Mumbles something that might be "Thanks." She brushes her bangs out of her eyes, but they fall back immediately.

"See you later," she mutters. And then she's gone, slipping out of the bath with quick, quiet steps.

All that's left is silence.

She's not mad at me, is she? She wouldn't have listened to the album if she was.

But why does it feel like she's avoiding me?

Her mind churns with questions that have been plaguing her for days. Did she say something wrong? Did she do too much? Too little? Did she cross some invisible line she wasn't supposed to?

Or maybe if it's just her own overthinking again, whispering things that aren't true.

She doesn't know. She can't know.

She listened to the album.

The thought should make her happy. It should mean something.

But all Mio can feel is that sinking weight in her chest. That nagging, gnawing, restless worry.

What's wrong, Naya?

And why won't you tell me?

She feels it. That ache. That hollow, quiet ache.

She wishes she could do something. Say something. Anything to pull herself out of this, out of the limbo of yes but no. Out of the sinking fear that she's losing her.

But she doesn't.

"She didn't seem quite herself, did she?" Mugi asks.

Mio nods staring at the door Naya disappeared through. Her chest heavy with questions.

With doubts.

And with a hope she doesn't know what to do with.

---

May 29, 2011

Naya doesn't show up for practice on Sunday.

It's been strange, these past few weeks. Mio getting to know her. How her voice sounds when she's tired. How she gestures animatedly when she's talking about a song. An artist. A new bass riff she's obsessed with. How her hair always seems a little untamed, catching the light just so.

Mio hadn't thought much about it until now. Now that she's here. Now that she's waiting. Wondering.

Liz tapped her shoulder before practice and leaned in. Said, "By the way, Naya's sick. Stubborn idiot wouldn't let me do anything for her." A nudge on the shoulder. A knowing look.

And that was that.

Except Mio couldn't stop thinking about it. Because Naya is sick, alone, and stubborn enough to refuse help. Because, well—it's Naya.

Mio doesn't understand it at first. Why is she thinking about it so much? Why does it sit heavy in her chest? It's just a friend thing, she tells herself. Just a friend thing to care. To check in.

But the thought stays with her as the minutes pass. As the club wraps up. As Ritsu teases, "Just go already, Mio. It's written all over your face."

She denies it and waves her off. But somehow, she still finds herself here, outside Naya's door. Because a small trip wouldn't hurt.

Naya's room is at the far end of the dorm hall. By the time Mio gets there, she's thought of seven different reasons why this might be... odd. Maybe.

Her phone says 6:47 p.m. She's been standing here for ten minutes. Debating. Should she knock? Should she leave? Naya is mad at her. Kind of. Naya would hate it. Would probably send her away anyway. And God knows how much Mio hates confrontation.

6:48 p.m. Mio lifts her hand, considers, then lets it fall back to her side.

She tries to reason with herself. She and Naya are friends. Sort of.

It's fine. She's just a friend. She's here as a friend, that's all.

She's just worried because she's a friend. That's all.

Then Mio hears it. A cough, muffled and thick. It makes Mio's mind up for her.

She lifts her hand. Hesitates.

Knocks.

Nothing.

Another knock.

Still nothing.

Then—shuffling. A groan. The door creaks open, and there she is. Naya. Looking... terrible, frankly. She's looking pale and miserable and definitely stubborn enough to send anyone else away.

But Mio's not anyone else.

"Mio?" Naya doesn't look upset, or angry, or anything but surprised. "Thought you'd be at the club."

"Liz told me you weren't feeling well," Mio says, almost defensively, as if Naya's pride is somehow catching. "I thought... I just thought I'd check on you. In case you needed anything."

Naya leans against the doorframe and rubs her forehead. "I told Liz not to say anything," she mutters.

"Yeah, well. Good luck with that. Liz worries. And so do I."

Naya sniffs and waves her off. "I'm fine. Just a cold." Her voice is scratchy. Rough. "Barely a sniffle."

Mio raises an eyebrow. "You're practically a zombie."

"Am not."

Another sniffle.

Naya wobbles. Just slightly.

"Naya." Mio steps closer, lowering her voice. "You look awful."

"Thanks for the honesty," Naya mutters. Coughs again. Winces.

"Why didn't you tell anyone you were this sick?" Mio's tone softens, just a little. But the worry seeps through.

Naya shrugs. "Didn't want to bother anyone. Just a little cold, nothing serious."

"This doesn't look like 'just a little cold.'"

"I'm fine, really. It's not a big deal. You didn't need to come all the way here."

Mio sighs. It's so... Naya. To brush off concern. To act like being alone, sick, in a foreign country is just a small inconvenience. A blip. And maybe Mio shouldn't be here, fussing. Maybe she should just leave and let Naya handle it, like she always does.

But she stays.

She doesn't understand it herself. She just does.

"I wanted to," Mio says, her voice barely audible over the faint crackle of music from Naya's laptop. She watches as Naya falters, her eyes dropping to the floor, like she's deciding whether to keep arguing.

But she doesn't close the door.

"Can I...?" Mio gestures inside, her hand hesitant but steady. The insistence in her own voice surprises her.

Naya looks at her. A long look, half-defiant, half-grateful. She sighs and opens the door wider. "Fine," she mutters, her voice thin. "But only because you look like you'd sit outside all night otherwise."

Naya steps aside, and Mio slips in, shutting the door behind her.

"Sorry, it's... a mess."

Mio shakes her head. "It's fine. You should rest."

"I am resting." Naya gestures around her, as if her room is a sanctuary rather than just a place to crash. "This is my rest."

The room is... Naya's. Her bass leaning against the corner, its strap coiled like a lazy cat. A stray hoodie slung over the back of the chair. Photo frames of Naya with people—family and friends?—that Mio will probably never meet in her life. Some books that have pictures of... crossword puzzles? On the cover. The faint glow of Hiromi Uehara's album on the laptop screen.

Mio stares at it.

"It's a good album," Naya says, her voice hoarse. "Right now, it suits me better than SebastiAn's."

"Who?"

"SebastiAn. Total. Same label as Justice." Naya coughs, light but strained. "Comes out tomorrow, but it leaked. I wanted to listen to it, but it's... too heavy. I don't feel like it."

Mio's lips twitch. Of course, Naya can't stop talking about music, even now. Even sick. And suddenly, Mio feels it—the strange, awkward weight of herself standing here. In this room. Like she doesn't belong. Like she's intruding on something too personal.

"You look really sick," Mio says. She knows how blunt it sounds. She winces at her own words. "You should be in bed."

"Eh. I've taken care of myself plenty."

Naya's voice is congested. Thin. She looks exhausted.

"Have you been drinking any water?" Mio asks.

"Water?"

"Yes. Water," Mio says, a laugh bubbling up. "I know you're... independent, but you can't just ignore the basics. It's, uh, kinda necessary."

Naya bites her lip. "Maybe?"

Mio sighs.

"I'll get you some fresh water," Mio says, resolute. Before Naya can protest, Mio's already out the door, her footsteps fading down the hall.

When she comes back, she holds a water bottle out to Naya. "Drink."

Naya chuckles, weak. "You're bossy when you want to be, eh?"

Mio stiffens, caught off guard. Her cheeks warm slightly, but she squares her shoulders, holding Naya's gaze. "Only when I have to be." She presses the bottle into Naya's hand. "Drink."

Naya obeys.

Mio doesn't know why her heart does that strange little flutter at the sight. But it does. She brushes it off, busying herself with straightening the blanket on Naya's bed. Pretending not to notice the way Naya's watching her, amused and tired all at once.

The room feels quieter. Awkwardly so.

"You don't... have to do all this, you know," Naya says. Her voice is softer now, her eyes heavy but lingering on Mio's face. "It's... nice. But..."

"I want to," Mio cuts in.

Naya lies back against the bed, legs dangling over the edge. She watches Mio—restless now—stand up and move awkwardly around the room. Picking up some clothes. Rearranging a pile of books.

"You don't have to clean," Naya says.

"I'm not cleaning."

"You're totally cleaning."

Mio scowls.

Naya winces. A hand flying up to her temple.

Mio freezes. "Are you okay?"

"It's just a headache." Naya's voice is quiet. "Really. I just need rest."

Mio raises an eyebrow, arms crossing over her chest. "Rest doesn't involve refusing help and playing tough. You're literally alone in Japan, Naya."

Naya's mouth opens, an objection waiting on the tip of her tongue. But it never comes. She closes her mouth and looks away. 

"Have you eaten anything?" Mio's voice tries to sound casual, but worry leaks through.

Naya shrugs. "Had some tea. Not hungry."

Mio's brows knot. "You should eat something."

"I know," Naya scoffs. "Mio, I'm sick. Not helpless."

The words hit Mio like a slap. She stares, her mouth parting. Hurt flashing across her face for a moment too long to hide.

Naya notices.

"Sorry," she mutters. Her voice cracks. "That came out wrong. I—sorry."

"It's okay." Mio lies.

"No, it's not okay," Naya coughs. She leans back further on the bed, staring at the ceiling. "I'm treating you horribly."

Mio doesn't reply. She doesn't know how.

"See?" Naya sniggers weakly. "All the more reason for you not to worry about me."

"But I worry about you," Mio says, her voice soft. Her eyes burn. Not from tears, but from something else. Something soft and heavy.

Naya looks at her, weak. Because of the illness, Mio tells herself. Just the illness.

"You're my friend," Mio adds.

Naya looks at her again. And then down. Her voice is quiet when she speaks. "I'll be fine," she says. "I always am."

Mio doesn't reply.

Her gaze follows Naya as she sinks back onto the bed, her shoulders slumping, eyes watching Mio with a soft, almost cautious gaze.

Even tough people need someone to help, Mio thinks.

"I can't just leave you alone like this. Especially when you're so far from home." Mio takes a step forward.

There's a pause. A quiet one. Weighty.

Naya's gaze lifts back to Mio's face. Soft. Tired. "You're really nice, you know."

Mio blinks.

Her heart skips.

"I'm just taking care of you," she stammers.

"Yeah, well," Naya mutters. Her eyes drift away again, avoiding Mio's. "Not everyone would. Not after—well. You know."

For a split second, Mio's heart pounds in a way she can't understand.

"It's really nice of you, Mio," Naya whispers, so soft it almost isn't there.

Mio feels her cheeks warm. And something else. A flicker in her chest. "It's nothing," she mumbles, barely able to meet Naya's gaze.

But it's not nothing.

She knows it's not nothing after all.

Mio moves to sit at the edge of the bed. Not too close, but close enough. She brushes a stray notebook off the sheets. A weak distraction.

She feels Naya's quiet gaze, watching her. Seeing through her, maybe. She can tell both of them are trying to ignore the awkwardness.

Mio wants to reach out, just to check, just to make sure. Her hand hovers near Naya's shoulder, unsure. Then Mio moves before she can think twice. She pulls Naya's bangs back, gently pressing her palm on Naya's forehead.

Warm. Too warm.

Green eyes. Too bright.

And Naya's hair is soft. Softer than Mio could have ever expected.

Naya's eyes widen, just slightly. Then her head leans into Mio's palm.

"You're warm," Mio murmurs, and it's all she can think to say, soft and matter-of-fact, because suddenly there's this odd, fluttering feeling in her chest. Not just worry, or maybe not worry at all. She retracts her hand, feeling awkward. "Do you have any medicine?" 

A shrug, that same casual Naya thing that Mio has seen a thousand times. "I don't know how medicines work here. Didn't want to check."

Typical.

Naya shifts, pulling the blanket higher, as if it's some kind of shield. "It's fine. I'll just sleep it off."

"Have you gone to the campus doctor?" Mio asks, but she already knows the answer.

Naya tenses up, but doesn't even try to lie. "Nope."

"Why?"

"Medical jargon in Japanese? While I'm sick? Do I look like I have the brainpower for that?"

Mio exhales, slower this time. "I'll go with you. I'll translate."

Naya's head lifts, just enough for her to level a glare at Mio. "What? No."

Mio stares back, narrowing her eyes. "Naya."

"I don't want to bother you."

"It's not a bother."

"I don't need—"

"You do."

"I don't."

"You do."

There's a pause, like they're both waiting for the other to fold.

"I don't," Naya repeats.

"You do."

"I—"

"Naya." Mio's voice is quiet but resolute. "Let me help you."

It's not a request.

A stalemate. Mio doesn't flinch. Naya stares at her for a long moment.

"Humor me," Mio's tone is gentle but firm. "Please."

Silence.

Naya huffs, the sound half a laugh, half a sigh. "You're relentless, Mio." Her eyes crinkle at the edges. "I don't know whether to admire you or be annoyed."

Mio's heart does something strange.

---

It takes ten minutes of arguing. Maybe more. Mio can't tell exactly when it happens, but eventually, Naya sighs. Rubs her forehead with two fingers. "Okay, okay, fine."

Begrudging. Reluctant.

Still, she lets Mio guide her out of the dorms, down the narrow campus paths, and into the clinic.

The place is quiet. Antiseptic. Bright, fluorescent lights hum faintly, bouncing off spotless tiles and polished steel. They sit together, side by side, not quite touching.

Mio's hand twitches on her lap. The urge to reach out is strong. To tap Naya's knee. Or her arm. To offer something—comfort, reassurance, she's not sure. But she doesn't. She keeps it still.

Naya leans back, arms crossed, head resting against the wall. Her lips press into a faint grimace. She looks like she'd rather be anywhere else, anywhere but here. Her usual calm feels thinner here. Fragile, almost.

"This is pointless."

Mio looks at her. "It's not pointless if it's for your health."

Naya's lips twitch, upward for just a second, but she covers it with a cough.

A nurse steps into the waiting area, calling Naya's surname. Badly. The syllables stumble out, clumsy, awkward.

"Who is she calling?"

Mio blinks at Naya. "You."

"That was me?" Naya points to her chest. "I guess my surname took a vacation and didn't tell me."

Mio tries to stifle a laugh, but it escapes.

"Next time, I'll just answer to 'Foreigner Number Three.' Might save everyone some trouble."

This time, Mio can't help but laugh a little louder. She doesn't know if she should, but she laughs anyway.

For a moment, it feels like nothing has happened between them.

Naya stirs and glances at Mio. "If I pass out in there from all the medical talk, you're responsible for carrying me out."

Mio chuckles softly. "Deal."

Inside, the doctor is polite, professional, and persistent.

Naya? She deflects, as always. "It's nothing," she says. "I'm just tired." She shrugs. The occasional "Eh?" when the doctor speaks too fast or in complicated terms. Mio whispers in Naya's ear. "Ah," she says. Adds, "Probably just a small fever."

Mio clears her throat. "She looked pale yesterday. She hasn't eaten properly either."

Naya shoots her a look of betrayal.

The doctor nods and jots something down. "Cough?"

"A bit. But it's not bad," Naya says, tired.

"She's been coughing a lot," Mio interjects. "And it sounds rough."

Naya exhales. She doesn't argue.

"Also, I think her throat hurts as well," Mio adds. She turns to Naya. "Right?"

Naya says nothing, just nods, reluctant, barely.

The doctor doesn't look up. Just scribbles again. "I'll need to examine you."

"What? Now?" Naya straightens in her chair, uncomfortable. Mio does, too. "With her here?"

"Yes. This will be quick."

Naya's eyes flick to Mio. "Can't she wait outside?" Her face flushes. Mio's does, too. She moves to stand, but—

"No need," the doctor says, already standing.

Naya tenses up.

Mio keeps her eyes on the wall, focusing on the sterile, white paint. Anything but Naya, to give her some semblance of privacy and her own heart a break.

---

"Well, that was humiliating."

They leave the clinic with a prescription. Nothing serious, thankfully. Naya looks worse for wear, though. Her steps sluggish, her breath shallow.

Back in her room, Naya collapses onto the bed like a sack of potatoes. The mattress groans beneath her weight. She sighs deeply, pulling the blanket up to her chest.

"Thanks for dragging me to the doctor," she mutters, her voice hoarse.

"You're welcome."

Mio lingers by the desk, watching as Naya tugs the blanket higher. Watching her turn to her side and close her eyes.

Mio doesn't leave.

Naya notices.

"You okay?" she asks without opening her eyes.

"You need to take the medicine."

"Oh, right. I'll take it later."

Mio doesn't buy it.

"You'll take it now."

"Mio, seriously—"

Mio doesn't give her a chance to protest. She steps out of the room. Naya lets out a muffled, defeated sound from beneath the blanket.

Mio returns moments later, a glass of water in one hand, the medicine packet in the other. She places both on the bedside table with a quiet clink.

Naya sits up. She tears open the packet and pours the powdered medicine into the glass. Stirs. Stares at it like it's poison. She takes one sip, then makes the most exaggerated grimace Mio has ever seen.

"Joder, qué puto asco."

Mio raises an eyebrow.

"Happy now?" Naya asks when she's done.

"Very," Mio replies, unbothered.

She reaches into her bag and pulls out the thermos she'd packed earlier. She unscrews the cap and sets it on Naya's bedside table. "I brought tea. It's supposed to help."

Naya's eyebrows lift. She doesn't say anything.

"You must miss home," Mio says softly, almost to herself.

"Oh." Naya seems caught off guard by the sudden shift. "Sometimes. But it's manageable."

"Manageable isn't the same as easy."

Naya turns her head slightly, her eyes finding Mio's. There's a pause, then a dry laugh escapes her lips. "You know, for someone so shy, you're surprisingly good at getting to the heart of things."

Mio's cheeks flush, and she quickly glances away. "I just think you should have someone here. To take care of you."

A beat of silence passes, followed by another.

"Well," Naya says, her smile faint. "Here you are."

Mio clears her throat, opens the thermos, pours the tea into a cup, and hands it to Naya without meeting her gaze. Naya sips, and her shoulders lose some of their tension.

"Did you make this?"

"Yes. Is it bad?"

"No. It's good. Thank you."

"Ginger and honey," Mio explains. "Helps with sore throats."

She takes the empty cup from Naya when she's done and sets it aside. Then, she sits at the edge of the bed.

"Now rest."

"You're staying?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Mio hesitates.

"Because you're my friend. And you shouldn't have to handle everything alone. And... what kind of friend would I be if I don't check on you?"

Naya blinks at her, the silence stretching between them. Then—

"A persistent one," Naya mutters, deadpan.

But there's something else now. Something softer. A quiet that lets Mio sit down beside her, a silent invitation.

Naya shifts under the blanket, looking smaller like this—tired, worn out, almost fragile. Mio doesn't say it aloud, but she knows. This isn't easy for Naya. Letting someone in. Letting someone stay.

"I just..." Naya starts. She falters. The blanket rustles as she pulls it closer. "I guess I feel like... I have to prove I can handle things. You know?"

Mio blinks, a frown tugging at her brow. "You don't have to prove anything," she says.

The words linger in the air. Unanswered. Unacknowledged.

The silence stretches. But Mio stays.

She watches. Wonders why it feels so heavy, this moment. Why it feels so important to stay. To be here. Not too close, but close enough.

And then, like a note settling into its chord, Mio realizes—

She cares.

More than she thought she would.

Her hand moves without thinking, adjusting the edge of Naya's blanket. She fusses. A little. "You're cold."

"Oh. It's fine. I'll manage."

Mio pauses. Her fingers grip the fabric. She glances up.

"Naya," she says, soft but firm this time. "It's okay to let people help."

Naya presses her lips together, a faint protest lingering at the corners of her mouth. "You don't need to fuss over me," she says, her voice quiter now. "I don't deserve it."

Mio blinks, confused. Why would Naya think—?

She sighs softly, then smiles—a small, gentle smile. "Friends help each other."

Naya looks at her for a moment, her gaze soft but unreadable. She doesn't respond.

It's almost funny, Mio thinks, how stubborn Naya is. How she insists, over and over, that she's fine. That it's nothing. That she can manage on her own. That she can handle it—like she doesn't need anyone.

And yet...

She lets Mio fuss. Lets Mio stay. Even if she complains, even if she won't admit it, Naya doesn't have to say it out loud. Mio sees it in her eyes. Naya is grateful. Naya feels cared for. Seen. Acknowledged.

Mio's heart stutters, a sudden, unexpected feeling she doesn't know how to place.

It's strange, the way her pulse seems to echo louder than the quiet room around them.

This is normal friend behavior, right?

Friends help each other.

They do, don't they?

"Are you—?" Mio begins, but the question dies in her throat. Her gaze drops to the blanket, her fingers twitching, adjusting it again. Naya doesn't stop her. She just watches.

The quiet hangs between them, fragile, like something that could shatter if either of them speaks too loudly The only sound is Naya's cough, small and barely audible. Mio straightens and offers water. A tissue. Anything.

Naya's eyes flicker, soft and tired, but she takes it, gratefully. She takes everything Mio offers.

They talk for a while, the conversation light at first—music, classes—but soon, Naya leans back against her pillows, her eyes fluttering shut mid-sentence.

Mio notices and stops talking, her thoughts briefly drifting toward the door. She thinks of leaving, but something holds her there.

It's the way Naya's eyelids droop, her breath steadying the soft curve of her face as sleep gently overtakes her.

Vulnerable.

Mio adjusts the blanket again, her fingers smoothing out every crease. She fusses a little more.

"Thanks, Mio," Naya murmurs all of a sudden. "You're too good with me."

Mio blinks.

Her heart skips.

She doesn't answer. Instead, she just watches.

And then—

A soft snore.

Mio tilts her head. Blinks again.

Naya is asleep. Almost. Her lips parted slightly, her breathing even.

Mio doesn't move. Doesn't even breathe too loud.

She could leave now.

But she doesn't. Because something about Naya like this makes Mio want to stay, just a little longer.

She leans forward, careful not to wake her.

But then—

Naya stirs. Her eyelids flutter. Her voice is a mumble, barely awake. "You're still here?"

"You're falling asleep," Mio whispers back.

"I don't want you to waste your time here. You can leave if you want."

Mio doesn't. She watches as Naya's eyes drift shut again, her breathing evening out. She stands there, lingering longer than she probably should, noting the peacefulness in Naya's face, the way her lips part slightly, relaxed, even in sleep.

She thinks, just for a moment, that she could stay like this. Watching, just to make sure Naya is comfortable, that she's safe. But then, a hint of self-consciousness creeps in, and she quickly gathers her things, stepping back toward the door.

"Hey, Mio?"

Mio turns back, catching the faint sound of Naya's voice as it pulls her back into the room.

"Yeah?"

Naya doesn't lift her head. Her hand shifts weakly on the blanket, a small, aimless gesture into the space between them. Her voice is quiet. Slow.

"Sorry."

Mio frowns. "For what?"

"For being like this," Naya murmurs. Her hand flutters again, vaguely motioning toward herself, toward the air, toward something unseen. "I know it's... frustrating. Coping with my... stubbornness. But... I don't want to bother anyone."

Mio exhales through her nose, not quite a sigh, not quite a breath. She takes another step forward, standing close enough to feel the faint heat of the room around Naya's sick form.

"You're not a bother, Naya."

Naya chuckles, soft and dry, her eyes closed. It's not much of a laugh. It sounds tired. Broken in the middle.

"Good luck making me believe that."

Mio hesitates. Her hand lifts slightly, then falls back to her side. She looks at Naya for a long moment, taking in the pale glow of her face, the way her lips curve faintly at the edges even when she's like this.

"Just call me if you need anything," Mio says, her voice steady, firm. It's not a question. It's not a suggestion. "You won't bother me at all. I'm here."

A pause.

The words settle in the air like something fragile. Something delicate.

Naya shifts slightly on the bed. Her head leans back against the pillow. Her breath is slow and measured. Her eyes stay closed.

"I know."

The words are so soft Mio almost misses them.

She feels the air change. Something. A connection, maybe. A closeness. It feels quiet but solid. Real.

Her eyes drift down, half-expecting to find Naya watching her. But Naya doesn't move. She doesn't look.

Mio lets herself breathe again.

The room feels smaller now. Heavy, somehow. Thick with things left unsaid. Things Mio can't quite untangle yet.

"Thanks for... all this," Naya murmurs after a moment. Her words slur slightly, the edges of her voice fraying with sleep.

Mio tilts her head. "For what?"

"For putting up with me," Naya answers, yawning mid-sentence. Her words trail off. "I'm... difficult."

"You're not," Mio replies automatically.

Naya shakes her head weakly against the pillow. "I am." She breathes out, a soft sound like something slipping away. "I just... feel like I have to prove I can do this. Be here. On my own."

Her voice fades.

Mio watches as Naya's breathing slows, her chest rising and falling in soft, even movements.

"Rest well, Naya," Mio whispers.

But Naya's already asleep.

Mio stands there for a moment longer. Watching.

Then, a small smile. A private thing.

She steps back, careful not to make a sound, and quietly shuts the door behind her.

---

May 30, 2011

Last Monday of May. Warm but not unbearable. The window is open, letting in a soft breeze. Mio's notebook is open too, but it stares back at her, empty, mocking.

She taps her pencil on the page. One. Two. Three. The rhythm is hollow, echoing in the silence of her room.

And then the door swings open.

"Miooooo!"

Ritsu strides in like it's her room, her territory, her everything. Her arms are laden with snacks—senbei crackers spilling out, a bottle of iced tea wobbling precariously at the top.

Mio doesn't look up. "You're supposed to knock."

Ritsu flops onto the bed, scattering her haul across Mio's comforter. "Why? It's not like you're doing anything scandalous."

Mio glares, pencil mid-tap. "I could've been changing."

"Yeah, right." Ritsu smirks. "You live in jeans and long sleeves. What are the odds?"

The glare sharpens. "What do you want, Ritsu?"

"To hang out, obviously." Crunch. Ritsu bites into a cracker. "And maybe mooch some study help. Got a quiz on Wednesday."

"Since when do you care about quizzes?"

"Since Taro said he'd treat me to ramen if I get more than fifty percent."

"Your ambitions are truly inspiring."

"Damn right." Ritsu grins, leaning back against the headboard. She pats the empty space on the bed beside her. "Come on. Take a break. You've been staring at that thing for, like, hours."

Mio hesitates. The pencil lingers. Her notebook stares back, empty. With a resigned sigh, she closes it and moves to the bed. The mattress dips as she sits.

Ritsu hands her the bottle of iced tea. Condensation drips down the sides, pooling on Mio's fingers.

"See?" Ritsu says, smug. "Was that so hard?"

Mio twists the cap open and takes a careful sip. "What do you need help with?"

"Management." Ritsu crunches on another cracker, crumbs falling onto her lap. "You know. Budgets, schedules, people stuff. Management-y things."

"That's... incredibly specific."

"Hey, I'm trying, okay?"

Mio sighs and sets the bottle on the nightstand. "Fine. Show me your notes."

Ritsu freezes mid-crunch. "Notes?"

"Yes, notes." Mio's voice is flat. "You do take notes, don't you?"

Ritsu scratches the back of her head. "Uh... define 'notes.'"

"You're hopeless."

"Not true! I have you," Ritsu beams, flipping now through one of Mio's textbooks. "Hey, what's this about?" Ritsu waves the book, squinting at a page like she's trying to decipher ancient hieroglyphs.

"It's about pedagogy."

"Ped-uh-what now?"

"Teaching methods."

"Why not just say that?"

"Because it's more specific."

"Sounds boring."

"Then stop looking at it."

"How do you even get anything done in here, anyway?" Ritsu groans, waving a hand at the room. "It's so... boring. No posters. No snacks. Nothing."

"It's a room, not an amusement park."

"Could've fooled me." Ritsu's gaze lands on Mio's desk. The stacks of books. The lack of clutter. "You don't even have snacks. How do you survive?"

"I don't want crumbs everywhere."

"Cleanliness is overrated," Ritsu declares, grabbing a pillow and tossing it playfully at Mio.

Mio catches it, barely. "You're like a stray cat, knocking things over."

"Meow." Ritsu smirks, biting into another cracker as crumbs tumble onto the floor.

"You're making a mess!" Mio snaps.

"Relax, Mother Mio. I'll clean it up later."

"You won't."

"I might."

"You'll die if you don't stop spilling crumbs on my floor."

"Noted." Crunch. "How are your studies doing?"

"Fine."

"Why do I even ask the top student?" Ritsu picks up Mio's notebook, flipping through it with exaggerated flair. "Okay, let's test that. What's the point of—" she pauses on a random page. "—this?"

"That's an accidental," Mio says, barely glancing at the page.

"And this?"

"A syncopation."

"And this?"

"That's a doodle of a rabbit."

Ritsu squints at the page. "Oh." A beat. "Thought it was a cat."

"It's a rabbit."

"Well, it's a bad rabbit."

"Shut up."

Ritsu grins, tossing the notebook onto the desk and leaning back against Mio's bed. "Miooo, I'm bored."

"Ritsu, you asked me for help."

"And I regret it." She groans dramatically, flopping down like a rag doll.

Mio sighs, taking a senbei cracker and biting into it.

A pause.

A shift.

Ritsu's voice softens, her tone too light to be casual. "So, what's up with Kenji?"

The question lingers. Mio stiffens, the cracker halfway to her mouth. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean." Ritsu's watching her now. "You two okay? He's not being too clingy again, is he?"

Mio shakes her head. "Not exactly. He wants to go on a trip this summer."

"Scandalous," Ritsu deadpans.

"To Hakone."

"Ooooh, fancy!" Ritsu wiggles her eyebrows, leaning forward. "Hot springs, romantic walks under the moonlight, couples' massages. The works. What's the problem?"

Mio groans. "Stop."

"What? Isn't that what couples do? Romantic getaways? Candlelit dinners? Kimonos slipping off shoulders—"

"Ritsu!" Mio's voice cracks, her cheeks glowing pink.

Ritsu bursts out laughing. "Alright, alright. I'll stop. Geez, you're so easy to mess with."

"It's not funny."

"It's a little funny."

"It's not."

Ritsu stretches her arms over her head. "So what's the deal then? You don't want to go?"

"It's not that." Mio's voice quiets. Measured. "I just... I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"It's... complicated."

"'Complicated' is my line, Mio."

Mio's lips twitch, but the smile doesn't stick. "I feel like I should want to go more than I do."

Ritsu tilts her head. "What do you mean?"

Mio picks at her sleeve, tugging at a loose thread. "I want to make him happy. I really do. But this trip... It's too much. Too couple-y. I don't know how to—" Her words falter, and she stops, frustrated.

"You feel guilty, don't you?"

Mio nods. "Of course I do. He's trying so hard, and I... I can't give him what he wants. What he deserves." Her voice softens. "He said he misses me. Misses us."

Ritsu raises an eyebrow. "And?"

"And I don't know what to say to that!" The words burst out of her, sharp and raw. She flinches at the sound of her own voice. She pulls back and steadies herself. She takes a breath. "What am I supposed to say? 'Sorry I'm bad at being your girlfriend?'"

"You're not bad at it, Mio."

"It feels like I am," she mutters. "He's trying. He's always trying. And I just... I can't."

"Can't what?"

Mio hesitates. Her throat works around the words, like she's trying to swallow something too big. Too sharp.

"I can't..." Her voice cracks, soft and almost lost in the quiet. "I can't connect with him the way I'm supposed to. The way he wants me to."

Ritsu blinks. Her brow lifts. "Is this about the touchy stuff again?"

Mio's face heats instantly. The color spreads from her cheeks to her ears. "Don't call it that," she snaps, though there's no real heat behind it, just a smoldering ember of irritation.

"What else am I supposed to call it?" Ritsu grins, leaning forward like she's just been handed a prime opportunity to tease. "Physical affection? PDA? Your weird hand-holding phobia?"

"Ritsu." Mio growls the name, but it's deflated. "Don't."

"Fine, fine."

"Ugh." Mio buries her face in her hands. Presses her palms hard against her eyes. "Why is this so complicated?"

"Because you're Akiyama Mio, Queen of Overthinking," Ritsu says, as though the answer is obvious. Her grin widens. "Seriously, you've got, like, Olympic-level anxiety. You should get a medal or something."

Mio frowns, her hands slipping away from her face. "That's not—"

"It is." Ritsu cuts her off, her grin never faltering. "You overthink. You overanalyze. And then you stress yourself out because you think you're not doing enough when you're already doing too much."

"I'm not—"

"You are." Ritsu's tone is firmer now, though still edged with a kind of playful knowingness. "And you know it."

Mio shakes her head, her voice dropping. "It's not that simple."

"Why not?"

"Because he's trying," Mio says, her words so quiet they almost dissolve into the air. "And I... I don't want to let him down."

Ritsu doesn't laugh this time. Doesn't tease. She just looks at Mio. Her expression softens, the sharp edges rounding out into something gentler.

"I just feel like I'm not enough," Mio blurts out. "Like no matter what I do, I can't give him what he wants."

Silence.

Ritsu reaches out and flicks her finger against Mio's forehead.

"Idiot."

Mio jerks back, startled. "What was that for?"

"For overthinking. As usual." Ritsu's tone is light again. Airy, but firm. "Kenji's a big boy. If he's not happy, that's on him. Not you."

"But—"

"No buts." Ritsu leans in closer, poking Mio's cheek this time. It's a quick jab, light but deliberate. "You've got this habit of carrying everyone else's problems on your shoulders. Knock it off."

Mio groans again. "Why did I even ask you for advice?"

"Because I'm your best friend and I'm always right," Ritsu says smugly.

Mio grabs a pillow and throws it at her. Ritsu catches it without even flinching, her grin practically splitting her face in two. "See? You feel better already."

"Not even a little," Mio mutters, folding her arms.

Ritsu watches her and tilts her head. Quiet again, for once. And then—

"By the way," she says, her tone as casual as ever. "Did you end up going to see Naya?"

Mio tenses. "Yeah," she says after a beat. "I helped her get to the campus doctor."

Ritsu raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Really? Look at you, Mio, all nurturing and helpful. Such a saint."

Mio flushes instantly. "She needed help. That's all."

"What, did she forget how to walk or something?"

"She had trouble understanding the medical jargon in Japanese," Mio explains. "She's still learning, so I translated for her. She got prescribed some medicine and should be fine in a few days."

"Look at you, saving the day. Again."

Mio shakes her head, but her cheeks stay pink. She doesn't say anything more, and for a moment, it seems like the conversation is done. But Ritsu is still watching her like she's expecting some juicy gossip.

"So... is everything okay with Naya?" Ritsu asks. "You've both been acting weird lately."

Mio looks up at that. She doesn't immediately respond, as if weighing her words. "We're... fine, I guess," she starts, her voice careful. "I mean... I think so. Maybe."

Ritsu narrows her eyes. "That doesn't sound convincing."

With a sigh, Mio adds, "It's just... I saw her the other day. She was surrounded by a group of students."

"And?" Ritsu prompts, trying to get more out of her.

Mio hesitates. Her gaze drops to her lap again, and her fingers twist together in a nervous rhythm. "They were treating her like... like a novelty instead of a person," she starts slowly, like she's picking her words with care. "I've seen it happen before, and I just... don't like it. So I went over to help her."

Ritsu nods slowly, her expression neutral but attentive.

"And Naya... I don't know. I think she felt bad. Like I was overstepping or... I don't know," Mio continues, her voice dropping. "Maybe she's mad at me now for interfering."

"Mio." Ritsu's voice is steady, warm, cutting through Mio's tangled thoughts. "She's not mad at you."

Mio looks up, her brow furrowed. "How do you know?"

"Because you're you," Ritsu says simply. "And you're, like, the nicest person on the planet."

"But—"

"You're a good person." Ritsu sits up straighter, her tone turning earnest now. "Like, a really good person. Naya's probably not mad at you. If anything, she's probably worried she treated you badly instead of thanking you and doesn't know how to apologize."

Mio blinks at her.

"And even if she is mad at you for helping her," Ritsu continues, "then she's stupid. Because anyone who can't see how lucky they are to have you as a friend—and someone who actually cares enough to step in when things are rough—is a complete idiot."

Mio doesn't respond. She stares down, her mind, a mess of thoughts that won't untangle themselves.

"Come on, Mio." Ritsu's voice softens, almost teasing. "Whatever it is, you can fix it. You're good at that stuff."

Mio doesn't look up. Doesn't answer.

"Seriously," Ritsu says again, and this time, her tone is different. "Don't let it fester. You'll regret it."

Mio doesn't answer. Her chest feels tight again, like the words are stuck somewhere between her ribs. She knows Ritsu's right. About everything.

But knowing doesn't make it easier.

"You know," Ritsu says, her words slower now. "If she's making you feel like shit, I can kick her ass for you."

Mio blinks and looks up. "Ritsu—"

"I mean it." Ritsu leans back on her hands like she's made a casual suggestion. "I've got your back."

"It's not like that," Mio says. Quietly, steady, even. She doesn't want this to be a big deal. 

But it is.

"It's just... complicated."

Ritsu raises an eyebrow. "Everything's complicated with you."

Mio glares at her. Or tries to. It's weak. "You're not helping."

"Then let's fix that," Ritsu says, suddenly springing to her feet. She's always so quick, so full of energy. Before Mio can react, Ritsu grabs her wrist and pulls her up. "Come on."

"What are you doing?" Mio protests. She wriggles, but not too hard.

"We're taking a break," Ritsu declares. "You need to stop thinking about Kenji and hot springs and whatever else is clogging up that brain of yours."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it's Monday," Mio says, exasperated. "And I'm studying."

"Boring! You need to live a little, Mio. Let loose. Embrace the chaos."

Mio rolls her eyes. She wants to argue, wants to tell Ritsu off for being so ridiculous. But it's Ritsu. And chaos is part of the package.

---

May 31, 2011

The knock comes at a strange hour.

Soft. Hesitant. A rhythmic tap that breaks through the silence but doesn't dare shatter it.

Mio looks up. She isn't expecting anyone—not this soon, when all her friends have class except her. Not now, not when she's sprawled across her bed, her notebook half-filled with crossed-out lines of lyrics. Her bass leans quietly against the wall, a silent witness to her creative mess.

Her pen pauses mid-stroke. She stares at the door. Did she imagine it?

It comes again. Another knock. Firmer this time.

She pulls herself upright and brushes stray strands of hair behind her ears. Her socks slide silently against the floor as she moves to the door, her hand already on the handle. She hesitates. Then pulls it open.

Naya is standing there.

Her mid-length brown hair is more tousled than usual, like she's been running her hands through it too many times. She's holding something—a small, neatly wrapped box. Her green eyes flick up to meet Mio's. Then away just as quickly.

"Naya?" Mio blinks. "Is everything...?" She stops. She doesn't know how to finish the sentence.

Naya says nothing. Her head is bowed, shoulders tense, as though she's bracing for impact.

She looks better, though.

"Are you feeling alright?" Mio asks, her voice softer now. "Do you need help with your medicine?"

Naya shakes her head.

Mio blinks again. No more words come. Silence swells between them.

Then, finally, Naya speaks.

"Good morning, Mi—Akiyama-san," she says, her voice unusually formal. There's a tightness to it—a forced control that Mio recognizes as practiced politeness. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

Akiyama-san.

The formality stings. Mio's stomach flips. Naya never calls her that.

Did she cross the final line?

"No, not at all," Mio replies, stepping back. "Come in."

Naya hesitates for a moment, then mutters, "Please, pardon for the intrusion," as she steps inside. Her movements are careful, almost cautious. Like she's afraid of taking up too much space.

Mio closes the door behind her with a soft click.

The room feels smaller with Naya in it. Her presence is usually light, easygoing, but now it's... different. Stiff. She stands in the middle of the room. Her eyes wander—to the desk, the bass, the small bookshelf crowded with music magazines and novels, the photo frames with the girls and Kenji. Then back to Mio.

They stare at each other for what feels like an eternity. Neither of them speaks.

Naya starts breathing faster. Faster. Like she's gathering strength before taking a leap off a cliff.

Then she bows.

Deeply.

The kind of bow Mio hasn't seen since... since she doesn't even know when.

"I'm deeply sorry."

The words hit Mio like a gust of wind. Her heart stutters.

The way Naya bows—so deliberate, so formal—roots Mio to the spot. She doesn't know what to do. What to say. Naya straightens slowly, her face carefully neutral. But her eyes... her eyes betray her. They're soft. Apologetic. Guilty.

"I..." Naya falters. Swallows. Takes a breath. "I wanted to apologize. For the other day. And for the day you took care of me. For everything. For how I acted." She holds out the box. "I brought this as a small apology. I hope you can accept it."

Her words are too careful. Too measured. Her Japanese is overly formal, each syllable pronounced with precision, her accent thicker than usual.

Mio realizes, with a pang, that Naya's been rehearsing this.

She doesn't move. Her mind feels slow—too slow to process what's happening. Naya, usually so confident, so untouchable in her easygoing nature, now looks... almost fragile.

Mio's gaze drops to the box. To Naya's hands, trembling ever so slightly. Then back to her face. There's a flush creeping up Naya's neck, faint but noticeable.

"Thank you," Mio says quietly. "You didn't have to."

"I did." Naya's voice is firm, but there's a softness to it, too. "I acted unfairly toward you... It wasn't right. You didn't deserve that."

Mio stares at the box in Naya's hands. It's wrapped in brown paper, neat edges creased sharply, tied with string. Something old-fashioned, intentional. A small card sits on top, her name written in slanted handwriting.

Mio reaches out, gingerly, like the box might shatter under her touch. The string digs into her fingers as she takes it.

"You didn't have to..." Mio repeats softly. Her voice trails off as Naya bows again.

The bow is deep. Too deep. Her messy hair spills forward. 

"I'm really sorry," Naya says. Her tone is formal, steady, but there's something beneath it. Tension. "I shouldn't have lashed out at you like that the other day. It wasn't fair. I know you were only trying to help."

"Naya, it's fine," Mio begins, but Naya shakes her head.

"No, it's not fine." Her words are firm. Clear. "I... let my pride get in the way. I didn't want to seem weak, and I ended up being cold. To you, of all people."

The words land heavy between them.

Mio wants to protest. To tell her it's not a big deal. To lie, even. But she can't. Not when Naya's standing there, her head bowed again, her voice tightening.

"You've always been so kind to me, and I shouldn't have treated you that way," Naya says. Her voice dips, quieter now. "I'm sorry."

Mio stares at her. The apology feels too polished, too deliberate. Like it's been rehearsed. It doesn't match Naya's usual easygoing demeanor, but the sincerity in her voice is unmistakable.

Mio swallows. Her throat feels tight. "You don't have to apologize like this," she says. "I wasn't upset."

Naya looks up then. Green eyes, sharp but soft at the edges, meet Mio's. There's something raw in her gaze. Open. Unshielded.

"But I was," she says. "With myself. And with the situation."

Mio opens her mouth to respond, but Naya continues.

"I'm not used to this. To having someone care enough to step in. And it's hard to accept help without feeling like I'm losing control," Naya admits, her voice steady. Her fingers curl tighter around the edge of her sleeve. "But I see now... I see now that you were only trying to support me, not pity me. And I... I'm sorry I couldn't see that at the moment. I know you were only trying to help. That was my insecurity, not your fault."

Mio's struck by how much effort Naya is putting into this—into explaining herself, into being vulnerable in a way that's clearly uncomfortable for her. It makes Mio's earlier sadness feel small and unimportant.

"Naya..." Her voice wavers. "You didn't have to go through all this. I understand."

Naya shakes her head. "I did." She takes a breath. "You deserve an apology. A real one."

Mio blinks. She doesn't know what to say.

"I..." she starts, but the words falter again. She looks down at her hands. The box feels heavier than before. "I just didn't want to see you uncomfortable. I didn't mean to overstep."

"I know," Naya says quickly. Her gaze darts up to meet Mio's before looking away again. "You are very sensitive. You have a strong sense of justice. I admire that." She hesitates. "But I think... I think I need to learn how to handle these things on my own, too. Without snapping at people who mean well."

Mio tilts her head, studying her. "You don't have to do it alone, you know," she says. "Friends are supposed to help each other. That's not weakness. Really."

Naya's lips twitch, almost like a smile. Almost.

"I was just worried that I upset you," Mio adds.

"You didn't," Naya says quickly. Then grimaces. "Well, you did. But only because I was being stubborn. You've always been so kind to me, and I shouldn't have treated you that way. And I hope..."

Naya stops. Her fingers twitch against her sleeve.

"I hope..."

Nothing.

Mio tilts her head. "You hope...?"

Naya closes her eyes, as if she were about to crash into a wall at full speed.

"I hope we can still be friends."

Friends.

The word lands softly, but it cuts deep. Mio feels it—sharp, sudden. She knows what Naya is thinking. That she doesn't deserve this friendship anymore.

Mio's chest aches. She leaves the box on the desk and nods quickly, trying to suppress the sudden rush of emotion.

"Of course," she says. "We're friends."

Naya lifts her gaze, searching Mio's face. There's a crack in her usual confidence. Her hands fidget, betraying the vulnerability she's trying so hard to hide.

"You're really kind," Naya says quietly. Her words are less polished now, softer. "But I would understand if you were angry and didn't want to. It's just..." Naya sighs. "I don't want to lose what we have. I want to be someone you can count on. Not someone who pushes you away."

Mio takes a step closer. Her voice is soft, but sure. "I was never angry at you, Naya. Just... confused."

"Can I do something to make it right?" Naya promptly asks. Her green eyes meet Mio's again, raw and open.

"You don't..." Mio swallows. Her voice catches. "You don't have to do anything. I... I wasn't upset."

Naya shakes her head again, firmly. Her hair falls forward, covering part of her face. "You were hurt. I could see it. And you didn't deserve that."

The words hang between them, heavy and undeniable. Mio doesn't argue. She can't, because it's true—she had been hurt, even if she'd told herself otherwise.

"Thank you," she says finally. "For saying that. But you don't have to do anything."

"I want to," Naya insists. Her voice is a little shaky, like she's trying not to let her nerves get the better of her. "I want to be a better friend to you. From now on, I'll be better at showing my gratitude."

Mio doesn't know what to say to that.

She feels a strange warmth blooming in her chest, mixed with the remnants of hurt she hadn't even realized she was holding onto.

"You don't have to try so hard," Mio says. Her lips curve into a small, tentative smile. "Just being yourself is enough."

Naya's face softens. Her usual calm, easy demeanor begins to return, faint but there.

"Still," Naya says, her voice quieter now, "if there's anything I can do to make it right, just let me know."

Mio hesitates for a moment. Then smiles. "You already have," she says simply. Then she laughs, a soft sound that feels like a release. "You didn't have to bow or bring a box, you know."

"I wanted to do it properly."

"Well," Mio says, glancing at the box. "I'll accept it."

There's another pause. This one lighter, easier to bear.

"We're still friends," Mio reassures. Her voice drops slightly, softer, almost shy. "If anything, I think we're better friends now."

Naya's relief flickers across her face. A small exhale, almost imperceptible.

"I—" She falters, takes a step closer, then steadies herself. "I'm glad we're friends."

Mio blushes. "Me too. And thank you," she says quietly. "For coming here, saying all of this. It means a lot."

Naya bows again, though it's smaller this time. More restrained. More personal. "Thank you, Akiyama-san."

"Mio," Mio corrects. A small smile tugging at her lips. "You can just call me Mio, like you've always done. You know that, right?"

Naya smiles.

"Mio," she echoes with a warm, gentle tone. "Thank you."

Naya shoves her hands into the pockets of her hoodie, as if hesitant. As if she wants to say something else.

"Uh," she starts. Her voice falters slightly. "Do you mind if... if we shake hands?"

Mio blinks, a slight blush creeping up her cheeks. The idea of taking Naya's hand in hers seems... too much.

"Only if you want to," Naya says quickly. "As a gesture. That we've made up. You know, Western stuff and... crap like that," Naya trails off.

Mio considers. She exhales slowly, then nods. It seems fair.

Naya smiles, faint but earnest. She pulls her hands out of her pockets, offering her left hand.

Mio bites her lip to keep her smile from growing too big. What a small gesture. Yet so important.

Mio reaches out, hesitant, and grips Naya's hand softly but firmly.

Then, she notices something.

There's a strange feel to Naya's hand. It's not skin. It's not the sleeve of her hoodie. It's something else.

When Naya finishes shaking her hand, she doesn't let go right away. She drags it along, slowly, as if she wants to make sure Mio has something in her hand.

"Thank you," Naya says simply.

She shifts her weight slightly, as if debating whether to say more. Instead, she bows one last time—awkward, like those adorable first times.

"Will I see you at the club later?" Naya asks.

Mio nods, smiling.

"It's Tuesday," Naya points out. "Pedal session after?"

Mio can't help but smile even more.

"If you want," Naya adds. "If you think it's awkward or something, we can—"

"I'd love to," Mio says, simply, still smiling.

Naya smiles back. It's like the sun has come out again.

"I'll leave you to your morning," she says. "Thank you for listening."

And just like that, Naya's gone, disappearing down the hall, her footsteps fading quickly.

Mio closes the door, still shaken by everything that just happened.

Her eyes fall to her hand.

There's a small, folded piece of paper resting in her palm. She opens it.

"Hurts – Happiness. Thank you for being here."

She smiles. A quiet smile, the kind that doesn't need to be seen. She likes this game they play now. This unspoken exchange of music and moments. Each band, each note, each gesture—a small window into the other's world.

Then her eyes fall on the carefully wrapped box.

She tilts her head.

Chocolates? Probably chocolates.

Her fingers hesitate on the string, but curiosity wins, as it always does. She unties it, delicately peeling the edges of the wrapping paper, as if unwrapping something fragile.

Inside, a slice of Gâteau au Chocolat. Her favorite. Rich, dark, and impossibly perfect. It looks like something straight out of a patisserie display case.

Mio blinks.

She has never, ever told Naya she likes Gâteau au Chocolat. Less that it's her favorite.

She stares at the slice, her thoughts tracing back to a day she barely remembers. The day Naya's band decided their name. The day they all talked about band names. And Yui's excitement spilling over like soda shaken too much.

"Mio-chan, we could sell Gâteau au Chocolat ! Your favorite!"

Her favorite.

Yui wasn't even talking to Naya. She was just—well, being Yui.

Naya caught that?

Naya remembered that?

The paper feels warm between her fingers. Mio presses her thumb against the edge of it, tracing the faint fold line absently.

She wonders what kind of person turns an apology into something so tender. So thoughtful.

The kind who notices the little things.

The kind who remembers the little things.

Mio exhales softly, her gaze flickering to the door. The weight of the note and the box feels heavier than it should.

She holds the note lightly in her hands, her eyes scanning the scribbled handwriting again.

She wonders not why Naya remembers these things, but why it matters so much that she does.

Mio presses the note to her lips, just for a moment. As if sealing the warmth into her, holding it in. Then, she folds it neatly and tucks it into the corner of her notebook. A place too significant to leave empty.

Her hands reach for the box again, fingers brushing against the small napkin tucked inside. Even the napkin feels deliberate. Placed there with care. She picks up the slice of Gâteau au Chocolat, turning the box slightly to admire how neatly it's been presented. The weight of it in her hand feels heavier than it should.

Thoughtful. Precise.

A moment wrapped up just for her.

How strange, she thinks. The way Naya fits so effortlessly into the small, fragile spaces she hadn't realized she left open. Like a song Mio knows by heart but can't quite name. Like the rhythm is there, somewhere, waiting for her to find it. Waiting for her to play it.

She picks up the fork from the small napkin Naya had placed in the box. Carefully. Almost delicately.

The first bite is soft, bittersweet.

It melts on her tongue.

Notes:

The bath scene? Loved writing it. I live for some good ol' gay panic. And let's not forget the classic trope of Mio taking care of a sick but oh-so-proud Naya. Original? Nah. Adorable? Absolutely. Gay? Oh, 100%.

Oh, and in my headcanon, Ritsu is studying Management because I can totally see her managing artists and bands someday. I mean, imagine the journey—from her questionable leadership skills back in high school to becoming a full-fledged adult who knows her stuff. It just fits, you know?

Anyway, whenever you read this, I hope you're having an amazing holiday season and an even better New Year. I'm sending you health, peace, and all kinds of love <3

See you next chapter as we dive into June! (Yes, it’s definitely a bit weird writing spring/summer scenes while being wrapped up in Christmas vibes, but here we are.) And as always, feel free to leave kudos and/or a comment if the mood strikes you—it truly means the world!

One more time, a massive thank you to Jules (tsuki_anne) for beta-ing this chapter. You're the best!

Chapter 12: The Light Of The Sun

Summary:

Mio notices Naya.

Notes:

This chapter took me by surprise—I wasn't initially thrilled with how it was shaping up, but by the end, it became one of my favorites. It's packed with themes and symbolism (some subtle, some not-so-subtle), and weaving those into the narrative was so much fun. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!

A massive thank you, as always, to Jules (tsuki_anne) for beta! Your input always takes my fic to the next level. Seriously, you're the best! :D

The Light Of The Sun, by Jill Scott, was released on June 21, 2011.

June 1, 2011

June begins with Naya rummaging through her bag.

Half its contents are already scattered on the floor. Notebooks, crumpled sheet music, headphones, loose cables. Mio watches the scene with quiet amusement. It's fascinating, really, how someone so precise with her pedals, her playing, her timing, can be so messy with everything else.

Mio watches the clubroom vibrate with its usual chaos. Yui strums random notes in the corner while Azusa explains something to her for the third time, her tone balancing patience and exasperation. Ritsu drums her fingers on the table, her rhythm quick and uneven. Across the room, Akira and Sachi are deep in conversation about some obscure band Mio's never heard of. Mugi, meanwhile, sits with Ayame, whispering over what must be Onna Gumi's newest arrangement.

The music and laughter blending like a messy symphony. She thinks about the piano practice room: quiet, still, demanding. Her teacher's voice echoes in her mind—gentle but firm, reminding her that progress takes time. Flow, not jump. A lesson for music. A lesson for life.

How do some people seem to just flow?

Ruby Riot is set to rehearse. Liz is doing her vocal warm-ups. Momo is tapping lightly on the drums. Naya, however, is still digging through her bag.

Mio notices Naya pulling out a small, folded piece of paper. Her heart stops.

Of course, after yesterday's heartfelt apology and Naya's recommendation of Hurt's album—which Mio listened to that same night—the least she could do was respond in kind. She'd written down a recommendation of her own: Holidays in the Sun by YUI.

Naya scans the paper. Mio knows what it says, of course. She wrote it, after all.

"You seem to like heartfelt, emotional music, so I think you might enjoy this. YUI's lyrics are simple but meaningful, and her voice has a rawness that's really captivating. GLORIA and To Mother are personal favorites. Let me know what you think."

Naya smiles, folds the paper, and slips it into her pocket. She glances quickly at Mio and winks, then continues rummaging as if nothing happened. No one else notices, but Mio's world stops for a moment.

She shakes her head to clear it.

And then, Naya pulls out her passport.

She stares at it for a moment, like she's forgotten it was even there, then shrugs and places it on the floor beside her. But not before Liz notices.

"What's this?" Liz swoops in too quickly for Naya to react. She snatches it up, flipping it open. "Ah, your passport."

Naya doesn't even glance up. "Yeah. Had to bring it for some paperwork."

"The consulate thing?"

Mio perks up at that. Her eyes flick between Naya and Liz.

"Yeah," Naya says, still rummaging. "Had to request a voting kit."

"A voting kit?" Ayame asks, leaning in now.

"For elections in Spain," Naya replies. "It's in November."

"You took your sweet time there," Liz teases. "You're lucky Mugi-chan was there to keep me entertained while you disappeared."

Mugi smiles—that polite, knowing smile of hers that always makes Mio raise an eyebrow.

Since when do those three hang out so much? Sure, Liz practically drags Naya out some weekends to keep her from isolating, and Naya somehow gets along with Mugi's classical quirks better than most. Mugi and Liz seem to connect over... whatever it is they connect over. But still.

"Wait a second," Liz says, her tone shifting. "This isn't you."

The entire room stills. All eyes turn.

"Oh my god," Liz cackles. "Naya, I'm so sorry, but this is priceless."

Naya looks up. "What is?"

Liz holds the passport higher, shaking it like she's struck gold. "I've never seen you without your bangs all over your face. This is—this is a masterpiece."

"It's just a photo," Naya says flatly. "Everyone looks weird in those."

"You don't just look weird. You look... proper. Like you say please and thank you and return your library books on time. Not like the rock-and-roll bass player who shows up to practice with bedhead and a smirk."

"They don't accept photos if your hair covers your face," Naya explains matter-of-factly. "Something about facial recognition rules or whatever."

But Liz ignores her. Before Naya can argue, she's off, holding the passport high and calling for everyone's attention. "Ladies and ladies, I present to you: Naya. Without. Her. Bangs."

Yui is the first to rush over, of course. "Let me see, let me see!"

Ritsu follows, laughing. Ayame and Sachi are close behind, and even Akira—Akira—leans over for a look. Azusa and Momo raise an eyebrow, curious but holding back.

"Oh, wow," Ritsu says, her voice full of barely contained glee. "You look so... clean. Tidy."

Mugi tilts her head, studying the photo with a small, almost affectionate smile. "You do look different, Naya-chan."

"It's just a photo," Naya says again.

Liz isn't letting it drift anywhere. She twirls the passport like it's some grand discovery, the kind that might make headlines. "Not just any photo! This is Naya, deconstructed. The 'no-bangs, almost-tidy' edition."

"I didn't have a choice. Everyone looks awful in passport photos."

Liz's grin sharpens. "This isn't awful. This is gold. You could've told me you had a neat phase."

"I didn't."

Mio watches from the corner of her eye, silent but curious. Naya doesn't seem embarrassed—more like she's humoring Liz. And still, there's something about this whole thing that catches her attention.

Naya doesn't care about things like this. About appearances. She never has. It's part of what makes her... her. The messy hair. The old band tees no one recognizes. The ripped jeans. The oversized hoodie that always looks like it's been dragged through three continents. And somehow, it all works. Effortless. Confident. Like Naya's decided the world should adjust to her, not the other way around. Like she never second-guesses herself.

Mio wonders what that must feel like. If she could ever be like that.

She doubts it.

Liz waves the passport closer, the teasing ramping up. "You'd look so much better if we could actually see your face. Just look at this!" She spins it toward Mio, like she's presenting evidence in court. "Don't you think?"

Mio squints. She doesn't want to look too closely, but she does anyway.

The picture is... different. Naya, but younger. A version of her that feels unfamiliar. No messy bangs half-covering her eyes. Her hair is shorter, cleaner, less wild. Her green eyes—those impossibly bright green eyes—stand out more without the curtain of hair, like sunlight cutting through leaves in the middle of a forest. They make Mio's stomach feel a little strange, like she's caught something too sharp and too soft at the same time.

Liz is tugging at Naya's bangs now, trying to push them back, laughing as she does it. "See? You'd look so much better if we could actually see your whole face."

Naya immediately jerks her head back, batting Liz's hands away. "¡Quita! Hands off the hair!" She runs her fingers through her bangs, pulling them back into place with an exaggerated flourish. "They stay."

Liz laughs harder. "Come on, Naya! Let's get a vote! Mio! What do you think? Wouldn't she look better with her bangs out of the way?"

Mio blinks.

The attention lands on her suddenly, like a spotlight she didn't ask for.

She freezes.

"What? Why me?"

"Because you're here," Liz says, like it's obvious. "So? What do you think?"

Naya scoffs. "Leave her alone, Liz. She has better things to do than analyze my haircut."

Mio feels her face heat up. She doesn't know why. Maybe it's the way Liz is looking at her, waiting for an answer. Maybe it's the way Naya isn't looking at her at all.

She glances at the photo again. Then back at Naya. Her bangs have already fallen back into place, soft and messy, half-hiding her eyes.

Those eyes. Always half-hidden. Always just out of reach.

The same green eyes that had struck Mio when they first met, even through the strands of hair.

The same green eyes that—she realizes—she's been quietly cataloguing since.

What would it be like, Mio wonders, to see them completely?

Liz leans in, grin growing wider. "So? What's the verdict?"

Mio's eyes flicker back to the photo.

"I think..."

Her eyes flicker between the passport and Naya. Between the version in the photo and the one standing just inches away.

There's something about the way the light catches Naya's eyes in the picture. The way it makes them look like sunlight breaking through trees.

I think her eyes should always be seen clearly because they're so beautiful it feels almost unfair to hide them.

The thought is sudden. And then it's gone.

Mio shakes her head, brushing away the stray thought like a bug on her sleeve.

"She looks fine either way. It's her choice," Mio finishes instead. "The bangs suit her."

Liz pouts dramatically. "You're no fun."

Naya smirks. "See? Even Mio says I'm fine."

"Bare minimum praise," Liz retorts.

Mio exhales, relieved the attention has shifted. But the thought lingers.

Fine either way.

It's true. But it's also not. Because Naya's eyes—those striking, impossible eyes—deserve to be seen. Always.

Liz isn't done, though. She reaches again, tugging at Naya's bangs with a wicked little grin.

"Liz, stop—" Naya jerks away, laughing now, her hands flying up to swat Liz's away. "Seriously!"

Liz finally retreats. "I'm just saying, passport Naya's kind of cute. You should let her out sometime."

"I'll keep that in mind," Naya replies dryly, pushing her bangs back into place.

Mio glances down at the photo again, still resting in Liz's hand.

Her chest feels tight.

Liz flips the passport closed and hands it back with a shrug. "Fine. Keep your bangs. But don't come crying to me when your fans demand the 'passport era' back."

Naya rolls her eyes, tucking the passport into her bag. "Yeah, because that's what I need—fans obsessing over me in a neat phase I never wanted to be in."

Liz grins, unrepentant. "Just so you know, I'm still rooting for no-bangs Naya."

"Root away," Naya says dryly, crouching back down, resuming her rummaging.

Yui, of course, chimes in, her voice brimming with enthusiasm. "You were super cute, though, Naya-chan! I think both versions of you are cute!"

Naya laughs at that. "Thanks, Yui. I'll keep that in mind for my next passport photo." Within seconds, she lets out a triumphant, "¡Vamos!" and holds up a small tin of bass picks.

"About time," Liz sighs dramatically. "You sure you don't want me to help organize your bag next time?"

Naya ignores her, slipping the tin into her pocket.

"Ruby Riot, you're up," Akira calls from her spot. "And don't take all day, okay? Some of us actually need to practice too."

Ruby Riot moves to set up, and the atmosphere shifts. Just slightly.

Naya heads toward her bass. Liz and Momo are already at their stations—Liz adjusting her microphone, Momo tapping a light rhythm on her snare.

Mio watches as Naya plugs in her bass, the familiar hum of the amplifier filling the room.

Her eyes stay on her.

It's normal, Mio tells herself. Naya's using her bass and her effects pedals as lead instruments. It's only natural to watch her. It's... educational. Yeah, that's it.

The green eyes, too. That's normal. Mio's never known anyone with green eyes before. Of course she'd notice them.

She shakes her head, feeling silly for even thinking about it.

It's just curiosity, she decides. Naya is the only bassist here besides herself and Sachi, after all. It's natural to watch her, to pay attention to her unique technique. She's never met a bassist who uses the bass as a lead instrument before.

And then there's her green eyes.

Green eyes, bright and striking. Not just a glance anymore. Something you remember.

Ruby Riot starts their set, and Mio leans forward, watching them closer than she intended. Like she's trying to hear something more.

Her gaze lingers on Naya longer than she realizes

It's the music, she decides.

The way her fingers glide across the strings, precise but effortless. The subtle bounce of her knee in time with the beat. 

Her eyes are glued to Naya's hands. Her posture. The way Naya plays. The way her fingers dance across the strings with effortless precision. The way her foot taps the pedals at just the right moment, switching effects seamlessly. The way her green eyes flicker between her bass and her bandmates, so vibrant, so full of life.

It's fascinating. Purely fascinating. Nothing more.

Mio tells herself she's watching because there's something to learn. She convinces herself she'd pay this much attention to anyone else, too.

But no one else has green eyes like that. No one else plays bass like that.

Mio shifts in her seat, feeling unsteady, though she doesn't know why.

It's the bass, she tells herself. Naya's bass is her main instrument, and it's fascinating to watch how she uses her effects pedals. It's the music—the way Naya blends into it, becomes part of it, exuding a confidence Mio has always admired.

And it's her eyes, Mio thinks. Because she's never met anyone with green eyes before. That's all it is.

That's all.

---

June 2, 2011

It's the first Thursday of the month, and Mio doesn't know what to expect.

The last time, after Naya's apology, the pedal session was... fine. A little quiet, a little careful. Like Naya wasn't sure where she stood with Mio anymore. Like she thought one wrong word might shatter something fragile.

But fine.

Today isn't fine.

Today is something else entirely.

Because Naya is humming. And it's not just any tune—it's GLORIA.

Mio pauses mid-step. Naya is leaning over her board, fiddling with a cable. The melody is soft, barely audible over the faint hum of the amp. But Mio recognizes it immediately. She should. She'd played that album on repeat just last night, right after writing that note.

Mio marvels at how effortlessly she wears her emotions. It's like Naya feels every song she listens to and plays, while Mio is still trying to understand the challenging simplicity of Waltz in A minor, B. 150. Her teacher's words echo: "Let it inspire you—not just for technique, but for emotion." Easy for her to say. Naya makes it look so easy.

"You actually listened to it," Mio blurts.

Naya looks up, mid-reach for another cable. "Of course I did. You think I'd ignore a recommendation from you?"

Mio's cheeks warm. She busies herself with her tuner, pretending like it requires her undivided attention. "So... what did you think?"

"About the album?"

Mio nods, keeping her eyes down.

"It's beautiful," Naya says simply. "I can see why you like it. GLORIA's been stuck in my head all morning."

Mio's fingers hesitate over the tuner. Her heart does a small, traitorous flip.

"I wasn't sure if it'd be your thing," she admits quietly.

"I like all kinds of things."

Mio huffs. "Except pianos," she ventures, a small spark of mischief slipping into her tone. "You only play 'a little,' right?"

Naya freezes. Mio fears she has overstepped again.

But then, Naya laughs.

"'A little?' Mio, I'm a virtuoso. You're talking to a master pianist here."

Mio raises an eyebrow, trying to hide her smile. "Oh, really?"

"Totally," Naya quips. "I can play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star with one hand."

Mio snorts. "Impressive."

"Right? I'm a prodigy. People weep when they hear me."

Mio shakes her head, finally letting the smile through. "You're ridiculous."

"You're just jealous of my skills," Naya says, turning her attention back to the pedals. She switches one on, testing its fuzz. Her foot taps experimentally. "Speaking of skills," she adds, "have you tried this combination yet? This fuzz with a little delay? It's insane. I'm telling you, Mio, game-changing."

And just like that, they're in it.

Back-and-forth.

Testing overdrive settings. Experimenting with delay patterns. Adjusting the EQ.

There's a rhythm now. A flow. A different kind of ease.

Naya doesn't hesitate to crack a joke when Mio's low E string buzzes too loudly. "Guess you're trying out distortion without the pedal, eh?"

Mio groans, swatting at her lightly.

"Careful," Naya teases. "You'll hurt my prodigy fingers."

Mio laughs despite herself. Because today isn't fine. Today is better.

"At least I don't get lost in my own wiring every other minute."

"Hey," Naya protests. "It's called controlled chaos."

"More like chaotic chaos," Mio mutters, but the corner of her mouth quirks up anyway.

Naya smirks, leaning over the pedalboard to make another adjustment. Mio watches her hands move, and it strikes her again how good Naya is at this. Not just the playing, but the whole process. The way she experiments. Pushes. Pulls back. Finds something new and makes it work.

She doesn't just play. She creates.

"Try this," Naya says, tapping a switch. The reverb blooms, filling the space with a shimmering echo that lingers like sunlight on water. "What do you think?"

"It's good," Mio admits, fingers ghosting over the strings. She presses down, plucks a note, and lets it hang. "Really good."

"Told you." Naya grins, leaning back on her palms like she's just solved world hunger.

Mio adjusts the delay, layering the sound until it feels like footsteps in an empty hallway. The echoes overlap, filling the quiet between them. It's collaborative. Organic. Easy.

"Controlled chaos," Naya says again, but she's smiling too.

They fall into a rhythm. Trading ideas. Testing settings. Talking in half-sentences that the other always seems to understand.

At some point, Naya starts rambling. About modulation. About layering. About how Digitalism's new album is dropping mid-month, and she's been counting the days since they released Blitz back in November.

"I Love You Dude drops mid-June. I'm dying to hear it," she says, her grin wide and contagious. "And 2 Hearts? Seriously, these two dudes can do anything."

Mio smiles. Naya's rambling again.

"It's gonna be amazing," she finishes. "You've heard their first album, right?" Naya asks, her eyes lighting up.

Mio hums in acknowledgment, plucking absentmindedly at her bass. She's heard the album before. Once. A while ago. And it wasn't bad exactly—it just... wasn't her thing. But Naya's eyes are bright, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm, and Mio doesn't have the heart to say it.

"It's been a while," Mio says instead, careful. "It was... fine."

Naya gasps, clutching her chest like she's been personally attacked. "Fine? Fine?" She shakes her head, mock-dramatic. "Mio, you need to revisit it. It's genius. Pure genius. Trust me."

Mio hums again, noncommittal, but something about the way Naya says it makes her want to give it another shot. Makes her want to see what she sees. Somehow, Naya always manages to make her reconsider things. To give them a second chance.

It's not the first time Naya's made her feel like that.

The light shifts, growing softer as the late afternoon drifts into evening. They pack up slowly, their movements unhurried, and Mio feels lighter. The tension she expected never came. If anything, things between them feel... better. Like something shifted. Like they've crossed some invisible line and come out closer on the other side.

Mio tucks her bass into its case, watching from the corner of her eye as Naya coils cables with a precision that feels at odds with her usual effortless chaos. She's humming under her breath again, soft and absent-minded.

Mio picks up her notebook, sliding it into her bag. And that's when she sees it.

A piece of paper, folded and neatly tucked between her music sheets.

Her brows furrow as she pulls it out, unfolding it carefully.

It's a note. Written in Naya's sprawling, messy handwriting.

"White Lies – Ritual. Dark, moody, atmospheric. Perfect for late-night listening. Give it a go. Let me know what you think."

Mio blinks.

She glances toward Naya, who's busy packing her pedals, oblivious. Or pretending to be.

Mio smiles. A small, quiet smile just for herself.

Passing notes, huh?

Mio folds the note again, tucking it back into her bag with deliberate care.

Apparently, passing notes has become their thing now. A silent game of recommendations. A language only they share.

Mio glances at Naya again, and wonders, briefly, if this little game is as much for Naya as it is for her.

"Ready to go?" Naya asks, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She flashes her usual smirk.

Mio nods, her smile lingering. "Yeah. Let's go."

They step out of the clubroom, side by side, the late spring air brushing against their skin.

Mio knows exactly what she'll be listening to tonight.

---

The melody of Bigger Than Us is still echoing in Mio's ears.

The album ended five minutes ago. Maybe more. She doesn't remember when exactly. But Bigger Than Us—it won't leave. The chorus keeps looping, unbidden, as she stares at the ceiling.

Her headphones rest on her neck now. The room is quiet, except for the faint whir of her fan, the occasional creak of the floorboards, and the scratching of her pen.

Her notebook sits open in her lap, pages filled with scribbles. Words that don't make sense. Arrows pointing to other arrows. Half-formed lines, ideas that feel brilliant one second and hollow the next.

The bass leans against her bed, close enough to touch. She glances at it, fingers twitching. She wants to play. To hear that low, steady pulse. To feel it reverberate through her chest, centering her.

She closes her eyes. The song is there, waiting. It's in the silence, in the spaces between her breaths. It's in the rhythm of her heartbeat.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

She takes the pen instead.

Boom Boom Boom!!

The words come without warning, scrawled across the page in her neat, deliberate handwriting. She stares at them for a moment, head tilted.

Then her hand moves again.

She writes about the rhythm. The way it feels in her fingers. The weight of the strings under her touch. The way the sound grows, spreads, and becomes more than just noise.

It's alive. Pulsing, beating. A heart.

Her heart.

She smiles, just barely, and keeps writing.

The lyrics come in bursts, in fits and starts. One moment, the page is blank. The next, it's full of frantic energy. Words tumbling over each other, raw and unfiltered.

A blushing flower, a singing bird. I don't stand out at all. So, how? I write a song.

Mio pauses, her pen hovering over the page.

The memory of her first practice session flashes in her mind. How small she'd felt. How unsure. But then she'd picked up her bass, played those first few notes, and everything had shifted.

It had given her a voice when her own felt too quiet.

The pen moves again.

Finger plucking, engraving a rhythm. When I'm with my friends, it's the best. Our breaths join as one.

She stops.

Her gaze flickers back to the bass. To the way the moonlight catches on its glossy body. To the strings that have become an extension of her hands, her thoughts, her voice.

She writes more.

The fan clicks softly as it rotates. The pen scratches. Over and over.

She writes about the seasons. About the stars. About the wind. She writes about movement, about roots, about finding something solid in a world that's constantly shifting.

The bass is her anchor. It always has been, even before she knew it.

Four seasons a year, 24 hours a day, my roaring heart never stops.

Her heart feels louder now. She wonders if it's because of the song or the way Bigger Than Us still plays in her head—softer now, like a whisper.

She doesn't know.

She reads over the lyrics, her brow furrowed, tapping the pen against her knee.

She's not sure if it's good. If it's anything. But she laughs anyway—a soft, almost self-conscious laugh.

It's silly, she thinks. To feel this way about a song. About the bass. About music. But it's not silly. Not silly at all.

It's her.

It's who she is. What she is.

She closes the notebook, running her fingers along the cover. Her gaze drifts to the bass again.

She thinks about the way it feels to play. To stand in the middle of a room with her friends, the music loud, the beat steady, the rhythm carrying her forward.

She thinks about Naya. About the way Naya looks when she plays. So sure. So present. Like nothing else in the world matters except the sound she's creating.

Mio wonders if she looks like that, too. If she'll ever feel that sure. That present.

The fan creaks as it slows, but Mio doesn't notice.

Her headphones slip from her neck, settling back over her ears. She doesn't press play. She stares at the ceiling.

Bigger Than Us.

The chorus plays again, looping in her mind. Her chest tightens—not the good kind this time. Something else.

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly.

The bass leans against the bed, steady and silent.

She reaches for it but stops.

The song lingers.

The rhythm never stops.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

---

June 4, 2011

The sun feels too bright that Saturday, almost intrusive, painting the street in golden hues, the shadows sharp against the pavement. It's warm—but not too warm. The kind of warmth that clings, turning just a little too much after a while.

Mio squints, her pace falling in line with Kenji's. Their hands are loosely intertwined, his grip  light and comfortable, swinging slightly with each step. It's a nice day—blue skies, a light breeze brushing her hair. The kind of day she should enjoy.

He's talking about the Film Appreciation Club. Something about a debate over font choices for a poster. His voice is easy, soft. Mio nods and smiles where she should. Laughs, even. Because this is nice. Just walking. Talking. Being.

But then Kenji glances at her.

"Hey," he starts, his tone shifting, a little more intentional. "About Hakone in July..."

The words twist in her chest before she can stop them. Tight. She doesn't let it show.

"Mm?"

His thumb brushes over her knuckles. "I was thinking we could take the cable car. You know, the one with the view of Mount Fuji? I think you'd love it."

Her smile doesn't falter. "That sounds nice."

And it does.

It should.

But her stomach churns, twisting itself into knots she can't untangle. Not because Hakone isn't beautiful. It is. Peaceful. Romantic, even. But it's not just Hakone. It's Hakone with Kenji.

The onsens. The hotel with the mountain view. The weight of pretending everything is fine. The idea of locking herself into a weekend feels heavy. Too heavy. Sharing a room. A futon.

She doesn't want to think about it. So she doesn't.

"How's work?" she asks, her voice light, tilting the conversation elsewhere.

Kenji blinks, caught off guard by the shift. But he recovers quickly, letting out a small laugh. "Busy," he says. "Marketing never sleeps, apparently. We're working on this indie film—something about a post-apocalyptic romance. It's quirky. Kind of charming."

"Post-apocalyptic romance?" she echoes, raising an eyebrow.

He grins. "Hey, it's better than another zombie movie."

She chuckles. "I suppose."

His smile softens, warm and genuine. A flicker of guilt rises in her chest for not fully matching it.

He keeps talking. Something about distribution strategies or niche audiences. The words start to blur, slipping past her like a stream she can't quite grasp. This isn't her world, and she wonders if he feels the same way when she talks about music.

They pass a music store.

The window display catches her eye. Guitars, basses, keyboards, drumsticks. Pedals stacked neatly on a shelf. Her steps falter, and she stops without thinking.

Kenji notices. "Want to go in?" he asks, following her gaze.

She glances at him, already feeling the pull of the store. "Do you mind?"

He looks at her, then at the store, and smiles. "Of course not."

They step inside.

The cool air hits her first, a sharp contrast to the warmth outside. It prickles her skin, jolting her senses just a little. Mio releases his hand almost instinctively, her fingers tingling as they find refuge in her pocket.

Kenji follows silently, present but unobtrusive.

She heads straight for the bass section, her eyes already scanning. The rows of pedals stretch out before her like a promise. Something tangible. Something she can hold onto.

She stops.

The Zoom B2.1u catches her eye. Compact, practical, a multi-effect powerhouse, perfect for experimentation. Her gaze lingers on it for a moment.

Then she sees it. The Keeley 4-Knob Compressor. Sleek, precise, gleaming under the soft lighting. Its minimalism stands out in a sea of features and promises.

Her fingers hover between the two.

She crouches, kneeling closer to inspect them. Possibilities swirl in her head: the tones, the dynamics. The  Keeley might smooth everything out, pouring clarity over chaos. Thee Zoom could add texture and layers—an endless playground of sound.

"Mio?"

Kenji's voice is soft, curious.

She glances up, blinking, realizing she's been crouched there too long. "Oh, sorry," she says quickly, straightening a little. "I was thinking."

Kenji steps closer, just enough to be in her peripheral vision. "Looking for something new?"

"Not exactly. Just considering."

He tilts his head, his eyes darting between her and the pedals. "What's the difference?"

She hesitates—not because she doesn't know, but because she doesn't know where to start. Or maybe it's something else.

"Well," she begins, her fingers brushing the edge of the Zoom's box, "the Zoom's a multi-effect. It's versatile. You can play with it, layer things, and experiment. But the Keeley..." She trails off, her eyes flicking back to it. "It's a compressor. It evens everything out, makes it smoother. More polished."

Kenji nods, his focus shifting to the boxes as if trying to see what she sees. "So... it's about control versus variety?"

"Yeah. Something like that."

He leans a little closer. "Which one do you like more?"

"I don't know yet," she admits, her voice steady but soft, like she's talking to herself as much as to him. "The Zoom's great if you want flexibility. It's all about exploration, variety, creativity. But the Keeley—it's precise. It's about control, consistency, and stability"

Kenji hums, his gaze flickering to her face. "Sounds like either would be a great choice."

She looks at him. Kenji smiles at her, encouraging, supportive. Always supportive. But there's something in his tone, something too even. Too polite. He's listening, but it feels... distant. Like he's trying to piece together a language he doesn't fully understand.

Mio feels it, that shift. Small, almost imperceptible.

She notices the way he leans in just enough to show he's paying attention, but she also notices the subtle drift between them. Just a fraction. A disconnection she can't quite unsee.

She talks about the Keeley. About how the attack and release times shape the tone. About how its four knobs offer more control. Kenji nods, his smile never wavering. "That's interesting," he says. "Sounds like a good choice."

But she knows. He doesn't really get it. Not the way she does. Not the way she feels it.

And it's not his fault. Just like it's not her fault that she can't follow when he talks about framing and lighting, about the symbolism in a single shot or the genius of a director's choices. She tries to keep up. She nods, she asks questions.

She tries.

And now, he's the one trying. Nodding at the right moments, saying the right things. But his eyes give him away. His voice too. He doesn't really understand—not the way she wants him to. Not the way music pulses through her, like a second heartbeat. Like air.

He tries. He cares. She knows he does.

But it's not the same.

Just like she can't care about films the way he does. She wants to, but she can't. It doesn't mean she doesn't care about him, about what he loves, about the way his eyes light up when he talks about his work.

She tries. She cares. He knows she does.

But it's not the same.

And maybe that's okay.

Couples don't have to share everything, right? They don't have to understand every detail of each other's lives. That's normal.

That's what she tells herself.

She brushes the thought away.

"Which one would you choose?" he asks again.

Mio's fingers hover over the Keeley compressor. She thinks about the piano. The way it demands precision, control. How her teacher calls it "polished simplicity," even when it's just a few notes. But with the bass—her bass—she doesn't have to think so hard. It flows. The sound isn't perfect, but it's alive, warm and honest. She looks at Kenji, then back at the pedals.

What do I want?

She wonders.

She tilts her head, thinking. "It depends. The Zoom is great for variety. But the Keeley... it feels like it feels like it's built for someone who knows exactly what they want."

Kenji chuckles. "That sounds like you."

Mio looks up, meeting his gaze for just a second too long. Then she looks away. "Not really," she murmurs. "I'm still figuring it out."

His smile doesn't falter. "You've got good instincts," he says. "I'm sure whatever you pick will be great."

The words land softly, but there's something else beneath them. Something heavier. Like he's trying to give her something he doesn't fully understand. Like he's offering support for a dream he can't quite picture.

Her chest tightens.

Mio looks back at the Keeley, her fingers brushing the edge of its box again. She doesn't respond right away.

"You've worked hard," Kenji says after a moment. His voice is warm. Gentle. "You should get it. Whichever one feels right."

The tightness in her chest twists. It's not the words—it's the way he says them. Like he means it. Like he truly wants her to have everything she dreams of, even if he doesn't fully understand what those dreams are.

Mio reaches for the Keeley again but hesitates. She puts it back on the shelf, straightening it, her fingers lingering a little longer than necessary.

Kenji watches her, his expression kind and open. Patient. Always patient.

Mio smiles at him, and it feels real. Mostly. She tells herself it's normal. That it's okay. Couples don't have to share everything. They don't have to feel the same way about everything. They don't have to understand every little thing about each other.

But music isn't a little thing.

It's her center. Her constant. The one thing that has always made sense, even when nothing else did. And she wonders—quietly, secretly—if she can share her life with someone who doesn't feel it. Who doesn't understand it the way she needs them to.

They wander through the store together, her gaze drifting to basses, amps, strings. His too, to... well, she's not sure. He's here for her, not for himself.

They pass a row of straps, and Mio can't help but pause again. One catches her eye—a deep, rich blue with silver accents. She runs her fingers over it, the material soft under her touch. Another strap catches her attention—dark brown, leather, simple but sturdy.

"That one suits you," Kenji says.

She looks at him. "You think so?"

He nods. "Understated and classic. Like you."

She turns back to the strap, pretending to inspect it more closely. "Thanks," she says softly.

He smiles again, content. And she feels it—that flicker of guilt.

He's thoughtful, supportive, and kind. Everything she could ask for in a partner. Everything she should want. Everything she tells herself she wants.

And yet.

Her thoughts drift. To the pedals. To the basses. To the rhythm she feels in her bones. To the music that doesn't just move her—it defines her. And to the question she doesn't want to answer.

Can she love someone who doesn't hear it the way she does? Who doesn't live it the way she does? Who doesn't feel it?

She lets go of the strap and steps back.

"We should go," she says, smiling at him. "I don't want to take up your whole afternoon."

"You're not," Kenji says. "Take your time."

But Mio is already moving toward the door, her steps quick and purposeful. Kenji follows, his hand brushing against hers as they step back into the sunlight.

She takes his hand again, her grip firm. Determined. When she looks up at him, she smiles, wider this time. Brighter.

"So," she says. "What were you saying about Hakone?"

Kenji picks up where he left off, his voice warm and filled with excitement.

Mio nods, matching his tone. Her smile doesn't waver.

But her thoughts do.

The Keeley or the Zoom?

Kenji or...?

She squeezes his hand tighter and pushes the thought away.

---

June 7, 2011

Another Tuesday.

Another pedal session.

Another note Mio slips into Naya's bag. This time with L'Arc~en~Ciel.

"I thought you might enjoy the way Tetsuya uses melody and rhythm—it's unique and intricate, like how you layer effects. Reminded me of you, somehow. Let me know if it resonates with you."

Mio glances at Naya's bag. Then at the clock. Then at Naya. Then back at the clock.

It's 4:15 p.m. Exactly fifteen minutes since they started.

And already, she's distracted.

Not by her bass. Not by the pedals. But by Naya.

Again.

Naya crouches over her pedalboard, elbows on her knees, one hand twisting the knobs of the synth pedal. The other holds a pick, tapping idly against her thigh. Her bangs fall across her face like usual, hiding her expression. But Mio knows—she can tell by the slight curve of Naya's lips—that she's enjoying herself.

And for some reason, Mio can't look away.

She tries to focus. Shakes her head. Adjusts her grip on her bass. Her fingers hover over the strings, ready to play. She's here to experiment. To create. To work.

Not to watch Naya.

"Alright," Naya says, breaking the quiet. "Try this setting. See how it sounds."

Mio nods, shifting her bass. She plucks a string. The tone fills the room, warm and full, with a hint of fuzz around the edges.

"It's nice," Mio says, tilting her head. "But maybe a little too warm? Like it's... blurred?"

Naya hums and adjusts a knob. "Try now."

Mio plays again. The tone shifts—sharper now. Cleaner, crisp, like it's cutting through the air.

"Better," she says. "Much better."

"Told you," Naya replies, smirking.

Mio rolls her eyes.

"You're annoyingly good at this, you know."

"Good at what?" Naya asks.

"Everything," Mio mutters. "Bass, pedals, sound. You're just really good."

Naya's hand stills. For a moment, her smirk falters into something almost vulnerable. But it's gone before Mio can process it.

"I'm not that good," Naya says, deflecting. "I'm just okay."

"You're better than okay," Mio insists. "You're talented."

That makes Naya laugh. Quiet, short, barely there. "Talented? Sure." Her tone is flat and dismissive. "Let's go with that."

"I mean it," Mio says, her fingers brushing the strings. "You're so creative."

Naya glances at Mio, then back at the pedals. Her hand stills again. "I just mess around until something works. Nothing special about that."

"Nothing special? You're one of the best bassists I've ever seen."

Naya's grin falters—just slightly. "Nah. I'm not that great."

"You are," Mio insists, frowning. "Don't be so modest."

"I'm not being modest," Naya counters, deflecting again. "I just know my limits, that's all." She looks up, meets Mio's gaze, and shrugs. "But thanks, I guess."

Mio tilts her head, watching her carefully. Thoughtfully. But she doesn't press further. Instead, she reaches for the EQ, twisting a knob slightly. She plucks a single note. Deep, smooth and clean. The sound resonates through the room, low and steady.

"You're getting faster at that," Naya says.

Mio glances up. "At what?"

"Twisting the knobs." Naya grins. "Almost like you've done this before."

Mio huffs, a soft laugh escaping her lips. "I've had some practice."

Naya's grin widens. She doesn't say anything, just turns her attention back to the pedals at her feet. Her fingers twist a dial, and the faint crackle of static fills the air. She taps lightly, testing the connection. A sound blooms—full, layered—before fading into quiet.

Mio's fingers move over the strings of her bass. She plucks again. A low note hums, deep and resonant. Her other hand shifts, adjusting the tone knob. The sound sharpens, brightens.

"What do you think of this?" she asks, her voice casual.

Naya looks up. "About what?"

Mio doesn't answer. Not with words. She shifts her grip on the bass, letting the strap slide tighter across her shoulder. She straightens, plucks a low E, and lets it hang in the air for a moment, grounding herself in the weight of the instrument.

Then—she leans forward and adjusts the WAH pedal beneath her foot.

And slaps.

A crisp, percussive sound bursts from the amp. Sharp. Rhythmic. Her thumb strikes the strings, her fingers popping against them with precision. Pluck. Slap. Pop. The notes bounce, quick and energetic, as her foot taps the WAH pedal in perfect sync.

Naya freezes. Her hands hover over the synth pedal. Her head tilts. Eyes narrow slightly, green and sharp, focused entirely on Mio.

"Whoa. Okay, show-off."

Mio laughs but doesn't stop. Her hands keep moving, the slap and pop echoing in the room. The rhythm builds, playful and alive. She's in it now. Her fingers dance across the fretboard. Her shoulders sway, her foot taps. The room fills with sound—pulsing, vibrant. Like a heartbeat.

It feels good. The rhythm, the energy, the way the bass seems to breathe under her touch. It feels better than she expected. Her lips twitch into the faintest of smiles.

The slap bass riff grows and layers. Her thumb snaps against the strings. The notes burst with clarity, the groove curling through the air. The WAH effect warps the tone, bending it, stretching it, giving it this funky, elastic quality that feels... effortless.

Fun.

More fun than she thought it would be. Her body moves with the music, instinctive. Unrestrained. Her fingers fly. The rhythm deepens. She's not thinking anymore—just playing.

Naya's still watching. Her hands are still on the synth pedal, forgotten. Her eyes are locked on Mio's hands. Wide. Bright. Almost too bright.

Mio stops, her fingers stilling against the strings. The final note hangs in the air, stretching into silence. She looks up.

"Joder, Mio," Naya says, her voice reverent. "That was..." She trails off, searching for the word. "Insane. Funky as hell. Slap bass with WAH? Killer combo."

Mio's face heats up. She looks down at her bass, suddenly shy. "Thanks. But it's just slap bass," she mumbles.

"Just slap bass?" Naya echoes, disbelief coloring her tone. "Mio, you're killing it."

Mio chuckles softly, almost shyly. "It's just practice," she says. But her chest swells, just a little. Her fingers twitch over the strings. "Here. Listen to this."

She starts again, switching up the pattern. Her fingers move faster, sharper. The slap and pop create a rhythm that's hypnotic. The WAH pedal bends the tone, adds a layer of depth. It's alive. It's speaking. It's hers.

Naya's jaw drops slightly. She doesn't hide it. "La madre que me parió," she breathes, her voice hushed. "Mio, that's... incredible."

Mio bites her lip. Her fingers keep moving, the riff flows through her. The music takes over, centering her, grounding her. It's her favorite thing in the world. She glances at Naya briefly—just long enough to catch the way Naya's staring at her.

Like she's witnessing a miracle.

The sight makes Mio's heart flutter unexpectedly. She quickly looks away and focuses on the music. On the strings. On the rhythm pouring out of her hands.

"Seriously," Naya says, her voice steadier now, but her eyes are still too bright. "You're really good at that."

Mio tilts her head. "At what?"

"Slap bass," Naya says. "Like, really good."

Mio doesn't respond right away, letting the music speak for her instead. Then, quietly, almost shyly, she says: "It's just something I practiced in high school. I like how it feels. And sounds."

Mio's voice is quiet. Almost shy.

But Naya doesn't hesitate.

"Mio, you just turned this room into a damn funk club."

The words catch her off guard, and Mio feels her cheeks warm. "You're exaggerating."

"I'm not." Naya sits up straighter. "Seriously, you've got mad skills."

Mio brushes it off with a soft laugh. Her fingers still on her bass, hovering over the strings like they're unsure of where to go. "How do you think slap would sound with the synth pedal?" she asks lightly, her eyes already on the pedal Naya's been fiddling with all afternoon. "You should try it."

Naya blinks, staring like she didn't expect the suggestion. "Me?"

Mio nods, encouraging. "Yeah. You're already plugged into it."

Naya hesitates.

It's subtle, but Mio notices. The way her hand twitches, dropping to her lap. The way her shoulders stiffen, just a fraction. The way her eyes dart between the pedalboard and Mio, like she's calculating something she doesn't want to say.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Naya says too quickly, too lightly. "You should try it."

"But you're the one hooked up to it," Mio points out. She tilts her head, her tone teasing, playful. "You try it."

"Uh..." Naya's voice falters. "But maybe you should try it. You're the slap bass pro here."

Mio raises an eyebrow. "But you're already hooked up to the synth pedal," she says for the third time.

Another pause.

Naya's fingers curl against her knee, tight, almost reflexive. Her gaze shifts again, flickering to the pedalboard, then back to her lap.

"I..." Naya starts, and Mio leans forward slightly, listening. "I don't..." Her voice drops. "I don't know how to play slap bass."

The words hang in the air.

Mio stares. For a moment, she doesn't say anything. Doesn't move. The confession doesn't register immediately, like her brain refuses to believe it.

"You don't...?" she echoes, her voice quiet, careful—not accusatory, just... surprised.

Naya looks away. "I never learned," she says flatly, like it doesn't matter.

But it does.

Mio can see it in the way Naya's shoulders tense, the way her hands fidget in her lap, the way she avoids looking at Mio altogether.

"You're such a great bassist, though," Mio says tentatively. "I just assumed..."

"I guess I'm not as good as you thought," Naya mutters, her voice dropping to something smaller.

Mio freezes, unsure what she's stepped into. She wants to apologize, to backtrack, but Naya speaks first.

"People always assume things," she says, her tone sharper now, edged with frustration. But not at Mio. "That I'm some kind of prodigy or whatever. That I can play anything. Do anything."

The words hit Mio like a sudden downbeat.

She doesn't respond. Can't. Because Naya's looking at her now, finally—green eyes meeting hers. Vulnerable. Open.

"I just want to play and have fun," Naya says, and her voice cracking just slightly at the end. She runs a hand through her hair, her bangs stubbornly falling back over her eyes. "Is that too much to ask?"

Mio doesn't know what to say. She isn't sure if there's anything she can say.

"Sometimes it feels like I'm faking it," Naya continues, her voice quieter now. "That I don't actually belong here. That I'm just... filling in the gaps with all this." She gestures vaguely at the pedalboard. "Like I'm using it to cover up everything I can't do."

"You're better than you think," Mio says quickly. Her voice is steady, convincing. At least, she hopes it is.

Naya lets out a short, humorless laugh. "I don't think so," she says, shaking her head. "There's a lot I don't know. A lot I haven't practiced. And then..."

She hesitates. Pauses.

Her eyes meet Mio's again, and this time, there's something heavier in them. Something that makes Mio's chest ache.

"And then there's you," Naya says softly. "You make me feel so small."

Mio freezes. Blinks. "What?" she whispers, her heart stuttering. "I—"

"Not in a bad way," Naya adds quickly. "I don't mean it like that. Just... I envy you. I admire you so much."

The words hang in the air.

Mio shifts, her cheeks warming. Compliments have always felt strange and awkward. Even from friends. And especially from Naya.

But Naya doesn't stop.

"Seriously, Mio," she says, her voice steady, her eyes unwavering. "You've got great control. Like... ridiculously good. I mean, you don't just play the bass. You make it sing."

Mio's fingers falter over the strings. She glances at Naya, unsure of how to respond.

"You're one of the best bassists I've ever heard."

The words land heavily. Mio's fingers still against the strings, though her heartbeat doesn't.

She swallows, forcing a laugh as she brushes a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I think you're exaggerating again."

"I'm not," Naya says simply, her green eyes steady. "You're incredible, Mio. I'm embarrassed to be teaching you anything about bass and pedals because you're way better than me. Better than I could ever be."

Mio doesn't know what to say. She doesn't know what to do with words like that. Doesn't know what they awaken in her, in Naya, or in the space between them.

All she knows is—she's worried.

She doesn't want to lose her again.

Mio sets her bass down carefully, sliding the strap over her shoulder with measured movements.

"I didn't mean to—" she starts, then stops. The words hang between them. They ache. She tries again. "I wasn't trying to pressure you."

"I know. You didn't. It's just..." Naya sighs, squeezing her eyes shut as if weighing whether to say something she doesn't want to. "It's fine. You haven't done anything wrong. Don't worry about it."

But Mio does worry.

She hesitates, her breath catching. Then she smiles—small, gentle.

"You know," she starts again, her voice soft. "I could teach you."

Naya blinks, her eyebrows raising just slightly.

"What?"

"Slap bass," Mio says. "I could teach you. If you want."

"You'd teach me?"

Mio nods.

"Yeah. If you want."

There's a long pause.

Naya stares at her, and Mio feels the weight of it. The way Naya's eyes search her face like she's looking for something.

And then—Naya smiles.

"Yeah," she says. Her voice is quieter but warmer now. "I'd like that."

Mio smiles back.

"Okay," she says simply.

And just like that, the air feels lighter. The tension eases. The weight lifts.

Mio picks up her bass again, her fingers already itching to move, to play, to teach.

"Let's start with something simple," she says, her tone bright and encouraging. "You'll pick it up in no time."

Naya laughs. "We'll see about that."

Mio doesn't miss the way Naya's lips curve, the way her shoulders relax.

They sit closer now as Mio shows Naya the basics.

"So, the key to slapping is to use the side of your thumb to strike the strings. Like this." Mio's fingers glide over the strings, striking them just right. The sharp sound of the slap fills the room, precise and confident.

Naya watches closely, her focus sharp, her eyes trained on Mio's hands.

"You want to hit it with enough force to produce a clean, percussive sound, but not so hard that it sounds messy." Mio demonstrates again. Slap. Pop. Slap. Pop.

Naya nods along, tilting her head slightly, her brow furrowing in concentration.

"Now you try," Mio says.

Naya hesitates, then reaches for her bass and tries.

The sound comes out dull, flat. Naya frowns.

Mio doesn't. She leans closer, her voice soft and her hands steady.

"Here," Mio says, her fingers brushing over Naya's. "Like this."

She gently guides Naya's hand, showing her the right pressure, the right rhythm.

Naya tries again. The slap sounds sharper this time. Not perfect, but better.

"Like this?" Her gaze lifts, seeking for Mio's approval.

Mio's smile widens. "Yes, exactly. Try to keep your wrist loose and let the movement come from your wrist and thumb, not your whole arm."

Naya nods, concentrating as she tries again. And again. And again. Slap. Pop. Slap. Pop. The room fills with the sound of strings and laughter.

When Naya finally gets it, her face lights up with a grin—not just any grin. That grin. The big, expressive one that makes something warm bloom in Mio's chest.

"¡Vamos!" Naya laughs, looking at Mio like a kid who just pulled off the most awesome trick in the world. "Did you see that, Mio?"

Mio nods. She can't help but chuckle too. Naya's triumph is infectious. 

She likes this. The quiet moment, the shared music, the ease between them.

The afternoon stretches on like this—slaps and pops, mistakes and laughter—until the sunlight shifts, sinking low and bathing the room in a soft, golden glow.

When they finally stop, Naya sets her bass down and flexes her fingers.

"Thanks for teaching me."

Mio smiles.

"You're welcome."

Naya laughs again, lighter this time. "I don't know if I'll be able to do it tomorrow, though."

Mio doesn't laugh.

Because she knows. She knows Naya will get it.

Because Naya is amazing. She just doesn't see it yet.

Not the way Mio does.

---

June 8, 2011

It's a quiet Wednesday afternoon. The kind Mio treasures.

The kind where her classes are light, the campus isn't overrun, and she can slip unnoticed into the small record store tucked between a café and a bookstore near campus. A perfect hideaway.

She adjusts the strap of her bag and steps inside. The bell above the door jingles. A tiny, familiar sound. The smell of old vinyl and faintly damp cardboard greets her, mingling with the low purr of ambient music filtering through hidden speakers.

Safe. Calm.

Mio weaves through the aisles, her fingers grazing the edges of jewel cases. She's not even here for anything specific. She just likes the feeling of browsing, of stumbling upon something unexpected. Like AKB48's debut album which just came out today.

Except she's not here to stumble upon anything.

She's here for that.

She knows she's here for that. The album she's been thinking about. The one she's been meaning to buy for... what? A week? Two?

Mio turns a corner and sees the display of recently stocked CDs. And there it is.

Her fingers inch closer, brushing the edge of the plastic case. She feels the sharp, cool press of it under her fingertips.

Daft Punk. Discovery. One of Naya's favorites. One Mio listened to, later. Just out of curiosity. Just to see.

And she liked it.

She liked it too much.

Mio freezes, her chest tightening like something's caught there. Her fingers curl back, pulling away from the CD like it's burned her. Like someone might see.

It's fine, she tells herself. It's fine. Kenji listens to this kind of stuff too. It's just music. Everyone listens to music.

But she knows.

The space around her feels smaller. Like the walls are creeping closer, hemming her in. Like she's being watched. Like the CD is watching her.

Her heart skips. A funny little hiccup. Should she buy it? What if it's obvious? What if it's weird?

Mio picks up the CD, turning it over in her hands as if the answer might be written there. As if she might find permission on the back cover. She stares at it, feeling the same weight she'd felt with the Chopin piece her teacher assigned. "Understand it," she'd said, as if the music was something Mio could hold in her hands and break apart. As if she could translate it perfectly into feeling.

And then she hears it.

A voice. Familiar. Accented. From a few aisles over. Someone speaking to the clerk.

Mio glances up. Glances over.

Naya.

For a second, Mio freezes. Not because it's strange to see Naya here—of course, it isn't. This is a record store. And it's Naya, after all. It shouldn't be a big deal. They've seen each other plenty of times at the club, around campus. In fact, she should go say hello, but she's rooted on the spot.

Because there's something... different.

Her hair.

It's different. A little shorter, a little neater, but still tousled enough to be Naya. The cut frames her face better now, and—

Oh.

Her eyes.

Those green eyes—impossibly green—seem brighter somehow. Sharper. Catching the light in a way that makes Mio's chest feel like it's both collapsing and expanding at the same time.

She doesn't understand it.

It's just Naya.

Her friend. Her club bandmate. Nothing else.

But those eyes. Those eyes.

They hold her, brighter than they have any right to be—bright, warm, greener than green. The kind of green that shouldn't exist outside of dreams or painted landscapes, but does anyway, as if defying reality just to prove her wrong.

Mio blinks, hard, trying to shake herself out of it. Trying to stop herself from noticing too much.

It's like the first day. The first day at the club. The first time she saw those eyes. She tries not to stare, but her gaze keeps flickering back. To the way Naya pushes her bangs back, only for them to fall stubbornly into place. To the way those eyes catch the light, like sunlight filtering through leaves. Summer green. Summer light.

Mio realizes that she's staring.

She doesn't know why.

Her gaze is stuck, caught like a loose thread snagged on something. Her brain stutters for a moment, the thought barely forming before it vanishes:

She looks... really pretty.

She shakes her head. Stop staring, she tells herself. It's weird. She's just... Naya.

But the thought stays, stubborn, refusing to leave.

Before she can overthink it further, Naya looks up.

Their eyes meet.

Mio blinks again, harder this time, like it might shake something loose.

And then Naya smiles—that lopsided, easy smile. Wide and warm, completely, effortlessly, charmingly Naya. The kind of smile Mio's heart reacts to before her brain can catch up.

"Mio!" Naya's voice cuts through the fog in Mio's brain. She's walking toward her now. "Fancy seeing you here."

Mio realizes—too late—that she's been caught staring. She hopes her cheeks aren't red, but they probably are. She clears her throat, trying to sound normal. Casual. Like her heart isn't aiming to break out of her chest.

"Oh, uh—hey, Naya. What are you doing here?"

"Browsing," Naya says, holding up a L'Arc~en~Ciel CD—Ark. "Loved these guys. You were right—the bass is amazing. I want to learn the bass tab of HEAVEN'S DRIVE. What about you?"

"Same." Mio clears her throat, glancing away. Her eyes land on another record—a safer territory, a safer distraction. And then, without thinking: "You cut your hair."

Naya grins, running a hand through it. "Yeah. Needed a change. Too much of a hassle when it's longer."

"It suits you," Mio blurts out before she can stop herself, then immediately regrets it. Her face flushes. "I mean, it looks... nice."

Naya chuckles, her tone light but genuine. "Thanks." She steps closer, stopping just beside her. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"I come here sometimes to take a look," Mio mumbles, shifting her weight.

"That's cool," Naya says, and Mio can hear the smile in her voice.

She risks a glance up.

Mistake.

Big mistake.

Because those green eyes are really bright up close.

Naya's smiling—faint, genuine, disarming. She looks like the kind of person who belongs effortlessly in any space. Confident, relaxed, a little untamed.

And her eyes. Mio doesn't know why she can't stop looking at them.

Why is she suddenly regretting not fixing her hair before coming here?

Naya's gaze flicks to the albums in Mio's hands, and her grin widens. Of course, she recognizes one of them instantly. It's one of those bands she's always raving about.

"Oh. You listen to Daft Punk?" Naya asks.

"I—uh. Yeah." The words tumble out too fast, too forced. "I... just got into them. You talk about them a lot, so I was curious."

Naya's smile turns playful, her excitement palpable. "Yeah? What's your favorite track?"

Mio swallows, trying to look casual, like she's always been into French electro house. Or electro disco. Or whatever Discovery is.

"I think... the third one."

"Oh, Digital Love!" Naya chuckles, and Mio wants the floor to swallow her whole. "I love that one too. It's beautiful. But I think I'm more of a Something About Us girl myself."

Mio nods quickly. "It's a good album," she says, more firmly this time.

The words feel wrong the moment they leave her mouth. Her face heats up, and she can feel Naya's lingering grin, like she knows.

"That's cool that you're into them too," Naya says, her tone casual.

Cool. Mio nods stiffly. Cool. She can be cool. Cool like Naya, standing there so effortlessly, one hand casually resting on her hip, looking like she belongs here more than anyone else in the store.

They stand there for a moment. Naya is still holding the Ark CD. Mio is trying not to stare too much. The silence stretches, just a little. It's not awkward exactly, but it's not entirely comfortable either.

The air between them feels charged, and Mio can't quite pinpoint why.

"What about you?" she suddenly asks. "Why are you here?"

Naya raises a brow. "Again? Browsing."

"No, I mean—you have your Japanese course on Wednesdays, right?"

"Ah." Naya glances at the shelves, like she's just noticing them for the first time. "Yeah, but the teacher bailed, so no class today. Thought I'd kill some time before heading back."

She says it so easily. Like she's not alone. Like she doesn't spend most of her afternoons wandering because she doesn't have anyone to spend them with.

"You have the afternoon free, then?" Mio asks, trying to sound offhand. She isn't sure why her heart is racing now.

"Guess so." There's a pause. A beat too long. Naya glances at the row of CDs, then back at Mio. "What about you? Done for the day?"

Mio isn't. She has a lecture in a couple of hours. "Not really," she says slowly. "But..."

Naya waits.

"But I've got some time," Mio finishes, almost shyly. She grips her bag strap tighter.

Naya's smile softens, just a little, and Mio's heart does that thing again.

She hesitates.

She doesn't usually do this. Doesn't ask. Doesn't put herself out there. But something about Naya—about the way she looks at Mio, like she's waiting for her to say something, like she wants to listen to her—makes her brave.

"You're not in a rush, are you?" Mio asks before she can lose her nerve.

The words hang in the air for a moment, too long for comfort.

Naya looks at her, curious, her green eyes glinting under the soft light of the record store. "No," she says, slowly, like she's waiting for more.

"Then, do you want to—I mean, since your class is canceled—maybe we could—" Mio swallows. "Do you—maybe—want to hang out?"

The words tumble out all at once. A mess, clumsy and unpolished. Her heart lurches the moment they're spoken.

What is she doing?!

Naya blinks.

Mio wants to die.

The pause stretches, just long enough for her to imagine the worst. That she's overstepped, that Naya will say no, that she'll walk away, leaving Mio here to drown in her own awkwardness.

But then, Naya smiles, warm and easy, a little surprised.

"Are you asking me out?"

Mio's face explodes.

"WHAT?!" Mio's voice jumps, and she nearly chokes on her own breath. Some customers turn their heads. "No! I just meant—"

"I'm kidding," Naya interrupts, laughing. Not sharp, not mocking, just soft. Gentle. "Sorry if my jokes are... well, too much."

Mio exhales, her face on fire. "Oh."

"I'd love to hang out with you," Naya says a little shyly, but as if it's the simplest thing in the world. Like Mio hasn't just sent her own heart into a full sprint.

"Okay. Good," Mio replies, her voice wobbling. She reaches for a rack of CDs to her left, pretending to look at anything other than Naya. Her fingers trace the edge of an album cover. Arctic Monkeys. Or maybe Radiohead. She doesn't know. "There's a café near here," she adds quickly, still not looking at her. "Unless you've got a better idea?"

"Coffee's fine." Naya smiles again, just as casual, just as warm. "Let's pay for this, and we're good to go."

Mio nods, too eager. They head for the counter. Her eyes dart toward the promotional posters by the register. She focuses on the faint hum of music overhead, on the distant murmur of other customers.

But her thoughts don't stay there. They circle back to Naya. To her green eyes, to her easy smile, to the way she'd said, I'd love to hang out with you. Like it didn't matter. Like Mio hadn't nearly crumbled under the weight of her own nerves.

What was she doing?

They've hung out before. At the club, in groups, on campus, in passing. She has taken care of her sick, for goodness' sake.

This isn't new.

So why does it feel new?

Because this is outside. Outside the club, outside campus, outside pedals and amplifiers and group chatter.

It's just the two of them in a café.

Sure, Naya is her friend and they have a good rapport. It shouldn't be weird to hang out together.

The weird thing is that it's Mio's idea.

Mio never suggests things like this to anyone. Not even Ritsu. Not even Kenji.

She stands at the counter, clutching her CDs. Naya is beside her, a half-step away, placing her own CD down with a casual motion. The clerk—a young man, glasses slipping down his nose—looks up as he scans Mio's CDs. His smile is polite, neutral. His tone is smooth and professional.

"Thank you for shopping with us. Did you find everything you were looking for?"

Mio nods. "Yes," she says, steady. She's used to this, polite exchanges with clerks. Transactional smiles.

The clerk glances at Naya, just briefly, then back at Mio. He gestures at the third CD.

"Will you be paying for this one as well?"

Mio blinks. "Oh, no, that's not mine."

Naya steps in, smiling. Calm. "That's mine," she says, her Japanese fluid and practiced, but her sunlit accent lingers at the edges.

The clerk pauses. It's only a second, a hesitation too brief to be called rude, but long enough for Mio to notice.

He straightens. His smile remains, but it's stretched just a bit tighter. He hands Mio her receipt and bows, then looks back at Naya.

The shift is subtle. A recalibration of tone. Polite. Overly so. "Ah, my apologies," he says, addressing Naya directly now. He scans her CD and sets it aside. "Your total is 1,500 yen," he says, slower and deliberate.

Naya nods. Her smile doesn't falter. "Thank you," she replies, her voice even and polite.

The clerk's smile widens. His tone lightens, but there's something about it that sits wrong.

"You speak the language very well," he says.

It's meant to be a compliment. Mio knows that. Knows it in the same way she knows it's not entirely innocent.

Naya thanks him again, placing a crisp 2,000 yen note on the counter.

The clerk hesitates, just for a fraction of a second. But again, Mio sees it. The brief flicker of something—doubt? Suspicion?—before he processes the payment. He hands Naya her change, bows, and murmurs, "Thank you for shopping with us."

Naya tucks the CD into her bag, her motions smooth and practiced, as though none of it has fazed her.

They step outside into the sunlight.

The door swings shut behind them, muffling the clerk's voice. "Thank you for shopping with us! Please come again," he calls.

Mio frowns.

"That was strange," she says, glancing at Naya.

"What was?"

"What just happened."

"Ah. I'm used to it."

"Used to what?"

Naya adjusts her bag strap with one hand, looking at Mio. "People assuming I don't understand," she says, her tone light. She shrugs. "Or that I'm doing something wrong."

"Does that..." Mio hesitates. "Does that happen often?"

"More than you'd think," Naya says, sliding her hands into her pockets. "But hey," she adds, her voice brightening just a touch, "at least he didn't start talking to me in English this time."

Mio's frown deepens. She wants to say something, but her mind is blank, scrambling for the right words.

She feels a faint ache of guilt. She hadn't even noticed it at first.

Naya's voice pulls her back.

"Anyway," she says, still smiling, "I'm craving something sweet. Lead the way?"

Oh. Right. The café.

Mio had asked Naya to hang out. And Naya had said yes.

She nods, starting to walk, hyper-aware of the space between them. Too wide. Too narrow.

It's coffee. Just coffee. It's not a big deal. Friends get coffee all the time. Totally normal.

She glances at Naya as they walk and watches the way she moves. The way her hair falls into her eyes, loose and easy. And yet, those green eyes are now brighter than ever.

Mio feels the walls creeping closer again.

This time, though, it's not the walls.

Notes:

Mio is in the process of writing Heart Goes Boom!!—another hit in the making. Oh, and she's considering picking up the Keeley 4-Knob Compressor and the Zoom B2.1u Multi-Effect. (Bass nerds, feel free to weigh in!)

I also had a blast incorporating so much music into this chapter—albums, tracks, artists, and bands both familiar and new. Music has this magical ability to connect us all, and I wanted that universal quality to shine through in the story.

By the way, if you've ever wondered how slap bass sounds with a WAH pedal, this video is for you. Or if you're curious about synth pedals and slap bass, check out this one. Both are courtesy of Charles Berthoud, an incredible bassist on YouTube!

Finally, the scene in the music store with Mio and Kenji turned out to be one of my favorites. It's layered with meaning, and while some symbolism might be a tad obvious, I had so much fun playing with it.

Once again, thanks for reading—and feel free to share your thoughts or music recommendations in the comments! <3

And thanks, Jules (tsuki_anne), for beta!

Chapter 13: Sun & Shade

Summary:

Mio listens.

Notes:

Okay, (not so) fun fact: the previous chapter was supposed to end with this café convo, but apparently, I lack all self-restraint and well... it grew. And I thought, "Oh, I'll save it for the next chapter." Like, it was meant to be a short intro—maybe half a chapter at most—before diving into Naya navigating group dynamics and, you know, actually interacting with people. But somehow I ended up with almost 10k words of just two people talking. HOW?! I swear, other writers can convey more in 3k words than I manage in 10k. Meanwhile, I do my creative writing homework and barely fill half a page. Who are these characters, and why do they say so much?

Anyway, enjoy the chapter!

As always, eternal thanks to Jules (tsuki_anne) for being the best beta reader ever!

Sun & Shade, by Woods, was released on June 14, 2011.

June 8, 2011

The café is small and cozy, just a few doors down from the record store.

Mio walks beside Naya, the pavement uneven beneath their steps. As they approach the entrance, Naya moves ahead, reaches for the door and holds it open.

She gestures with a subtle nod toward the inside. "After you."

Mio stops, blinking at the open door. "Oh," she says, caught off guard. "Uh, thank you?"

The words come out more uncertain than she intends. She looks at Naya, at the hand still holding the door. She's used to polite bows and small gestures. But this?

This is different. Not wrong. Just different.

Naya tenses. "Oh no," she mutters, half to herself. "Did I—did I do something wrong?"

Mio hesitates, still processing. "No," she says quickly, shaking her head. "No, it's just... We don't really—well, I mean, people don't usually hold doors open like that here."

Naya stares at her. "Really?"

Mio offers a small, awkward smile. "It's just not that common."

"Sorry," Naya says, her hand slipping from the door. "Force of habit. I didn't mean to make it... weird."

Mio steps inside, the warmth of the cafe enveloping her. The aroma of brewed coffee and sweet pastries fills her senses. She glances back, her voice quieter now. "It's not weird. I just didn't expect it."

Naya follows, her eyes scanning the small tables and dim light fixtures. "So," she says after a pause, "do people just let doors slam in each other's faces here?"

"Not exactly," Mio laughs. "We're just... a bit more reserved about things like that."

Naya nods thoughtfully. "Interesting." Then, teasing, she adds, "Sorry if I overwhelmed you with my foreign ways. I'll stop being polite."

Mio shakes her head, smiling. "You don't have to apologize. It's actually kind of nice."

Naya's lips curve into a grin. "Then I'll make it a point to hold every door open for you from now on."

Mio chuckles. "Just don't overdo it."

Naya glances around again, her steps casual but hesitant. She's already moving toward a table by the window when Mio touches her arm gently, almost instinctively.

"You order at the counter," Mio says, tilting her head toward it.

Naya stops mid-step. "Oh—order here?" she asks, her voice rising slightly.

"Mmhm."

Naya pivots and heads for the counter. Her gaze drops to the pastry case—rows of sponge cakes wrapped in lace-edged doilies, green tea cheesecakes, strawberry tarts. She leans closer, her nose nearly brushing the glass.

Mio steps up beside her and orders her usual: Earl Grey tea and a strawberry cake. Simple and bittersweet.

Naya steps forward next and points at a rich slice of cake, dark and lightly dusted on top. "This one," she says. "And, uh... one latte, please."

The words stumble. The 'l' is too soft. The 't' lands oddly, harsh and clipped.

The barista pauses. His hand hovers over the register.

Naya clears her throat and smiles politely. "Latte," she repeats, slower this time. But the syllables stretch awkwardly, as though they don't quite fit.

Mio observes, already knowing where this is going.

The barista tilts his head, blinking.

"Coffee, milk," Naya tries again, her hands gesturing in the air. "You know—"

Mio moves forward brushing against Naya's arm, her touch light, like a breeze. Her skin tingles from the brief contact. "Ra-teh," Mio says, her voice even and clear. "Please."

The barista's face lights up. "Ah, ra-teh! Yes."

Naya exhales. "Yes," she echoes. "Latte. Ra-teh." Her accent twists the 'r,' sharp and rolling. She grimaces. "Uh. That," she mutters.

The barista nods and rings it up. Naya thanks him, stepping aside, her cheeks tinged faintly red.

"So," she says after a moment, turning toward Mio, casual again. "Let's find a seat."

Mio blinks. "You didn't... pay."

Naya looks at her, confused. "What?"

"You... pay upfront here," Mio explains, her voice carefully neutral.

Naya's face shifts. A flicker of realization. Then, embarrassment. "Oh. Right. European habit." She shrugs. "In Spain, they usually bring the bill to the table."

She fumbles with her wallet, her hands moving faster than her thoughts. The barista waits, polite and silent. Mio watches the scene unfold. It's a little funny. Sweet, almost. Endearing, in the way only Naya could be.

How she adjusts. How she's always so sure of herself, and yet... not quite.

Naya pulls out a coin. She places it on the counter with the confidence of someone who hasn't realized the mistake yet.

Two euros.

The barista stares.

Naya stares.

Mio tries not to laugh.

Naya's cheeks flush pink, and she slips the coin back into her wallet with a quick apology.

"Sorry. Sorry, I wasn't—uh..." Naya's words trail off.

Mio hides her smile behind her hand, looking away for just a second. It's not often she sees Naya like this—flustered, not fully in control.

It's... cute.

They find a table by the window. Naya sets down her plate—a dense, dark layered cake. Rich-looking, decadent, even from across the table.

Mio stirs her tea, watching Naya eye her dessert like it's something sacred.

"So," Mio begins, her voice light. "What was that?"

Naya glances up, mid-sip of her latte. "What was what?"

"What you gave the barista."

There's a pause. A beat where Mio watches the memory hit Naya like a slow-moving train. She pulls the coin from her wallet, holding it up.

"This," she says.

Mio leans forward, holding out her hand. "May I?"

Naya places the coin in her palm with an exaggerated flourish. "Here. Proof of my endless grace as a foreigner in Japan."

Mio chuckles. The coin is small and slightly worn, glinting under the café's soft lights.

"I've never seen one of these up close," she says, running her thumb over its surface. "An actual euro."

"Special edition," Naya says, gesturing with her latte. "The Córdoba Mosque. It doesn't usually look like that. Usually, it's the king's face on these."

Mio nods, entranced by the story woven into the metal. She studies the intricate design, the details etched into the reverse. It's just a coin. But in her hand, it feels like a window.

"You can keep it," Naya says suddenly.

Mio looks up. "What?"

"Keep it," Naya repeats. "A little keepsake. So you'll never forget your awkward, foreign clubmate."

Mio hesitates. Then, she smiles and tucks the coin into her pocket with care, like it's some rare treasure.

"I don't think I'll need a coin to remember you, Naya."

For a moment, Naya looks... softer. Like her edges have blurred. She glances down at the table, at the lustrous cake she's been eyeing since they sat.

The moment passes.

"Do you always drink European tea?" Naya asks.

Mio glances up from her fork, mid-slice into the strawberry cake, caught off guard by the question.

It's an odd question.

But then again, it's Naya. And she always asks the most specific things when she's curious.

"Not always, but I like this," Mio says, glancing at her tea. The steam rises in delicate swirls, carrying with it the familiar scent of bergamot. "Why?"

"Earl Grey," Naya remarks, motioning toward the cup. "Very... British."

"I guess? I've been drinking this for years. I'm used to it."

"So it's not just a taste thing?"

Mio sets her fork down. "I like it. But it's a habit, I think. From high school."

Naya hums, her expression curious. Mio takes a sip, the warmth of the tea spreading across her tongue. She places the cup back on the table carefully, her fingers lingering on the rim.

"Back in high school," she begins, her gaze flicking down to the tea as if it might reflect the memory, "we had tea every day in the Light Music Club."

"You did what now?"

Mio nods. "Yeah. Every day. Our band's name—our advisor didn't choose it just for show. After school, we'd all head to the clubroom, and Mugi would always prepare tea for us. And not just tea—cakes, biscuits, snacks. She always had something ready."

"But every day?" Naya sets her mug down with a soft clink. She leans forward, her eyebrows lifting. "Like, every single day?"

"Mmhm." Mio nods again. "Every day after school. Usually cakes or scones. Sometimes sandwiches. Whatever she decided to bring that day. It was her thing. Wherever we went—trips, festivals, even the training camp—Mugi made sure there was tea."

Naya leans in further now, her elbows resting on the table. "And you just... drank tea and ate cake?"

"Not always!" Mio huffs, though her lips curl into a small smile. "Azusa and I tried to keep us on track. We insisted on rehearsing. But..." Her smile widens. "A lot of afternoons felt more like tea parties than band practice."

Naya laughs. "It sounds more like a tea club than a band."

"Sometimes, it felt that way." Mio glances at her cake, the light, airy texture giving way under her fork, as she pushes into its soft, moist layers. "But..."

Her voice trails off. She looks up at Naya with a soft, almost sheepish expression.

"But?"

Mio sighs. "The sweets," she admits. "They made it hard to argue."

Naya chuckles. "So, the snacks won over the music?"

"More often than I'd like to admit," Mio says, the smile lingering. "But... it's also how we got Yui to stay."

"What do you mean?"

Mio leans forward now, resting her forearms on the table. "She joined the club without knowing how to play the guitar. She didn't even know what a Light Music Club was."

Naya's eyebrows shoot up. "Wait—seriously?"

Mio nods. "She didn't know anything about guitars. She just saw the club, thought it looked fun, and joined without realizing what it was about. She almost left, actually. She thought she'd be a burden. And if she left... the club would've disbanded."

"So she couldn't play? At all?"

"Not at all," Mio confirms, shaking her head. "Not even the basics."

"And what happened?"

"We convinced her to stay. Or, rather... Mugi and Ritsu did. Tea and cake were part of the deal."

Naya bursts out laughing. "Hold on. You're telling me she stayed because of the snacks?"

"Pretty much," Mio admits, laughing along with her. Then, she deadpans. "We played a song for her too and she said we weren't very good."

"Wow. Sharp."

Mio sighs. "Well, she was right. We'd hardly ever played together and we were 15. But she thought it was fun and decided to stay, so it worked out. Then she looked for a guitar and liked one of the more expensive and harder to handle ones for a beginner, but she didn't care. She just liked it."

"It reminds me of someone," Naya jokes.

"Yeah, right? I wonder who it could be," Mio teases.

"No idea," Naya says with an exaggerated shrug.

Mio chuckles. "Anyway, we promised we'd teach her, and we did. We helped her get her guitar, and she practiced a lot." Mio's gaze softens, her voice carrying a quiet pride. "And now she's one of the best guitarists I know."

Naya leans back, her expression turning thoughtful. "That's wild. She doesn't seem like the type to..." She pauses, searching for the right words. "To not know what she's doing. She's so... good. Like, effortlessly good."

"She is," Mio agrees. "She has this way of playing that's so... natural. Like she was born with a guitar in her hands. But she wasn't always. We all started somewhere. Even me."

Naya studies her for a moment. Then she lifts her mug again.

"Sounds like quite the band. You had a special group."

Mio nods. "We did. We still do. We're so happy Azusa joined us again. We missed her a lot."

Naya smiles. "So," she says, resting her chin in her hand, "your band name's literal, then. That's adorable."

"It sort of is."

The conversation lulls into a comfortable silence.

Naya sips. The rich scent of her latte fills the space around them, warm and inviting. Mio stirs her tea, the smell faintly sweet and comforting.

Her gaze drifts to Naya's plate when she finally picks up her fork. The rich, velvety cake looks delicious, its glossy surface catching the light. Naya looks pleased—so pleased—until she takes her first bite and—

Her face changes instantly.

Eyes wide. Mouth still.

Mio stares, trying not to laugh.

She watches as Naya blinks, pauses mid-bite, then chews slowly. Her expression shifts—confusion first, then concentration, as if the taste is some kind of puzzle she has to solve. Mio knows exactly what's happening.

And it's adorable.

The corners of Mio's mouth lift despite her best efforts. Naya glances her way, then back at the cake, like the dessert just personally betrayed her.

"Esto qué es," Naya mutters.

Mio's lips twitch, and it's over. The laugh bubbles out of her, light and sudden. She can't stop it.

Naya hears it. Her gaze snaps to Mio's, her brow furrowing. But she doesn't say anything. She just pokes at the cake with her fork. Hesitant. Uncertain.

"Did you think it was chocolate?" Mio asks, barely able to keep the teasing note out of her voice.

Naya sighs. "Yeah." Then, after a beat, "But it's... kind of good."

She takes another bite, slower this time. Chewing thoughtfully, like she's trying to decide if she's lying to herself or not.

"It's azuki," Mio explains, giggles still lingering in her tone. "Sweet red bean. It's popular here."

Naya pauses, fork hovering mid-air.

"Not quite chocolate," Mio adds.

Naya stares at the cake, expression caught somewhere between betrayal and reluctant acceptance. "Wait, what?" she says finally. "Again?"

Mio raises an eyebrow. "Again?"

"Okay, so... stupid question, you know Doraemon, right?"

Mio nods. "Of course. It's very popular here."

"Well, it's really popular in Spain, too. I used to watch it all the time with my little brother. He loved it. I loved it. And you know how Doraemon is always eating dorayakis?"

Mio nods again, already smiling.

"Well, I always thought they were filled with chocolate. They looked so good, and I was obsessed. So, when I got to Japan..."

Mio can see it already. The memory in Naya's face. The way her eyes crinkle at the edges, both fond and embarrassed. She chuckles, already guessing where this is going.

"I bought one," Naya continues. "First thing. I was so excited—I would finally eat an authentic Japanese dorayaki. So I took the biggest bite."

She pauses, for effect. Mio leans forward, fully caught now.

"And?"

"And it wasn't chocolate. But you know that already."

Mio laughs, the image of Naya's disappointment so vivid, so real.

"I thought I bought the wrong thing!" Naya says, laughing too. "I kept looking at it like, 'Where's the chocolate?' I was so confused."

"And betrayed by Doraemon," Mio adds, still giggling.

"Yes! Betrayed by Doraemon!" Naya repeats, throwing up her hands. "I finished it, though. It wasn't bad once I got over the shock. But now?" Naya gestures to the cake with her fork. "Now I've just made the same mistake again."

Mio giggles, imagining it. The way Naya must have looked, biting into that dorayaki. The same way she looks now—confused, unsure, but still trying.

That's the Naya thing. Trying. It's sweet—the way she's out of her element, yet always trying.

"Well," Mio says after a moment, "we could switch if you're not into it." She offers her strawberry cake without a second thought, the gesture casual but sincere.

Naya hesitates. Her fork hovers over her plate, then lowers again. "No, no. It's okay. But thanks," she says, but her voice dips—quieter now. More unsure.

Mio catches it. Watches the way Naya fidgets. She knows that look. She's seen it before.

Naya seems suddenly aware of how foreign she must seem—holding doors, mispronouncing her order, forgetting to pay up front, using euros, ordering dessert without a clue. It's awkward, and it's clear that she half-wonders if Mio feels uncomfortable.

"You okay?" Mio asks.

Naya doesn't meet her eyes. She fiddles with her fork instead. "Yeah, I just... I don't want to embarrass you," she says after a pause. 

"You're not embarrassing me, Naya."

Naya bites her lip. "It's just... I'm not... I'm not used to places like this here. Less with people, and this... isn't exactly my smoothest moment. I probably look ridiculous."

Mio tilts her head, watching her for a moment.

Then she smiles.

"You don't. You're kind of cute when you're awkward," Mio says.

The words come out too fast. Too easy. Mio's mind doesn't have time to stop them before they're out of her mouth. She realizes what she's said only after it's already hanging in the air between them. 

Naya freezes. Her eyes widen, just a fraction.

Mio's face burns. She feels the heat spread from her cheeks down to her neck, her chest. It's mortifying.

Then, Naya chuckles.

It's soft at first, barely there. But it grows, spilling out warm and easy, like sunlight through a crack in the curtains.

"I think that's the nicest way anyone's ever told me I'm clueless," she says, her grin sheepish.

Mio looks down, blushing, hiding herself behind the edge of her teacup. The ceramic feels smooth beneath her fingertips, a fragile shield for her flustered expression.

Naya stirs her latte, the spoon clinking faintly against the mug. She doesn't look at Mio. Instead, she leans on the table, her chin propped up on one hand, her gaze drifring somewhere beyond the window.

Her shoulders seem lower now, as if a weight she's been carrying all day has slipped just a little.

Mio notices.

The crease between Naya's brows. The absent way her fingers tap her spoon. The faint pause mid-motion, as if she’s caught between two minds.

"Naya?" Mio says softly, her voice gentle, almost hesitate. "Everything okay?"

Naya startles slightly. She looks up, her eyes meeting Mio's for a fleeting moment before flickering away. "Yeah," she says quickly. "I'm fine. Just thinking."

Mio hums, settling her hands around her teacup. She waits. The tea has long since cooled, the warmth faded. She's learned to wait when it comes to Naya. For words. For thoughts. For pieces of herself Naya doesn't often share.

A moment passes. Then another.

And then, Naya exhales. It's quiet, barely a sound, but it feels like the first crack in a wall.

"Do you ever feel..." Naya starts, almost hesitant, "like no matter what you do, you're just wrong?"

The question is soft, spoken as if the words have been sitting in her chest for too long. As if they weren't meant to be spoken aloud. As if Naya isn't even sure she should say them.

Mio studies her for a moment, but Naya is hard to read.

"Wrong?" she echoes, her brow furrowing slightly.

Naya nods, her lips curling into a bitter half-smile. "Like everything you do is just... off. The way you talk, the way you move. Even the way you exist."

Mio sets her cup down carefully. The porcelain clinks faintly, the sound impossibly small in the heavy silence between them. "What do you mean?"

"Here, in Japan. It's like I don't fit. Like I'm some kind of alien pretending to be human, and everyone knows."

Mio thinks about her piano lessons. The moments when her fingers fumble over simple chords, the way every mistake feels amplified, every missed note glaring. She remembers her teacher's advice: flow, not jump. It's about easing into the rhythm, letting the music come naturally. She wonders if that's what Naya is struggling with now—finding her rhythm in a place that feels foreign, one step at a time. Flow, not jump. A lesson for both of them, maybe.

Mio doesn't know what to say, so she says nothing.

"The other day," Naya continues, her voice tinged with sharp humor, "someone asked me if I eat paella every day back in Spain." She laughs again, the sound brittle, hollow. "What do you even say to that?"

Mio tries to lighten the mood. "Do you?"

Naya blinks, caught off guard, then snorts. Her laugh is brief but real, her lips tugging into a fleeting smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "No. Of course not. But that's not the point."

"What is the point?" Mio asks gently, her voice steady, inviting.

"The point is..." Naya sighs, running a hand through her hair. Her fingers rake through the strands, her now shorter bangs falling messily back into place. "I'm tired of being a novelty. Of being treated like some... exotic thing."

Mio stays quiet. She watches the way Naya's shoulders rise, then fall, as if carrying a weight only she can feel.

"I get it, though," she murmurs. "People are curious. They don't mean harm. But... it's a bit exhausting. Always being asked, always being watched. Always being different."

She pauses, her gaze drifting back to the window. The sunlight catches in her hair, streaking it with fleeting gold, a contrast to the shadows in her expression. "The other day, I bowed too deeply when thanking a cashier. He looked at me like I'd grown a second head. As if he knew I don't belong here, no matter how hard I try."

Mio listens, silent.

"And the language," Naya adds, frustration creeping into her tone. "The accent, the reformulation of sentences, the thousand words to say the same thing depending on the context... I feel like I'm tripping over my tongue every time I open my mouth. Like I'm messing up even when I'm trying my hardest."

Mio's chest aches. The weight of Naya's words settles heavily, pressing against her ribs, making her want to reach across the table, to take Naya's hand, to say something that would make this better.

But she doesn't know what to say.

Yes, she has felt out of place before. But not that much. Not like that.

"And I know," Naya says, guilt threading through her tone, "I know it's not that big of a deal. That I'm lucky. My parents worked very hard to get me here. This isn't cheap, you know? And besides, I know there are people who have it so much worse. I feel like such an entitled white idiot complaining about this. But... it feels like a big deal. Sometimes."

Naya speaks as though she's unraveling her thoughts aloud, trying to persuade herself that her feelings are unjustified, that they shouldn't exist. As though the weight of her emotions doesn't belong to her.

"Everything's harder here than I thought it would be," she admits, almost to herself. "Being alone. People staring. People asking. Trying not to offend anyone when I don't even know what I'm doing wrong. I swear, so many times I'm afraid to open my mouth or even move in case I push you all away without meaning to. With my gestures, or my louder voice, or... I don't even know."

She laughs, a sound so quiet it barely exists. It's thin, hollow, almost as if it's escaping her before she even has the chance to truly hear it. 

"I just... miss being able to relax. To exist without thinking so much."

Mio listens closely to Naya's words. The way she speaks, so open, so vulnerable—she's not used to this kind of openness, not even from her closest friends. She's not used to someone—especially Naya, of all people—stripping their feelings bare, laying them out so plainly, so painfully.

But as Naya talks, as she spills her frustrations about feeling alien and watched and misplaced, Mio feels something stir inside her. It's not the same. It's not even close. But she understands, in her own way.

Mio knows what it feels like to be out of place. She thinks back to high school, to the suffocating fear of stepping beyond the familiar, into a world that felt too vast, too unpredictable. Ritsu had been her one constant—a tether in the whirlwind of change swirling around her. She remembers the university recommendation, a prestigious opportunity, a doorway to a future she knew she should have aspired to. Yet, the idea of taking that step had filled her with dread. She couldn't picture herself there, alone, without the friends who had been her sanctuary, her solace. The thought of leaving them had terrified her in a way she couldn't explain. So she'd turned it down. She'd stayed where it was safe, where she felt she belonged.

Was it weakness? Or was it a kind of strength?

Is it weak to want to spend the best years of your life with the people who matter most to you, knowing that the tide of life will eventually pull you away from them—whether you want it to or not?

She still doesn't know.

Mio thinks of her own fear of the future, the weight of her dream to teach music someday. To stand before a classroom, to guide students the way her own teachers had guided her. The idea thrills and terrifies her in equal measure. How could someone so shy, so introverted, so afraid of the spotlight possibly command the attention of a room? What if she freezes? What if the students see through her, see the cracks, see the fear she tries so hard to hide? Could she carry the weight of their trust—the trust they might place in her as their mentor, their guide? Could she live with the guilt of accidentally nurturing or crushing dreams she didn't even know existed in that room?

And then there's Kenji. Her boyfriend. Her kind, patient, understanding boyfriend. She knows she's lucky to have him. She knows he cares for her. She knows he deserves the same in return. But no matter how much she tells herself these things, she can't shake the feeling that something is missing. There's a gap between them—subtle, but impossible to ignore. A distance she doesn't know how to close. She wants to be closer to him. She wants to feel what she's supposed to feel. But she doesn't. And she doesn't know why. Is it her? Is there something wrong with her? Or is this just how love fades when it isn't meant to be?

But even Mio's fears—sharp and suffocating as they are—feel smaller when compared to Naya's. Naya's fears seem louder. Heavier. They come from a different place entirely.

Naya had a place. She had her footing, her identity, her sense of belonging. And then she left it all behind. She came here—to Japan. A culture that wasn't hers. A language she didn't fully understand. A place where every rule, every rhythm, felt foreign. And now she's adrift, trying to find her way, trying to fit into a puzzle where none of the pieces feel like they match.

Mio sees that, and she can't help but feel a kinship with her. They're both navigating something uncertain. They're both searching for something—belonging, purpose, understanding. But where Mio clings to the familiar, to her safety net, Naya had leapt into the unknown. Where Mio stayed close to her friends, her family, her world, Naya left hers behind.

If Mio falls, there's a soft place for her to land. Her friends, her family, the familiarity of her surroundings—they'll catch her, they'll steady her. But if Naya falls, there's no net. No familiarity. Just the void of a foreign place that doesn't always understand her, and that she doesn't always understand in return.

Mio admires that about her. Even now, as Naya struggles, Mio admires the courage it must have taken to come here. To try. To face something so utterly unfamiliar and make a place for herself, even when it feels impossible.

Could Mio ever do the same? Could she leave everything behind the way Naya did? Could she endure that kind of loneliness, the kind that makes you question everything about yourself? Could she face the constant microaggressions, the quiet alienation? She doesn't think she could. Her chest tightens, a quiet conviction solidifying. She's not that strong.

But then she thinks of Naya's strength, and she wonders if Naya even sees it that way. Or if she just feels worn down by the weight of it all.

Mio wants to say something. She wants to tell Naya that she admires her, that she's not alone. But the words feel too fragile, too imprecise, as if they might shatter before they reach her.

"It must be exhausting," she whispers after a moment.

Naya looks at her, and for a fleeting moment, Mio glimpses something unguarded—an exposed thread in the tightly woven fabric of Naya's composure, a glimmer of rawness breaking through the carefully constructed veneer she wears like armor.

But then Naya shrugs.

"It is what it is," she says, her voice light, like she's trying to patch the crack before it grows any larger.

"You miss it a lot, don't you?" Mio asks. "Spain."

"Yeah. I miss my little brother, mostly. We grew up pretty close. And my friends—Julia and Samuel. We used to hang out all the time."

Mio nods. "I'd feel the same if I were away from Ritsu or the others for so long."

"Yeah. Julia is like my Ritsu. She would've teased me for handing over that coin. Well, actually, she'd be teasing me for..." Naya suddenly falls silent. She coughs, embarrassed. "Well, for other things. And Samuel would've just paid without saying anything."

Mio doesn't press. "You must miss them a lot."

"I do. But... being here has its own moments too. For example, with you, I feel like I can relax. Like... I don't have to try so hard."

Mio's eyes widen at that. But before she can respond, Naya continues, her words hesitant, as though she's picking her way through a minefield.

"But I'm also... scared," Naya confesses, her hand twitching slightly, as if she's resisting the urge to gesture too much. "I know I can be intense. I talk a lot. I move a lot. Sometimes I feel like I'm this big, loud storm in your quiet space. And I really like being with you. I have a great time. And I'm terrified of scaring you away."

Mio sits, stunned into silence, watching her for a moment, surprised by the sudden vulnerability in Naya's voice. Her usual easygoing, confident demeanor feels miles away, replaced by something fragile, something Mio hadn't expected.

"That's why it took me so long to apologize for what happened," Naya admits. "I didn't think I deserved to have such a nice person as a friend, but I was just really frustrated with... a lot of things."

Mio doesn't know what to say, at least not right away. What could she say to something so honest?

It was one thing to know that her friends liked her—Ritsu, Mugi, Yui, Azusa. That was different. Ritsu had been there since they were kids, pulling her into every social circle. Mugi had found Mio intriguing, sure, but it was Ritsu who had done the work of drawing her in. Even Yui, chaotic as she was, had stayed because Ritsu and Mugi had made it easy for her. Mio was... there. A steady presence in the background. Reliable and safe.

But this?

This is someone new. Someone who has no obligation to her, no childhood bond, no high school memories to share, no friend pulling them together. Someone like Naya, whose every step in Japan seems now weighed down by loneliness, who always carries that faint tension in her voice, like she's bracing for rejection. Someone who isn't good at opening up but has still chosen to do so—to her.

What is it about her that made Naya feel this way? Why is she the one Naya feels safe enough to fear losing? She thinks about how Naya always seems so put together, so easygoing and calm, and suddenly it clicks—how much effort that must take. And here she is, admitting she feels like a storm. That she's afraid Mio would retreat, quiet and small, overwhelmed by her natural energy.

It isn't a storm, Mio thinks. Not to her. Naya is a breeze that rustles leaves, a song that lingers. Bold and expressive, yes, but not suffocating.

Not to her.

The thought of Naya thinking otherwise—of Naya being afraid of losing her, even now, even so early—makes Mio's throat ache. Because no one had ever told her something like this before. Not so plainly. Not so vulnerably.

And in that moment, Mio decides that she wants to try. To be the kind of person Naya doesn't have to feel afraid of losing. The kind of person Naya can trust to stay. For a week, a month, a year—for as long as Naya stays.

"I'm not scared of you," Mio finally says, gentle. "You're not some storm, Naya. You're passionate. You're lively. And yeah, maybe you talk a lot and move a lot, but that's not a bad thing. It's just who you are."

Naya looks at her, small, as if her usual confidence has been stripped away for a moment. Mio's gaze drops for a second, then returns, more sure now.

"And I like who you are. You don't need to change or shrink yourself around me. You don't have to be quiet or still all the time. I don't want that."

Naya blinks, her mouth parting slightly as if to respond, but Mio continues, her voice soft but firm.

"You don't scare me. I promise."

There's a brief pause, and Mio glances away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I have a great time with you too. I really do. I love our pedal sessions, talking about music, and trading albums and bands. It's... one of the things I look forward to most." She paused, glancing up briefly, a small but genuine smile tugging at her lips. "And I'm going to keep doing it. Because you're my friend, Naya. So... don't think you have to hold back because of me, okay?"

She doesn't look at Naya right away, nervous she's said too much, but when she does, the relief on Naya's face is unmistakable. Naya chuckles, weak.

"Joder, Mio," she says, a bit cracked, "I would really hug you right now."

Mio's face turns crimson.

A hug.

From Naya.

Should she accept it? Clearly, Naya needs it. But... a hug? That's personal. Too personal? It's not like shaking hands or patting someone on the shoulder. A hug is... intimate. Even when it's friendly. And this is a friendly hug. Right? Of course, it is. Naya wouldn't mean anything else. She's been nothing but respectful. But what if she freezes up? What if it's awkward? What if her arms don't go the right way? Is it left arm up, right arm down? Or the opposite? Or—oh no—what if she accidentally hugs too tight? Or not tight enough? Will Naya think she doesn't mean it? Or that she means it too much?

And then there's the whole height thing. How do they even align for this? Naya's only a little taller than her, but is that better or worse? Is Naya's shoulder supposed to go under her chin? Or over?

Mio gulps. No, this is ridiculous. It's just a hug. But... it's also a hug. And hugs are... hugs.

Naya blinks. Mio has been still for a couple of minutes now.

"Mio. Mio, hey, don't worry," Naya says, chuckling, as if reading Mio's mind. "I'm not going to do it. I know it's not your style. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

Mio's gaze flickers to her cup before settling back on Naya. "I wasn't uncomfortable," she says softly, her voice almost swallowed by the café's chatter. "I... appreciate how considerate you are."

Naya smiles. "It's not that big of a deal."

Mio nods, a small, almost imperceptible motion, but enough to bridge the moment. Naya's gaze shifts, drawn back to the window, where the light filters in uneven patterns on the glass.

Mio watches her in silence, thoughtful. There's a distance in her eyes—somewhere far, unreachable, like she's searching for something beyond the room, beyond herself.

Mio wonders if Naya feels as far away as she looks—or if the space between them has always been there, unnoticed until now.

The silence between them feels heavy, but not uncomfortable. It's a shared silence, a quiet weight they carry together.

Mio's gaze drifts to the table—the crumbs from Naya's cake, the half-empty mug of latte, her own teacup, now cold and empty.

The air between them feels slower now like time has stretched thin.

"You know, I think you're handling things better than you realize," Mio finally says, breaking the stillness.

Naya's lips twitch into a faint, tired smile. "Maybe. I don't know."

Her hands find the spoon again, twisting it between her fingers in slow, repetitive movements.

"Sometimes..." Naya begins again, her voice almost swallowed by the weight of her own words. Her eyes linger on the edge of her mug, as though the answer might be hidden in its depths. "Sometimes I wonder why I even came here."

Mio's breath stills. She tries to imagine a world where Naya never stepped into her life—a world that once existed but now feels abstract. It's a world she has always known, and yet, now, in Naya's shadow, feels incomplete. Untranslatable.

A world without Naya feels like a language she can no longer speak.

"But..." Naya's voice dips lower, gentler. "When I talk to you... it's different. Like I belong, even if it's just for a moment. And the girls at the club... they're nice. Really nice."

Mio's lips curve into a small, quiet smile.

"If you ever need to talk," she says, "I'll be here to listen."

Naya's smile deepens. Just a little. Her shoulders relax, the tension easing.

"Thanks, Mio. You're a good friend."

The café feels smaller somehow. Quieter. Just the two of them, sitting in the fading sunlight, which catches in Naya's hair, turning it a golden due, almost glowing.

Mio thinks about speaking again, but Naya beats her to it.

"Do you know how hard it is to miss hugging people?"

"Hugging?" Mio repeats, surprised.

Naya nods, her smile wistful yet amused. "Yeah. Hugging. I might start hugging trees if this keeps up."

Mio's mind stumbles. Hugging. It's such a simple thing, ordinary thing. And yet... she can't relate. Not the way Naya seems to mean.

"I didn't know you missed it so much," Mio says carefully, watching Naya closely.

"It doesn't seem like it, does it?" Naya's smile shifts, just slightly. "But... yeah. I do. Sometimes, even if it doesn't show, I have to hold myself back from hugging someone. Or just... touching someone's arm or something."

Mio falls silent. Physical touch has always been... complicated for her, a tangled web of uncertainty—a boundary she instinctively retreats from, convincing herself she doesn't need it, doesn't want it, doesn't like it. But when Naya speaks about it, there's a quiet certainty, as if touch were as natural to her as breathing.

Her mind flickers to Kenji, to the way her body recoiled from his touch, how her skin prickled at the smallest contact, urging her to pull away. She had convinced herself she just didn't like physical contact.

And now, here's Naya—saying she misses it. Craves it. Needs it.

The contrast feels sharp, almost jarring.

"Why?" Mio asks, her voice almost a whisper.

Naya shrugs. "Because... it's natural back home to lightly touch your friends for any silly thing—a pat on the shoulder, a nudge, stuff like that. Physical contact for me is like... I don't know. Like a way of saying, 'I like you. I care about you.'" She pauses, her fingers stilling on the spoon.

I like you. I care about you.

Mio wonders about the space between them.

What it means.

What it could mean.

"But here," Naya adds, "I have to think about it. All the time. With you, specifically. Especially during pedal sessions."

Mio stiffens, a soft warmth rising in her face, slowly spreading across her skin. "Me?"

"It's not for any weird reason," Naya quickly clarifies, her face blushing now, her hands raised defensively. "It's just... where I'm from, it's normal to touch your friends. And you're right there, and I see you as my best friend here. If you're okay with it."

Best friend here.

The words fall into Mio’s chest like a soft weight—warm, delicate, and impossible to place. She feels them settle, like a single snowflake, fleeting and fragile, melting before she can fully grasp their meaning.

Best friend. Here.

The term isn't foreign, not really. Not to her. Mio has Ritsu, after all. Her anchor, her constant. The one who knows her better than anyone else, who yanks her out from her shell when she retreats too far. Ritsu has always been there, in her own chaotic way. The idea of a 'best friend' has always been tied to Ritsu in Mio's mind, so firmly that it's never occurred to her as anything else. Something immovable. Unchanging.

But when Naya says it, it feels... different.

Mio's eyes flick to her. Naya sits across the table, hands curled around her cup. Her green eyes hold a quiet sincerity that's hard to ignore. Her voice lingers in Mio's head, the soft lilt of her Spanish accent making the words sound fuller. Naya is thousands of miles from home—away from her best friends, her family, her culture. Everything around her is foreign: the language, the customs, even the small nuances Mio takes for granted. And yet, in the middle of it all, Naya looks at Mio and says, Best friend here.

Mio.

Mio, who struggles to open up. Who's always relied on Ritsu's whirlwind charm to fill the silence she dreads. Mio, who never steps far beyond her comfortable, familiar circles. Who's never had to be anyone's best friend in a new, unfamiliar world.

Naya's words make Mio feel warm, almost uncomfortably so. Not because they're unwelcome, but because they're so unexpected.

She knows what it's like to cling to what's safe, to hold tight to the people who make life less overwhelming. She's done it with Ritsu, with the girls, with the club. But she's never thought of herself as that person for someone else—the one who could make the world less lonely.

Best friend here.

Does she even deserve that?

Naya has her own best friend back in Spain. Her own Ritsu. Someone who's known her far longer. Someone who's seen parts of her Mio hasn't even begun to glimpse. And yet, somehow, Naya looks at her and sees this. Her. Mio—who fumbles with her words, who avoids eye contact, who stumbles over social graces, who can barely manage her own insecurities, let alone someone else's.

Her chest tightens—not painfully, but in a way that feels fragile, delicate. She isn't used to this kind of closeness outside of Ritsu. With Ritsu, it's always been effortless, natural, like breathing. But this? This is new. This is someone choosing her in a way she doesn't quite know how to handle.

And yet, there's a flicker of something else. Pride, maybe. Gratitude. Naya's words are a quiet reminder of how much Mio has grown since high school. Back then, the idea of speaking to a stranger would leave her palms damp and her stomach in knots. And now? Now she's someone's best friend in a foreign world. It's overwhelming, humbling, and maybe, in its own quiet way, beautiful.

She risks another glance at Naya, watching the way her fingers fidget with the edge of her plate, the way her expression is unguarded, open—honest in a way Mio hasn't seen before. She thinks about how Naya has navigated this new world, far from everything she knows. How she's endured the challenges, the homesickness, the quiet but constant weight of being out of place. Naya is resilient in a way Mio can't imagine being.

But maybe... maybe that's why Naya chose her.

Because Mio doesn't push. Doesn't overwhelm. Because she listens, even if she doesn't always know the right thing to say. Because she doesn't see Naya as 'the exchange student,' as someone defined by her otherness. She sees her as Naya—her bandmate, her equal. A bassist. A musician. A person. Someone worth knowing. Someone from another culture, yes, but someone to learn from, perhaps. Different, yes, but who isn't?

Mio's steady, in her own quiet, shy way.

Best friend here.

The words settle again. This time, they don't melt away. They stay. They root themselves in the corners of Mio's heart.

"You know," Naya continues. "When I came here, I thought... I thought it was going to be lonely. I mean, I knew it would be. Everything is different here. And that's not bad. Just... different. And sometimes, it feels like I have to put on a mask to fit in. To make people comfortable. You know?"

Mio nods, though she's not sure she truly understands. How could she? Japan is her home. She has never had to adapt to an entirely new culture, never had to navigate the subtle, unspoken rules of a foreign place.

"But you make it easier," Naya admits. "You don't ask me about Spain all the time, unless you really want to know something about me. Or why my Japanese isn't perfect. Nor do you get impatient if I speak slowly or something. You just let me be me."

Naya's finger traces the rim of her mug absentmindedly, and Mio can tell she's choosing her words carefully.

"That's why I didn't apologize right away after I was so mean to you," Naya confesses. "I felt like I didn't deserve your friendship anymore—not after the way I treated you, someone who's always been so kind to me. But when you helped me while I was sick, even after everything, I realized that you were worth fighting for—that I had to try to make things right and get you back. Or, if you didn't want to hear from me again, at least give you the apology you deserved."

Mio feels her cheeks flush, but she doesn't look away. Naya's words are a quiet, steady stream, and Mio doesn't want to miss a single one.

"I guess what I'm trying to say," Naya continues, her lips curving into a small, shy smile, "is that I'm very grateful you're my friend." She pauses, her cheeks warming slightly. "It means a lot to me."

The words land softly, but their weight is immense. Mio feels it in her chest, in the way her heart stumbles before settling into a new rhythm. But she doesn't answer. No words come. Mio wants to reach across the table, to say something meaningful, something that would match the weight of Naya's words.

Naya leans back slightly, her smile turning sheepish. "Sorry. That was a bit much, wasn't it?"

Mio shakes her head quickly, her dark hair falling over her shoulder. "No," she says, firm. "It wasn't. And I... I'm glad you're my friend too."

Naya smiles and nods. Small. Subtle. Yet, somehow, it feels enough.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. The air between them feels charged, not with tension but with something fragile and precious.

Mio looks at her cup. Her Earl Grey is long gone.

Across from her, Naya pokes at the last crumbs of her cake. She lifts her fork, takes a slow bite, chews, swallows. The tiniest grimace flickers across her face, almost imperceptible, but Mio catches it.

It makes her smile.

"So," Naya clears her throat, breaking the lull. "The other CD you bought earlier—what was it?"

Mio blinks, surprised by the sudden shift. She tilts her head, trying to recall, then she nods. "Oh, it's AKB48's debut album. It came out today."

"Ah, I've heard of them. They're the... uh..." She gestures vaguely. "The idol group with... what, forty members?"

"Technically forty-eight," Mio corrects. "Though it's a little complicated. They have teams. Team A, Team K, Team B, and Team 4."

Naya's brow arches. "That's enough for four soccer teams. Maybe they should start a league instead of singing."

Mio chuckles. "They're really good. Their songs are catchy, and they have a huge following in Japan."

"Catchy?" Naya leans forward slightly. "You'll have to lend it to me sometime."

Mio looks at her, surprised. Then she nods. "Sure. If you're interested."

Naya grins. "Of course. If you like them, they must be awesome."

It's a stupid, silly thing to say. Yet somehow, it lodges itself in Mio's chest, unshakable. For Mio, it's the most important thing in the world at that moment.

"By the way," she says, "have you heard Arctic Monkeys' new album yet? Suck It and See? It came out two days ago."

Naya's eyes light up. "I've been meaning to! Is it good?"

Mio nods. "I like it. It's different, but in a good way. The guitar in That's Where You're Wrong reminds me of MONORAL."

"MONORAL?" Naya repeats. "I don't think I know them."

"You should check them out." Mio smiles. "You might like their style."

"Alright." Naya makes an invisible note in the air with her finger. "MONORAL. Got it. And speaking of albums," she leans back in her seat, "there's one I'm really looking forward to—Fuel Fandango. Self-titled. It's their debut album. They're Spanish—flamenco, electronica, and funk. Kind of a mix."

Mio raises an eyebrow. "Flamenco and electronica? That's different."

"It works," Naya assures her, grinning. "You'll see."

Mio smirks. "Not looking forward to Digitalism's album anymore, then?"

"Hey," Naya laughs. "I have ears for everyone."

Mio chuckles. "Do you know... uh..." She hesitates, her fingers tapping lightly on the edge of the table. "Oru-kesuta de ra Ruzu?" she says slowly, the words feeling foreign on her tongue.

"Orquesta de la Luz?" Naya easily echoes, smiling at Mio's attempt at Spanish. "Not a clue. What's that?"

"They're a Japanese salsa band," Mio explains, leaning forward a little. "They're really popular. Or were, anyway. They sing in Spanish."

Naya hums, intrigued. "Spanish, eh? Guess that means I have to like it, right? It's like, mandatory for me or something." Her lips curve into a playful smirk.

Mio huffs softly, narrowing her eyes. "I didn't mean it like that. I just thought... you might find it interesting." She crosses her arms, a slight pout tugs at her lips.

Naya chuckles, leaning forward. "Relax, Mio. I was kidding. I'm actually curious now. A Japanese salsa band singing in Spanish? You've got me intrigued."

Mio softens, her expression relaxing. "Good. I think you'll like them."

"What's a good song to start with?"

Mio flinches as she attempts the title of one of their songs—Salsa Caliente del Japón. "Um... Sarusa Kariente deru Japan."

Naya's lips twitch. "That was cute," she says, grinning. "Wanna try again? Sahl-sah Kah-lyen-teh del Ha-pon."

Mio repeats it, brow furrowing with concentration. "Sahl-sah Kah-ree-en-teh ... del Ha-pōn?"

Naya smirks warmly, nodding. "Better. Your Spanish is adorable, by the way."

Mio huffs, her cheeks glowing brighter. "Well, don't expect too much. That's all I've got."

Naya smiles. "I'll give them a listen."

And just like that, the conversation shifts. Fluid. Natural. Easy.

It's always easy with Naya. Always. She doesn't know why.

Before she can dwell on it, Naya speaks. "Should we get going?"

Mio glances at the time on her phone. There's still a bit left, but she hums anyway, a soft sound of agreement. "Probably. I don't want to miss my lecture."

"We should ask for the bill, then," Naya says, already glancing around for the server.

Mio stares at her. "Naya..."

"Hm?"

"We already paid."

Naya blinks.

"Oh. Right. I forgot." There's a pause. Then something flickers across her face. Embarrassment, maybe.

Mio can't help it. Her lips twitch again, a teasing smile forms before she can stop it.

"Don't tell me you've been walking out of cafés without paying."

Naya shrugs, sheepish. "It's a European thing. You pay after, usually."

Mio raises an eyebrow. "You've been here how long?"

"Half a year. But in my defense, old habits die hard."

"Naya," Mio says, mock-serious. "People probably think you've been stealing."

Naya grins, playful now. "It's not my problem your system is backwards."

"Right," Mio says, standing up and reaching for her bag. "Come on, European. Let's go before you embarrass yourself again."

Naya laughs, soft and candid. Mio watches her smile, and it's—

It's bright. Like sunlight. Like something you want to tuck away and keep.

She smiles, too. And laughs. It's light, unguarded. And she realizes how at ease she feels. How simple it is with Naya.

A little strange, a little sweet.

They gather their things and step out into the late-afternoon sun, that stretches long shadows across the pavement. Naya adjusts her hoodie, fingers brushing the zipper absently.

"Thanks," she says suddenly.

Mio glances at her. "For what?"

"For inviting me out today. I needed that. And I like hanging out with you." Naya's gaze stays forward, her voice casual but sincere.

Mio's chest flips. It's a strange feeling. A little too warm, a little too much. She ignores it.

"Sorry for venting, though," Naya adds. "Thanks for listening."

"Don't worry," Mio says. "It was nice." A pause. Then, almost shyly, "We should do it again sometime."

"Me complaining while you drink fancy tea?"

Mio rolls her eyes. "I meant hanging out."

Naya laughs. "Yeah. We should."

They walk in silence for a moment, side by side. The city hums around them—traffic, footsteps, faint voices weaving between their steps.

"You know," Mio says, breaking the quiet. "I'm really glad I asked you to hang out. It's... nice. Getting to know you better."

Naya looks at her. She smiles again. "It's nice to get to know you better, too." She hesitates, glancing down, then back up. "I, uh... I tend to isolate myself a lot. Except when Liz forces me to go out with her and Mugi on weekends."

Mio arches a brow, considering this. She thinks of Liz and Mugi, their easy laughter, their camaraderie. And, apparently, their weekend outings. She wonders how often they've gone out together without her noticing.

But she doesn't ask.

"Forces?" she says instead.

Naya nods. "Yeah. She's... persuasive. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate her going out of her way to make sure I don't feel alone. Liz is the best. But sometimes I just... decide to be alone. By choice."

"Why?"

Naya shrugs. "I just... I don't know. I feel like my mishaps make people uncomfortable."

Mio frowns slightly. She thinks of Naya's awkward gestures at the counter, the way her cheeks flushed faintly when she handed over the wrong coin.

She thinks of how human it was.

"You can hang out with us," Mio says. "With me. Or the girls. We're your friends, and we get that things can be different or unfamiliar for you sometimes. But it doesn't matter—we like you for who you are."

There's a beat of silence. Then, slowly, Naya smiles. It's small, faint at first, but it grows.

"Thanks, Mio."

Mio nods. Her fingers curl slightly around her bag strap. "And you can eat with us in the cafeteria whenever you want," she adds. "You know that already. You don't have to sit alone."

Naya chuckles softly. "I know. I'll keep that in mind."

They fall into silence again, but it's different now. Lighter, easier. The kind of silence that doesn't need filling.

When they part ways at the corner, Naya lifts a hand in a casual wave. "Thanks again, Mio. See you tomorrow at practice."

Mio nods and watches as Naya walks away.

She lingers for a moment, her eyes following until Naya disappears into the campus landscape. Her fingers brush the coin in her pocket. A small, unassuming token of the day. Of Naya. Of the quiet, steady warmth she carries with her—unrelenting yet never overbearing.

Her thoughts drift to her composition for the showcase. The melody is there, scattered in fragments, but the structure evades her. It feels too big, too much to capture in a single piece. But then she thinks about the Chopin prelude—how her teacher said it wasn't about grandeur but simplicity. A quiet, deliberate flow. Maybe her piece doesn't need to be perfect, she thinks. Maybe it just needs to feel true. Like this moment.

Mio exhales. She thinks of Naya's smile, radiant like sunlight breaking through heavy clouds. And her presence—light, surprising. Like the unexpected sweetness of azuki bean, hidden beneath familiar layers you didn't realize you'd ever want to uncover.

Lingering long after the first taste.

Notes:

I really hope I handled this chapter's themes with care. Naya's white, and I didn't want her to come across as whiny—just as someone feeling isolated while navigating a culture very different from her own. Fingers crossed I got it right.

And yes, this chapter has been very Naya-focused (even with Mio's introspection), but I want her to be more than just 'the love interest.' The poor girl has her own baggage (and trust me, she's going to unpack a whole lot more and a carry-on full of more issues later), and I want her to have solid character development because I didn't want to create an OC just to plop her into K-ON! as some lifeless flirt machine. Nothing wrong with that, of course—just not my style. She's my baby, my pride and joy, my chaos incarnate—don't judge me, please.

And can we talk about Naya being secretly touch-starved but too polite to say it? Someone give this girl all the hugs. Except Mio, whose body is experiencing pure gay panic awakening.

Also. Naya and Mio. Look, I know Naya doesn't exist in the K-ON! universe (I know, I know, blasphemy), but these two? I just really like them together. Their chemistry feels so natural. Is it egotistical to say that? Maybe. But every time I write them, their interactions just flow. Slow burn at its finest, folks. We're 13 chapters in, averaging 10k words each, and still no relationship. And there is still plenty left. We're not even close. Not even close. Where's the author? I'd like to have a word with her.

If you've made it this far, thank you a million times over. Seriously. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. I hope you enjoyed the chapter!

Also, band recommendations: Fuel Fandango? MONORAL? Incredible. Highly recommended.

Lastly, but most importantly, thank you a million times over to Jules (tsuki_anne). You take my messy chapters and turn them into something readable. What would I do without you? <3

Chapter 14: The Flood

Summary:

Mio sways forward—a motion so small, so subtle, even she isn't sure if it happened at all.

Notes:

FOURTEEN chapters in—more words than freakin' One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez and probably twice the existential crises—and still no sapphic clarity??? Enough stalling, enough subtext—it's time to embrace the gay panic, the mutual pining, the 'oh no, we're just friends (but are we???).' Buckle up, it's chaos o'clock.

Oh, and a massive THANK YOU to my beta, Jules (tsuki_anne), who puts up with my nonsense and keeps this ship afloat. Jules, you're the real MVP.

 

Insert Yui's enthusiastic "Let's gooo!" here.

 

The Flood, by Of Mice & Men, was released on June 14, 2011.

June 10, 2011

Mio sits in their usual spot in the cafeteria.

Yui is on her right, Mugi on her left. Across the table, Ritsu laughs so hard she nearly chokes on her rice. Azusa sits next to her, while Momo, as quiet as ever, observes the group. Her gaze flicks between the others like she's watching some kind of drama play out in real time.

Mio stirs her miso soup, watching the steam rise in soft, lazy curls. She listens to Yui tell a story, rambling, structureless, and entirely pointless, but Mio smiles anyway. It's hard not to when Yui's voice carries such unabashed enthusiasm for even the most mundane things.

Mugi listens with her serene, ever-present smile, as if it's etched into her very being. Azusa nods along, occasionally humming in acknowledgment. Momo, still finding her footing, listens quietly. Her chopsticks hover above her bowl like she's forgotten they're there.

It's the same as always. Comfortable. Predictable.

Until it isn't.

"Um... excuse me."

The voice is quiet. Unsure. Not loud enough to cut through the cafeteria noise entirely, but enough to make Mio stop mid-sip.

She knows that voice.

She looks up.

Naya.

Standing at the edge of their table, holding a tray. Her fingers grip the tray's edges a little too tightly, her eyes darting over the group before landing on Mio.

"Uh... hey," Naya says softly, clearing her throat. "Can I..." She hesitates, clears her throat again. "Can I sit with you guys?"

Mio blinks.

Then blinks again.

It takes a moment for the words to register, to process.

Around her, the world slows. The hum of the cafeteria fades, muffled by the sudden rush of warmth blooming in her chest.

She doesn't know what to say. But before she can find her voice, someone else does.

"Of course, Naya-chan," Mugi says warmly, her tone welcoming and pleasantly surprised.

Azusa nods. "Yes, of course. Please join us."

Momo bows slightly, shy but sincere. "Hi, Naya-senpai."

And Ritsu—because she's Ritsu—grins. "Took you long enough."

"Come sit next to Mio-chan!" Yui exclaims, her voice bright and uncontainable. She waves Naya over, already sliding over to make room.

Mio feels her cheeks heat and glares at Yui, but Yui remains oblivious, smiling wide.

Naya glances at Mio. "Thanks," she murmurs. She sets her tray down carefully, as if afraid of disturbing something. Momo looks at Naya as if her favorite sister had just returned from a long trip. Naya gives her a small, sisterly smile in return.

Mio watches as Naya sits, adjusts her hoodie, and glances around the table. Her eyes dart from person to person before settling on her food.

She looks nervous.

Why does she look nervous?

"Hey, Naya," Ritsu says, picking up a piece of karaage with her chopsticks. "What took you so long? Too cool to eat with us before?"

"Ritsu," Mio hisses.

Naya chuckles. "I just... needed to work up to it, I guess."

"Well," Mugi says, "it's lovely to have you with us."

For a moment, Mio notices something in Naya's expression when she looks at Mugi—familiarity, like they've spoken before. Maybe more than Mio realized. It's a fleeting thought, gone as quickly as it came.

Naya hesitates, her gaze briefly flickering to Mio. "I guess... I wasn't sure if I'd fit in."

"That's silly!" Yui exclaims, loudly enough to draw a few stares. "You're one of us! We've been telling Mio-chan to bring you over forever!"

"I didn't—" Mio starts, but Yui isn't finished.

"Okay, maybe not forever," Yui amends with a laugh. "But we've mentioned it a lot!"

Naya laughs, soft and almost shy, but real. "Thanks for letting me join today," she says, glancing around the table.

"Letting you?" Ritsu snorts. "Like we're some exclusive club or something. You can eat with us anytime."

Naya's lips twitch into a faint smile. She glances briefly at Mio, and though it's almost imperceptible, Mio catches it. And it makes her chest feel too tight and too warm all at once.

Naya is here. Sitting at their table. With her.

And Mio can't stop smiling.

Her mind flickers to the Chopin piece her teacher assigned. "Let the music come to you," her teacher had said. The piece was simple, technically speaking, but the weight of its emotions was daunting. Each phrase felt like a secret she wasn't sure she was ready to understand. Watching Naya, Mio wonders if this is how connection works too—something that comes naturally to some but takes time to unfold for others, herself included.

She tries to focus on her food or the chatter around her, but her attention keeps slipping back to Naya. To the way she sits—a little too stiff. To the way her fingers fidget with her chopsticks. To the way her eyes dart, unsure, as though still deciding whether she belongs.

"Oh, what did you get?" Yui leans over. "It looks so good!"

"Just... curry," Naya says, holding up her chopsticks. "And rice. Nothing fancy."

"Look at you. Master of chopsticks already," Ritsu teases. "Getting pretty good, huh?"

Naya raises her chopsticks as if to prove a point. "Yeah, thanks to Mio."

Mio blinks. "Me?"

Naya nods. "You gave me that whole demonstration, remember?"

"I was just trying to help," Mio says quickly.

"And you did. I haven't dropped a single piece of food since."

Ritsu snickers. "Guess Mio's got a talent for teaching."

Mio feels her face heat. She stares down at her tray, pretending her miso soup requires intense concentration. "It wasn't a big deal," she mutters.

"It was," Naya says. "You saved me from embarrassing myself in public over and over."

Yui giggles. "Mio-chan's the best for stuff like that!"

"She's reliable," Azusa adds with a nod. "Always has been."

Momo nods too, quietly but enthusiastically.

Mio's face burns. She waves a hand dismissively. "Stop," she says. "It's nothing."

But Naya is still looking at her. Still smiling.

"And what's your favorite thing here so far, Naya-chan?" Yui asks.

"Food-wise?"

Yui nods, her head bobbing eagerly.

"Probably... katsudon." Naya smiles, wider this time. "It's simple, but it's so good!"

Yui gasps dramatically. "A woman of taste!"

The table bursts into laughter, even Momo giggling behind her hand. Naya visibly relaxes, her posture less rigid.

The conversation flows easily from there—effortless and light. They talk about everything and nothing—their classes, their assignments, the club, the food, and bits of harmless nonsense.

Yui peppers Naya with question after question, each more random than the last. Mugi chimes in too, dropping little tidbits Naya must've shared with her before. Mio notices this and feels a pang of... surprise, perhaps. She hadn't realized they'd spoken so much, Mugi and Naya. It catches her off guard.

Not that it's shocking, really. Mugi's the kind of person anyone could talk to.

But still.

Naya answers every question with humor, her words tinged with her accent. She shares stories about cultural differences she's noticed, little quirks in her habits, and why she does things a certain way. Some answers make them laugh, others make them pause and think.

And every now and then, she glances at Mio.

Mio doesn't know what to do with those glances.

She tries to focus on her food, on Yui's endless laughter, Ritsu's snarky jokes, and on the way Mugi's voice lilts as she talks.

But her heart feels buoyant, her chest light and full.

She can't help noticing how Naya leans in when Mugi speaks, as if they've always known each other. Or how Yui's relentless enthusiasm pulls easy smiles from her, and Azusa's technical curiosity about pedals and music spark thoughtful responses. Even Momo, typically reserved, engages more, her quiet words drawing Naya's attention.

Eventually, Naya and Mugi fall into an easy rhythm. Their words overlap, their smiles mirroring each other.

Mio watches them, surprised by how much they talk—more than she expected, more than she's ever seen them talk.

She hadn't known they'd talked this much before or that they shared this... understanding. This comfort. Like they've known each other longer than just a few months.

"By the way," Ritsu says suddenly, breaking the flow. "You two—" she gestures between Naya and Mugi—"seem pretty chummy. When did that happen?"

"Oh," Naya glances at Mugi. "We've hung out a few times."

Mugi's cheeks tint pink, but her smile remains serene. "Naya-chan's very interesting—and very kind."

Mio blinks.

She hadn't known that.

But there's no time to dwell on it, because Yui is asking Naya about Spain again. Her questions are random and enthusiastic, and Naya laughs. The table buzzes with conversation.

Then, it's Momo and Naya. They're talking about rehearsals. About how cool Liz is. About the song they're working on—something fast and energetic. Momo speaks more than usual, her voice quiet but steady. Naya listens intently, nodding, offering suggestions, and providing encouragement.

Mio watches them, too. She's always known Momo was shy, but around Naya, she seems... different. More open. More at ease. Like she has the protection of an older sister.

It's the Naya thing, Mio thinks. The way she listens. The way she doesn't push. The way she makes people feel seen, heard, understood.

The way her lopsided smile and green eyes invite you to breathe slowly.

Mio listens more than she speaks. She watches, takes it all in.

The way Naya's eyes light up when she talks about music.

The way she leans forward when Yui's story takes an absurd turn.

The way her fingers tap lightly against her tray, a rhythm only she can hear.

It's nice.

Nicer than Mio expected.

She hadn't realized how much she wanted this. How much she'd hoped for it. Naya, here. With them. With her.

And then, just like that, lunch is over.

Trays are gathered, and the group begins to scatter, each heading to their next class or commitment.

Naya lingers, her tray still in hand. She looks at Mio.

"Thanks for letting me join you," she says, her voice sincere.

Mio smiles. "You don't have to thank us. You're always welcome."

"I haven't made things awkward, have I?" Naya asks, her tone cautious. "You... you all feel okay around me, right?"

Mio's eyebrows furrow slightly. "Of course we do. Why would you even ask that?"

Naya hesitates for a moment. "No, it's just... I mean, you've all been comfortable with me, right? At ease?"

Mio tilts her head, studying her. "Yeah, we have. Weren't you?"

"Yes!" Naya says quickly, her hand waving as if to dismiss the question. "Yeah, I have been. I've been happy here, you know? That's why I wanted to be sure."

"Why?"

"Just in case I can come back, if you don't mind?" Naya asks, a little shyly. "I hope I haven't bored you too much. Because I think you'll be seeing me around a lot."

Mio chuckles softly. "Naya, you're not boring at all. Honestly, you fit right in."

Ritsu suddenly pops up behind Mio, slinging an arm over her shoulder. "Oh, we'll definitely be seeing you around. We've got the club, remember? Don't think you're off the hook, Naya."

"Right," Naya replies, chuckling.

"Naya-chan, you're welcome anytime," Mugi steps in, her voice warm. "It's nice having you here."

Azusa nods. "Yes, definitely. And if you ever need help with anything, just ask."

"Same here," Ritsu adds. "We're officially your cafeteria crew now."

Yui bounces up next to Naya, grinning. "And next time, Naya-chan, bring some cool Spain stories, okay? I wanna hear everything!"

Naya laughs, freer now. "Sure, Yui. I'll see what I can do."

Mio watches the exchange, a small smile playing on her lips. She feels a warmth she doesn't entirely understand yet—something between relief and contentment, seeing how easily Naya is being embraced.

As they all begin to head their separate ways, Naya catches Mio's eye one last time.

"Thanks again, Mio. For everything."

Mio looks at her, surprised. Then smiles. "You don't have to thank me. Just... don't be a stranger, okay?"

Naya grins wider, placing a hand over her chest, exaggerated, like she's making an oath. "Deal. I solemnly swear, under penalty of bad bass lines, never to be a stranger again." Then, with a playful tilt of her head, "See you later at the club?"

Mio nods. "Yeah. See you."

Naya's steps are light as she walks away, her frame blending into the steady stream of students, her distinct stride swallowed by the crowd.

Mio watches her go. The buzz of her friends' chatter fades into the background. Just for a moment. Just long enough for something quiet to bloom in her chest.

Relief, maybe. Or something lighter.

She isn't sure.

Ritsu's elbow nudges her side.

"What's with that look, Mio?"

Mio flinches. "What look?" she snaps.

Ritsu smirks. "C'mon, let's get moving. Don't wanna be late."

Mio exhales through her nose, muttering something under her breath. She gathers her things and follows. The cafeteria noise dissolves behind them as they step into the open air, the sunlit campus sprawling ahead.

The breeze tugs at Mio's hair. The warmth of the sun settles on her skin.

She's still smiling.

---

June 11, 2011

The library is supposed to be quiet.

It's supposed to be a sanctuary of focus. A haven for academic pursuits.

It's not supposed to sound like this.

Mio sighs, glancing at the table. Her notebook is open, perfectly aligned in front of her. Its pages are filled with carefully penned notes on music theory. Precise. Ordered. Textbooks on pedagogy and classical composers are stacked to her right. Everything about her setup screams diligence. Everything about the table screams chaos.

Ritsu sits across from her, lazily twirling a pen in her hand. An open business management textbook lies in front of her, but the margin has been taken over by doodles.

Little caricatures. Stick figures with guitars, drumsticks. One of them is scowling.

Mio recognizes it immediately.

"Ritsu," she says, exasperated. "We're supposed to be studying."

"I am studying," Ritsu replies, not looking up. "Team dynamics. Look." She taps the scowling figure with her pen. "You're the leader."

Mio glares.

To her right, Yui hums a tuneless melody. Her English workbook is open. Half of it is filled with vocabulary words—messy but enthusiastic. The other half? Hearts. Stars. A detailed drawing of what looks like Ton-chan wearing glasses.

At the far end of the table, Mugi is the picture of productivity. Her business notes are pristine, color-coded with pastel highlighters. She doesn't look up from her Business case studies, even as Ritsu's chair squeaks.

She's the only one who looks like she belongs here.

"How's this?" Mugi asks, sliding her notes toward Mio. "Does it make sense?"

Mio glances at the neat rows of kanji and diagrams. They're impeccable, of course. She nods. "It's perfect, Mugi. As always."

Mugi beams.

Mio envies her composure.

"How do you stay so focused?" she asks, desperate.

Mugi looks up, smiling. "I enjoy it. Business is like solving puzzles."

"Of course it is," Ritsu groans, throwing her pen down. "Meanwhile, I'm over here surviving on vibes alone. This case study—" She jabs at her textbook. "'Developing leadership strategies for effective team communication.' Who cares?"

"Managers should care," Mugi says lightly, without looking up. Her handwriting is elegant, the kind you'd expect on a wedding invitation. "It's essential for workplace harmony."

"Workplace harmony." Ritsu slumps further into her chair. "Whatever."

Mio sighs. "Can we please concentrate? Just for ten minutes?"

"Speaking of concentration," Ritsu says, leaning forward, "Mio, care to explain these adorable little bunnies in your margins?"

Mio stills.

"What bunnies?"

Ritsu flips Mio's notebook around, revealing the incriminating evidence. There, nestled between the margins, are small sketches. Round faces. Long ears. Tiny noses.

Bunnies.

"They help me think," Mio blurts, her face burning. "Leave it alone."

"Oh, I'm leaving it alone," Ritsu says, wolfish. "But Yui? You gotta see this."

"Ritsu!"

But it's too late. Ritsu tilts the notebook toward Yui, who gasps, her eyes lighting up at the bunnies, scattered across the page like an invasion of cuteness.

"So cute, Mio-chan!"

Mugi's soft laughter joins the chaos. "They are adorable, Mio-chan."

"They're just... absentminded doodles," Mio stammers, her cheeks betray her—red and warm. She snatches the notebook back, hugging it to her chest. "Focus on your own work."

"Oh, yeah. Work," Ritsu echoes, her smirk stretching wide. "Like doodling bunnies."

Mio opens her mouth, ready to retaliate. Ready to defend her honor.

A voice interrupts them.

"Uh... excuse me."

Mio looks up.

Naya stands there, her notebook and textbook clutched tightly to her chest. The sleeves of her hoodie are pushed up, and her hair falls, messy and soft, into her face. She looks hesitant, like she's not sure if she should interrupt.

"Naya-chan!" Yui exclaims, waving her over with too much enthusiasm for a library.

Mio winces. "Yui, keep it down."

Naya steps closer, cautious. Her papers held like a shield. "Sorry to bother you," she says, her voice low. "I don't want to... interrupt anything."

Ritsu laughs. "You're not interrupting. We're barely studying as it is."

"Speak for yourself," Mio mutters.

"What do you need, Naya-chan?" Mugi asks, her smile warm and welcoming.

"I was, uh, studying. Over there." She gestures vaguely toward a hidden corner of the library. "And I... need some help. With my Japanese homework."

Mio tilts her head. "Your Japanese homework?"

Naya nods and holds up her notebook like a peace offering. "If you're not too busy, that is. Or... focused."

Mio blinks, glancing at Ritsu, who is now attempting to balance a pen on her nose, and Yui, who is doodling a cat instead of taking notes.

'Focused' is not the word Mio would use.

"It's fine," she says, offering a small smile.

Naya chuckles, the tension in her shoulders easing. "Thanks. I just... didn't know who else to ask. I'll try not to interrupt."

"You're not interrupting," Mugi assures her. "Please, sit down."

Naya's eyes flick to Mio, as if seeking permission. Mio nods.

"What do you need help with?"

Naya sets her things down carefully, like they might break. She opens her notebook, revealing a battlefield of handwritten sentences, erasures, and rewrites layered over each other. Mio is reminded of her own notebook for piano composition, filled with half-erased chord progressions and scribbled-out lyrics. Like Naya's sentences, her music felt incomplete—ideas she couldn't quite bring to life.

"This assignment," Naya says. "I'm struggling with it."

Mio leans over. It's Japanese grammar. Particles, sentence structure, and keigo. The page is a chaotic mess of scribbles and corrections.

"It's the keigo," Naya explains. "I keep mixing up the levels."

"It's not that bad," Mio says gently. "What part is tripping you up?"

Naya points. "This. I wrote, 'Oaishite kurete arigatou gozaimasu,' but it's wrong. I don't know why."

"It should be 'Oaishite itadaki arigatou gozaimasu,'" Mio corrects. "You're almost there. Just switch 'kurete' to 'itadaki ' for formality."

"Ohh, so 'itadaki' is more polite than 'kurete.'"

Mio nods, smiling. "Exactly."

"Got it. Thanks." Naya's pencil moves, scribbling the correction.

"Keigo is pretty hard," Mugi chimes in. "Even for native speakers."

"It is! Why is keigo so hard?" Yui leans on her hand. "Do you have something like it in Spain, Naya-chan?"

"Not really. We have bureaucratic terms, but no separate formal dialect. Spanish bureaucracy is more chaotic."

"Chaotic?" Mio echoes. Curious.

"Oh, yeah." Naya grins. "We have jokes about civil servants. Like, 'Why don't civil servants look out of the window in the morning? Because they'd have nothing to do in the afternoon.'"

Ritsu laughs. "I like that."

"It's not all true," Naya adds quickly. "But the idea is, bureaucracy is frustrating. And formalities? We're more likely to call you 'honey' or 'sweetie' than use anything formal."

Mio's eyebrows shoot up. "You're kidding."

"Nope. Imagine going to file important paperwork, and the clerk greets you like an old friend."

"I'd lose my mind," Mio mutters.

"And then you come to Japan," Naya says, her voice lilting, "and you have a hundred words for the same thing, but it depends on the context." She shrugs. "It was so much easier to learn English in high school."

"Oh! Oh!" Yui's voice bounces, her hand shooting up. "Naya-chan, do you know English? You can help me with my English homework!"

"Sure, I can help with that." Naya's grin widens. "I've always liked languages."

"Why Japanese, though?" Ritsu asks, her tone curious as she arches an eyebrow. "You never said."

Naya pauses, her pencil, tapping lightly on her notebook, suddenly still. "Uh... I just... thought it would be useful. You know, for work." Her voice is steady but a little too casual, as if she's trying to sell the answer to herself as much as to them. "Languages like English, French, and German are more common in Spain," she continues, "but Japanese isn't. I thought it would... give me more opportunities."

Ritsu leans forward, a teasing smirk spreading across her face. "That's it?"

A faint flush spreads across Naya's cheeks. She glances away, her voice dropping. "Well..."

Her voice trails.

Ritsu's smirk sharpens, practically gleaming. "Oh, that's not the whole story." She waggles her eyebrows. "Come on, spill."

Naya exhales, her sigh heavy with defeat. "Okay, fine. When I was in high school, I had a crush on someone who was really into anime and manga. I thought learning Japanese might... impress them."

The table falls silent.

For half a beat.

Then chaos erupts.

Ritsu doubles over with quiet laughter, shoulders shaking. Yui gasps audibly, her eyes going wide, as if she's just heard the most romantic confession in history. Mugi stifles a soft giggle behind her hand, though her amusement is clear in her sparkling eyes.

"You studied a whole language for a crush?" Ritsu manages between bouts of laughter. "That's dedication."

"That's so romantic!" Yui squeals, practically bouncing in her seat.

"That's adorable," Mugi says, her gaze warm.

Naya shrugs, a dry smile on her face. "It didn't work," she admits. "But I ended up loving the language, so... here I am."

Mio feels her chest tighten inexplicably, a subtle but undeniable discomfort settling in. Something churns unpleasantly inside her. She glances at Mugi, catching the thoughtful, almost wistful look directed at Naya. It's an expression she can't quite interpret, and it twists her stomach further.

"I can't believe a boy had that much power over you, Naya-chan," Yui teases, her voice lighthearted.

For half a second, Naya's smile falters. It's barely perceptible, gone before it can fully register. Then she shrugs, her movements fluid and easy. "Guess so."

Mio forces her attention back to her notes, but the words blur on the page, her pen hovering uselessly above the paper. She can't quite pinpoint why this conversation bothers her. Why the thought of Naya liking someone—especially someone from her past—leaves her feeling unsettled, her nerves frayed.

It's silly. Pointless.

And yet.

Her eyes flicker back up, almost involuntarily, drawn to Naya. To the way her green eyes catch the soft light when she laughs. To the way her hair, a little shorter now, frames her face just right as she scribbles in her notebook. To the way Mugi's soft gaze lingers on her.

Mio doesn't understand it.

"Alright," she says abruptly, her tone brisk and clipped. "Let's focus. Naya, next sentence."

Naya nods and listens, her grateful smile ever-present.

But as they work, every stroke of every kanji feels like a reminder. A reminder of someone who once mattered enough to Naya to shape an entire direction in her life. A reminder of a version of Naya Mio never got to meet—a younger, more naïve Naya, probably a little shorter, her face a bit rounder, chasing after someone's approval.

It's stupid.

Naya is her own person, with a life stretching far beyond this moment and this table. What does Mio have to do with any of that?

Also, who hasn't done stupid things as a teenager? Who hasn't had a high school crush? It's normal. Logical. Typical.

Mio's pen presses harder against the page.

She's had crushes too, hasn't she? Back at her all-girls school—

Mio blinks, fast and hard, shaking the thought away.

Her pen moves again, this time with more purpose. She leans a little closer to Naya as they work, brushing off the unsettling feelings with practiced ease.

It was just hormones anyway.

---

June 13, 2011

Yui is humming again.

Something loose and unstructured. Cheerful. Unconcerned.

"Did you write that?" Mio asks without looking up from the notebook.

The first rehearsal for Heart Goes Boom!!. The lyrics are hers. The singing is hers. Because, of course, Ritsu has declared it so. Again.

Yui perks up, wide-eyed. "It's my new song!" She grins brightly. "It's about sleeping!"

Mio sighs. Of course.

Ritsu snorts behind the drum set. "Of course it is."

"Do you have a title for it yet, Yui-chan?" Sachi asks.

Yui tilts her head, pouting. "Not yet. Titles are hard. They're like... the first impression of a song, right? It has to be perfect!"

"Then maybe don't call it Nap Song," Azusa says dryly.

"Azu-nyan! That's genius!"

"It wasn't a suggestion."

"Why don't you ask Naya?" Ritsu says, her grin mischievous.

Mio's head jerks up, her gaze snapping to Naya, who's sitting on the couch with Liz, Momo, and the Onna Gumi girls.

Mio gulps. The club is her safe place. Her haven. And yet, she's still not used to having an audience. Especially not this audience.

Ayame, always animated, brimming with excitement for every Ho-Kago Tea Time song. Sachi, calm and poised, whom Mio respects as a bassist. Akira, aloof and analytical, her gaze as sharp as her critique. Liz, poised and observant, like a talent scout in disguise. Momo, barely suppressing her inner fangirl.

And Naya.

Naya, who is... Naya.

Naya looks up, her expression quizzical. "Why me?"

"You're Spanish, right? Must be a nap expert," Ritsu teases.

There is a collective, figurative facepalm.

"Ritsu," Mio sighs, "not every Spanish person takes naps."

But Naya laughs. "No, no, Ritsu's right. The sacred Sunday siesta is where we recharge for the week."

"Sunday siesta!" Yui repeats, beaming. "That's perfect. My song is officially Sunday Siesta! You're a genius, Naya-chan!"

"Hardly," Naya says, her grin lopsided.

Mio watches the exchange, a soft smile tugging at her lips. It's easy, the way Naya slots into their rhythm. Like she's always been part of it.

The practice moves forward. Naya lingers on the couch with the rest, observing, quiet but present. Mio has borrowed her compressor pedal to test the bass for the new song. It sounds great. Full and sharp.

Mio definitely needs a compressor. Or maybe a multi-effects pedal. Versatility. But...

Mio plays. She sings. She harmonizes with her friends. The song progresses, and Mio loses herself in the rhythm. The pulse. Her bass, powered by the pedal, feels more alive than ever.

And Naya watches her. Attentive. Focused. And Mio swears... Proud?

Her presence is steady, like a second pulse Mio can feel without looking.

When the song ends, applause fills the room. Mio blushes for the third time in a row as Ruby Riot stands to take the stage. Mio hands the pedal back to Naya.

"That was a banger, Mio," Naya says sincerely. "And you're already great with the pedal. You're an absolute legend."

Mio's mind blanks. She doesn't know if it's the flattery or the way Naya's eyes catch hers. 

Then Yui flops onto the couch, stretching like a cat next to Akira. "Did you like our new song, Akira-chan?"

"It was okay," Akira hums.

But it seems to be more than enough for Yui. She clings to Akira, wrapping her arms around her shoulders, cheek pressed to Akira's back.

"Yui," Akira warns, trying to shake her off. "Get. Off. Me."

"But Akira-chaaaan, you're so huggable!" Yui chirps, completely ignoring the growing tension in Akira's voice.

Akira sighs, frustration oozing from every pore. She squirms a little, as if that'll help, but Yui's grip only tightens. "I'm not. I'm not huggable. Stop."

Ritsu watches from the side, thoroughly entertained. "I think, deep down, you enjoy it, Akira," she teases, her grin wide. "You're just too tough to admit it."

Akira shoots Ritsu a death glare but says nothing. The room laughs lightly, the tension between Yui's affection and Akira's resistance a constant source of amusement.

Azusa, sitting nearby, seems relieved for once. "Well, I'm glad Yui-senpai found someone else to latch onto," she mutters, not too quietly.

But Yui has sharp ears. She whips around, still hanging off Akira. "Oh, no way, Azu-nyan! You're not getting off that easily!"

Yui pounces, abandoning Akira entirely. She wraps her arms around a protesting Azusa, who visibly wilts under the attention.

"No—Yui-senpai, no!" she groans, half-heartedly trying to escape.

Mio watches the chaos unfold, her notebook now open on her lap, pen poised but still. Typical Yui. Typical Azusa, whose exasperation is real but never too real.

It's a dynamic they all know.

Naya speaks up from her spot on the stage, her bass slung over her shoulder. "I didn't know Japanese people were so touchy."

Mio glances up from her half-written notes. "Some people are. Some people aren't. Yui is..." She pauses, looking at Yui now tackling Azusa in an exaggerated hug. "Well, Yui's just like that."

Naya nods, though she still seems a little bewildered. "Back home, I'm used to hugs and pats on the back or shoulder. But the way Yui does it... it's like she's constantly clinging to everyone."

Mugi joins the conversation with a kind smile. "You're pretty touchy in your country, right, Naya-chan?"

Naya shrugs, a bit self-conscious. "Yeah, I guess. It's kind of instinctual for me. I've had to stop myself from hugging or touching you guys a couple of times already. I don't want to make anyone uncomfortable."

"Oh, I don't mind." Mugi's smile doesn't falter. "I actually enjoy Yui-chan's hugs," she adds, earning an affectionate look from Yui.

Azusa sighs, still trapped in her predicament. "I mind. A lot."

Ritsu leans back, arms crossed behind her head. "I'm fine with hugs. Just, you know, in small doses. Yui takes it to a whole new level."

Mio doesn't join the conversation. Her discomfort with excessive touch is well known. It's something they've all grown used to. Mio isn't particularly fond of Yui's hugs, not when they come without warning. Not when they catch her off guard.

But she gets it. It's Yui's way of showing love.

"I might start hugging trees if this keeps up."

Naya's words echo in Mio's mind, resting her face against her hand as she watches Azusa's futile attempts to escape Yui's grasp.

She glances at Naya out of the corner of her eye.

Naya's still watching with an amused expression, but there's something more beneath it.

Envy?

Maybe. Maybe not.

It's curious, Mio thinks. Akira avoids Yui's hugs. Azusa does too. That's normal. If they don't like physical affection, why would they accept it? Mio herself has her limits. She's hugged her friends on occasion. Held hands. Let Ritsu drape an arm over her shoulders. But those touches are always light. Always platonic. Always fleeting.

And yet, there's Naya, quietly sad because she doesn't know if she's allowed to want those things here—a hug, a pat on the shoulder, a touch on her arm.

Mio realizes now that Naya has been holding back, suppressing her natural instincts to respect others' boundaries. It's something Mio both appreciates and admires.

But it also makes her sad.

The immense effort Naya puts into fitting in comes at a cost.

Mio wonders if anyone else has noticed. Wonders if Naya hides it from all of them, or just from her. Wonders why the thought of Naya being lonely hurts more than it should.

Mio realizes she's been watching Naya closely since the day they met. A lot.

She can't help it—Naya stands out, both physically and emotionally. And from the moment she saw Naya with her bass and pedals, Mio saw someone untouchable. Confident. Bold. Someone who commanded attention effortlessly.

At least, that's what Mio thought at first.

But now, guilt pricks at her as she begins to see the cracks beneath that image. She's starting to understand that Naya is not as unshakable as she first seemed. Behind the boldness lies someone vulnerable, uncertain, and, here in Japan, quietly lonely in ways Mio is only beginning to understand. Not because she isolates herself—since their talk at the café, it's clear Naya has been trying to bridge those gaps—but because she's navigating a world where every interaction feels like walking a tightrope, balancing on invisible boundaries.

It's not fair. Naya deserves to be happy.

Mio's thoughts drift, and she wonders if there's something she can do. Something small. Like suggesting that Yui—overflowing with warmth and affection—hug Naya. Or perhaps suggesting the reverse: that Naya hugged Yui. Would that help? Or would Mio be overstepping? Meddling in something too personal she doesn't fully understand? Does Mio even have the right to suggest such a thing?

Her mind paints a scene: Yui wrapping Naya in one of her bright, exuberant hugs. She imagines Yui's delight at hugging someone who genuinely appreciated the gesture, and Naya's quiet happiness at being embraced by someone so openly affectionate.

Naya, who smells like citrus and something uniquely her. Naya, hugging someone who isn't Mio.

Mio blinks a couple of times and shakes her head.

Should she...?

No. It's not her place. Is it?

Ritsu breaks through her thoughts, smirking. "Hey, Naya, maybe you can be Yui's new cuddlebug! You've got that Spanish instinct for it, right?"

Mio watches as Naya blinks, caught off guard for just a second. Naya glances over at Yui, who is still latched onto Azusa. Her eyebrow raises. She's... considering it? Seriously?

"I wouldn't mind, actually," Naya says.

A stunned silence falls over the group.

Azusa freezes. Akira stiffens. Yui perks up, like she's just been handed the best gift in the world.

Azusa recovers first. "Yes. Please."

"Take her," Akira adds, barely a second later. She sounds desperate.

Yui doesn't hesitate. She releases Azusa in a flash and launches herself at Naya with a gleeful squeal. "Naya-chaaaaan!"

Naya doesn't even have time to brace. Yui collides with her, arms wrapping around her torso, clinging like a koala. Naya stumbles, just barely catching herself before they both topple over.

"See?" Ritsu laughs, leaning back in her chair. "Problem solved."

Naya pats Yui's back awkwardly at first, then more naturally. "Happy to help, I guess."

"See? Naya-chan doesn't mind!" Yui chirps, her voice muffled against Naya's shoulder. "Yay! New cuddle friend!"

Azusa lets out an audible sigh of relief. "I owe you one, Naya-senpai."

Akira nods. "You're a lifesaver."

Mio's lips twitch into a small smile. She can't help it. The scene is ridiculous, but endearing—Yui squeezing Naya with all her might, while Naya seems perfectly content to let it happen.

She should feel relieved that Yui has found someone else to latch onto—someone who doesn't mind. But as Naya laughs and hugs Yui back, a thought—a ridiculous, unwelcome thought—flickers through Mio's mind.

She shoves it aside as fast as it came and focuses instead on the steady rhythm of laughter filling the room, letting it drown out everything else.

---

June 14, 2011

"So, am I officially entering J-pop territory now?"

Naya's voice is light, teasing. Her bass rests against her knee, the strap dangling loosely from her shoulder.

The question comes with a crooked smile. The kind that always makes Mio want to smile back.

Mio looks up from her bass. "What?"

"Perfume. Triangle." Naya holds up a folded note. It's slightly crumpled, like it's been carried around for days. Naya unfolds it and reads aloud, "'You like experimenting with synth pedals. Perfume's sound layers electronic textures in ways that make me think of what you're doing with bass.'" Her lips quirk into a half-smile. "I mean, is it too late to turn back? Have I crossed over?"

Mio's cheeks heat. She shifts slightly, her fingers brushing the tuning peg. "It was just a suggestion."

"I'm just saying, after our conversation about AKB48, I had to wonder... are you trying to turn me into a pop fan?"

Mio glares at her. Weakly. "Are you too rock for pop, Naya?"

Naya gasps, mock-offended. "I'll have you know," she declares, "Alizée and Lady Gaga are my goddesses, thank you very much. And Marina and The Diamonds."

"I don't know who the first one is," Mio says, tilting her head slightly.

Naya's gasp this time is real. "Mio! You like classic literature. How can you not know Nabokov's Lolita's official anthem?"

Mio blinks at her, utterly lost. "Sometimes I think I understand you better when you speak Spanish than when you say things like this."

"Oh? Is that so, señorita?"

"I know what that means," Mio points out, cheeks turning red.

Naya snorts. "Fair enough. Anyway, I'm well-rounded."

Mio laughs and adjusts the distortion pedal. "Did you at least listen to it?"

"I did," Naya says. "And... yeah. You were right. The layering is amazing. I might even steal some ideas for my bass setup."

Mio smiles. "What about AKB48? You said you'd listen."

Naya grimaces theatrically. "Oh, I did."

Mio raises an eyebrow. "And?"

"And..." Naya hesitates, then shrugs. "It's catchy. I'll give it that."

Mio's smile turns smug. "So, you liked it."

Naya laughs. "Yeah, I did. They're fun. Addictive, even. The harmonies are impressive. Definitely not what I usually go for, but yeah, I enjoyed it."

"See? Pop isn't so bad."

"I never said it was."

Mio smirks. "Guess you're not as edgy as you thought."

"Careful, Mio. That's starting to sound like a challenge." Naya leans back on her hands. "Oh, and I finally listened to Suck It and See."

"And?"

"I liked it a lot, but I'm a Humbug girl. All the way."

Mio's heart does a funny little flip. "Humbug's my favorite too," she admits.

"Really? I wouldn't have guessed."

"Why not?"

"You seem more Whatever People Say I Am to me. Polished. Maybe a little nostalgic."

Mio presses her lips into a line. She's not sure if that's a compliment or...

"But Humbug's the moodiest," Naya continues. "The weirdest. Feels like... stepping into a dark room you don't want to leave."

"Yeah," Mio murmurs. "Exactly."

Naya grins, satisfied. "Oh, and," she adds, like she just remembered, "I listened to MONORAL. Petrol, Turbulence and Via—the three albums in a row. Because someone recommended them to me."

Mio's lips twitch. "Do you always listen to everything I say?"

"Of course I do." Naya's tone is matter-of-fact, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "You're curating my playlists at this point."

Mio chuckles. "Right."

Naya leans forward. "Speaking of, your bass sounded amazing yesterday. I mean, it always does, but yesterday? The pedal work? Perfect. You've got such a clean, rich tone. It's powerful, but not overwhelming."

Mio's gaze flicks up. "You think so?"

"Absolutely. It's like you're coaxing the sound out of it instead of just playing it."

Mio's cheeks warm. She busies herself with the pedal. "Thanks."

"Are you thinking about buying a pedal?"

Mio nods. "Either a compressor or a multi-effects pedal. I'm not sure yet."

"The GT-10B?"

Mio shakes her head. "The Zoom B2.1u," she corrects. "Cheaper and easier to get started with all this."

"Logical choice would be the compressor," Naya says, without hesitation. "Cleaner sound. More control. It'll give you control over your dynamics."

Mio adjusts a knob on her bass, nodding slowly. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

"You don't seem convinced," Naya observes.

Mio hesitates. "The multi-effects pedal," she says, "feels more versatile. Like... it would let me experiment more. Break out of the usual."

Naya hums thoughtfully. "It's a riskier choice, though."

"I know. But it might be worth it."

Naya leans forward, elbows on her knees. "Daring, a little chaotic, maybe. But full of potential. You'd have a ton of options. It might take longer to master, though."

"I figured as much," Mio replies.

"If it were me," Naya says, "I'd start with the compressor. Build a strong foundation. But..." She pauses. "You seem pretty interested in that multi-effects pedal."

Mio hums, not answering right away. Her eyes drift to the pedals scattered between them.

Compressor or multi-effects.

Logical or versatile.

Safe or—

"What's holding you back?" Naya asks, not pushing.

"I guess I... want to make the right choice."

Naya leans back, crossing her arms. Her bass shifts slightly in her lap. "Well, I think the logical thing to do would be to start with a compressor. It's stable. Reliable. Gets the job done."

Mio doesn't say anything. Her fingers brush over the strings of her bass, her mind elsewhere.

Stable or daring.

But...

"Multi-effects is versatile," Naya adds. "A little unpredictable. But you can experiment more."

"That's what I was thinking," Mio says. Her voice trails off. "But..."

"But?" Naya prompts.

Mio's hand tightens on her bass. "I guess I'm just not sure if I'm ready for... all of that. The versatility. The experimentation."

Naya watches her but doesn't press. Naya never presses.

"Let me know what you decide," Naya says after a moment, smiling. "I'll help you test it out."

Mio glances up, her eyes meeting Naya's. "Thanks."

Naya nods, satisfied. She leans back again, propping herself up on her hands. "Just don't overthink it. Sometimes you just have to go with your gut."

Mio hums in agreement, though her thoughts are anything but settled. She picks up a pedal, turning it over in her hands as if the answer might be hidden in its wiring.

The session continues. They test different setups, swapping pedals, tweaking settings. Naya adjusts the pedal settings, demonstrating different tones, different effects. Mio listens, watches, and offers her own input.

Naya's laugh fills the room when one configuration produces an unexpected sound. A bizarre mix of distortion and delay that makes Mio wince.

"Okay, not that," Naya says, still laughing as she adjusts the knobs. "Unless we're going for alien invasion vibes."

Mio smiles. "Maybe for a concept album."

By the time they're packing up, the sky outside has darkened. The first drops of rain patter against the windows. The typical lazy June rain that always catches you by surprise on a previously sunny day.

Mio slides her bass into its case. She notices something folded on top of the amp. A note.

Her name is written on it. Naya's handwriting.

Mio unfolds it. The words make her smile.

"Fuel Fandango – Fuel Fandango. Rooting for my own team :)"

She tucks the note into her pocket and looks up to see Naya waiting by the door. Her own case slung over her shoulder, her pedal backpack in her hand.

"Ready?" Naya asks, her grin lopsided.

Mio nods. "Yeah. Let's go."

The rain falls in a steady rhythm, painting the world in muted grays and silver streaks. Mio hugs her bass case closer, her shoulders hunching instinctively against the cold she hadn't expected. Beside her, Naya tugs at the zipper of her hoodie, pulling it halfway up.

"You don't have an umbrella?" Naya asks.

Mio shakes her head. "No. It was sunny."

"See? This is why I always wear a hoodie," Naya declares, smug. "You and the girls laugh at me for it, but now—" She spreads her arms dramatically. "Now, who's the genius?"

Mio scoffs, pretending to be indignant. "We don't laugh at you! We... find your dedication to hoodies amusing."

"Sure." Naya drawls, glancing sideways at Mio with a smirk. "You always laugh at me for wearing this thing."

"That's because you do wear it all the time," Mio shoots back, crossing her arms.

"Well." Naya gestures broadly to the rain. "Now it's my time to shine."

Mio pretends to be outraged, mouth opening to retort, but before she can, Naya steps closer, shrugging the hoodie off her shoulders.

"What are you doing?" Mio starts, voice rising with surprise.

Naya doesn't answer. Instead, she stretches the hoodie over Mio's head, pulling it snugly around her.

The fabric falls around her shoulders. Warm, soft, carrying the faint scent of laundry soap and something citrusy. Something distinctly Naya.

It steals whatever response Mio had.

Naya gently tugs the hood further down, adjusting it until it shields Mio's face and hair from the drizzle. Then she leans in slightly to check her handiwork. The movement is casual, practical—entirely unintentional. But her proximity feels like a storm Mio isn't ready for.

Naya's face is too close. Much too close. Dangerously close for the fragile balance Mio clings to. Dangerously close to undoing every careful boundary Mio has convinced herself to keep.

The kind of close that sends Mio's thoughts into disarray, unspooling the quiet library of movie scenes and fragments of prose she's stored away about this exact moment—kisses in the rain, stolen and breathless, passionate, beautiful. Romantic. A deluge of things she's always dreamed of but never dared imagine for herself.

The thought crashes into her like the raindrops she's no longer feeling.

Every scene she's ever read, every moment she's imagined, collides in a single heartbeat.

Their eyes hold—green against blue-gray, like spring daring to meet the last traces of winter.

For a moment, it feels as though the universe itself has paused to see what might happen next.

Mio's breath catches. Her heart thunders. Her body sways forward—a motion so small, so subtle, even she isn't sure if it happened at all.

And then, Naya's body moves, too.

Stepping back with a satisfied smile.

"Stay dry," she says simply, already walking ahead.

Mio blinks. Stares after her.

The rain dots Naya's hair and shoulders, darkening her shirt, clinging to her frame. Her steps are light, almost careless, as though the cold doesn't faze her.

Naya glances back. Her hair glints under the rain. Her grin is crooked. "Hurry up, Mio!"

Mio doesn't move.

"You'll be the one carrying me to the clinic if I get sick again," Naya calls. "And you know how stubborn I can be with medicine," she adds, grinning wider.

That gets Mio moving. She jogs to catch up, pulling the hoodie tighter around her shoulders.

They fall into step, side by side, their shoes splashing softly against the wet pavement.

The campus is quiet under the rain. Empty paths stretch ahead of them, lined with puddles that ripple with every drop. Mio's piano teacher's voice played softly in her mind: "The key to understanding Chopin isn't technical mastery; it's about listening to what the music wants to say." It wasn't unlike learning to navigate moments like this—unfolding slowly, uncertainly, like Naya's quiet kindness or the warmth Mio now carried against her shoulders.

She sneaks a glance at Naya, who's kicking at puddles like a child, her grin unwavering despite the rain plastering her hair to her forehead.

Naya is careful, though—each kick sends water just to the side, never toward Mio. She glances over now and then, a quick check to make sure Mio's still dry. Still there.

Naya's hair is a mess now, sticking to her skin in some places and pushed back in others. Rain streaks down her face, clinging to her jaw, pooling briefly at her collar before soaking into her shirt. The fabric clings, damp and taut, outlining the curve of her frame. The hint of her collarbone. The rise and fall of her breath.

Mio swallows. Her eyes drop to the pavement.

But then Naya brushes her bangs back, her fingers catching briefly on the strands in a casual motion, and Mio looks. Naya's shirt shifts, clinging tighter to her frame. 

She catches Mio's gaze with her bright, sharp, green eyes, and smiles at her—just a small thing, crooked, fleeting. And Mio feels it. A warmth low in her chest. A flicker, faint but undeniable, tracing down, pooling somewhere deeper.

Mio tightens her grip on the bass case and stares ahead.

Her heart is loud enough to drown out the rain.

---

Naya's hoodie is folded neatly at the edge of Mio's mattress. Her headphones press snugly against her ears, their wires curling against her lap. They muffle the faint creaks of the old dormitory building. She's cross-legged on the bed, her notebook discarded beside her.

She's already halfway through Fuel Fandango's album. The music fills the room, blending traditional flamenco rhythms with sharp electronic beats. Mio can't help but marvel at how seamlessly the two genres fuse together. The clash, the fusion, the rise—it's hypnotic.

She closes her eyes.

The music sweeps her up, each note coiling around her like smoke. There's something... magnetic about it. Bold. Vibrant. Layers she doesn't fully understand yet, but she wants to.

The voice shifts seamlessly between Spanish and accented English. Each word carries weight, even if she doesn't know the meaning. Her fingers drum softly against her knee, matching the rhythm.

The track changes. The lyrics echo. Mio doesn't understand some of the words, but something about them feels like a whispered secret she's not sure she's meant to hear.

The final notes fade.

Mio leans back, pulling the headphones from her ears. She stares at the ceiling.

She doesn't move for a long time.

---

June 15, 2011

Mio sits on the couch, tuning her bass. Naya sits beside her, notebook in hand. Their shoulders brush occasionally, but Mio doesn't flinch. Doesn't pull away.

She's comfortable now.

"I listened to it," Mio says, breaking the silence between them. Her voice is quiet, just for Naya.

Naya looks up. "Listened to what?"

"Fuel Fandango."

Naya's grin is immediate. Wide and genuine. "Yeah? Did you like it?"

Mio nods. "I really liked it. A lot."

"Told you," Naya says, her voice smug but playful. She leans back, her arms resting on the couch's edge. "What was your favorite song?"

"Always Searching," Mio replies, almost shyly.

"Yeah, that one is amazing."

Mio hesitates. "It has these lyrics... in Spanish. I don't know what it means, but it sounded beautiful."

"Oh, maybe I can help you understand. I speak a little Spanish."

"Just a little?"

"Enough to translate lyrics to cute, shy bass players."

Mio scoffs, her face burning.

Naya does a quick search on her phone. "Ah, the thing about 'La llave, la que abre tu alma, está dentro de ti.'" Naya says it easily. "It means 'The key, the one that opens your soul, is inside you.' It's a good line. Pretty poetic, eh?"

Mio nods. "It is."

"My favorite is The Engine, though," Naya adds. "There's this lyric: 'A veces sueño que vuelo, voy de cielo en cielo, a veces sueño y te veo; que el mundo se entere, que sepa lo que mueve.'" She pauses, translating. "'Sometimes I dream that I fly, I go from sky to sky. Sometimes I dream and I see you. Let the world know, let it understand what moves.'" Naya chuckles. "It talks about love, I think. It's a bit dramatic, but I like it. Pretty, right?"

Mio smiles. "Yeah. Pretty."

Naya smiles back, wide and easy.

Mio plays an absentminded melody on her bass, her heart matching the rhythm.

---

June 17, 2011

"Alright!" Ritsu announces suddenly, standing at the front of the clubroom and looking absurdly pleased with herself. "Let's get started, people! Summer Training Camp prep meeting is officially in session."

Mio blinks. "Training camp?"

"That's right. Music, bonding, and... whatever else we decide to do."

"When did you get so... presidential?"

"When I started being awesome, obviously."

"So, last week?" Azusa asks, deadpan, as she sets her guitar case down in the corner.

"Azu-nyan! Don't be mean to Ricchan. She's trying," Yui protests.

"Trying is the key word," Mio mumbles.

Ritsu catches it, of course. "Oh, come on, Mio! Give me some credit! I've been planning this with Mugi and Akira for weeks. It's gonna be great."

"You? Planning?" Mio's skepticism is palpable. She looks to Mugi for confirmation.

Mugi nods. "It's true. Ricchan's been very proactive."

Mio's eyebrows lift. "Well, miracles do happen."

Ritsu beams. "See? Even Mio's impressed."

"I didn't say that."

"But you meant it. Admit it. I'm a great president."

Mio rolls her eyes. "Sure."

"You'll see, Mio. This is going to be the best camp ever."

"It better be," Akira interjects from her spot near the drum set, arms crossed. "You've been pestering me about it nonstop."

"That's called leadership," Ritsu declares.

"It's called being a pain in the ass."

Ritsu claps her hands for attention, cutting off any further commentary. "Anyway! As I said, I've been planning this with Mugi and Akira, and..."

She pauses for dramatic effect.

"We're using one of Mugi's family villas!"

The room erupts.

Yui's cheer is the loudest. She springs from her chair like she's won the lottery. "Yay! Fancy villa! Fancy villa!" She twirls, narrowly avoiding Azusa, who's sitting with a strained expression and tightly folded arms.

Mugi, seated beside Azusa, smiles demurely. Like this isn't a big deal. Like she hasn't just casually offered a luxury retreat for eleven people. "It's a seaside villa. One of my family's properties," she says. "It's a lovely place, with plenty of space for everyone. Quite private. Perfect for focusing on music."

"And swimming!" Yui adds.

"Exactly," Ritsu agrees. "The villa is huge, it's by the beach, and it's perfect for rehearsals and hanging out." She spreads her arms theatrically. "All hail our benevolent keyboardist-slash-millionaire."

"I'm just happy to help," Mugi replies, her humility somehow making the gesture even more extravagant.

"This is so exciting!" Yui exclaims, practically vibrating in her seat. "We're gonna have so much fun! And food! And—"

"Practice," Azusa interrupts, pointedly. "We're going for practice."

"And fun," Yui insists.

Azusa groans, muttering something about priorities.

Mio glances at Ritsu, who is still standing at the front of the room, basking in the room's excitement like she's conducting an orchestra. Or maybe a circus.

"Huh. So you're capable of planning ahead when you want to," Mio says dryly.

Ritsu's grin stretches even wider. "Of course. I can be responsible when I try."

"Emphasis on 'when.'"

"See? Compliments from Mio! This camp's already a success."

Mio rolls her eyes.

"So," Azusa says, "how long is this camp supposed to last?"

"Nine days," Ritsu announces proudly. "From August 7 to August 15."

Momo shifts in her seat, her gaze darting nervously between the others. "Nine days is... a long time," she says softly. "Are we sure everyone's okay with that?"

Azusa smiles gently. "It'll be fun, Momo. We'll be practicing and hanging out together. Right, Mio-senpai?"

Mio nods. "Yeah. These camps are always a good time. It's a chance to bond and work on our music."

Liz grins. "And you'll be with your bandmates too, remember?" She glances at Naya. "You're coming, right?"

All eyes turn to Naya.

Naya blinks. "Uh, yeah. I guess so?"

The hesitation is brief. Barely there. Probably invisible to everyone else.

But Mio sees it.

"Of course you are," Ritsu declares. "Everyone's coming."

"Ritsu," Akira interrupts from her spot. "You haven't mentioned the cost yet."

Ritsu waves her hand dismissively. "Oh, right. But it's just a minor fee."

"Minor?" Azusa echoes, her expression cautious.

"30,000 yen per person," Ritsu announces, as if it's nothing. She looks around the room, reading the reactions. "That'll cover food, transportation, and some extras."

The room falls quiet. Murmurs ripple. Yui's face falls, her energy flickering. Most of the girls nod, unbothered.

Naya's head tilts slightly, her brow furrowing. She pulls out her phone, her fingers moving quickly across the screen.

Mio watches as Naya's expression changes. Her lips part, just barely. Her eyes widen. She stares at the screen like it's betrayed her.

Mio's stomach twists.

Naya sets her phone down. She glances at Mugi, who's now stepping closer, leaning down to whisper something. Naya shakes her head, quick and firm. She whispers something back, her voice too low for Mio to catch.

Mio's heart aches. She knows Naya. Knows that pride. That stubbornness. And for a moment, the thought of Naya not going to camp settles heavily in her chest.

She remembers the café. Naya mentioning, in passing, how studying in Japan wasn't cheap. How her family had sacrificed a lot to send her here.

For a brief, painful moment, Mio imagines Naya not coming to the camp. She imagines her seat on the bus empty. Her spot at the villa untouched.

It's... disappointing. More disappointing than Mio expects.

Ritsu's voice slices through her thoughts. "I just realized—we haven't done any bonding activities."

Mio snaps out of it. "Bonding activities?"

Ritsu slams her fist into her palm. "Karaoke," she says. "Tomorrow."

"Karaoke?" Mio echoes.

"Yep!" Ritsu grins, unstoppable now. "It's been a while since we all hung out outside the club. Akira approved it too. Bonding time."

"I didn't approve anything. You just decided right now. On your own."

Mio wants to argue. Wants to remind them about the unread textbooks piled on her desk. Finals are coming. Inch by inch. Closer. Closer. She can feel the weight of them pressing down, suffocating.

"But we should be studying," she says, as calmly as she can. "Finals are coming up. Don't you care about your exams?"

"Exams, shmams!" Ritsu waves her off like it doesn't matter. "Come on, Mio. You've got a great voice. You can't say no to karaoke. We'll be back in time for you to read a thousand books or whatever."

Mio wants to argue, to say they should be studying. They have finals coming up in a few weeks, and the club has been slacking lately. She feels the pressure building in her chest, like it always does when she's not prepared. But Ritsu just brushes it off, like studying isn't a priority at all. Typical.

Mio opens her mouth to protest, but Yui is already bouncing with excitement, her eyes practically glowing. "Yes, yes! Karaoke! I love karaoke! I'm in!" she says, raising her hand like this is some grand decision.

Of course, she's in.

Mugi claps her hands together. "I think it could be fun too. A good way to relax before exams."

Ayame nods. "Yeah, why not? We could all use a break."

Sachi grins. "Sounds like a plan."

Of course, they're all in.

Mio sighs, knowing she's outnumbered. Again.

She looks at Azusa. Her last hope. Her steady bandmate.

Azusa nods.

"Azusa," Mio mutters, her hope slipping. "You too?"

Azusa shifts, clearly torn but ultimately smiles. "It sounds fun, Mio-senpai."

Ritsu waves her hand dismissively. "We study all the time, Mio. We need a break. Bonding time!"

"Bonding time," Akira echoes, her tone dry and unimpressed.

"Yet you're not stopping her," Ayame teases, nudging Akira with her elbow.

Akira sighs. "I gave up trying to stop her long ago."

From the corner, Sachi pipes up. "I think it's a good idea. We haven't done anything outside the club in a while."

Mio glances at her friends. The energy. The enthusiasm. All of it pressing against her, leaving her resistance weaker with every passing second.

Even Liz. Liz, who's always too cool for group activities, nods. Liz thinks it's a good idea too. The best singer in the club wants to go to karaoke with her.

Mio's resolve crumbles, just a little more. Her fingers unconsciously brush against the calluses on her fingertips. Her teacher had told her to approach the piano with the same freedom she had with the bass, but it wasn’t that simple. Singing, like playing the piano, felt too raw, too exposed. She didn't know if she could bring that same honesty to her voice tomorrow.

And then there's Naya, looking lost. Completely lost.

Silent. Still. Fading into the background, like she's trying not to exist. Her wide green eyes dart from person to person, overwhelmed by the noise. The chaos. The group.

"Karaoke...?" Naya repeats, her voice, unsure.

She knows what karaoke is. Of course, she does. Everyone does. But this? This is different. This is hanging out with them. Leaving the university. Being part of the group in the city. She's still adjusting, still getting used to being in Japan, to being different. To trying not to stand out too much.

"Hey, Naya," Mio says quietly, leaning slightly toward her. "You okay?"

Naya looks up, her green eyes wide for a moment before she smiles, a little sheepishly. "Yeah, just... processing. Karaoke sounds fun, though."

But Mio catches the unspoken but beneath the words.

But I'm opening up now.
But I feel like a tourist.
But I don't want to stand out.
But I don't want to mess this up.
But I don't want to go unless you're there. My safe space.

"Do you want to go?" she asks, softly.

Naya hesitates. Her fingers twitch, brushing through her hair. "Sure... Sounds good."

Liz grins, leaning toward Naya. "You should sing something in Spanish. Like La Macarena or something."

Naya stares at Liz with a deadpan expression. "What am I, a clown?"

The room erupts into laughter.

Naya smiles, faint but genuine, and Mio feels the tension in her own chest ease, just a little. She smiles too, instinctively.

"Alright, fine," Mio says, sighing. Giving in. "Karaoke."

Naya's eyes find hers. A small smile. A flicker of warmth. Gratitude.

Mio feels her cheeks heat, looking away quickly.

"Wow," Ayame drawls, eyebrows raised. "That was fast."

Ritsu claps Mio on the back, hard enough to make her stumble forward. "That's the spirit!"

Mio groans. She already regrets this. She knows she will regret this.

She watches the others as they chat excitedly, planning out song choices and imagining the chaos to come. She imagines Yui singing something loud, off-key, and with far too much enthusiasm. Ritsu yelling the wrong lyrics at the top of her lungs. Liz stealing the spotlight effortlessly.

She knows it'll be fun. She knows she'll enjoy it.

And yet.

The thought of singing in front of them. Unscripted. Exposed.

Her stomach churns.

Karaoke means singing in front of people, means being in the spotlight. Sure, she performs with her band all the time, but that's different. That's rehearsed, controlled. She has a setlist, a practiced performance, a clear role.

This is messy. Unscripted. Terrifying. And she doesn't have her bass to anchor her. It feels too raw. Too vulnerable.

Mio sighs.

Ritsu's right, though. It's just karaoke. It's not the end of the world.

But still, she can't help the wave of dread that washes over her. Because it's just another reminder of how she's always the one holding back, always the one saying "we should study" while everyone else just lives in the moment. She feels it, more acutely than she wants to admit—that sense of being left behind, of not quite fitting into the carefree rhythm the others seem to find so easily.

She can't shake the feeling of unease, the weight in her chest that's been sitting there since... since forever, really.

But it's too late to back out now. They're going. Mio's going. She's agreed, hasn't she? It's set. She knows there's no point in fighting this.

Karaoke it is.

---

Mio's phone buzzes near her notebook.

Mio glances at it, half-expecting it to be Ritsu with some new, chaotic antics of hers. But it's not Ritsu. It's Kenji.

Kenji ❤️

Kenji: Hey, can I call you? I need to talk.

Mio hesitates. It's not that she doesn't want to talk to him—he's her boyfriend, after all—but something about the way he phrased it makes her stomach knot slightly. What does he want to talk about? She hasn't seen him in a couple of weeks, both of them busy with their university schedules. She tells herself she's just being over-cautious, overthinking as usual.

She types back.

Kenji ❤️

Kenji: Hey, can I call you? I need to talk.

Mio: Sure.

Her phone rings almost immediately. She takes a deep breath and picks up.

"Hey, Mio." Kenji's voice is totally casual.

"Hey, Kenji."

"What are you up to?"

"Studying."

"Studying? On a Friday night?" Kenji laughs. "Come on, Mio, take a break. You need to rest."

She lets out a small laugh. "I'll have plenty of time to rest after finals."

"Oh, yes. In Hakone," Kenji says, matter-of-factly.

But Mio tenses. It's as if Kenji is testing something. Her?

"Hn. In Hakone."

She doesn't say anything else about it. Neither does Kenji.

"And how's your week been?" he asks.

Mio adjusts her posture, leaning back in her chair. "It's been okay. Busy with classes. You?"

"Same. Same." There's a brief pause. "Hey, I was thinking—maybe we could meet up this weekend? Maybe tomorrow? There's this café I've been meaning to take you to."

"Oh, um... I actually have plans with the girls. We're doing karaoke."

"Karaoke?" Kenji's voice is light, but there's a slight edge to it, like he's disappointed but trying not to show it. "That sounds fun. And Sunday?"

Sunday.

Mio considers. Sunday. The day she'll need to recharge, the day she'll want to be alone, lost in her own thoughts, in the quiet that her mind craves. She thinks about how tiring karaoke will be. How much energy it will take to be social, even with her friends.

She should say yes, she knows. That's what a girlfriend does.

"I think I'll be pretty wiped," she says, trying to soften the blow. "You know how drained I get after social stuff. And I really need to catch up on studying."

There's a pause on the other end of the line. Not awkward, not tense—just a pause. Kenji doesn't argue. He never does. It's part of the reason why Mio can never pinpoint exactly what feels off. Everything is fine. Normal. Maybe too normal.

"Alright," he says eventually. He chuckles. Mio can't tell if it's real or out of inertia. "I get it. You're always so responsible."

"Sorry," she says.

"Don't be. I know the deal. The perks of having an introverted, top student girlfriend." Kenji chuckles again.

Mio doesn't know what to take from that.

"Maybe next weekend?" Kenji suggests, breaking the silence. "We could do something then?"

"Yeah," Mio replies quietly. "Next weekend."

She doesn't mean to sound distant, but the words come out flat.

They chat for a few more minutes—nothing important, nothing deep. It's like they're filling the silence with empty words. She tells him about her new song. Kenji talks about a new movie he's excited about and mentions some friends he saw last weekend. All the usual things. Mio listens, nods, makes small comments here and there, but her mind is elsewhere.

It's the kind of conversation that passes without leaving much behind. She doesn't feel uncomfortable. Just a little distant. A little tired.

She tells herself it's because she's shy, that's all. It's not him, not really. He's nice. Caring. It's her. It has to be her.

The conversation ends on a polite note, Kenji telling her to have fun at karaoke, and Mio thanking him before hanging up.

She sets her phone down, staring at it for a moment. She feels like she's going through the motions, pretending to care when she's not even sure what she's supposed to care about.

Her phone buzzes again. This time, it's Ritsu.

  Ritsu 🥁

Ritsu: Hey, I have an idea for tomorrow

Mio types back.

  Ritsu 🥁

Ritsu: Hey, I have an idea for tomorrow

Mio: What is it now?

Ritsu's response comes almost immediately:

  Ritsu 🥁

Ritsu: Hey, I have an idea for tomorrow.

Mio: What is it now?

Ritsu: Karaoke theme night! Everyone has to sing in a different language! o(≧▽≦)o

Mio rolls her eyes and sets her phone down.

She closes her textbook, finally giving herself permission to stop studying for the night. As she stands up to get ready for bed, her mind drifts back to Kenji. It's not that she doesn't care about him—she does, in her own way—but there's something missing. Something she can't quite put into words.

Tomorrow, though. Tomorrow will be loud, chaotic, maybe even fun.

But tonight is quiet.

Tomorrow, she thinks.

Tomorrow she can put all these thoughts aside, at least for a while. Tomorrow is for the girls. For laughing and singing and pretending everything is normal.

She'll focus on the quiet. The calm before the storm.

Notes:

FOURTEEN CHAPTERS IN AND ALMOST THREE MONTHS LATER, WE'RE FINALLY GETTING SOMEWHERE. We've built a village of pining, unspoken tension, and a record-breaking amount of "Mio, please just feel your feelings already" vibes. Naya joined the lunch table, Mio had her first tiny jealousy spark, and we're officially speeding into karaoke chaos at 200 BPM. Progress? Absolutely.

Let's recap the drama, shall we?

• Mio, sweet summer child, can't figure out why she's suddenly obsessed with a certain green-eyed bassist. (Spoiler: it's gay panic. Always has been.)
• Mugi is out here serving tea AND quietly brooding over her unspoken Naya familiarity. Is it jealousy? Is it friendship? Is it some secret Mugi-level espionage? Only time (and another ten chapters, probably) will tell.
• Kenji. He exists. That's it. He's just... there. A guy. A dude. And we already know guys have never had a place in the K-ON! universe. But still. Poor Kenji. He's doing his best, but my girl Mio is mentally sorting him into the "nice guy, no spark" bin, and it HURTS. (But also, Kenji, my guy, take a hint.)

Let's talk about Mio for a second. Sweet, reserved Mio, trying so hard to focus on miso soup and music theory while the human embodiment of gay panic sits BESIDE HER at the table and asks, "Can I sit here?" The audacity. The nerve. The green eyes.

And then there's Kenji. Oblivious, existing Kenji, like a polite side quest Mio hasn't quite figured out how to complete. Like a plot device. Which he kind of is. Poor guy. Bless him for trying to make plans while Mio's body is planning her Sapphic Awakening World Tour.

Look, I know, I know. But we had to check in with the guy. Don't worry, his existential corner is nicely padded for what's coming. (Sorry, Kenji.) But it's fine. He's fine. No one is crying for Kenji. Probably.

Naya and her rainy hoodie of emotional devastation? Who gave her the right to casually disarm Mio like that? Who let her grin like that under the rain? (It was me. I let her. You're welcome.)

Next chapter, Ritsu planning an impromptu karaoke night casually throwing gasoline on Mio's existential crises like it's her life's mission. Love her. Hate her. Pray for Mio.

Also, fun fact: this fic is now longer than the average university thesis. Congratulations on being part of this slow-burn-gay mess.

As always, the biggest shoutout to Jules (aka tsuki_anne) for being the absolute queen of betas, the one who tolerates my chaos and fixes my comma crimes on the regular and offers notes like "This scene is great, but what if you made it even gayer?". Without her, this fic would be 90% typos, 10% me spiraling. Your patience with my nonsense is unmatched, and your encouragement is the reason this fic exists and thrives.

Thank you for reading, folks. Stay tuned for karaoke madness, sapphic subtext turning into text (FINALLY), and the ongoing saga of "Mio's Unsolved Feelings™." Until next time—drink some water, pet a cat, and never underestimate the power of unresolved sapphic tension. And remember: when in doubt, always blame Ritsu.

Chapter 15: Twist Again

Summary:

Mio goes to karaoke.

Notes:

Three months into this fic, the karaoke chapter is finally here! There's no gay panic in this one—because who needs panic when we have cute, wholesome vibes instead? (Though gay panic is fun, let's be honest.)

Disclaimer: I'm deeply sorry for how absurdly long this chapter turned out to be (but also, not really). I promise it's worth it. Probably.

Massive thanks to Jule (tsuki_anne) for surviving this many words. You're a real one.

Oh, and before you ask—yes, there's a karaoke playlist on Spotify: 🎶🎤✨ Mic Mayhem ✨🎤🎶!

Alright, enough chit-chat. Deep breaths. Onward to the stage!

Twist Again, by Bodies of Water, was released on June 21, 2011.

June 18, 2011

The mirror is unforgiving.

Mio stands in front of it, her fingers brushing the fabric of the blouse, her reflection staring back at her with quiet judgment.

She's always been careful about clothes—loose, simple, nothing that draws attention. Attention is the last thing she wants. Tonight, though, she feels different. Or maybe she just wants to feel different.

It's a casual night out. Just karaoke with the girls. Nothing important. Nothing worth overthinking.

And yet...

Mio stares at her outfit—a white blouse with black polka dots, tailored trousers, and knee-high boots. She's never worn anything like this before. Not really. The boots feel too sleek, the trousers too tight, the blouse too much. She picks at the ruffled neckline, frowning at her reflection. The red headband adds a pop of color, a playful touch. Too playful? She can't tell.

She's not sure when it started, this urge to look better, to be better. Maybe it's been there all along, gnawing at her quietly.

Why am I trying so hard?

Last year, Ayame said something.

Offhand, casual, but it stung, even though it wasn't meant to. A joke about Mio's weight during their conversation about insecurities. Ayame thought she was too flat. Sachi hated being too tall. Ritsu? Ritsu didn't care. Ritsu is Ritsu.

And Mio had nodded along, even laughed, feeling the weight of her own body, her own reflection, in every sentence.

The next day, Ayame had taken her shopping to make up for it, she'd said. They'd laughed, tried on dresses, blouses, and outfits Mio would never dream of wearing outside the store.

"I'll lose enough weight for this," Mio had promised herself, trailing her fingers over a soft fabric she liked but could never imagine on her own body.

But here she is.

Same body. Same reflection. Same doubts.

She checks herself in the mirror again, frowning at her reflection. It's okay, she tells herself. It's just karaoke. No one will be looking at her.

No one but herself. And that's the problem.

Karaoke is supposed to be fun. She doesn't need to overthink this. She doesn't need to make this harder than it has to be.

Her reflection stares back at her, almost unfamiliar. The outfit hugs her in places she isn't used to. Her long hair drapes over one shoulder, styled deliberately, but it feels out of place. Not like her.

She adjusts the headband, smooths the trousers, pulls at the sleeves, then stops. The more she fidgets, the worse it feels. She steps back, hoping distance might help her see something different. It doesn't.

But it's fine. It's just karaoke.

But still.

Mio sighs and turns away from the mirror, grabbing her phone from the bedside table. It buzzes with a message—Ritsu, asking if she's ready. The girls are meeting in the common hall. Typical Ritsu, always eager to get going. Mio types a quick reply.

Mio: "Coming."

But she doesn't move right away.

Her phone slips from her hand and lands softly on the bed. She stares at it for a moment, then back at the mirror. She doesn't want to rush out. She's still not sure.

Is this enough?

Am I enough?

She looks at the mirror again, at the outfit she picked to feel... what? Prettier? Better? More like someone else? It doesn't work. The clothes might fit, but the feeling doesn't. But maybe that's the point. The clothes don't change how she feels inside.

Her phone buzzes again—Ritsu, telling her to hurry up.

Mio grabs her little bag and jacket from the back of her chair and heads for the door. Her hand pauses on the doorknob. One last look in the mirror.

She can't help it. The thoughts creep back in.

Kenji says she looks nice. And probably, he means it. But his words feel hollow to Mio's ears, like he says them because he is supposed to. She never feels pretty around him. Not once. Just there. Present. A placeholder for someone else.

She blinks hard, shaking the thought away.

Tonight isn't about Kenji. It's about the girls. It's about having fun.

Right?

She opens the door and steps into the hallway, jacket slung over one arm, boots clicking softly against the floor, her heart beating just a little too fast.

She hopes no one notices how hard she's trying tonight. She hopes no one asks.

Please don't ask.

When she reaches the common hall, she sees them—Ritsu, Yui, Mugi, Azusa, and Momo, gathered near the entrance, laughing, chatting, being themselves. Formal, but not too formal—just different from what they usually wear, what they usually are. Mio approaches slowly, feeling a familiar knot of insecurity in her chest. 

Ritsu spots her first. "Mio! Finally!" she calls, waving her over. "What took you so long?"

Mio smiles, a little self-conscious, but shrugs it off. "Just getting ready."

Ritsu grins, eyeing her outfit. "You look different."

Mio's heart skips. Please don't ask. She forces a smile. "Yeah, I felt like trying something new."

Ritsu nods, not digging deeper. "Well, you look great!"

"Yeah, you look great, Mio-chan!" Yui chimes in.

"You really do, Mio-chan," Mugi adds. Azusa nods, and even Momo smiles shyly.

Mio laughs, feeling the warmth of their presence ease her nerves. "Thanks, guys."

Mio stops beside Ritsu, who moves on without prying, and for that, Mio is grateful. She can breathe a little easier. They chat casually for a bit, the girls filling the space with their usual banter. Mio manages to keep up, offering smiles and nods when necessary, though her thoughts are elsewhere. She glances down at her clothes again, trying to convince herself that she feels okay, that she feels pretty. But the truth is, the clothes don't change how she feels. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Mio stands there, feeling the weight of her blouse and trousers, like the fabric is suffocating her. She shifts from one foot to the other, watching as Ritsu, Yui, Mugi, Azusa, and Momo laugh and chat. Ritsu's voice booms above the others, Yui chimes in with her usual cheer, and even Momo, shy as she is, manages a giggle. Mio smiles, but it's tight, uncomfortable. She glances at the door, half hoping the others will arrive soon so she can stop thinking about how out of place she feels in her own clothes. The outfit she's wearing still feels wrong—like an imposter trying to blend into a world she's unsure of. The sleek boots, the tailored trousers, the polka-dot blouse. Who was she trying to be tonight?

Before Mio can settle into the group's rhythm, the door swings open again, and in walks Naya.

Mio's breath catches.

Naya steps in, casual as always—black ripped jeans, maroon Converse, a Justice tee that looks worn-in but still cool, and a maroon shirt rolled up at the sleeves, unbuttoned, like she didn't even try but somehow pulled off something effortlessly perfect.

The sight of her feels like a small jolt to Mio's senses.

Mio doesn't know if it's the boyish vibe or the way Naya's presence fills the room without trying, but she can't help staring. Her eyes linger just a second too long, trailing from Naya's shirt to the way her jeans fit snugly against her legs. 

Naya looks... good. Really good.

Better than good.

And Mio doesn't know why she's thinking that.

Alluring, even.

There's something about the way she carries herself, the way her clothes seem to hang just right, effortlessly cool. It's not just the outfit, though.

It's her.

It's the ease. The confidence. The way she walks in like she belongs, like the world bends around her rather than the other way around. Casual, unbothered, completely at home in her own skin.

Ritsu's voice snaps Mio out of it. "Whoa! Naya! It's a miracle! You're not wearing a hoodie! All formal, huh?"

Naya raises an eyebrow, her lips curling into a sarcastic smile. "Yeah, super fancy. You know me." She adjusts her shirt. "Couldn't find my tux."

"You look so cool, Naya-chan!" Yui beams, already hugging her new hug buddy. Naya squeezes Yui's shoulders back.

Ritsu laughs. "Look at this, guys! She owns more than just hoodies!"

"How many band tees do you have, Naya-chan?" Mugi asks with a smile.

Naya shrugs. "Yes."

Ritsu groans. "That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer," Naya replies smoothly, hands still in her pockets.

Mio watches the banter, her heartbeat slightly erratic, though she's not sure why. Naya turns her gaze toward the group, her eyes scanning everyone before they land on Mio. Her smile softens.

"You all look nice," she says, her voice casual. "Especially Mio here."

Mio stiffens at the comment, her breath catching.

Ritsu, of course, jumps on it immediately. "Right? Look at her, all dolled up! Mio here's pulling out all the stops tonight!"

"Ritsu," Mio mutters, glaring at her.

"No, seriously. That's not usually your style, is it?" Naya's tone isn't mocking—just curious. "It has a vintage vibe. It suits you. You look really pretty."

Mio freezes again.

Pretty?

The compliment hits like a soft blow, catching her completely off guard. And the way Naya says it—it's so casual, so matter-of-fact, as if she's just commenting on the weather. As if it's obvious. As if there's no room for doubt. As if it's the simplest truth in the world.

Mio's face burns.

Pretty.

She doesn't know what to say, so she doesn't say anything. She just nods, feeling the blush creep up her cheeks, spreading fast.

Naya notices her reaction and shifts slightly. For a moment, there's a pause. Then, in a quieter voice, she leans in a little closer and asks, "Uh, sorry, did I... did I overstep?"

Mio blinks, still caught in the whirlwind of her own thoughts. She shakes her head. "No! No, it's fine. Really. I'm just... not used to it, I guess." She tries to laugh it off, but the heat in her cheeks betrays her.

"Okay," Naya says, her smile warm, genuine. "Because, honestly? You're always pretty. It's not surprising."

There it is again.

The casual way Naya says it. The easy confidence. As if it's just a fact, something that doesn't need to be questioned. As if Mio deserves to hear it. And somehow, that makes Mio's heart skip even harder.

She takes a breath, trying to steady herself. This is just Naya being Naya—open, direct, and probably unaware of the way her words affect people.

But still.

Mio clears her throat. "You... You look nice too."

Naya raises an eyebrow, smirking. "Nice, eh? Is that your way of saying I clean up well?"

Mio tries to tease back. "I mean, it's just... different. You're not in a hoodie for once."

Naya chuckles. "Well, someone has my hoodie. Kind of hard to wear it when it's, you know, not with me."

Mio tilts her head, confused for a second, before it clicks. The hoodie. Her cheeks warm as she remembers: the rain, the green eyes, the intrusive thought of a ki—

"Oh! I—I'm sorry about that! It's still in my room. I was going to wash it before giving it back."

"You don't have to wash it, you know. Seriously, it's fine."

"I can't just give it back like that," Mio insists, crossing her arms. "What if it smells like me or something?"

"Then it smells like you," Naya replies with a shrug. "Not a problem."

Mio narrows her eyes, trying to summon some of the confidence she's been admiring in Naya, trying to fight back the growing blush. "What, afraid I'll mess up your precious hoodie? Don't trust me with laundry?"

Naya snorts. "No, I trust you. It's just... it's not a big deal. It's just a hoodie."

"Just a hoodie? Coming from the girl who lives in them? That's rich."

"Fair point," Naya concedes. "Okay, maybe it's a little bit of a big deal. But you can keep it for now. Looks better on you, anyway."

Mio's face heats again, but she doesn't let herself falter. Instead, she smirks. "You're just saying that so you don't have to do your own laundry."

Naya laughs at that. "You've got jokes tonight, eh?"

"Maybe," Mio says, feeling a little more confident now. "Or maybe I'm just tired of letting you win."

They share a look, the kind of quiet moment where everything feels light and easy, and Mio feels herself relax for the first time all evening. The knot in her chest loosens just a little, and she lets herself smile, genuinely this time.

"Well," Naya says, breaking the moment with a playful nudge to Mio's arm. "Thanks for taking care of it. My hoodie's in good hands."

Not long after, Ayame, Sachi, and Akira arrive, chatting animatedly. Ayame's eyes light up the second she sees Mio's outfit.

"Mio-chan! Look at you!" Ayame squeals, rushing over to her. "You're wearing the outfit! The one we bought last year!" She looks Mio up and down, clearly excited. "It looks even better on you now!"

Mio can't help the small smile that creeps up. "Yeah, it's the one."

Ayame steps back, scanning Mio from head to toe with an approving nod. "You look amazing. See? I told you you could pull it off!"

Sachi, standing just behind Ayame, offers a warm smile. "You look really nice, Mio-chan."

Mio's heart flutters at their compliments, and for a brief moment, she feels better. More comfortable. Maybe this was a good choice after all.

She gives Ayame a grateful nod, adjusting the hem of her blouse. "Thanks. I wasn't sure about it."

Ayame waves a hand dismissively. "Are you kidding? You're rocking it."

Akira is the last to comment, giving Mio a once-over before nodding. True to form, her tone is dry as ever. "You look fine." It's not much, but it's Akira, so it counts.

Mio fidgets, her fingers brushing her collar. "Trying something new," she mutters.

Akira nods, her approval understated but present. "Not bad."

And then, just when Mio thinks she's starting to settle into the moment, the door swings open again.

Liz enters, taking the room by storm like she always does.

Tight black leather pants, a maroon sleeveless high-neck top that hugs her figure, platform boots, and a thin black jacket draped over her shoulders. And her hair—wild red, tied back but still untamable, just like her.

The room falls quiet for a second, everyone's eyes drawn to her. Even Yui, usually bursting with energy, pauses mid-sentence to stare.

Mio's stomach drops.

She knew Liz would look incredible, but seeing her now, confident and charismatic, takes the air right out of her lungs. Liz is breathtaking, like something out of a magazine. She walks into the room as if she owns it, and just like that, any bit of confidence Mio had managed to gather slips away.

She feels small again. Insecure. Like she's wearing a costume, trying to be someone she's not. And here's Liz, looking like she just walked off a runway.

Liz grins as she approaches the group, her eyes scanning everyone. "Well, don't you all clean up nicely," she teases, her voice smooth, her smile easy.

There's a collective murmur of appreciation from the group. Even Ritsu, who rarely cares about fashion. "Well, damn, Liz. You sure know how to make an entrance," she mutters. "You're gonna make us all look bad."

Liz flashes a grin, unbothered by the attention. "Please. You all look great," she says, as if her breathtaking outfit is nothing more than casual wear. Her gaze lands on Mio. "Especially you, Mio. Look at you!"

Mio flinches, murmuring a quiet "thank you." She knows Liz is just being kind, but standing there in her fitted blouse and knee-high boots, she feels... small. Like she's trying too hard and still falling short.

Mio lowers her gaze, suddenly wishing she could melt into the floor.

Why did I even try?

But before the weight of her insecurities can crush her, there's a nudge at her shoulder. Soft, almost like an accident, but deliberate enough to pull her out of her spiraling thoughts.

Mio looks up.

It's Naya.

She's always there, somehow.

Naya doesn't say a word. She just looks at Mio.

Her striking green eyes—steady, warm, and always carrying that quiet intensity Mio can never quite explain—are on her, bright and vivid. Like they always are. Like they always have been. Like they'll never look anywhere else. They hold no judgment, no questions, just an easy kind of presence that Mio can't put into words.

It's absurd how much weight such a simple look can carry.

And her smile. The kind of smile that feels unspoken and endless, like a secret shared only between them. Private. Just for her, just enough to fill the hollow space Mio hadn't even realized was forming in her chest.

Liz is still there. Bold, captivating, and beautiful, drawing every gaze in the room like a magnet.

Except one.

In a room where Liz commands the spotlight effortlessly, where every gaze seems drawn to her like moths to a flame, Naya's focus is somewhere else.

On her.

Mio feels it like a tether, invisible but unbreakable. A quiet assurance that, in this moment, out of everyone in the room, she is the one Naya sees.

It doesn't make sense. It doesn't fix everything. But somehow, it's enough.

Mio doesn't know why it matters, why it calms the storm inside her. To make her feel seen in a way she hasn't felt in years. Maybe ever. But it does.

Before she can process the thought, Naya leans in closer, smirking as she says, "If you feel like standing out, just walk next to me. Instant comparison advantage."

Mio snorts, the tension breaking as a small, genuine laugh escapes her. She looks at Naya, who's grinning at her with that easy, confident smile. The warmth in Mio's chest grows, though she's still not quite sure what to do with it.

Before she can dwell on it, Ritsu's voice cuts through the moment. "Alright, ladies, time to hit the karaoke! Let's get this party started!"

The group starts to move, chatter filling the hallway as they head toward the dorm's main door. Mio follows close behind, her heart lighter now, though the weight of the earlier moment lingers faintly, like the memory of a song's final note.

But then she notices Naya.

Lingering near the back of the group, her movements are slower, her posture just slightly off, like she's hesitating.

Mio pauses, letting the others drift ahead. "Naya?"

Naya looks up, her expression unreadable for a moment before her lips curl into a quick, practiced smile. "Yeah?"

"You coming?" Mio tilts her head, her voice soft, careful. She knows that smile now. The one Naya wears when she wants to say everything's fine, even when it isn't.

"Yeah." Her voice is casual, but Mio knows her well enough by now to notice the slight edge to it. The hesitation.

Mio steps closer, her voice low enough not to carry to the others. "Are you okay?"

Naya nods, but it's too shallow. "Yeah. Fine."

But Mio knows better. She knows the small signs by now—the slight hunch of Naya's shoulders, the way her gaze flits to the floor before meeting hers again. The nervous energy in her posture contrasts sharply with the calm self-assurance Naya usually radiates.

Mio tries again. "Are you sure?"

Naya shifts on her feet, glancing toward the door, then away. "Actually," she starts, her voice lighter than it should be, "I just realized I didn't grab a jacket. It might get cold later."

Mio frowns. "You don't need one. It's not that cold."

"You have one."

"Well, yeah, but you're not that sensitive to the cold."

"I just—" Naya takes a step back, already moving toward the hallway. "You guys go ahead. I'll grab it and catch up."

Mio doesn't move. She doesn't let the words settle. She knows them for what they are: a retreat.

It's an excuse. Mio knows it. And Naya knows she knows.

Because she knows Naya now. Knows how much she hides behind her calm, easygoing exterior. How much she feels like an outsider, even when no one else thinks of her that way. How much she worries about not fitting in.

How, despite her quiet confidence, she's always a little uneasy in big groups where everyone else seems to belong.

Mio doesn't let her go. Before she can get far, Mio gently reaches out, her fingers curling lightly around Naya's arm, stopping her mid-step.

"If you need a jacket," Mio says, her voice steady, "you can take mine."

Naya blinks, caught off guard. "I—what?"

Mio smiles softly, tilting her head toward the door. "You don't need to go back. You don't have to catch up. Just... come with us. Please."

For a moment, Naya hesitates, her gaze dropping to where Mio's hand rests lightly on her arm. Mio feels it, the weight of Naya's uncertainty, the quiet storm she keeps buried beneath that calm exterior. But she doesn't let go. She doesn't push, either. She just stands there, her quiet presence steady, unwavering.

She thinks about all the times she's seen Naya falter, just for a second, before covering it up. About the way she carries herself like she doesn't care, even when she does. About the way she fits in and doesn't, all at once.

Naya's gaze flicks down again to where Mio's hand rests on her arm, then back up to Mio's face. Her lips part like she's about to protest, but Mio steps closer, her grip soft but sure, her eyes meeting Naya's with quiet resolve.

"Come on." Mio squeezes her arm lightly, guiding her toward the door. "Let's go together."

A pause. Then, slowly, Naya nods. "Okay. No jacket. Let's go."

Together, they step through the door and into the night, side by side. Mio glances at Naya one last time. At the quiet understanding they've found in each other.

---

The karaoke room is bigger than Mio expected. Private, of course, but the space feels more like a small lounge than the cramped, cozy booths she'd imagined. The walls are decked with neon lights and framed posters of famous singers, some in Japanese, others international. A screen takes up most of one wall, with four microphones resting in stands beneath it. Plush couches line the sides of the room, and there's a long, low table in the middle already set with menus.

The girls file in, chatting easily. Mio lingers at the entrance for a second, taking it all in. The atmosphere is fun, relaxed. Everyone seems comfortable.

Except Naya.

Naya stands beside Mio, staring at the setup, her eyes widening a little. "Welp, this is not what I expected."

Mio glances at her. "What were you expecting?"

"I don't know, something more... basic? This feels like a whole production."

Yui spins around. "Isn't it great? Karaoke in Japan is serious business!"

Akira slides into one of the couches, flipping through the songbook like she owns the place. "Yeah, it's no joke. You can order food, drinks, whatever you want."

Mugi and Ayame are already browsing the menus, discussing what to order. "We should get a mix of things," Mugi suggests. "That way everyone can try a bit of everything."

Naya blinks. "Wait, we're having dinner here?"

"Yup," Ritsu replies, plopping down next to Akira and snagging the remote for the screen. "They bring everything right to the room. It's like eating at a restaurant, but you get to sing your heart out too."

Mio smirks, stepping past Naya to take a seat beside Mugi. "You're not in Spain anymore. Karaoke isn't just singing here, it's a whole experience."

"But small plates, though," Liz adds. "No big deal."

Naya's face lights up with sudden understanding. "Oh! Like tapas?"

Liz pauses, glances at Mio, then back at Naya. She seems to debate for a second, then sighs. "Yeah, sure. Like tapas."

Naya grins as if she's uncovered some deep cultural understanding. She nods enthusiastically. "Tapas. I knew it."

Liz just shakes her head.

Ritsu pipes up, her grin wide. "Enough of the culture lesson, let's order some drinks!" Her eyes gleam as she flips through the menu, leaning over Yui's shoulder to point out the various options. "Soda, juice, tea—you name it!"

"Let's get a mix—something for everyone," Sachi proposes.

"Sounds good!" Yui chimes in. "Ooh, melon soda! And cola! And maybe oolong tea!"

Naya leans forward, eyeing the menu. "I think I'll pass on alcohol," she says, her tone casual. "If I drink, I'll slip into full Spanish mode, and you'll never hear me speak Japanese again."

Sachi raises an eyebrow. "What's full Spanish mode?"

"Loud. Too loud."

"Louder than you already are?" Liz teases.

"Yep. And trust me, I already have enough trouble with Japanese as it is."

Mio can't help but smile at the thought, her mind conjuring up an image of Naya speaking a mile a minute in rapid Spanish, gesticulating wildly, while the rest of the group looks on, confused but amused.

"Wait a second." Sachi narrows her eyes slightly. "How old are you again?"

Naya blinks, caught off guard. "Still nineteen."

The table falls quiet for a beat. They exchanges some glances. Then Ritsu leans forward, eyebrows raised. "You know you can't drink here, right? The legal drinking age in Japan is twenty."

Naya's eyes widen, confusion written all over her face. "¿Qué?" The Spanish word slips out. "Wait, what? Seriously?"

Yui nods. "It's the law! No alcohol until you're twenty."

"You're joking. In Spain, you can drink at eighteen!"

Liz chuckles, leaning back. "Well, you're not in Spain anymore, flamenca. Welcome to Japan. Looks like it's sodas for you."

"So, let me get this straight. I'm old enough to live alone in a foreign country, but I can't have a beer?"

"Pretty much," Ritsu says, her grin wide.

Yui then beams. "But that's okay! We don't have to drink to have fun.

Mio catches the small flicker of discomfort in Naya's eyes as she folds the menu shut. It tugs at something inside her. She observes Naya seem a bit tense—again. She now knows how Naya feels about the cultural clashes and the daily confusions she faces—about always getting things wrong and needing people to explain them, about feeling like a burden or ignorant, as if she came to Japan knowing nothing about the culture, constantly afraid of seeming like a patronizing foreigner.

Mio can't help but notice how Naya is still observing everything, still feeling a little out of place. There's a distance between her and the group, not in a way anyone else would notice, but Mio does. The small, subtle differences. The slight hesitation in Naya's laugh. The way she watches the girls more than she participates.

Mio gets it. She's been there, on the outside looking in, trying to keep up with a world that moves a little too fast, trying to blend in when everything feels just a little too different.

But with Naya, it's something else. It's not just the language barrier or cultural differences. It's the way Naya carries herself, the way she tries so hard to fit in, even though she's always a little bit more. More expressive. More animated. More herself.

And that's when it clicks for Mio.

Naya doesn't hold back because she's uncomfortable.

She holds back because she's trying to be polite.

She's trying to adapt. To fit into a world that isn't quite hers, not fully.

But maybe she doesn't need to.

Ritsu cuts through her thoughts. "Alright! Who's picking the first song?"

The question hangs in the air, and everyone exchanges glances. Mio just hopes someone else will volunteer first.

Then, Liz, lounging comfortably in her seat like she owns the room, smirks. "Why don't we have Naya go first? Make her karaoke debut."

Naya stiffens beside Mio. Her posture is a little rigid. "Oh, no," she says quickly, waving her hands in the air as if dismissing the very idea. "I'm not going to sing."

The room falls silent. Everyone stares at her like she just declared she doesn't like food or breathing.

Ritsu blinks. "What do you mean you're not going to sing?"

Naya shrugs, her casual tone betraying the slight unease beneath it. "I just don't sing."

The girls exchange glances.

"What?!" Ritsu shouts. "You can't come to Japan and not sing at karaoke!"

Mio watches the scene unfold, sensing the tension creeping up Naya's shoulders. She shifts, her usual cool exterior cracking just slightly under the weight of all those eyes on her.

"I... I sing terribly," she says, almost shy, clearly growing more uncomfortable with every second. "And I don't know how karaoke works. I'll embarrass myself."

Yui looks genuinely horrified. "You don't want to sing? But you have to! It's karaoke! In Japan!"

Naya shakes her head again. "I can't sing. And I probably don't know half the songs here, anyway."

"There are songs in English," Azusa pipes up from the corner.

"And some in Spanish," Momo adds quietly.

Liz smirks, pulling out the song catalog. "Come on, let's see what we've got here for our international star." She scrolls through the list, stopping at a few familiar titles: La gata bajo la lluvia, La Bamba, La Macarena, Aserejé and some Shakira hits.

"What about this one?" Liz asks, pointing to La gata bajo la lluvia.

"Yeah, sure. Rocío Durcal sings that, not me. And I'm not singing La Bamba or La Macarena." She grimaces at the thought. "And I'm definitely not doing Aserejé by myself."

Mugi offers a solution. "You don't have to sing alone. We could all join in."

Naya shakes her head, though a small, hesitant smile tugs at the corners of her lips. She's considering it, Mio realizes. But she still looks trapped, like everyone's waiting for her to do something she really doesn't want to.

"You could sing Livin' La Vida Loca," Liz proposes. "Perfect song, right? A classic."

"That's not even in Spanish."

"What about Let's Get Loud? Jennifer López?"

"You know Jennifer López isn't Hispanic Hispanic, right?"

"Says who?"

"Her birth certificate," Naya deadpans.

Liz grins, knowing she's poking at Naya's defenses but enjoying it anyway. "Come on, Naya, I bet you've got a voice in there somewhere. Your backup vocals are great."

"Sure, because you cover them with your voice." 

Mio watches Naya closely, noticing the tension in her shoulders, the way she's trying to keep the spotlight from burning too bright on her. Mio knows that feeling too well.

Still, Mio smiles. Naya is always so composed, so sure of herself, but it's moments like this—when she's caught off guard, flustered by everyone's attention—that Mio finds herself drawn in.

Naya sighs, leaning back against the couch like she's trying to disappear into it, her eyes scanning the room like she's plotting an escape route. Then, with a wry smile, she mutters, "Wish I could drink after all. To loosen up or something."

The girls laugh, but Mio doesn't. She knows it wasn't a joke. It was something else—half a joke, half a shield.

Mio knows shields when she sees them.

"Let's not push her," Mio says, her voice cutting gently through the chatter. It's not loud, but it carries enough weight to make the room pause. "Maybe someone else should go first. You know, show her how it's done? Naya can see how it works, then decide if she feels like trying."

She glances at Naya, her words soft but deliberate. Mio doesn't miss the flicker of relief in Naya's eyes, just briefly, before she looks away again.

Ritsu, of course, is already on her feet, brimming with energy. "Great idea! We'll show you how it's done, Naya." She points a dramatic finger at Yui, who perks up immediately. "Yui, let's hit 'em with a classic."

Yui's face lights up like a sparkler. "Oh! ROLLING STAR! Let's do ROLLING STAR!"

Ritsu claps her hands, spinning toward the screen and punching in the song number with exaggerated flair. "Prepare yourselves, ladies. You're about to witness greatness."

Yui hops up beside her, grabbing a microphone with both hands like she's headlining a world tour. "Rock'n roll! Rock'n roll!" she belts out, throwing her arms wide.

The opening riff of ROLLING STAR bursts through the speakers, an electric charge that instantly wakes everyone up. Yui and Ritsu jump into action, their chaotic energy lighting up the room.

Yui takes the lead, her voice bright and slightly off-key, pouring every ounce of enthusiasm into each line. Ritsu matches her, her raspier tone adding playful depth as she throws in exaggerated gestures that send the group into fits of laughter.

The room is alive. The girls clap along, laughing and cheering. Even Liz, who usually plays it cool, is smiling, tapping her foot to the rhythm. Ayame and Sachi giggle as they record the performance on their phones. Mugi sways to the music, her smile warm and genuine.

Mio watches them, feeling the corners of her mouth twitch into a small, genuine smile. It's not polished. It's not even close to perfect. But it's... them. Completely, unapologetically them.

She sneaks a glance at Naya.

She's still leaning back against the couch, her expression unreadable. But her shoulders aren't as tense, and there's the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Her foot taps once, almost imperceptibly, before she catches herself and stops.

"You see?" Mio leans in closer, her voice quiet, meant only for Naya. "It's not about singing perfectly. It's just about having fun."

Naya glances at her, her green eyes softening, her smile shifting into something warmer. "They're... definitely having fun," she says, her voice laced with quiet amusement.

"That's the point. No pressure. Just... goofing around," Mio replies, her tone lighter now, her eyes steady on Naya's. "You don't have to be perfect. Just... join when you're ready."

Naya holds her gaze for a moment longer. Then she nods, barely, but it's there.

Onstage—or at least in front of the screen—Ritsu and Yui are giving it their all, their voices blending into a cacophony of barely-synced energy as they reach the chorus. Ritsu dances around like the microphone stand is her stage, her voice carrying just enough emotion to almost sell the song's intensity, while Yui strums an invisible guitar, her exaggerated expressions pulling giggles from the group.

The room dissolves into unrestrained joy. The kind of laughter that echoes, spilling over the music. By the time the song ends, Yui throws her arms out dramatically, singing with everything she has, while Ritsu throws her head back, pretending to wail into her microphone like a rock star.

And for the first time that evening, Naya laughs. A real laugh. Quiet, low, but genuine.

Mio hears it, feels it, like a small victory.

When the song ends, Ritsu and Yui bow theatrically, basking in the playful applause from the group. Ritsu points at Naya with a triumphant grin. "That's how it's done. See? Easy."

"Right," Naya replies, her voice dry but her smile still lingering. "Super easy."

Ritsu smirks. "You'll get it, Naya. Just follow our lead."

Ritsu steps off, but Yui is unstoppable. She's already bouncing back to the microphone stand, scanning the songbook with an energy that defies the laws of exhaustion.

"Happiness!!!" she declares, her finger stabbing at the screen. "Arashi! Let's do it!"

"Yui—" Akira starts, raising a hand in protest.

But it's too late. The bubbly melody kicks in, and Yui is off, her voice high and unpolished, a whirlwind of hand gestures and improvised choreography. She throws her heart into it, as if she's performing for a sold-out stadium rather than a private room filled with her closest friends.

Ritsu joins in, clapping and shouting along at all the right moments. The rest of the girls cheer her on, their laughter bubbling over. Even Naya can't help but smile at Yui's boundless enthusiasm.

When the song ends, Yui strikes an exaggerated pose, prompting the room to erupt in applause.

Akira, seated at the edge of the couch, raises a hand. "Alright, alright, enough. Yui, give someone else a turn."

Yui pouts, clutching the microphone like a treasure. "But I was just getting started!"

Ayame leans in, grinning mischievously. "Come on, Akira. Show us what you've got."

"What?" Akira shoots her a glare, but Ayame doesn't let up.

"Don't pretend you don't want to," Ayame teases, her grin widening. "I've heard you humming when you think no one's listening. You're up."

Mio watches as Akira huffs, the tips of her ears tinged pink. Ayame always knows how to push her buttons just enough. Akira finally grabs a microphone, muttering under her breath, and punches in the song number.

The opening chords of Glamorous Sky echo through the room.

Akira straightens, all hesitation melting away as she steps into the spotlight. Her voice is rich, carrying the raw edge of the song with surprising power. She doesn't move much—just stands there, gripping the microphone—but there's something captivating about her presence. By the time she hits the chorus, the room is silent, everyone caught in the intensity of her performance.

Mio leans back, watching Akira transform. It's a reminder that even the quietest voices can carry the heaviest weight.

As the song fades out, the room bursts into cheers. Akira feigns indifference as she hands the microphone back. "Happy now?"

Ayame grins. "Very."

Liz stands, stretching lazily. "Not bad, Akira. Mind if I steal the stage?"

Akira smirks. "Go ahead. Just don't break it."

Liz picks a duet, scrolling through the songbook until she settles on Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This) by Eurythmics. "You're staying up here with me," she says, grabbing Akira's arm before she has a chance to sit down.

"Seriously?" Akira groans but doesn't resist.

Liz starts, her voice smooth and low, dripping with the kind of charisma that commands attention. When Akira joins in, their voices blend seamlessly, Liz's sultry tone contrasting with Akira's grittier edge. The English lyrics roll off Liz's tongue effortlessly, her accent perfect, her confidence unwavering. It's the kind of performance that pulls everyone in, leaving the room momentarily entranced.

When they finish, the applause is deafening. Ritsu whistles loudly, Yui cheers, and even Naya looks genuinely impressed.

"Alright, alright," Liz says, waving off the compliments with mock modesty. "I'll do one more, solo this time."

There's no hesitation as she picks Dress by BUCK-TICK. The haunting melody fills the room, Liz's voice weaving through the lyrics like silk. It's different from the last performance—less playful, more intimate. Her stage presence is magnetic, her movements deliberate but fluid, her voice carrying an edge of vulnerability that feels almost sacred.

Mio glances at Naya, who's leaning forward slightly, her eyes locked on Liz as if the music itself has taken hold of her.

When the song ends, the room stays quiet for a beat, everyone caught in the lingering spell. Liz grins, breaking the silence. "What, too good for applause?"

The group erupts into cheers again, but Naya keeps her gaze fixed on Liz, her expression one of quiet awe.

"That was incredible," Naya says after a moment. "I mean... wow."

Liz smirks, flipping her hair over one shoulder. "Told you before, BUCK-TICK is gold. You should've listened by now."

Naya scratches the back of her neck, looking sheepish. "Yeah, I know. I've been meaning to."

Liz leans closer, just enough for her voice to reach Naya and Mio without carrying to the rest of the group. "Let me guess... too busy listening to someone else's recommendations?"

Naya freezes, her face heating up instantly.

Liz chuckles, a low, knowing sound, and straightens as she brushes past them on her way back to her seat. "Thought so," she adds, her voice light, teasing, and just loud enough for Naya to hear.

Mio's eyes linger on Naya's reaction, the way her shoulders tense and her blush deepens. It's such a small thing, easy to miss, but it leaves something unnamed stirring in Mio's chest.

---

Sachi pipes up. "So, Naya-chan? Feeling brave now?"

The room goes still, all eyes on Naya again, waiting. There's a palpable tension in the air, a quiet anticipation.

Naya glances at the screen, then back at the group. Her gaze meets Mio's for a brief second, and Mio offers a small, encouraging smile. She knows what it's like to be on the edge of something, to be pushed just a little too far, and she doesn't want Naya to feel that pressure. But at the same time, she's curious. She wants to hear Naya sing. She wants to see what happens when Naya lets go.

Naya shifts uncomfortably, clearly caught between wanting to stay in the background and the pressure of the moment. Her eyes dart over to Mio again, almost instinctively. Mio catches the look.

"You don't have to if you don't want to," she says.

Naya bites her lip. "I just don't want to make a fool of myself."

Mio chuckles lightly. "You won't. And besides, we're here. You're not alone. We won't judge."

Naya stays in her seat, quietly observing, still unsure whether to jump in or not. Mio watches her, a warm feeling blooming in her chest. There's something disarming about Naya's hesitation, her quiet vulnerability peeking through her confident exterior. It feels familiar, like an unspoken connection between them—two people who understand what it means to hesitate, to hold back when the world feels too big.

Maybe that's why, in this moment, she wants Naya to sing.

And so, without fully realizing it, Mio leans closer, her voice low but reassuring. "Go on."

Naya glances at her again, eyes searching, as if trying to decide whether to trust her instincts. Then, she exhales a resigned sigh, shrugs, and steps forward to grab one of the microphones.

Mio watches her closely, trying to gauge her expression. Naya stares at the song library like it's a puzzle she's not sure she wants to solve. Her green eyes flit across the screen, searching for something—not just a song, but perhaps a sense of confidence, a place to land

"Oh," Naya breathes, a small spark of recognition crossing her face.

Liz arches a brow. "What?"

"They have a song I wasn't expecting here," Naya says, eyes widening as she leans closer to the screen. "By Christina y los Subterráneos."

Liz blinks. "Who?"

Naya's face lights up. "Christina Rosenvinge! She's one of the most important figures in Spanish music. She started with Álex y Christina in the '80s—kind of a pop duo thing—but then she went solo and completely reinvented herself. Her lyrics are poetic, a little melancholic, and her sound evolved so much over the years. She even worked with Sonic Youth! And Christina y los Subterráneos was this pivotal phase in the '90s, where her music got darker, more introspective. She's, like, a pioneer for Spanish alternative rock. Kind of like a Spanish—"

"Naya," Liz interjects, holding up a hand. "Breathe."

Naya pauses, her cheeks coloring slightly as she realizes she's been rambling. "Sorry. Got a bit carried away."

"No kidding. You just gave us a mini music history lesson."

"Well, it's important context!" Naya insists, her eyes alight with passion.

"Sure it is," Liz teases, but there's an unmistakable fondness in her tone. "So, are you singing this 'pivotal' song, or what?"

"Oh, I'm definitely singing it."

Mio blinks. She isn't expecting this sudden enthusiasm.

Yui tilts her head, curious. "Naya-chan, are you singing in Spanish?"

Naya glances up, looking a little sheepish. "Yeah. This one's in Spanish."

That sets the group off immediately.

Yui gasps, practically vibrating with excitement. "That's so cool! Naya-chan's gonna sing in Spanish!"

Mugi clasps her hands together. "I've never heard you speak Spanish for more than a few words, Naya-chan. This will be amazing!"

Even Ritsu's eyes light up. "Oh, this is gonna be good."

Naya's cheeks turn a soft shade of red. She scratches the back of her neck, muttering, "Don't get your hopes up. I'm just... testing the waters."

But Mio's gaze lingers on her. She feels a spark of curiosity, too. She's heard Naya toss out the occasional Spanish phrase—a soft gracias, a casual vale, playful curses Mio doesn't understand but somehow finds herself drawn to. But nothing more.

This, though? A whole song? She wonders what it'll sound like, if the words will roll off Naya's tongue in a way her Japanese doesn't. Wonders if it'll feel like catching a glimpse of a side of Naya she hasn't yet seen.

She leans forward slightly without meaning to, her attention fixed on Naya as she finally selects the song.

The screen lights up with the song title: Voy en un coche. Mio has no idea what it means, but Naya's smile—small, nervous, but genuine—pulls her focus completely.

Naya takes a small breath and mutters, more to herself than anyone else, "Guess I'll just pretend I'm in Operación Triunfo."

The room goes silent for a beat.

Liz squints. "What's that?"

"It's like... Spain's version of American Idol, but with a Big Brother twist. Huge talent show," Naya explains. "During the week, the contestants live together in an academy where they learn to sing, dance, and all that. Then every week, there's a gala where they perform, get judged, get booted off. Super dramatic. The whole country was obsessed with it for a while."

"Sounds intense," Liz says, leaning back. "Never heard of it."

Ritsu snickers. "So, you're saying you're about to get judged? Don't mess up, Naya."

Naya smirks, her humor returning. "Exactly. High stakes, live audience, the whole deal." She gestures to the room. "And you all are the judges."

Yui gasps. "Ooh! Do we get to hold up numbers, like a ten or a zero?"

"Ten or zero?" Naya laughs, her nerves easing just a little. "Talk about extremes."

With that, Naya steps toward the microphone, her fingers brushing over it almost cautiously, like she's testing its weight. A faint blush creeps up her neck, her face slightly red.

"Anyway, don't expect much," she says, her voice low. "I'm... not great."

"Let's go, Naya-chan!" Yui cheers, clapping her hands together. "You've got this!"

Naya smiles. Chuckles. And then, the music starts.

The first few notes spill into the room—bright, rhythmic, carrying a playful energy. Mio watches as Naya stands there, a little stiff, her grip tightening on the microphone.

She starts to sing.

♪ Dile a papá que me voy de la ciudad,
Dile a los chicos que no volveré más. ♫

Her voice is quiet at first, hesitant. The Spanish words flow from her lips, fluid and natural, even as her posture remains rigid. Mio doesn't understand the lyrics, but the melody and cadence pull her in. There's something effortless about it, something that feels so uniquely Naya.

It strikes Mio, suddenly, how much at home Naya sounds in her own language. The words seem to flow in a way Japanese never quite does for her—looser, freer, as though every syllable carries a piece of who she is.

Mio is awestruck. Naya can talk like this? This fast? This easy?

The girls listen in silence, completely absorbed. Yui bounces slightly on the couch, mouthing along to words she doesn't know. Liz leans back, her gaze fixed on Naya.

Mio doesn't take her eyes off her.

Naya's movements are small, almost imperceptible. A tap of her fingers against the microphone. A slight sway of her hips. At first, it's barely there, like she's trying to find her rhythm, trying to let the song take her somewhere.

But with every line, Naya seems to loosen, unraveling just a little more. Her voice grows steadier, louder, bolder. Her body sways slightly to the beat. The chorus hits, and she moves. Just a step forward, a tilt of her head, a slight shift in her shoulders. It's subtle, but it's there. Like she's letting the song pull her in, letting it loosen whatever tension was holding her back.

♪ ¡Quema los rascacielos! ¡Quema los postes de la luz y los camiones de bomberos!
¡Quema los tribunales! ¡Quema todos los bares! ¡Porque no voy a volver! ♫

And then her gaze changes.

Mio feels it first, the subtle shift in Naya's eyes. They sweep across the room, a fleeting glance, but there's something new there. Confidence, yes, but also defiance. Like she's daring anyone to look away. To not see her. It's startling, the way it transforms her. For a moment, Naya looks like someone else—someone freer, bolder, unchained.

Mio can't look away.

There's a defiance in her voice now. A boldness Mio hasn't heard before.

Naya's foot taps against the floor, her free hand gesturing with the lyrics. Her body begins to move with the beat, not hesitantly, but naturally. She's not just singing anymore. She's letting the song carry her.

And it's captivating.

The girls are clapping along now, cheering her on, but Mio barely notices. Because Naya's voice—soft but growing in confidence—wraps around her like a thread, pulling her into every word, every note.

It's not perfect. There are moments when her voice falters, when she stumbles over the rhythm. But it doesn't matter.

Because it's her.

Naya.

By the second verse, Naya's eyes are closed, her voice stronger, carrying an edge of rawness that Mio hasn't heard from her before. The Spanish words spill out with ease, filling the room with something intimate, something real. Mio wonders what the lyrics mean—if they're about longing, or love, or loss. Whatever it is, Naya wears it like a second skin, her voice and her words becoming one.

Her eyes snap open suddenly, and for a moment, they meet Mio's. The challenge in her gaze is unmistakable now—sharp, daring, electric. It's as though Naya is saying, Watch me. See me. Don't forget about me.

Mio's breath catches.

The song crescendos, and Naya lets go.

♪ Ahora la luna pasa la noche oyendo el ruido de mi motor.
Los tipos duros pasan apuros cuando se cruzan por mi carril.
Y en el cielo, todos los santos son de mi bando y rezan por mí. ♫

Her voice rises, her movements more fluid now. She's not just singing; she's performing. Her hand lifts, gesturing slightly as she hits the final chorus with a fervor that takes Mio by surprise. It's like she's pouring herself into the words, letting them take up space, letting them fill the room.

Letting herself be seen.

By the final verse, she's giving it everything. Her head tilts back, her voice steady and raw, her body alive with the music. The unsure, hesitant girl from minutes ago is gone, replaced by someone unshackled.

Mio feels something tighten in her chest. She's never seen this side of Naya—not like this. It's as if singing in her own language has unlocked something, a piece of herself she keeps hidden. And Mio wonders if Naya realizes just how beautiful she looks like this, lost in her own world, letting herself shine.

The song fades, and Naya lowers the microphone, her chest rising and falling with her breath. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes slightly wide, like she can't quite believe what she just did. The room explodes into applause, Yui's cheers echoing above the rest.

Mio claps too, but her gaze lingers, her thoughts swirling. Because Naya isn't just captivating. She's unforgettable.

"That was amazing, Naya-chan!" Yui beams, practically bouncing. "You're so cool!"

"See? Told you you'd be good!" Ritsu adds, leaning back with a smug grin. "You've been holding out on us."

Mugi beams. "You have such a unique voice, Naya-chan. That was incredible!"

Mio doesn't say anything at first. She just watches as Naya brushes a hand through her hair, her lips twitching into a smile that's almost shy.

She looks at Mio. Mio looks back. Naya is looking at her like she's waiting for something.

Mio swallows. She doesn't know what to say, doesn't know if she even needs to say anything.

But she smiles. Small. Soft. Just enough. And Naya—breathless and flushed from the song—smiles back.

Liz slings her arm around Naya's shoulders as she returns to her seat. "Not bad, flamenca. Not bad at all."

And just like that, the moment passes. The girls dive back into chatter, picking the next song, teasing each other, laughing. But Mio stays quiet, her gaze lingering on Naya a moment longer.

Because something about that performance—about the way Naya opened herself up, even just a little—feels important.

"Hey, Mio!" Ritsu shouts, snapping her out of it. "You gonna sing or what?"

Mio blinks. Once. Twice. Three times.

"Huh?"

"Come on, Mio! You sing in a band! This is your element!"

Mio shifts uncomfortably and shoots her a look. "Ritsu, this is not the same as performing at the club or a concert."

"Yeah, because at karaoke, you can sing whatever you want," Yui chirps in. "No pressure. No expectations!"

"No crowd," Mugi adds with a gentle smile.

"And you have a great voice, Mio-senpai," Azusa says, her tone earnest.

Mio glances around the room. The girls are all excited. Momo can barely hide her desire for Mio to jump on stage. Liz looks at her as if she knows more about Mio than she does. And Naya...

Naya just smiles at her, as if to say, do whatever makes you feel most comfortable.

But Naya just opened up to the girls, laid herself bare for everyone to see. Isn't it unfair if Mio doesn't do the same?

Mio sighs, standing slowly. The room buzzes with anticipation as she makes her way to the small stage. She takes the microphone, her fingers curling around its smooth metal surface. The chatter and laughter quiet down, fading into a silence that presses against her chest. The screen in front of her glows with the title she's chosen: GLORIA by YUI.

Her heart races. She feels the weight of every pair of eyes on her. They're not judging her. She knows that. She knows this is a safe space, that she's surrounded by people who care for her, who cheer for her, who have no expectations other than for her to enjoy herself.

But still.

The voices in her head don't care about safety or logic. They whisper doubts, insecurities, reminders of how she's trying too hard tonight, that this outfit isn't her, that her voice—though she sings in a band—isn't enough when stripped bare like this, without her bass, without the stage lights, without the band around her.

Her eyes dart to her friends.

Azusa and Mugi are smiling gently, quietly encouraging her. Yui and Ritsu are louder, more boisterous, clapping and shouting for her to go on. And Naya—

Naya's gaze is steady. Not pushing, not prying. Just there. Solid. Warm.

Mio swallows hard, her fingers tightening on the microphone. She takes a breath. And she presses play.

The intro starts softly, the guitar chords rolling out like a wave, washing over the room, over her. She closes her eyes for a second, letting herself sink into the melody. And when the first note comes, she sings.

Her voice is soft at first, tentative. She feels the notes tremble in her throat, feels the familiar pull of the lyrics as they settle into her chest.

♪ I want to love, it's life-changing, but I grow timid when challenges piles up. ♫

The words are delicate, the melody fragile, but Mio keeps going. She glances at the screen, reading the lyrics, letting them guide her. Each line pulls at something deep inside her, the words resonating in a way she didn't expect. They speak of change, of fear, of hope. Of wanting more, of trying, of feeling small but pushing forward anyway.

Mio sings the next verse, her voice growing steadier, stronger, as the song swells.

♪ This feeling leads to the answer. Can't throw this feeling away, oh my love. ♫

The words wrap around her, lifting her. And slowly, she begins to let go.

Her fingers uncurl from the microphone. Her posture softens. She tilts her head slightly, letting the music carry her. The insecurities that clung to her earlier begin to loosen their grip. Not completely, but enough.

Enough to feel the music in her chest, her breath, her fingertips.

She sings the chorus:

♪ You're not losing, GLORIA, shine away to the future. You're approaching closer. ♫

Her voice soars now, higher, clearer. She doesn't think about how she looks or how she sounds. She just feels the song. Feels the way the words lift her, the way they settle into the cracks of her self-doubt like gold filling the gaps of broken porcelain.

Her friends are clapping softly now, their faces lit with encouragement. Yui beams, mouthing the words along with her. Ritsu pumps her fist in the air. Mugi and Azusa watch her intently, their smiles warm and proud.

And Naya.

Mio meets her eyes briefly, just long enough to catch the way Naya looks at her. It's not just admiration—there's something deeper. Naya looks at her like she's seeing her for the first time. Like she's listening to more than just her voice. Like she's hearing her.

It makes Mio's voice tremble for a moment, her breath catching on a note. But she keeps going.

♪ I am here in a small room, believing in the future of fantasy. ♫

Her voice softens, her gaze flicking between the screen and the room. She can feel her friends, feel their support, their energy. It makes her want to keep going.

The song builds again, rising with her voice. She lets it fill her, lets it drown out everything else—the whispers of doubt, the voices that tell her she's not enough. Here, in this moment, she is enough.

The bridge swells, and Mio closes her eyes again, letting herself fall into the music completely. Her voice rings out:

♪ The time the sakura starts blooming, I'll be able to find myself. ♫

She feels it—feels herself in the song. In the lyrics, in the melody, in the way her voice carries through the room. She doesn't need the screen now. The words are hers, etched into her chest, spilling out with every note.

When the final chorus comes, Mio gives it everything:

♪ You're not losing, GLORIA, shine away to the future. You're approaching closer. ♫

Her voice is full now, unwavering, carrying the weight of everything she's felt tonight. She sings the last lines like a promise—to herself, to her friends, to the girl she's trying to become.

The song ends.

The room is silent for a heartbeat. Two. And then it erupts.

Yui and Ritsu cheer the loudest, clapping and shouting. Mugi and Azusa are more reserved but no less enthusiastic, their smiles wide and proud. Momo looks awestruck. Liz nods in approval. Ayame and Sachi exchange glances, clearly impressed.

And Naya.

Naya doesn't clap right away. She just looks at Mio, smiling that easy smile that Mio swears sometimes feels like it's just for her.

Mio steps down from the stage, her heart racing, her breath still unsteady. The applause fades into chatter, but Naya doesn't move, doesn't look away.

Mio sits down beside her, the faint blush on her cheeks still lingering. Naya leans closer, her voice low, just for her.

"That was beautiful," she says simply.

Mio doesn't know what to say. So she just smiles, small and soft.

---

The energy in the room is electric. Plates of food clutter the low table—karaage, takoyaki, edamame, fries—and empty glasses are scattered amidst half-finished drinks. The scent of soy sauce and fried snacks mingles with the lingering excitement in the air.

Ritsu's voice booms through the room as she belts out Linda Linda, her usual chaotic energy cranked up to eleven. She's bouncing across the small stage, mic in one hand, the other raised high as if conducting an imaginary crowd. Yui joins in from the couch, her voice louder than the microphone can handle.

"Linda, Linda! Linda, Linda, Linda!" Ritsu howls, practically shouting the chorus. The room erupts in cheers and claps. Even Momo, usually quiet, laughs at the spectacle.

Mugi, sipping her umeshu, smiles and adjusts her seat. She's been observing quietly, letting the others take center stage, but the moment Ritsu finishes and stumbles off the stage, panting dramatically, Mugi stands.

"Alright," she says, brushing invisible dust from her skirt, "my turn."

The room falls quiet in an instant. Mugi rarely sings, and when she does, it's always an event.

She chooses First Love by Utada Hikaru.

The first notes fill the room, and Mugi's voice follows—a soft, ethereal sound that hushes the girls mid-banter. Her eyes are closed, her hands resting lightly on the microphone, her voice carrying the bittersweet melody with heartbreaking sincerity.

Mio watches, spellbound. Mugi is pouring her heart into every note.

Yui's chin rests in her hands, eyes wide. "She's like... a professional," she whispers.

Mio can't help but notice how Liz's gaze lingers on Mugi.

By the time Mugi hits the final chorus, there isn't a sound in the room except for her voice. The applause when she finishes is thunderous.

Ritsu jumps up, dramatically wiping an imaginary tear from her eye. "Mugi! You've ruined karaoke for everyone else! How are we supposed to follow that?"

The group dissolves into laughter, but Sachi rises, stretching lazily. "Challenge accepted," she says, scrolling through the song list. She picks I Love Rock 'n Roll by Joan Jett & the Blackhearts.

The energy shifts as the iconic guitar riff kicks in. Sachi grabs the mic with surprising confidence, her voice rough and strong. She owns the stage, strutting across it with an ease that draws whoops and cheers from the girls.

Halfway through the song, Ayame joins her, holding a second mic. "Let's turn this into a duet!" she declares, throwing her arm around Sachi's shoulders.

Their voices clash but somehow blend, the playful banter between them making the performance even more entertaining.

When the song ends, Ayame stays on stage, waving off the applause. "I've got one more for you," she announces. "Fashion Monster!"

The room buzzes with excitement. Ayame's energy is infectious, her movements exaggerated as she dances to the quirky beat of Kyary Pamyu Pamyu's hit. The girls cheer her on, clapping along, their laughter filling the room.

Yui, practically vibrating with enthusiasm, grabs Azusa's hand as the next song ends. "Azu-nyan! Let's do a duet!"

Azusa protests, but Yui is already dragging her toward the stage. The opening chords of Kimi no Shiranai Monogatari by Supercell play, and Azusa's reluctance fades as she starts singing.

Yui's voice is bright and energetic, while Azusa's is smooth and steady, creating a balance that surprises everyone. By the time they hit the chorus, the room is clapping along, the harmony between them something to admire.

When they finish, Yui spins around, grabbing Mio's hand. "Mio-chan! Let's sing next!"

Mio tries to object, but Yui is already selecting Honto no Jibun from Shugo Chara!.

"You have to dance too!" Yui declares as the upbeat intro starts.

"Dance?!" Mio's voice rises in panic.

"Just follow my lead!" Yui says, launching into exaggerated moves that barely match the rhythm.

Despite her embarrassment, Mio finds herself smiling, Yui's boundless energy impossible to resist. She doesn't match Yui's choreography but sways awkwardly, her voice blending with Yui's in a way that feels effortless and fun.

The room bursts into cheers as they finish, Yui beaming and Mio laughing, her earlier nerves fading.

Before Mio can step down, Ritsu leaps to her feet. "Oh no, you're staying up here! We're singing next!"

Mio groans, but there's no real fight in her as Ritsu queues up Soul Love by GLAY.

The rock ballad fills the room, and Ritsu's raspy voice pairs surprisingly well with Mio's smooth tone. They lean into the performance, Ritsu's playful energy balancing Mio's quieter confidence. The girls clap along, cheering them on as they finish with a dramatic pose.

Azusa, still riding the high of her earlier duet, takes the stage next with Secret Base Kimi ga Kureta Mono by ZONE. Her voice is clear and emotional, and the room quiets as the nostalgic melody washes over them.

Mio watches, feeling the warmth of the moment settle over her. The night isn't over, but for now, it feels perfect.

---

Across the room, Mio spots Momo, sitting quietly in the corner. She hasn't sung yet. Mio watches her for a moment, feeling a pang of empathy. Momo is new, just like Naya and Liz. Maybe she's still finding her place, just like Mio had to once.

Naya notices too. She leans over to Liz, nudging her with her elbow.

"Hey, we should get Momo to sing something. She's been so quiet."

Liz nods. "Good idea. Let's go talk to her."

They cross the room, casual but purposeful, like they've decided to make it their mission to bring Momo out of her shell. Mio watches them, her own heart lightening just a little at their effort.

"Hey, Momo, why aren't you singing?" Naya's voice is gentle, but there's a push behind it, the kind of push that says, It's okay to take up space here. Mio's seen it before—Naya always seems to have that effect on people.

Momo blushes, her fingers curling in her lap. "I'm just... not sure what to sing. And I don't think anyone would be interested in K-pop."

Liz scoffs, waving a hand dismissively. "Nonsense. We can sing anything. Right, Naya?"

Naya grins. "Absolutely. Just pick a song."

There's a pause, the kind that hangs between the lines of uncertainty and excitement. Momo hesitates, then, in a soft voice, she says, "Well... I really like I Am the Best by 2NE1, but—"

Liz doesn't miss a beat. "Perfect. Let's do it."

Mio watches as Naya quickly pulls out her phone, doing a quick search. She leans into Liz, showing her the screen, and they both nod. Naya grabs her earphones from her pocket and gives one to Liz. Momo watches them, nervous but excited, and for a second, Mio sees herself in her. That quiet hesitation, that need for reassurance.

"Oye, esto es un temazo," Naya says, and then stops, realizing she's slipped into Spanish.

Liz raises an eyebrow. "Stop with the Spanish, you geek."

"I was saying this song is really good. I like it."

Momo smiles, the nervous energy around her fading slightly.

"There is a 'prr-ah' part somewhere," Liz mentions. "You should do that, Naya." 

"Me? Why?"

"You're the one with the r's."

"Yeah, and with castanets too."

They keep listening to the song.

"Okay, there are four people here. What do I sing? Who am I?" Naya asks.

"What part do you want to sing, Momo?"

"W–Well, if we're going to do this... I guess we could divide it like this—I could try to be Dara since her parts are a bit softer, and I think I can handle them without too much pressure. She's got a cool vibe but isn't too intense, you know?" Naya and Liz nod. "Maybe you, Naya-senpai, could be CL because you've got that fierce energy that really matches her style! Plus, CL's rap sections would suit you perfectly. And Liz-senpai, you could totally take on Bom! Her powerful vocals are amazing, and I know you've got the voice for it. You'd nail those high notes."

"And the fourth one?" Naya asks.

"Minzy? How about we all share her parts? That way, we can support each other, and it won't feel like too much pressure on anyone. Plus, it'll be more fun that way—kind of like a team effort!"

"Works for me," Naya grins.

"Alright!" Liz stands up and gestures grandly. "Let's go rock this!"

"I'm sorry about what I'm about to do to your favorite song, Momo," Naya laughs.

They huddle around the karaoke screen, and soon enough, the room fills with the pulsing beat of the song. Mio feels it in her chest, the vibrations pushing against her ribs as she watches the three of them step up to the mics.

Momo's voice is soft at first, almost trembling, but Naya and Liz back her up, their energy pulling her along. Naya is full swagger as CL, delivering her lines with a confidence that fills the room, while Liz belts out her parts with ease. Mio watches, fascinated, as Momo's nerves slowly melt away. By the time they hit the chorus, Momo is singing louder, her voice blending with theirs, the smile on her face growing.

It's not perfect. The harmonies are messy, the timing off at points, but none of that matters. The joy is in the chaos, in the way they lose themselves in the music, laughing as they hit the bridge.

And then there's Naya, rolling the 'r' in that exaggerated way she does, making everyone laugh even as she keeps singing.

Mio watches the scene unfold, feeling something warm unfurl in her chest. It's the kind of fun she's always wanted to have but never quite allowed herself. The kind of fun that doesn't care if you're perfect or if you hit every note. It's about being there, in the moment, with people who make you feel like it's okay to be a little messy, a little off-beat.

The final chorus hits, and the three of them belt it out in unison, their voices strong, full of joy and freedom. When the song ends, they're breathless, laughing, Momo's face flushed with excitement.

"You were amazing," Naya says, pulling Momo into a soft hug.

"Yeah, Dara's got nothing on you," Liz adds, ruffling her hair.

Momo laughs, a sound that's light and free. Mio watches them, her own lips curving into a smile she doesn't try to hide. Maybe tonight doesn't have to be about trying too hard. Maybe it's enough just to be here, to be part of something.

Liz and Naya high-five as they head back to the couch, and Momo, emboldened, suggests another song—this time a duet with Azusa. They go up next, their voices blending together, the quiet, delicate harmony of Angela Aki's Ashita e no Sanka pulling the room into a softer, more intimate space.

At the end of the song, Momo, emboldened, stays on the stage to leave everyone speechless with an electrifying rendition of Sonata Arctica's Kingdom For A Heart. The girls are... mesmerized. Momo sings like a pro, totally immersed in the demanding energy of power metal. Anyone would say that she is a lost twin sister of the shy Momo, who becomes small as soon as the song ends, overwhelmed by the applause.

---

The night is alive with laughter and song. Plates empty and refill, glasses clink, and the microphone rarely finds rest. The girls are in their element—some leaning into the performance, others content to watch and cheer.

Ritsu grabs the mic, grinning like she's about to blow the roof off. She picks Funny Bunny by The Pillows, launching into it with wild, raspy energy. Her voice cracks on the high notes, but it doesn't matter. She's having too much fun to care, and the room is with her, clapping along, Yui bouncing in time with the beat.

When it's over, Ayame and Sachi take the stage, belting out Material Girl by Madonna. Their synchronized moves and exaggerated poses send the room into hysterics. Ayame twirls her imaginary boa with flair, while Sachi delivers the lines with mock seriousness. Liz teases Naya saying she should sing La Isla Bonita. Naya sighs but complies. Then, she surprises everyone by stalling for a second before belting her heart out with the chorus of Muse's City of Delusion.

Mio watches, transfixed. She realizes that, in all their band and album exchanges, she's somehow missed Muse. A glaring omission. It's obvious now how much the band must mean to Naya, the way she pours herself into every note, her voice raw, her presence electric. Mio makes a mental note to listen later, not just out of curiosity but because this is something Naya loves.

As the instrumental break begins, Liz cups her hands around her mouth and yells, "Hey, Naya! This part sounds so Spanish! Give us some flamenco!"

Naya freezes, glaring at Liz with indignation, but the growing laughter around the room and Liz's dramatic clapping egg her on.

"I don't even know how to dance flamenco!" Naya protests, her voice rising over the teasing.

"Fake it!" Liz grins, clapping rhythmically.

With a dramatic sigh, Naya gives in, clumsily twirling and stomping her feet, her arms trying to mimic graceful flourishes but coming off more like flailing. Her laughter breaks through the chorus of cheers, her cheeks reddening as she awkwardly sways to the beat.

"It's all in the brazeo!" Naya calls out between twirls. "They say you pretend you're taking an apple, biting it, and then stomping it—with a flourish!" She demonstrates with exaggerated movements, making the group erupt in even louder laughter.

It's ridiculous. And yet, somehow, she makes it work.

Mio watches from her spot on the couch, feeling the last traces of tension fade from her shoulders. The laughter is infectious, the camaraderie warm. It's not about perfection; it's about being here.

Liz nudges her. "Hey, it's your turn again." 

Mio hesitates, glancing at the others, who are already shouting encouragement. Yui, of course, is the loudest. "Sing something cool, Mio-chan!"

After a moment's thought, Mio selects Blue Bird by Ikimono Gakari. The familiar melody fills the room, and she steps onto the stage. Her voice starts softly, carrying the notes with the care of someone who knows every rise and fall, every subtle shift.

The room quiets. The chatter fades.

Even as she sings, Mio feels it—Naya's eyes on her. It's a steady, unwavering gaze, not just admiring but something more. Something deeper. The way Naya watches her makes Mio's voice waver for just a second, a note catching in her throat before she steadies herself.

By the time the final chorus swells, Mio is lost in the song, her voice carrying through the room. She closes her eyes, letting the words pour out, and when she finishes, the applause feels distant, muted against the rush in her chest.

Back at her seat, she glances at Naya. Naya's still watching her, green eyes bright, her smile sincere. "You're amazing," Naya says softly, just loud enough for Mio to hear.

Mio feels her cheeks warm. "Thanks."

Later, Liz and Mugi step up for a duet, picking Lay All Your Love on Me by ABBA. The contrast between them is striking—Mugi's soft elegance balancing Liz's vibrant charisma. Their voices intertwine beautifully, the harmonies seamless.

Mio notices how easy their interaction is, the way Liz leans into Mugi's space, her grin infectious. There's a lightness between them, something unspoken but present. Mio watches, curious, but doesn't dwell on it.

As the song ends, Mugi, ever perceptive, turns to Naya. "You should sing another ABBA song with me," she suggests.

Naya hesitates, her hand brushing the back of her neck, but she nods. "Sure. What do you have in mind?"

They pick Dancing Queen, and Mio watches as they sing together, their voices blending in a way that surprises her. Mugi leads, steady, while Naya follows, finding her rhythm. It's playful, lighthearted, and Mio feels a flicker of something she doesn't have a name for.

Yui, as enthusiastic as ever, insists on a duet with Naya. She picks Motteke! Sailor Fuku, a song so fast-paced and cheerfully absurd that Naya barely has time to process it.

"What's this one?" Naya asks, squinting at the screen as the lyrics start scrolling.

"It's from Lucky Star! Super famous anime!"

Naya stares blankly. "Lucky... what?"

The girls around the room laugh, not unkindly, and Sachi leans over to explain, "It's a show about high school girls talking about... snacks, and games, and random things. It's really popular here."

"Oh," Naya says, clearly no more enlightened than before.

The music starts, rapid-fire lyrics blazing across the screen. Yui dives in headfirst, belting out the words with boundless energy, her voice a little off-key but full of joy. Naya fumbles, trying to keep up, her accent tripping over the syllables. The rapid rhythm doesn't help.

Her pronunciation turns 'motteke' into something unrecognizable, but the way she grins through it, apologetic and endearing, makes everyone laugh harder.

"You're doing great, Naya-chan!" Yui beams, not missing a beat. She claps in rhythm, cheering Naya on even as her co-singer stumbles through the lyrics.

By the time the song ends, Naya is breathless. "What... was that? I think I just ran a marathon."

Sensing the fun, Ayame steps in. "Alright, my turn to rescue her," she says with a playful smirk. She queues up Hare Hare Yukai from The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya.

Naya raises an eyebrow. "Oh, I know this one. It was popular on the Internet too. The dance went viral."

The music starts, and Ayame and Yui immediately fall into sync with the iconic opening moves of the Hare Hare Yukai dance.

Naya, meanwhile, stands there, completely lost.

"You're supposed to dance too!" Yui encourages, waving her arms in exaggerated motions to demonstrate.

Naya gives it a try, stumbling over the rapid beats. "Wait, you all know this? How?!"

Despite her protests, Ayame and Yui keep her moving, pointing out steps in between lyrics. Naya tries her best, but her awkward flailing only adds to the hilarity.

"You're getting it!" Yui cheers, though it's clear Naya is nowhere close.

When the song ends, Naya rests against the wall beside the screen. "I think I need to recover from this one. Remind me to stick to songs with less choreography."

"You did great, Naya-chan!" Yui beams. "Let's do another one sometime!"

"Maybe something slower," Naya jokes, catching her breath.

Liz doesn't let Naya escape for long. "Pick something you want to sing," she says, her tone leaving no room for argument. "We'll do a duet."

Naya scans the list, her eyes lighting up when she spots Judas by Lady Gaga. "This," she says. "But... it's intense. Can you handle it?"

Liz scoffs. "I can handle anything."

The music starts, pounding and electrifying, filling the room with an infectious beat. From the first notes, Liz takes command. Her voice is powerful, her movements fierce, embodying the song's raw energy. She owns the stage, drawing everyone's attention like a magnetic force.

Mio, however, can't look away from Naya.

When Naya joins in, her voice slides into the track with a controlled intensity. She doesn't try to match Liz's fire but instead weaves her own quieter, sultry edge. Her pronunciation of the English lyrics—especially the repeated "Judas, Juda-a-as!"—is precise yet tinged with her accent, making the refrain sound unexpectedly intimate.

It's the way Naya moves that makes Mio's breath hitch. Casual yet deliberate, her body sways to the rhythm, exuding a confidence Mio doesn't often see in her. There's a teasing quality to how she lingers on certain lines, and when Naya throws a glance at Liz during the line, "I'm just a holy fool," it's playful, almost conspiratorial.

Mio's chest tightens as the song progresses. It's not the theatrics or Liz's commanding presence that overwhelm her. It's the way Naya seems to lose herself in the music, effortlessly letting the song take over. Mio can't help but notice how Naya's voice layers perfectly with Liz's, how her movements mirror the music's ebb and flow, and how natural it all seems.

By the final chorus, Naya leans slightly into the mic, her voice carrying just a touch more heat as she belts the final "Juda-a-as!" The room erupts in applause, but Mio can only sit there, caught between the rush of the music and the blush rising on her cheeks, sudden and unbidden.

"Alright," Naya says when she and Liz are done, "if anyone else wants a duet with me, speak now or forever hold your peace. Because after this, I'm sitting down for good."

The girls laugh, but no one speaks up right away. Ritsu throws out a lazy "Nah, I'm good," and Yui starts flipping through the songbook, already planning her next performance.

Mio shifts in her seat, her eyes flicking to Naya. She's been keeping an eye on her all night, watching for those subtle signs of unease, ready to step in if needed. But Naya looks relaxed now, smiling, laughing with the others. It makes Mio feel lighter, like she's done something right.

She's glad to see Naya enjoying herself, feeling more comfortable with everyone. She's been attentive all night, making sure Naya doesn't feel out of place. Now, she realizes, she genuinely wants to join her.

Before she can second-guess herself, the words are out of her mouth.

"I will."

The words come easily this time. It feels natural—effortless, even—as if this is what friends do, and that's what Mio wants to be for her: a good friend.

The room goes quiet. All eyes turn to her, but Mio doesn't look at anyone except Naya. Naya, whose grin falters for a split second, replaced by a flicker of surprise. It's subtle, almost imperceptible, but Mio catches it.

Then Naya's smile returns, more genuine. "You want to sing with me?"

Mio nods, feeling her cheeks warm under everyone's gaze. "If that's okay."

Naya's grin widens. "More than okay. Let's do it."

Mio stands, joining Naya on the stage.

"What do you want to sing?" Mio asks, glancing at Naya, her voice quieter now that they're closer.

Naya tilts her head, considering. "How about something fun? The Beatles? You like them, right?"

Mio's lips twitch into a small smile. "Yeah. I do."

Naya scrolls through the song list, her green eyes scanning the titles before she stops. "This one," she says, pointing to I Want To Hold Your Hand. "What do you think?"

Mio nods. "Perfect."

The music starts, the familiar upbeat chords filling the room. Naya glances at Mio, and for a moment, they're both still, caught in the nervous energy of the stage.

The first lines come, and Naya starts, her voice warm but slightly hesitant. Mio joins in, her voice smooth and steady, and they begin to find their rhythm together. The lyrics are playful, light, and the room quickly falls into a rhythm of claps and cheers.

At first, they sing side by side, their voices blending in a way that surprises Mio. Naya's voice isn't perfect, but there's something about it that fits. Something about the way their tones complement each other, the contrast of Naya's easy warmth against Mio's polished clarity.

It works. It just works.

Naya starts to loosen up. Her body sways slightly to the beat, and she glances at Mio with a grin that's part playful, part mischievous.

♪ And, please, say to me you'll let me hold your hand.
Now let me hold your hand, I want to hold your hand. ♫

Mio feels her heart skip when Naya extends a hand toward her, palm up, an unspoken invitation.

Mio hesitates for just a second. But then she reaches out, her fingers brushing against Naya's before curling around them.

The room erupts in cheers.

Naya laughs, her voice ringing clear over the music, and she gives Mio's hand a gentle tug, spinning her lightly. Mio stumbles at first, caught off guard, but Naya steadies her, her grip firm but easy. They're laughing now, the song carrying them, their voices mingling as they move together.

Naya twirls Mio again, this time more confidently, and Mio lets herself go. She laughs, her voice ringing out between the lyrics, her body moving to the music in a way that feels free, unrestrained. Naya's smile is wide and unguarded, her eyes sparkling under the dim lights as she leads Mio into another spin, their hands still clasped.

For a moment, it's just them. The music, the movement, the laughter. The way Naya looks at her, like she's the only person in the room. The way their voices rise together, imperfect but full of energy, full of joy.

♪ And when I touch you, I feel happy inside.
It's such a feeling that, my love,
I can't hide, I can't hide, I can't hide. ♫

Mio doesn't know why it feels so easy, so natural. She doesn't know why singing hand in hand with Naya, dancing and spinning under the neon lights, feels like the most carefree she's felt in a long while. But it does.

By the final chorus, they're both laughing too hard to sing properly. Their voices overlap, missing notes and stumbling over the words, but neither of them cares. Naya's grip on Mio's hand tightens just slightly, steadying her as she spins her one last time, their laughter blending with the cheers of the room.

The song ends with a flourish, and they stand there, breathless and flushed, still holding hands as the applause washes over them.

Mio looks at Naya, her chest heaving, her cheeks warm, and for a moment, she forgets about everything else. The room, the eyes on them, the lingering doubts that have followed her all night—all of it fades away.

Because in this moment, with Naya's hand still in hers and that easy smile lighting up her face, everything feels simple.

"Well," Naya says, her voice low, meant just for her. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Mio laughs, soft and breathless. "No. It wasn't."

Naya lets go of Mio's hand as they return to their seats amidst cheers.

And even then, the warmth lingers.

---

The energy in the room shifts as Ritsu stands, her grin wide and mischievous, microphone in hand. "Alright, ladies," she declares, pointing dramatically at the group. "We're ending this night right. Group songs. Let's see who does it better."

Onna Gumi cheers, Akira rolling her eyes but standing with a resigned sigh. Sachi is already flipping through the songbook, Ayame peering over her shoulder, excitement buzzing between them.

"Walk Like an Egyptian," Sachi announces, grinning like she's just landed on the perfect choice. "Iconic, fun, and chaotic. Just like us."

Ayame claps her hands together. "Yes! Let's do it!"

Akira raises an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

"Don't act so cool, Akira," Sachi teases, nudging her. "You know you want to."

Akira mutters something under her breath but grabs a microphone anyway.

The music starts, and Onna Gumi takes the stage. Sachi's carefree attitude is infectious, her exaggerated moves and playful energy pulling the room into fits of laughter. Ayame matches her step for step, twirling dramatically and striking poses that make even Akira crack a reluctant smile.

Akira, for her part, stays mostly stoic, her voice low and steady as she sings her parts. But every now and then, a small smirk betrays her enjoyment, especially when Sachi loops an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into an impromptu spin.

The room is alive with laughter and clapping as they finish, bowing theatrically. Ritsu jumps up, gesturing to Ho-Kago Tea Time. "Alright, it's our turn. Let's show 'em how it's done!"

Yui is already flipping through the song list, her face lighting up when she lands on her choice. "Heavy Rotation!" she announces, practically vibrating. "Let's go!"

Dancing? Again? Mio groans. "Yui, no."

"Yui, yes," Ritsu says, grabbing her hand and dragging her to the stage. "Come on, Mio. It's fun!"

Mugi and Azusa follow, Mugi's laughter soft and melodic, Azusa's expression torn between amusement and mild horror. They take their places, the opening notes of the AKB48 hit resonating soon after.

Yui dives in, her voice bright and unpolished, her enthusiasm carrying the performance. Ritsu joins her, her exaggerated movements almost knocking over the mic stand as she attempts to follow the choreography. Mugi sways gracefully, her voice blending seamlessly with the others, while Azusa tentatively steps in, her cheeks flushed but her voice steady.

Mio hesitates, standing stiffly at first, her eyes darting between her bandmates and the screen. But then Yui grabs her hand, pulling her into a spin, and something shifts.

Mio laughs.

It starts soft, almost involuntary, but it grows, spilling out as she lets herself be pulled into the chaos. She joins the singing, her voice smoothing over the rough edges of Yui's and Ritsu's. And when Yui insists she dance, she doesn't resist. She tries the silly moves Yui shows her, her arms flailing awkwardly at first, but soon she's moving with them, laughing so hard her sides hurt.

The song ends in a burst of cheers and applause, the five of them collapsing into a group hug, breathless and grinning. Mio feels the warmth of their arms around her, the easy closeness that comes with years of friendship, and she lets herself sink into the moment.

She's happy.

Here, with her bandmates, her best friends, singing a ridiculous pop song and dancing like fools, she feels light. Free. Present. For the first time in what feels like forever, she isn't overthinking. She isn't worrying about how she looks, or how she sounds, or what anyone else might think.

She's just here. Laughing, singing, being—with her favorite people in the world.

Onna Gumi cheers from the side, Sachi whistling loudly, Ayame clapping with an enthusiasm that rivals Yui's. Liz and Momo are standing together, clapping along, their smiles genuine.

And then, there's Naya.

Mio's eyes find her without thinking. Naya is leaning casually against the couch, her green eyes warm and steady, her smile soft. She doesn't clap or cheer like the others. She just looks at Mio, at her friends, at the rest.

She just looks at every girl in the room that doesn't look like her.

"Alright, before we wrap this up," Ritsu announces, pulling out her phone. "Group photo. No arguments."

The room buzzes with agreement, but when it comes time to set up the shot, there's a pause.

"How do we do this?" Yui asks, tilting her head. "There's so many of us."

"I can take it," Naya offers.

The room goes silent.

For a moment, everyone just stares at her. And then the voices come, overlapping, insistent.

"Don't be ridiculous," Ritsu says.

"You're part of the group," Liz adds.

"Absolutely not," Mugi says firmly.

"You have to be in it!" Yui declares, grabbing Naya's arm and pulling her. "No excuses!"

Naya looks genuinely taken aback, her usual confidence faltering as Yui positions her between herself and Mio. "But—"

"No buts," Yui says, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "You belong here."

Mio steps closer, her shoulder brushing against Naya's. She doesn't say anything, but the look she gives her is enough. Naya exhales, a soft laugh escaping her lips as she relents.

The group crowds together, squeezing in tight, arms around shoulders, faces close. Ritsu sets up the phone, hitting the timer before rushing to join them.

The room echoes with laughter as the camera clicks.

In the photo, they're a mess of smiles and tangled arms, a blur of color and joy. Mio finds herself next to Naya, their shoulders pressed together, Yui leaning into Naya on the other side. It's imperfect, chaotic, and absolutely perfect.

The night ends with lingering laughter, tired but happy. As they leave the karaoke room, Naya walks beside Mio, their steps falling into an easy rhythm.

"You had fun tonight," Naya says.

Mio nods. "Yeah. I really did. And you did, too."

Naya smiles, and it's enough.

It's always enough.

---

The night hums with laughter and lingering music as the girls walk back to the dorms. Neon signs reflect off the pavement, colors swirling like liquid dreams. Groups of friends fill the sidewalks, their laughter cutting through the night like bright, jagged shards of joy.

Mio walks with her friends, her boots clicking softly against the asphalt. Yui and Ritsu are ahead, weaving through the group, their voices carrying in excited bursts. Mugi, Liz, Akira, and Sachi walk together, their conversation a low hum of warmth and camaraderie. Even Azusa and Momo seem to be deep in animated discussion, their voices rising and falling in a rhythm that Mio finds comforting.

Mio exhales, her breath clouding faintly in the chill air. The social energy of the night has worn her down, every interaction pressing against her reserve, every moment asking her to open herself up just a little more than she's used to. But not in a bad way. It's the kind of exhaustion that feels earned, satisfying. She sang, laughed, even danced a little. She's had fun—more fun than she expected.

And yet, something tugs at the edges of her awareness.

Naya isn't there.

Mio stops, her gaze sweeping the group. Yui is tugging at Ritsu's sleeve. Azusa is showing Momo something on her phone. Liz tilts her head back, laughing at something Mugi said.

But no Naya.

Mio turns, looking back. And there she is.

Walking at her own pace, her hands tucked loosely in her pockets, her gaze flickering to the windows they pass. The glass reflects fragments of the group, pieces of movement and color, but Naya doesn't seem to notice. Her eyes are distant, thoughtful, caught somewhere else.

Mio lingers, letting the others drift ahead. She waits until Naya's steps align with hers, until the space between them closes. Naya doesn't notice at first, still caught in whatever thought has grabbed hold of her. Her eyes flicker between the reflection and the people passing them on the street.

"Naya," Mio says softly, "are you okay?"

The question is simple, and yet loaded. Mio already knows the answer, in a way, but she asks anyway. Because that's what you do when you care about someone. Even when it's hard. Even when you're not sure if they'll open up.

"Hmm?" Naya blinks, as if pulled from some distant thought. She turns to Mio, her smile quick and practiced. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Are you tired? Or cold?" Mio starts to shrug off her jacket. "Do you want this?"

Naya shakes her head, a small, almost rueful smile tugging at her lips. "No, no. I'm good, really. Thanks."

Mio doesn't push. She knows better. Naya is the kind of person who needs time—time to process, time to let her thoughts settle. Instead, she walks beside her in quiet companionship, waiting.

After a few steps, Naya speaks. "You can tell, can't you?"

Mio tilts her head. "Tell what?"

"That I'm different," Naya says. She gestures vaguely ahead, where the others are walking. "I see them—your friends, the Onna Gumi girls, Liz, Momo. Different, but... the same, in a way. And then there's me."

Mio opens her mouth to respond, but Naya keeps going.

"I'm a little taller than most, and I'm not very tall," Naya laughs, half to herself. "My skin's a bit tanner. My hair's different. I have green eyes, and an accent when I talk." Her voice trails off, and she glances sideways at Mio, her expression caught between a smile and a wince. "You know."

Mio gets it, in a way. That feeling of being out of place. Of not fitting into the rhythm of things.

"Does it bother you?" Mio asks.

Naya hesitates, then shrugs again. "Sometimes. It's weird being so obviously foreign here, you know? Especially in a group like this." Her eyes flicker back to the others, still walking ahead, laughing, completely oblivious to the conversation behind them. "But I'll get used to it."

There's a pause. Mio watches Naya's face, the way her expression shifts between guarded and vulnerable, like she's not quite sure what she's allowed to feel at this moment.

Mio glances at the group again. It's true—Naya's darker complexion, the way she holds herself, even the way she's dressed. It's not the same, not like the others. But it never bothered Mio. Why would it?

Mio looks at her again. Naya, with her sun-kissed skin, her expressive eyes, her posture slightly different, just a little offbeat from the rest. Maybe it's noticeable. But to Mio, it's not strange. It's just Naya. She doesn't see anything out of place. Nothing that doesn't belong.

"I don't see anything strange," she says.

Naya glances at her, eyes searching, maybe for sincerity. She shrugs again, but this time it feels more like a deflection. "It's fine," she says, brushing it off, the way she always does. "It's just... I always feel like I'm behind," Naya says, her voice growing quieter, more subdued. "Like I'm a handful. You all have to explain things to me. You have to repeat yourselves so I can understand. I don't get some jokes, and my voice... I get too loud, and I gesture too much, and I can tell people don't always know what to make of me."

Mio listens. She hadn't realized how much this was weighing on Naya. She turns her gaze back to the rest, seeing what Naya sees—a group of friends, laughing, talking, and one person who stands out, not just in appearance, but in the way she carries herself. The way she tries to fit in.

Something soft and protective blooms inside her.

"Naya, we don't mind helping you. We like having you here."

Naya smiles, but there's an understanding that maybe this isn't something easily shaken off. "I know. I'm just... trying to get used to everything. Being so different sometimes feels exhausting. But it's fine. I'm fine."

But Mio isn't convinced. She knows how it feels to want to disappear into a crowd, to feel like you're standing out when all you want is to blend in. And she knows Naya's still adjusting, still trying to find her place. But Mio also knows this group—this odd, mismatched collection of personalities—wouldn't be the same without her.

"You're just from somewhere else, Naya. That's all," Mio says finally. "But that's not a bad thing."

Naya smiles, but it's faint, almost wistful. "I know. But sometimes it feels like... like I'm sneaking into these spaces where I don't really belong. You have your friends, and they have theirs. Even Momo and Liz, they're my bandmates, but they have their lives here. And then there's me."

She exhales, her gaze drifting to the street ahead, where groups of friends laugh, talk, and move through the night with an ease that Naya seems to envy.

"They don't have to think about it. What they say, what they do. They're just... there. And I look at your group and feel like I'm intruding. I feel very comfortable with you, but I don't want to monopolize you, because you have your people. It's like I'm sneaking into circles where I don't belong. Like I'm this outsider trying to fit into something that's already whole. A tagalong, you know?"

Mio stops walking, her hand brushing Naya's arm to make her pause too. "You're not a tagalong," she says firmly. "You're one of us."

"Am I? Really?"

"Yes," Mio replies, her voice unwavering. "You're my friend, Naya. Our friend. You're part of this group. And I'm glad you came with us tonight. I'm glad I met you."

Naya glances at her, her green eyes searching Mio's face. For what, Mio isn't sure. She doesn't push. She just lets the moment rest.

"Is that why you didn't want to be in the photo?" Mio asks.

Naya hesitates, then nods. "Yeah. I guess I didn't feel like I had the right to be in it."

Mio doesn't respond immediately. She watches Naya, waits, because she can sense there's more.

And there is.

"I told my friends back home about tonight," Naya says quietly. "I was excited about it. They were excited, too. And they asked me for photos. You know, to see what it's like here. But I..." She hesitates, the humor fading slightly. "I didn't take any. I couldn't ask. I didn't feel like I had the right to... I don't know. Be part of it. Like I didn't have the right to ask for that."

Mio's heart aches at the admission. "You didn't take any photos?"

Naya shakes her head.

Mio doesn't think, just acts. She turns to face Naya fully.

"Take out your phone."

Naya blinks, caught off guard. "What?"

"Take out your phone," Mio repeats, holding her ground. "We're taking a photo together. For your friends."

Naya stares at her. "You don't have to—"

"I want to," Mio insists, her smile softening the demand. "Come on. You're my friend. Let's do it."

"But—"

"No buts."

Naya's lips twitch into a small, hesitant smile. "Alright. But only if you're okay with it."

Mio steps closer, their shoulders brushing. "Of course I'm okay with it."

Naya dithers, her cheeks flushing faintly, but Mio's resolve doesn't waver. Slowly, almost shyly, Naya pulls her phone from her pocket and opens the camera app, her fingers brushing the edges as if she's unsure. She raises the phone, her left arm slipping naturally around Mio's waist for balance—but she doesn't touch her, her hand hovering just shy of contact.

"Is it alright if I...?" Naya trails off, her arm hovering near Mio's waist, just short of touching. "Does this bother you?"

Mio doesn't answer. Instead, she steps closer, pressing lightly into Naya's side, her own arms curling around Naya's shoulders. Their heads almost touch, and Mio feels the warmth of Naya's skin near her cheek and the light pressure of Naya's arm as it wraps gently around her waist. Mio lets herself lean into it, her hands resting lightly on Naya's shoulder, her head tilting just slightly toward her. The closeness feels easy. Natural. Like they've always fit this way.

It surprises her how effortless it feels to be this close. To let Naya hold her like this. To touch, to orbit around her without hesitation.

The camera clicks once. Then again.

Naya lowers the phone, glancing at the photos. She's smiling, soft and genuine, as she turns to Mio. "Thank you."

Mio doesn't reply. She glances at the screen. Their faces are close, their smiles soft, unforced. Naya looks... radiant.

She looks at Naya now, her smile warm, her green eyes vivid like spring captured in glass. And all she sees is Naya—the girl who feels like she doesn't belong but somehow makes everyone feel like they do.

She notices how Naya's arm rests against her waist, careful but steady, holding her like something fragile but not breakable, something worth protecting—yet always attuned, considerate of boundaries that don't even need to be spoken anymore.

The moment stretches, quiet and full.

And then it breaks.

"Hey! What's this?" Ritsu's voice rings out as she jogs back toward them, Liz, Yui, and Sachi following close behind. "Are we taking photos without the rest of us?"

"Rude," Liz says, grinning as she slings an arm around Naya's shoulder. "Make room. We're all in this."

The six of them squeeze together, the others jostling and laughing as they crowd into the frame. The camera clicks again, capturing the chaos, the closeness, the warmth.

When they're done, Naya's arm slips from Mio's waist, the warmth of her touch fading, but the echo of it remains. As the group huddles together for another photo, Mio glances at Naya one last time.

And Naya smiles.

Soft, easy and summer-bright.

---

Mio tugs at the edge of her pajama shirt, the fabric soft and worn, the kind of comfort that only comes after countless washes. Her hair brushes her shoulders as she moves. The faint sounds of the dorm outside seep through the walls—doors opening and closing, muffled laughter, and the shuffle of footsteps on the tiled hallway floor.

She slides onto her bed and pulls the covers over her legs. Her phone buzzes on the nightstand, breaking through the stillness. She leans over, picking it up with one hand while smoothing the blanket beneath her with the other. The notification glows softly against the dim light of her lamp.

It's Naya.

Naya

Naya: hey, Mio! just wanted to say I had a great time tonight :)

Mio: I'm glad you had fun. I did too (^_^) Thank you for coming.

Naya: thank u for being so attentive to me and for the photo. it really meant a lot. my friends loved it! :D

Mio: The photo turned out really nice. It was a great night (＾▽＾)

Naya: they said u look really nice. and really cool. and really cute :3

Mio: That's really sweet of them. Tell your friends I said thanks... and that you're the cool one (〃▽〃)

The next message is an attachment. She opens it, and there it is—the photo of them together.

Mio opens it, the image filling her screen. There they are. Just the two of them, almost hugging, their smiles soft, their closeness unspoken but felt in the way they lean into each other.

For a moment, Mio just looks.

They look good together.

Mio looks at Naya's outfit—casual but effortlessly cool, the Justice tee and maroon shirt somehow perfect, even in its simplicity.

Her gaze flickers to herself in the photo. The blouse she almost didn't wear. The hair she'd styled and restyled a dozen times, unsure of what to do.

It doesn't feel like a costume anymore.

She slides her thumb across the screen, the motion slow, almost absentminded. Her fingertip moves over the photo, brushing across Naya's face, then her own. She traces the edges of their faces, their smiles.

The warmness of the night, captured in this single moment.

Her heart feels full, brimming in a way that's almost too much.

Naya

Mio: You looked good too. That shirt suits you (〃▽〃)

Naya: wow, so u r saying I only look good the one time I don't wear a hoodie?

Mio: You said it, not me (¬‿¬)

Naya: harsh, Mio. my poor hoodie collection is crying ;_;

Mio: I'm just saying you could look good in something other than a hoodie. Big difference (・ω・)ゞ

Naya: should I be offended or flattered?

Mio: Maybe a little of both. It's rare to see you without one, so it feels special (//ω//)

Naya: u r making it sound like I'm a fashion disaster the rest of the time -_-

Mio: Not a disaster, just predictable. But hey, I like the hoodie version of you too. It's very you ( ^_^)b

Naya: well, that's unfair. if we're talking 'predictable,' u r the one who always looks effortlessly pretty. like, always

Mio: You're just saying that because you're too polite to admit I look like a mess half the time (；^ω^)

Naya: not true. I mean it. u r always pretty. and cool. and cute. and I like every version of you

Mio: That's really nice of you to say. I think it's easier to feel that way when I'm around you. You have this way of making people feel good about themselves (˘︶˘)♡

The typing dots appear almost instantly.

Then disappear.

They come back.

Disappear again.

Mio waits, the seconds stretching longer than they should.

Naya

Naya: Goodnight, Mio. See you tomorrow :)

Mio: Goodnight, Naya. Sleep well (ᴗ˳ᴗ)

Mio smiles at her screen, her heart fluttering in a way she doesn't fully understand. She can almost picture Naya, flustered but trying to play it cool, her fingers hovering over her phone.

So different.

So irreplaceable.

Mio lets her phone rest on her chest, her gaze lingering on the ceiling. She smiles, her heart feeling a little lighter, a little fuller.

She looked really pretty tonight.

Notes:

And that's the karaoke chapter, folks!

First of all: this is Mio's outfit for the night. Thought it was cute. She might not feel it at first, but let's be real: Mio was serving the entire night.

A moment of reverence for Christina Rosenvinge. Spanish legend, queen of alt-rock. Naya would 100% fight anyone who says otherwise. And a heartfelt mention for Atsushi Sakurai from BUCK-TICK, gone too soon but never forgotten. Your music still resonates <3

Can we talk about how everyone looks at Liz when she walks in, but Naya's eyes are only on Mio? And then later, the reverse? And that selfie moment? Mio just casually leaning into Naya, like it's the most natural thing in the world. Softness levels: MAXIMUM. We love our emotionally constipated duo.

And the post-karaoke messages? Mio casually making Naya flustered over text? The power she wields is unmatched. I hope you all screamed with me because I was feral while writing it.

I'll never apologize for how long this chapter is. (But like... sorry? Kind of? I got carried away. Clearly.)

And, of course, the Spotify playlist. It's got all the bangers, to, you know, relive the chaos and belt your heart out. Bonus points if you roll your r's like Naya. Good luck: 🎶🎤✨ Mic Mayhem ✨🎤🎶!

A MASSIVE thank you to Jules (tsuki_anne) for beta-ing this monster. You're a saint for sticking with me through the chaos.

Finally, thank YOU for reading this behemoth of a chapter! It was a beast to write, but the fun I had is worth it, so I hope you're having fun with this novel-length story, too. Whether you're here for the karaoke chaos, Mio and Naya's softness, or just to see what happens next, I'm so glad you're along for the ride. Until next time! <3

Chapter 16: An Empty Bliss Beyond This World

Summary:

Mio is (not) enough.

Notes:

Hey, hey, hey! Guess who's back? Me! With another chapter that inches this story forward at a glacial pace. Apologies for the delay—Mio got too deep in her feelings, and I had to go on a rescue mission.

I know, I know—this is the slowest of slow burns. At this point, we're marinating in it. Some of you have probably graduated college, changed careers, or even moved to Japan in the time it's taken me to get this far. And I regret nothing.

Also, a huge thank you to Jules (tsuki_anne), my wonderful beta, who patiently deals with my walls of text, my overthinking about Mio's every stray thought, and my existential crises over just how slow can I make this burn without everyone losing their minds (answer: very).

So, sit back, enjoy, and let's dive into Mio's never-ending journey of questioning every single emotion she has.

An Empty Bliss Beyond This World, by The Caretaker, was released on June 1, 2011.

June 25, 2011

What does she know about love, really?

She knows the love of family. Her parents love her; she loves them. She knows the love of friendship, of shared laughter and steady, unspoken support. She knows how it feels to care deeply for someone. But romantic love?

That remains a mystery.

She would never confess it out loud—not that she'd need to—but she's always been fascinated by couples. Watching them from afar, imagining their stories, piecing together the fragments of affection she's observed. After devouring her favorite stories about knights and princesses, she'd lose herself in dreams, pouring those fantasies into lyrics. She'd try to conjure the rush she's read about—the fire kindling deep within, the butterflies tumbling in her stomach, the racing heart.

And she yearned.

But her experience with love was secondhand, filtered through books and the glimpses of others. She never held hands with someone and felt the spark she's read about, never exchanged a secret smile that felt like the world shrink to just two people. Yet, when the hero kissed the damsel, she felt her breath catch. She shut the book, pulse quickened, imagining what it might be like to be so utterly swept away.

She's always tried to understand it—this strange, wonderful feeling of choosing someone.

Because she believes love is a choice. A force not conjured from nowhere, but shaped, transformed. Like energy, she once mused. Love is neither created nor destroyed but given, shared, chosen.

That's why she chose him.

And still, she wonders if she truly knows anything about love.

She doesn't know the trembling of hands when reaching for another. She doesn't know stolen kisses in precarious places when nobody's looking, or notes passed in secret, or the blood rushing to her head or the breathless thrill of hearing "I love you" whispered in the dark. She doesn't know the chaos of an enamored heart—its relentless, erratic beat.

Yet it's all she wants to write about.

Her songs are serenades to someone faceless, nameless, a stranger who might not even exist. Could her heart be so treacherous as to hide the truth from her? Or is it not a person she loves, but the idea of love itself?

No, she knows better than that.

«The heart has its reasons, of which reason knows nothing.»

She remembers reading that once.

Perhaps love is like that—unfathomable, an ache that defies explanation.

Unseen, but inevitable.

"Oi, Mio!"

Mio blinks, snapping out of her thoughts. Ritsu waves a hand in front of her face, a teasing grin on her lips.

"You're up next!"

She hadn't noticed the change in turn. She's holding a neon orange ball in both hands, waving it slightly like she's trying to balance it. Kenji is already standing to the side, his ball in hand, smiling at her with that familiar patience she's come to rely on. Across the way, Taro and Ritsu exchange a high-five, their shared laughter echoing like a melody in the air.

Ritsu is beaming. Her smile reaches her eyes, bright and alive in a way Mio hasn't seen in a while. Taro leans in to say something, and Ritsu laughs again, doubling over in that exaggerated, carefree way she does when she's truly amused.

Mio grips her bowling ball a little tighter.

It's been like this all evening. Easy, fluid, natural. The way Ritsu and Taro move together, teasing and encouraging each other. How they celebrate every strike, cheer every spare, even laugh when the ball skids right into the gutter.

Mio tries to match their energy, to play along. She really does.

Kenji offers her an encouraging smile. "No pressure, Mio. Just aim straight. You've got this," he says. "Just have fun."

Fun. Right.

Mio nods, offering him a small smile before stepping onto the lane. Her fingers trace the smooth surface of the bowling ball, her thumb fitting into the groove like it's supposed to belong there. The ball feels heavier than it should, and the pins blur in her vision. She adjusts her grip, focuses, breathes.

Throws.

The ball rolls down the lane, slow, unsteady. It veers slightly to the left and knocks over three pins. Better than nothing. Still, far from enough.

"Nice try, Mio!" Ritsu calls, her voice playful, loud. "But you're gonna need more than that if you want to beat the champs over here!"

Mio turns to see Ritsu pointing at herself and Taro, both of them posing like they've just won an Olympic gold. Taro flexes his arms for dramatic effect, and Ritsu feigns wiping a tear from her eye.

"Truly a legendary team," Taro declares, and Ritsu nods in solemn agreement.

Mio can't help the laugh that escapes her. She brushes her hair behind her ear as she walks back to her seat, setting the ball down.

"Sorry, Kenji," she says, glancing at him. "That one's on me."

"Don't worry about it. It's a team game. We're in this together."

Together.

She glances at him, at his easy smile, his reassuring tone. He means it. Of course, he does.

But when she looks at Ritsu again—at the way her eyes light up when Taro whispers something to her, at how they're so clearly in sync without even trying—Mio feels the ache of something unspoken.

It's not envy. Not exactly.

It's something quieter, heavier. A longing, maybe, for something she can't quite name. Something she's never been able to name. Something that feels just out of reach. Or a recognition of what's missing.

Kenji is good. Steady. Patient.

But he's not Taro.

And she's not Ritsu.

Ritsu, who's never been afraid to be loud, to take up space, to make everything—every moment—feel larger than life. Who laughs like she's not holding anything back. Who moves through the world with a kind of reckless confidence that Mio has always admired. Always envied.

They're partners tonight, technically. She and Kenji. Ritsu and Taro.

But watching Ritsu with Taro, Mio feels like an outsider. Like she's playing a different game altogether.

"Hey." Ritsu's voice pulls her back again. She's standing close now, her expression softer, less teasing. "You okay?"

Mio nods quickly, forcing a smile. "Yeah. Just... distracted, I guess."

Ritsu studies her for a moment, then grins. "You better not be holding back just to make us look good."

Mio huffs. "As if I'd ever do that."

"Good." Ritsu claps her on the back. "Because you're going down next round."

Mio watches her walk away, back to Taro, who's already holding a ball and making an exaggerated show of stretching his arms. Then she turns to watch Kenji step up for his turn. His form is practiced, precise. The ball rolls down the lane in a perfect curve, hitting the pins with satisfying force. Another strike.

"Wow!" Ritsu says, clapping her hands dramatically. "Kenji's carrying the whole team! What would you do without him, Mio?"

Mio feels her cheeks heat slightly. "I'd probably just sit here and watch."

Ritsu laughs, leaning into Taro slightly.

Kenji's arm rests behind Mio's shoulders. Not quite touching. Not quite not. He isn't pulling her closer. He doesn't press her into his side the way she's seen other couples do, doesn't glance down at her like she's the only thing in the room worth looking at.

Mio shifts slightly, the faint weight of his presence a quiet pressure. It's not uncomfortable, but it's there. His presence doesn't weigh her down, but it doesn't lift her either. It just is.

She feels Kenji's hand brush her arm. "You okay?" he asks.

She glances at him. "Yeah."

"You're quiet."

"Am I?"

"Not in a bad way. Just thoughtful."

She shifts again, adjusting the way she's sitting, and turns toward him. "How's your internship going?" she asks.

Kenji's face lights up. His posture changes, his arm dropping slightly as he leans in. "Busy," he admits, "but good. Really good. It's a small team, so I get to do a lot more than I expected."

"Is it overwhelming, balancing that with exams?"

"A little, but it's worth it. I like what I'm doing."

Mio nods, listening as he speaks, her eyes flickering now and then to the other side of the lane. Ritsu's still talking to Taro, her expressions loud and vivid. The sound of her laughter carries, even over the rolling of bowling balls and the crash of pins.

"And you?" Kenji asks, his voice pulling her back. "How's studying for finals?"

"It's fine," she says. "Mostly just the usual. A lot of reading. A lot of late nights."

He chuckles. "I feel that. And the music? How's the piano coming along?  You're still working on that song for the end of the year, right?"

Mio flinches a little. She thinks of her music, her lyrics, the way her fingers stumble over the piano keys when she tries to compose. She wonders if it feels right because it's supposed to, or if it's just something she tells herself to keep going.

"I don't know. It's harder than I thought it'd be. The piano isn't like the bass. It's..."

"More complicated?"

"Yes. And different. It feels bigger somehow. Like it needs more of me."

"That's good, though, isn't it? Means you're growing."

She glances at him, at the way he smiles so genuinely. She wonders if he ever doubts himself, if he ever feels like he's standing in his own way.

Across the room, Ritsu leans into Taro again, her laughter bubbling up like a melody Mio wishes she could capture.

"How about your lyrics? Anything good lately?" Kenji asks.

Mio hesitates. "It's... slow," she admits. "I haven't really finished anything lately."

Kenji tilts his head, his brows knitting in quiet concern. "Writer's block again?"

"Something like that. It comes and goes."

"It'll come back. It always does. You just need time."

Time.

She wonders how much of it she has left.

Has Ritsu found it?

It feels strange to think of Ritsu in love—Ritsu, who has always met Mio's romantic inclinations with a raised eyebrow and a wry grin. Ritsu, who dismissed love as little more than a chemical hiccup, a distraction dressed up in grand gestures and flowery words.

"Love is overrated, Mio," she'd declared once, sprawled across the floor of her room, a manga splayed carelessly in her hands. "People make such a big deal out of it. It's just... hormones and bad decisions, right?"

Mio had laughed then, as she often did at Ritsu's bluntness. Ritsu, who wears her humor like armor, who deflects sincerity with a joke and sidesteps vulnerability as if it were a trap laid in her path. She is a master of evasion, always one step ahead of anything that might threaten her carefully constructed detachment. Her laughter is a shield, her grin a fortress.

But now, as Mio watches Ritsu with Taro, she wonders if the walls have begun to crack. There is something different in the way Ritsu moves, in the way she exists beside him. She leans into his space as though gravity itself has shifted, her laughter spilling out unfiltered, unguarded. Her eyes, so often alight with mischief, now glow with a quiet intensity when they meet his, as if the rest of the world has blurred into insignificance.

Mio doesn't think Ritsu has ever looked at anyone like that before.

She finds herself captivated by the transformation. Has Ritsu always been capable of this? Has she always carried this warmth, this openness, buried beneath layers of sarcasm and self-preservation? Or is this something new, something fragile and uncharted, blooming in the spaces between her words and her glances?

Does Ritsu even realize what is happening to her? Does she feel the weight of it? Or is she still telling herself it's nothing, just another fleeting moment, another joke to be laughed away?

Mio wonders if Ritsu has ever allowed herself to fall. Truly fall. Not the half-hearted stumbles she brushes off with a laugh, but the kind of fall that leaves you breathless, that changes the way you see the world. The kind of fall that leaves its mark.

As she watches, Mio feels an ache settle in her chest—not sharp, but deep, like the echo of a question she has yet to ask. It isn't envy, nor is it longing for what Ritsu has. It's something quieter, something that lingers in the spaces between hope and fear.

Because if Ritsu, with her guarded heart and her defiant grin, can find her way to this wild, untamed thing called love, then perhaps it isn't as elusive as Mio has feared. Perhaps it isn't a mirage, shimmering just out of reach, but something real, something possible. For her. For them.

In that possibility, Mio finds a strange kind of solace. And solitude.

"Do you think I'm bad at this?" she blurts out.

Kenji blinks. "At what?"

"Everything," Mio says, half-laughing to cover the crack in her voice. "Studying, composing, this." She gestures vaguely at the bowling alley, at herself, at him.

Kenji's brow furrows. "Of course not. You're amazing, Mio. You're just hard on yourself."

She looks away, back to Ritsu and Taro. Their eyes meet for half a second before they burst into laughter, already knowing what the other is thinking, still moving together like the whole world bends to their rhythm.

She wishes she could move like that.

"You're thinking too much again," Kenji says, his tone light but knowing. "Relax a little."

She nods. "You're right. Sorry."

Her eyes wander back to Ritsu. To the way she leans into Taro's space, unthinking, unafraid. It's like gravity, Mio thinks.

Mio wonders if it's supposed to be that easy. If love is supposed to feel like gravity. Unstoppable. Unavoidable. If it's supposed to pull you in until you can't remember how to stand on your own.

Kenji squeezes her shoulder, gentle and warm. "You've got this," he says, his voice quiet but steady. "Whatever it is, you'll figure it out."

She nods again. Smiles, even. Because Kenji is good. Kind. Patient. He's everything she thought she was supposed to want.

But he's not gravity.

And she's not falling.

Ritsu and Taro are laughing again.

Mio watches them.

The way Taro nudges Ritsu with his elbow, and Ritsu retaliates by ruffling his hair into a mess. He swats at her hand, but he's smiling, too. She fixes his hair, smoothing it down, and he lets her.

It's easy for her. For both of them. No hesitation. No second-guessing. No overthinking.

Ritsu feels something and acts on it. She always has. Always will.

Mio tries to remember the last time she did that. The last time she reached out without thinking twice, without worrying about what it meant or what it would lead to. Without hesitating. Without waiting too long.

She doesn't know.

It's not in her nature, she thinks. To be reckless. To throw herself into things. To act before she's ready.

But she envies it. Just a little. The way Ritsu can take a moment and make it hers. The way she can share a laugh, a touch, a smile, and never seem to wonder if it's too much or not enough.

Mio wonders what that feels like to move through the world with that kind of ease. To feel something and go for it. To reach out and touch without fear of being pulled back or turned away.

It's not her nature, she thinks again.

"Mio?"

Kenji's voice pulls her back. She looks up and sees him standing beside her, gesturing for her to take her next turn. She nods quickly, standing and grabbing another ball.

Focus.

She steps forward, breathes in, breathes out, and throws. The ball rolls down the lane, wobbling slightly before it connects with the pins. More fall this time. Not all, but more.

"Nice one!" Kenji says, smiling at her as she turns back.

Mio nods, offering a small smile in return. She sits down and watches as the game continues. Ritsu and Taro high-five each other after every turn, even when one of them barely grazes the pins.

Mio watches Ritsu. The way her hair bounces when she throws. The way she grins when Taro looks at her. The way she's completely at ease, as if there's nowhere else she'd rather be.

And then Mio watches Kenji. His steady stance. His quiet focus. The way he smiles at her after every turn, even when it's her fault they're falling behind.

She wonders what he's thinking. If he feels the same gap she does, the same sense that something is missing. Or if he's perfectly content, perfectly happy, perfectly unaware.

"Mio, you're up!"

She blinks again, standing automatically.

The game goes on.

---

The game ends with Taro and Ritsu claiming victory. Ritsu poses with the scoreboard, finger pointing to their names like it's a historic achievement. Taro poses beside her, grinning ear to ear. They're a team, a pair, perfectly in sync.

"Champion of the Universe," Ritsu declares. "You may now bow to your queen."

Mio rolls her eyes.

"Not bad, Kenji," Taro says, clapping him on the back. "Maybe next time, huh?"

Kenji smirks. "Don't get cocky. We let you win."

Taro barks a laugh. "Sure, sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night."

Kenji chuckles. Mio smiles faintly, turning to Kenji.

"Sorry about... you know." She gestures vaguely toward the scoreboard, where her name sits far below the others. "I wasn't much help."

"Don't worry, Mio," Ritsu says, slinging an arm around her shoulders. "You tried. That's what counts."

"Gee, thanks," Mio mutters, swatting Ritsu's hand away.

Kenji waves it off. "It's okay, Mio. It's just a game."

Still, she feels the contrast between her hesitations and their ease. Ritsu leans against Taro, still laughing at something he's said, and Mio wonders how they do it.

The four of them gather their things, chatting about nothing, and Mio feels the weight of the evening lift just slightly.

And then Kenji brings it up.

"So," he says casually. "About Hakone..."

Mio stiffens. Ritsu's steps falter just barely. Taro doesn't notice.

"Are you excited?" Kenji asks, smiling. "It'll be nice to get away, right?"

Mio nods automatically. "Yeah. Definitely."

She keeps her voice steady, her expression calm. She doesn't look at Ritsu.

Kenji smiles at her, content. He keeps talking about the hot springs, the scenic views, the little cafés he wants to try. Mio nods along, her responses quiet but sufficient. She plays the part well.

It's not hard.

"Hey," Kenji says, "wanna check out the arcade before we head out? Maybe we can redeem ourselves at something else."

She nods. "Sure."

---

The neon lights and mechanical sounds buzz through the arcade. Kenji stops at a UFO Catcher, his gaze settling on a plush rabbit wedged between two dangling claws.

"This one," he says, his tone confident. "It's yours."

Mio blinks. "What? No, you don't have to—"

"Just watch," Kenji interrupts, already sliding a coin into the machine. The claw descends, wobbling slightly, before gripping the plush. It lifts, sways, and—drops.

Kenji frowns, but his determination doesn't waver. "One more try."

He tries. Again. And again. Mio watches, a mix of amusement and guilt building in her chest. She wants to tell him it's fine, that he doesn't have to, but she doesn't.

Finally, the claw grabs hold. This time, it doesn't let go. The plush tumbles into the chute, and Kenji pulls it out triumphantly.

"Here." He hands it to her, smiling proudly. "For you."

Mio takes it, the plush rabbit soft in her hands. "Thank you," she says quietly. She smiles, but it feels fragile, like glass stretched too thin. "Really."

He smirks, casual. "It's nothing."

But it's not. Not to her. The weight of his kindness, his effort, presses against her.

---

They step outside. Ritsu falls into step beside Mio, her usual exuberance softened but still alive, like a flame flickering behind glass. Ahead, Taro and Kenji walk, their voices a low, steady murmur, weaving a quiet rhythm into the evening.

"So," Ritsu begins, "we're all set for the gift, right? Azusa gave me the last batch of photos yesterday."

Mio nods, her fingers tightening around the plush rabbit she holds. "Yeah. I saw her earlier. She mentioned you'd finish arranging everything tonight."

Ritsu grins. "You bet. It's looking good, if I do say so myself. Mugi's gonna love it."

Mio smiles at that, picturing the joy on Mugi's face when she sees the album. "Did you figure out what you're going to write in your dedication?" she asks.

Ritsu's grin shifts, becoming almost sheepish. "Still working on it. I have a few ideas. Nothing too sappy, though. Mugi would see right through me." She nudges Mio lightly with her elbow. "What about you? Got your poetic masterpiece ready?"

Mio huffs a small laugh. "Not exactly. I've written some of it, but I keep second-guessing myself. It feels like nothing I write can fully capture... everything. I've been going through old photos, trying to find the right ones. See if they inspire me."

"Of course you have. Lomography queen." 

"Shut up."

"Nah, seriously, Mio, your photography habit saved us. All those festivals, summer trips, even just goofing around in the club—if it weren't for you lugging that Lomo LC-A everywhere, we wouldn't have half the memories we do."

"We'd probably have more photos if you hadn't kept jumping in front of the camera. Half of them are just you making weird faces."

"Hey, weird faces are a form of art."

"Sure," Mio shoots back. "Abstract art."

Ritsu pouts. For a moment, there's a comfortable silence between them. Then Ritsu speaks again, her voice more curious now.

"Do you still use it? The camera, I mean. Feels like it's been a while since I've seen you take any photos."

Mio blinks, caught off guard by the question. "I guess I haven't been as consistent," she admits. "It's not like I've stopped, but... I don't know."

"You should bring it to Hakone," Ritsu suggests, her tone light but her grin sly. "Capture some scenic shots, maybe some candid moments. You're good at that."

Mio tenses for just a second, the mention of Hakone stirring something uneasy in her chest. She forces a small laugh. "Maybe."

Ritsu glances at her, and for a moment, there's something in her eyes that suggests she's about to press further. But she doesn't. Instead, her grin softens as she nudges Mio's arm again, bringing the conversation to where it was meant to go.

"You good?" Ritsu asks, her voice a hushed note meant only for Mio's ears.

Mio hesitates, her fingers tightening around the plush rabbit she clutches to her chest. She shouldn't say it. Not here, not now, with the world moving around them, indifferent to the weight she carries. But Ritsu is looking at her, her gaze steady, patient.

"I... I don't know. I still feel guilty about everything," she whispers.

Ritsu nods, her expression thoughtful. "I get it," she says, her voice gentle. Then, after a pause, she leans in closer, her tone dropping to something almost intimate. "But, Mio... Hakone will change everything. You'll see."

Mio wants to believe her. Wants to cling to the certainty in Ritsu's voice, the promise of something shifting, something breaking open to let the light in. She glances at Ritsu, at the quiet confidence in her eyes, and nods, though the knot in her chest remains.

"And if it doesn't," Ritsu adds, her grin returning as she gives Mio a playful nudge, "you can yell at me later."

"Oh, of course I will," she deadpans.

"You'd better," Ritsu replies, her grin widening.

They walk on, the station drawing nearer with each step. Mio hugs the plush rabbit tighter. She wants to believe Ritsu—wants to believe that the weight pressing down on her will lift, that the guilt will dissolve like mist under the sun, that she won't always feel as though she's standing on the edge of something vast and terrifying, afraid to leap.

But she doesn't know how to take that step.

As they catch up to Kenji and Taro, their voices grow louder, filling the space around them. Mio clutches the rabbit a little tighter, a fleeting gesture that betrays the child still hidden within her. The child who once dreamed of knights in shining armor, of gallant figures riding in on white horses to sweep her away into a world of perfect, unending love. She has carried that dream for so long, tucked it away in the quiet corners of her heart, even as the years have taught her the world is not a fairytale.

She knows better now.

And yet, some part of her still clings to the dream, to the hope that somewhere, somehow, love will find her. That it will be kind and brave and true, that it will cradle her heart with the tenderness she has always longed for.

And when she closes her eyes, she wonders—hopes—that this stranger, this person she has yet to meet, might wear Kenji's face. That one day—maybe in Hakone—when she looks at him, something will shift. That she will see the courage of a knight in his eyes, feel the warmth of a fairytale embrace in his arms, hear the song she has been waiting for in his voice.

That someday, the love she dreams of will grow into the shape of Kenji.

And so, to that unknown stranger, she sends a quiet thought, a fragile wish carried on the evening air:

Perhaps, one day, you'll wear his face. I hope you do. Because I've been waiting for you. I've already fallen for you.

---

June 28, 2011

"Careful there, Mio. Keep leaning like that, and you'll fall right into me."

The words pull Mio from her thoughts. She blinks, suddenly aware of how close she had been—her hand resting lightly on Naya's knee for balance, her body tilted forward as if drawn by some invisible force. Quickly, she straightens, warmth blooming in her cheeks, and takes a half-step back, putting careful distance between them.

"Sorry," Mio murmurs, but Naya only smiles—that familiar, knowing curve of her lips that Mio has come to recognize. And, if she's honest, to dread just a little. It's a smile that seems to see too much, to understand too well, leaving Mio feeling both exposed and strangely comforted.

"It's okay. I'd catch you," Naya adds. "You know. If it ever happens."

Mio nods, still a bit flushed, her gaze drifting to a pedal as her thoughts wander once more. Exams loom on the horizon, an ever-present shadow, but they haven't interrupted her and Naya's pedal sessions. Nor have they dulled the club's vibrancy, its members still gathering faithfully.

Some days, the clubroom feels less like a haven for music and more like a chaotic study hall. Yet to Mio—ever diligent, ever steadfast—it remains a source of comfort. A small one, but a comfort nonetheless. The company of her friends is always welcome, especially during these most stressful months. Especially now.

Even when Yui bombards her with pleas for help in subjects they don't even share. Even when Ritsu seizes every opportunity to drag her into yet another academic crisis.

In the clubroom, studying often feels like impromptu tutoring hours. Mio and Sachi huddle over their notes, dissecting complex topics, deciphering professors' cryptic scribbles, and discussing the exams ahead. Azusa and Momo mirror this with their own coursework, occasionally seeking guidance from Mio or Sachi—musicians helping musicians.

Yui, when not orbiting Mio like a restless satellite, drifts toward Akira, who shares her major, or Naya, whom she turns to for English. Ritsu, ever the childhood companion, gravitates toward Mio unless the subject veers into Mugi's domain of expertise. Mio, in turn, leans on Mugi's quiet brilliance for anything involving piano or intricate music theory.

Ayame and Liz, meanwhile, march to their own rhythm. Liz's academic prowess, particularly in theater, is unmatched by anyone in the club, and the two often carve out their own focused enclave, seemingly untouchable in their discipline.

And then, there's Naya.

While the others navigate music, management, or education, Naya wrestles with Japanese—a language the rest of them have spoken fluently all their lives. No one minds helping her in the slightest, but Mio sees it clearly: the way Naya sometimes shrinks into herself, a quiet hesitation settling in, as though she were a novice among experts.

Though Naya is finding her place in the group—her own quiet way—Mio understands her pride. It's formidable, like her. A force that makes her reluctant to lean too heavily on anyone, even when she might need it most.

Mio watches her sometimes—the furrow in Naya's brow when she struggles with a sentence, the way her teeth catch her lower lip, holding back the request for help until absolutely necessary. It's a quiet battle Mio knows all too well—the delicate balance between independence and reaching for another's hand.

They still go to the library, of course, but any stolen moment for studying feels like a gift. Yet, the clubroom has its distractions, impossible to ignore. When Ayame can't resist tapping out a rhythm with her drumsticks, when Yui's fingers stray to her guitar strings, or when Naya's feet instinctively press her pedals, Mio feels it too—the quiet pull. The itch in her fingers to trade her pen for her bass, to let music flow freely, even for just a moment.

Perhaps that's why her room remains her favorite place to study—until Ritsu bursts in unannounced, full of chaotic urgency, clutching her notes as if her grades hang by a thread. But her room is still her sanctuary: a quiet retreat where the only accompaniment is the music in her headphones. The bands and albums she still exchanges with Naya. Each one a thread, weaving their shared world tighter, binding it closer.

The notes, folded and small, continued to slip between their notebooks, their bags, their hands. Tiny missives of music, exchanged like secrets, like promises. Mio had once written:

"School Food Punishment – school food is good food (Song: pool). They blend electronic beats with a dreamy, melancholic sound. I think you'd enjoy how layered their music feels—like there's always something new to discover with each listen."

And Naya replied:

"Ben l'Oncle Soul – Ben l'Oncle Soul. Amazing Seven Nation Army cover. I think I like it more than the original. And school food is good food was amazing."

Mio's response came next:

"Chatmonchy – Seimeiryoku (Song: Shangri-La). I love how their songs are both emotional and catchy. There's something nostalgic about this album... It makes me think of bittersweet goodbyes. And yes, maybe this time, the cover is better than the original."

Naya's voice, in ink, followed:

"Héroes del Silencio – El Mar No Cesa (Song: Flor Venenosa). Spanish legend band. I don't know how they do it, but the guitar sounds like the sea. Like a wave. Like water freezing in the ocean. By the way, Seimeiryoku is my new go-to album for lifting my mood."

Mio's next note carried a smile:

"Shugo Tokumaru – Port Entropy (Song: Lahaha). His music feels like a whimsical daydream. It's playful but intricate... Every sound seems so carefully placed. And you're right, they could make the guitar sound like pure water."

Naya's reply was waiting for her soon after:

"Miami Horror – Illumination (Song: Sometimes). This one feels like the kind of song you'd sway to under soft lights, lost in the moment. I can already picture you nodding along with that thoughtful look of yours. Give it a listen. Maybe it'll inspire something new for your lyrics. Let me know if it gets stuck in your head too. Oh, and Shugo Tokumaru is my new obsession, just in time for the exams. Thanks for that."

It didn't inspire her lyrics—not this time. Mio was stuck, again, her words tangled somewhere between her heart and her pen. But she did nod along to Sometimes, her head tilting gently to the rhythm when she listened, her thoughts drifting like leaves on a breeze.

They both took their recommendations seriously. They both wanted to understand why the other loved the music they loved, how it shaped them, how it moved them. It wasn't just about sharing songs—it was about sharing pieces of themselves, fragments of their worlds.

Each note, each track, each album is a window into the other's soul—a way of saying, This is who I am. This is what I feel. Do you feel it too?

Days after that night at karaoke, Mio mentioned, almost offhandedly, that with all the band exchanges and recommendations flying between them, she'd somehow never gotten around to listening to Muse. What Mio didn't mention was how often she found herself staring at the photo of her and Naya—more often than she probably should.

Naya, however, was almost offended—until Mio asked her to recommend an album or even a playlist.

Naya went wild.

The next day, Naya arrived with a sprawling, meticulously curated list of songs and launched into a passionate lecture, her words tumbling out in a torrent of enthusiasm.

"This one," she said, pointing to a track from Showbiz, "was never a single, but it's a masterpiece. And this one?" She gestured to a bonus track from Origin of Symmetry. "You're so lucky you get to hear this for the first time. And this—" she paused, "this was a reject from Absolution. A total crime. And Easily? Best bassline of all time. Don't even argue with me on that. And this one? Total banger from The Resistance. You're welcome."

Mio listened, amused and captivated, as Naya rambled on, her usual guarded demeanor slipping away. It wasn't something she showed to just anyone—unfiltered, unapologetically passionate. And Mio loved it.

But then Naya decided to crack a joke—and went too far. "Honestly," she said, grinning, "Muse has done more for music than the Beatles ever did."

And just like that, the tables turned.

What followed was nothing short of a TED Talk. Mio, her voice steady but fervent, launched into a detailed, impassioned defense of the Beatles. She spoke about their innovation, their influence, the way they had reshaped not just music but culture itself.

"No one," she said, her eyes blazing, "no one will ever do what they did. They didn't just write songs—they changed the way we think about music. About art. About everything. Every band that came after them, every artist, every genre—they all owe something to the Beatles. They're not just a band, Naya. They're a foundation."

Naya listened, her green eyes sparkling like a spring morning, the kind where the sun rises early and the night hesitates to fall, lingering at the edges. She didn't interrupt, didn't argue. She just smiled, her gaze steady on Mio, as if every word were a gift.

Then, almost offhandedly, Naya mentioned a guy she'd met once, a Tame Impala fan who claimed the Beatles were overrated.

"Can you believe that?" she said, shaking her head. "The guy worships Tame Impala but doesn't realize that without the Beatles, Tame Impala wouldn't even exist."

Mio laughed. "Some people just don't get it," she said. "But that's okay. Not everyone has to."

She exhaled, suddenly aware of how much she had been talking. Her voice had risen slightly, her hands moving instinctively with her words, tracing the air as if shaping the argument itself. Maybe she had gone too far—too intense, too caught up. She glanced away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, a faint heat rising to her cheeks.

But when she looked back, Naya was watching her. Not with amusement. Not with the teasing smirk she had come to expect. But with something quieter, something deeper—something like admiration.

Mio's breath hitched for just a second.

And that was how, one day, somewhere between pedals and studies, Mio found herself saying, almost without thinking, "I really like talking about music with you."

Naya looked at her. For a moment, she seemed to hesitate, as if weighing her words. Then, finally, she said, "Same here."

A beat passed, and then, softer:

"I love music. But you—you are music."

The words hung in the air, lingering between them, delicate and weighty all at once, settling into the space they shared.

Mio wondered if Naya could hear it too—the quiet melody that had been playing between them all along, a song neither of them had written but both were slowly learning to sing.

---

Today, though—it's all about pedals.

Even though exams haven't officially begun, both of them are already feeling the burntout. Mio—ever the responsible one—has subtly, almost imperceptibly, made sure Naya feels comfortable asking her for help with Japanese during their pedal sessions. With Mio, Naya is different—softer, more open, more willing to let her guard down.

But no matter how much they try to focus on academics, music always calls them back. It is inevitable, like gravity. And so, their penultimate session in June is dedicated to what it has always been about: creating, experimenting, making noise.

Mio sits cross-legged on the floor, her bass resting against her thigh, pedals sprawled in front of her. Naya's bag, predictably, is a disaster. Cables snake out of it, tangled and hopeless, and Naya doesn't seem remotely bothered.

"Looking for this?" Mio holds up a notebook.

Naya blinks. "I knew you had it."

"You left it on the table during practice," Mio says, handing it over. "You're welcome."

"Gracias," Naya replies, her voice lilting in that way it always does when she drops Spanish into her sentences. She flips open the notebook, skimming through its pages.

Mio plugs in her bass, plucking a few notes as the pedal works its magic. The sound shifts, richer now, like ripples spreading across the surface of a still lake.

Naya watches her with that sharp, focused gaze of hers, nodding along to the rhythm. "Nice. Now try it with the delay," she suggests, eager.

Mio switches it on, layering the effect over the chorus. The notes echo, overlapping, cascading into one another like waves crashing against the shore.

Naya grins. "There it is. That's the sound."

Mio feels a small surge of pride, warm and quiet.

"By the way," Naya says, leaning back on her hands, "you really should listen to the new Digitalism album. I Love You Dude. It's much better than the first one."

Mio raises an eyebrow. "You're still hyped about that? It's been two weeks."

"Best two weeks of my life," Naya replies, looking almost offended. "Miami Showdown? Out of freaking Homework. And Circles? On repeat, in honor of its name. Their first album was groundbreaking, though."

Mio chuckles. It's impossible to stop Naya when she starts talking about music.

"Their first album was okay," she says, her tone teasing.

Naya gasps, her hand flying to her chest in mock horror. "Okay? Okay? Mio, that's blasphemy."

Mio smirks. "Maybe you're just biased."

"Biased? I have taste, woman."

"Debatable."

"Oh, but you sure eat up all my recommendations, don't you?"

Mio doesn't dignify that with a response.

But between their laughter, as Mio stands to play, pacing the small stage of the clubroom, something irritatingly common happens. That familiar tug at her scalp.

Her hair is caught again.

"Ugh. Not again," she mutters, wincing as she tries to free the trapped strands without pulling too hard. The more she fiddles, the worse it seems to get. She sighs, feeling her patience slip. "Naya," she calls, glancing over, "can you help me?"

Naya, busy tuning her bass, looks up. Her smile is quick, easy. "What's wrong?"

"My hair," Mio says, holding up the strap with an awkward grimace. "It's stuck."

Naya's grin widens. "Ah, the perils of long, beautiful hair."

"Ha, ha," Mio bristles, though her cheeks betray her, heating at the compliment disguised as a tease. "Just help me, please."

"On it." Naya sets her bass down, moving unhurriedly, as if she has all the time in the world. "Hold still."

Mio does. She holds perfectly still as Naya lifts the strap gently.

The first brush of Naya's fingers against her neck sparks something beneath Mio's skin—an odd, fluttering warmth she doesn't want to acknowledge.

She keeps her gaze fixed on the wall. There's no reason for her heart to race. This is just a friend helping her. But Naya's fingers are steady, methodical, yet too soft for something so mundane. Too careful. As if she's being mindful of more than just Mio's hair.

(Don't think about it.)

But it's impossible not to notice how close Naya is. Her breath is a faint warmth against Mio's hair. Every tug at the strap feels measured, intentional. Her fingers work with a kind of ease that shouldn't draw attention, and yet they do.

(It's just her being careful, Mio reasons. Just Naya.)

A simple gesture. A practical one. Nothing more.

Yet her skin prickles where Naya's fingertips skim, and every time Naya's fingers brush her skin, Mio feels her breath catch—as if something deep and restless has stirred to life—quiet heat pooling somewhere in her chest.

Mio stiffens, forcing her gaze to stay fixed on the wall.

(Stop. It's nothing. You asked her. She's helping you. That's all.)

Mio swallows, the warmth spreading, her nerves taut and sparking. She fixes her gaze harder on the wall, on the faint scratches near the corner. It means nothing. Nothing at all. But her fingers grip the strap a little tighter, her body betraying her thoughts.

Each touch sends small ripples through her—tiny, uninvited sparks that settle low in her stomach. It's a strange kind of warmth, different from what she expects, different from—

(Stop. Don't think about it. Just... wait until it's over. Just—)

Naya's fingers free the last strand with a small, triumphant flourish.

"There we go," Naya says, her voice low and too close. A breath against Mio's ear. A faint tremor along her spine.

Naya lingers—just a second longer than she needs to. Then she smooths a hand down the freed strands, as if to check her work. "Your hair's really soft," she murmurs, almost absently.

Mio blinks. The words are light, casual, but something about the way they land feels different—like they weren't meant to be said out loud.

Naya clears her throat. Straightens. Steps back.

"All set, señorita."

And just like that, it's over.

Mio turns, her heart a beat out of sync. "Thanks," she says quickly, her hand rising to her neck, though there's no need. The warmth remains, as if Naya's touch has somehow left a mark. "I should really tie it back when I play, huh?"

"Probably." Naya's smile is light. "Would save you some trouble."

Mio's fingers brush the spot where the ghost of Naya's touch still lingers. "I guess it's just a habit."

Naya nods, her expression casual, but Mio can't shake the feeling that her presence still presses softly against her skin, even as she moves away. She looks at her, at the way Naya picks up her bass again, as if nothing happened. As if her touch hadn't shifted something inside Mio.

Her fingers still graze the spot where Naya's hand had been, tracing the faint warmth still tingling there. It doesn't make sense. She's been touched there before. Kenji's done the same, hasn't he?

But it never felt like this.

Not like her skin had become something alive, something tuned to every subtle shift in pressure, every point of contact.

She glances back at the wall, the faint scuffs no longer holding her focus.

She shouldn't feel this way—about this. About Naya.

But Naya's touch was... different.

Gentler. Warmer. Effortless. Different from—

(No.)

Mio shuts the thought down before it can form. It doesn't mean anything. She's overthinking it. Naya was helping her, being Naya. Being gentle and careful and too kind. That's all it was.

Mio forces her attention back to her bass, her fingers brushing over the strings. Music will clear her head. It always does. The music, at least, doesn't ask questions she can't answer. 

"Hey." Naya's voice cuts through her thoughts. "You okay?"

Mio nods. "Yeah. I'm fine."

"You sure?" Naya's eyes scan Mio's face with quiet curiosity.

"I'm fine," Mio repeats.

Naya watches her for a moment longer before shrugging, her attention returning to her bass, her fingers dancing along the strings, her movements fluid and effortless.

Mio stares a moment too long before forcing her gaze back to her own instrument.

It shouldn't feel different.

But it does.

She brushes the thought away, forcing her fingers to settle on the strings of her bass. She needs to focus. On the music. On the pedals. On anything but the faint hum still buzzing beneath her skin.

It's just because she's tired. Or stressed.

She's overthinking it.

She glances at Naya again, who catches her eye this time. "You sure you're okay?" Naya asks, her brow lifting slightly.

Mio nods again, forcing a smile she hopes looks casual. "I'm fine. Really."

"Okay," Naya says simply, turning back to her bass without another word.

Mio exhales, her fingers finding their place on the strings. The scuffs on the wall come back into focus as she begins to play. The first few notes tremble slightly, but the sound steadies as she plays.

She plays until her thoughts blur, until the memory of Naya's touch fades, until the warmth in her chest is nothing but a distant echo.

She plays because it's easier to focus on the music than on the memory of Naya's touch.

Easier to forget the difference.

---

June 29, 2011

Mio doesn't know how they convinced her.

She should be studying. She should be in her room, highlighters uncapped, notes spread across her desk, doing what responsible students do—instead of sitting cross-legged on Mugi's floor, pouring tea, avoiding responsibilities just like they used to in the club.

Old habits die hard.

Or maybe they don't die at all. Maybe they just evolve, mutate into something more refined. Exams are looming, but here they are, steeping themselves in the warmth of familiarity

Some things never change.

Ritsu is sprawled out on the floor. "We are gathered here today," she declares, voice solemn, "because Mio is weak and gives in to peer pressure."

"I didn't give in," Mio mutters. "You literally dragged me here."

"Details," Ritsu says, waving a hand dismissively.

The others are sprawled across Mugi's floor too, limbs tangled, laughter spilling over like forgotten notes in an unfinished melody. Liz is half-lounging against Ayame like a queen surveying her court. Sachi sips her tea, eyes flickering between speakers.

Mugi, serene as ever, smiles as she passes a plate of cookies. Mio sits with her legs beneath her, fingers wrapped around her cup, warmth seeping into her palms. It's easy here. Like slipping into an old song, the chords already familiar under her fingertips.

Then the door swings open.

"Guys! Look what I found in the hallway!" Yui announces triumphally.

Mio turns, and there she is.

Naya, standing in the doorway with Yui latched onto her arm, looking somewhere between amused and resigned. "Sorry for crashing. I was ambushed."

Mio straightens so fast her teacup nearly tips over.

Ritsu cackles. "Yui does that."

"She does," Mio murmurs, still watching Naya.

"She was just walking down the hallway all alone! So I invited her," Yui says cheerfully, completely unaware that she's still clinging to Naya like a child with a new toy. "I told her she had no choice. Right, Naya-chan?"

Naya huffs a laugh, finally letting Yui guide her inside. "That sounds suspiciously like kidnapping."

"Friendly kidnapping!" Yui chirps. "Mio-chan, aren't you happy? Naya-chan's finally hanging out with us!"

Mio is. She really is. Because Naya doesn't usually do things like this. Even though she's in the Light Music Club, even though they talk nearly every day, Naya has always felt like someone a little bit outside of things. Always leaning against the wall instead of joining the circle. Always present, but just a step removed. Close, but never fully here. 

Naya has mostly stayed on the periphery of their group, keeping close to the music club but not always mingling outside of it.

But here she is now—pulled into their orbit like she's been here all along.

It's nice to see her here. To see her stepping into these spaces, easing into them, filling them.

And Mio feels it, deep in her chest, the quiet, unexpected warmth of it.

She is suddenly aware of how ridiculous she must look, sitting bolt upright like she's about to recite the national anthem. She forces herself to relax, to breathe, to push down the small, ridiculous thrill of Naya's here.

"Come sit, Naya-chan," Mugi says, beaming as she gestures toward the room. "Make yourself comfortable."

Mio watches as Naya takes a seat between Mugi and Liz, looking surprisingly at ease despite Yui's rather chaotic introduction. Mugi leans in, already engaging her in conversation, and Mio listens in, intrigued.

The conversation splinters into different threads—Ritsu teasing Naya about finally joining them, Mugi passing cake around, Liz smirking as she nudges Naya toward an open spot on the floor. It all happens so seamlessly, like Naya has always been part of this. Like she's always belonged here.

Mio watches, and a warmth settles in her chest. She hadn't realized how much she wanted this. For Naya to be here. For her to be part of this side of Mio's world.

It's nice.

And then, it happens. The shift. The moment Mio doesn't see coming.

Mugi and Liz start talking. About Naya. About places. About days Mio didn't know existed.

"Oh, speaking of," Liz says, elbowing Naya lightly, "tell them about our little adventure."

Mio blinks.

Naya groans. "Must we?"

Mugi laughs. "It was quite entertaining."

Mio blinks again.

What.

How—when—?

"You guys have been hanging out?" she hears herself ask before she can stop it.

Mugi tilts her head. "Of course," she says, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Liz nudges Naya. "She's fun to drag around. You wouldn't believe how utterly lost she was last weekend."

"Wait. Last weekend?"

Liz smirks. "Yeah, we took Naya out. Did some shopping, explored a bit."

"Oh, yeah," Mugi nods. "It was lovely. We found this little bakery with the most incredible pastries. Naya-chan practically had a religious experience."

"You should've seen her face," Liz adds. "I swear she almost cried over a croissant."

Mio tries to keep her expression neutral. She really does. But the words land somewhere unexpected.

We took Naya out.

We.

Mugi. Liz. Not her.

She didn't know.

She had no idea.

"I mean, we hang out all the time," Liz says offhandedly, biting into a cookie.

Mio pauses. "You do?"

"Yeah." Liz gestures vaguely. "Like, outside of campus. Just randomly."

"Wait," Ritsu leans into Mugi. "Are you saying you and Naya have been having secret adventures without us?"

Mugi laughs. "It's not a secret. We just happen to run into each other quite often. And sometimes, we make a day of it."

Mio's gaze flickers to Naya, who shrugs. "Mugi finds the best cafés and shops. It just happens."

It just happens.

"And Liz drags me out of my dorm whenever I start getting too comfortable," Naya casually adds.

Mugi giggles. "She says that, but she comes willingly."

"Depends on the day," Naya teases back.

"Anyway, you guys have to hear about Naya this weekend," Liz says, grinning wickedly.

Naya glares. "Liz, no."

Liz ignores her.

"We were out shopping, right? Mugi was showing us this cute little street with all these fancy shops."

Mugi nods. "It was lovely."

"And Naya here," Liz continues, eyes twinkling, "went on a one-woman mission to single-handedly thank every single shop assistant she came across."

Mio's lips twitch. She already knows where this is going.

Naya sighs dramatically, throwing her hands in the air. "Ah, yes, what a criminal I am, showing basic human decency."

Ritsu bursts out laughing. "Seriously? How did they react?"

"They were confused," Liz says, grinning. "Some of them just blinked at her like she'd spoken in tongues."

"Ohh," Yui nods sagely. "You mean, like, thanking too much?"

"Exactly," Naya says. "I didn't even realize I was doing it until Liz pointed it out. It's just habit."

Mugi tilts her head thoughtfully. "Politeness depends on the situation, I think. And it's true that people in Japan don't overuse thank you in service situations."

"Yeah," Yui agrees. "It's not like they're being rude. Just different."

Liz smirks. "Still, you should've seen some of their faces. They looked like they didn't know whether to bow back or call security."

Naya blushes a little. "I swear, I wasn't that bad."

Mio, who has been suppressing her laughter for too long, finally lets it slip. "I think it's nice," she says, smiling. "You just have your own way of being considerate."

"See?" Naya sighs. "Mio gets it. Mio gets me."

Mio ducks her head slightly, feeling warmth creep into her cheeks.

She wonders if she's imagining the way Naya looks at her just then.

She tells herself she is.

"So you guys have been going out a lot, huh?" Ritsu asks, clearly amused, oblivious to the tangle of emotions Mio is currently drowning in.

"It's fun," Mugi says, smiling. "And Naya-chan has such a unique perspective on things. It's always interesting."

"That's a nice way of saying I get lost a lot and cause minor chaos."

"Well, that too," Mugi admits, giggling.

Mio takes a sip of tea. It burns a little. She doesn't know why she's surprised. She knew, vaguely, that Naya had been spending time with Liz. And Mugi? Mugi had always been welcoming, had always been the kind of person people gravitated toward. And there was this thing with the consulate at the beginning of the month, whatever that was.

But she didn't know it was like this. This frequent. She didn't know Naya had been spending so much time with them outside of campus, where Naya is clearly uncomfortable about her mishaps if Mio is not around.

It's such a small, obvious thing. Of course Naya has other friends. Of course she spends time with other people. Mio knows this. She isn't naïve.

And yet, it stings a little.

She listens as Naya complains about Liz dramatizing everything. She listens as Yui praises her for being "the politest foreigner ever." She listens as Ritsu suggests Naya should start bowing every time she enters a shop, just to really commit.

She listens, and says nothing.

It shouldn't bother her. It shouldn't. But it does. And she doesn't even know why.

Maybe because Naya was the first real friend Mio made on her own. Not through Ritsu. Not through the inevitable web of shared acquaintances. Just Mio and Naya, finding each other through music, through basslines, through quiet conversations that somehow stretched into something more.

And if Naya has other people now—if Mugi is interesting, if Liz is fun, if Mio is just one of many—then maybe it wasn't something special after all.

Am I even interesting enough to keep a friend? Was Naya only close to me because I was the first to welcome her?

Mio hates that thought. Because it's unfair. Because Naya should have other friends. Because Mio should want that for her, knowing how alone Naya feels sometimes, knowing Naya is so far from her family and friends.

But a part of her still aches.

Because what if Naya finds them more interesting than her? What if she fades into the background? What if she just isn't good enough at being someone worth staying for?

She hates that thought too.

And it's ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous to feel anything about this. This isn't some exclusive friendship contract. Naya isn't hers.

She shouldn't feel left out. She shouldn't feel like she's losing something. Because she's not. But something twists in her chest, quiet but persistent, a flicker of something small and sour, curling beneath her ribs.

Not possessiveness. Not exactly. It's more than that. Or less. Or different. Because it's not just about Naya. 

It's about herself.

It's about the quiet fear that creeps in when she isn't paying attention, the fear that whispers:

(Maybe you're not enough. Maybe you're never enough. Maybe you were just convenient.)

If Naya spends time with Mugi—if she laughs with Liz, if she finds other places, other people—does that mean Mio just... wasn't enough?

It's a stupid thought. And it shouldn't bother her. It shouldn't feel like a tiny, stupid thing twisting in her chest, something nameless and embarrassing.

She's not jealous. She's not. She's just—

She doesn't want to be replaceable. She doesn't want to be forgettable. She doesn't want to be the kind of person people grow tired of.

It's not possessiveness.

It's fear.

Mio has never been good at making friends on her own. She's always had Ritsu, who was bold and loud and dragged her into things before she could hesitate. She had Yui and Mugi and Azusa, who became hers through music, through shared memories and time. She had them because they were meant to be together.

Naya was different. Naya was hers in a way no one else was. A friend she made on her own. Mio had chosen her. And Naya had chosen Mio back.

Hadn't she?

But what if she's not enough? What if she's not interesting enough to keep Naya's attention?

Mio doesn't want to be selfish. She doesn't want to be small. She doesn't want to be the kind of person who measures friendship in who spends time with whom the most. But the thought gnaws at her anyway, sharp and unkind. Because if Naya slips away, what does that say about Mio? That she wasn't enough to make her stay? That she wasn't enough, period?

And isn't that the root of it? The fear that people don't stay? That people find better things, better people, more interesting conversations, easier company?

Mio has always struggled to hold on. Friendships happen to her, like gifts given, like moments granted. And with Naya—Naya is different. Because Naya is hers. Not in a possessive way, but in the way that matters. Because Naya is the first friend Mio made on her own. Mio chose her, and she chose Mio. And if Naya finds others' company more fun, more effortless, then what does that mean?

Not for Naya. For her.

She tries to shake the thought off. It's petty. It's stupid.

Mio knows this is stupid.

She knows that friendships aren't about ownership, that people aren't meant to be kept, that the whole point of caring about someone is letting them be free.

She tries not to be ridiculous about it. Because it is ridiculous.

But the feeling creeps in anyway—the quiet, irrational fear that she isn't enough. That she wasn't interesting enough to keep Naya's attention. That maybe Naya was always going to drift toward something—or someone—more exciting.

It's silly. She knows it's silly.

But the thought remains.

"Mio," Naya calls.

She looks up, startled. "Huh?"

Naya's watching her. "You okay? You're quiet."

"She's always quiet," Ritsu teases.

"I'm fine. Just listening."

Naya holds her gaze a moment longer before nodding. "Okay. Thought we lost you for a second."

Mio takes another sip of tea, swallowing more than just the liquid.

She should be happy. She is happy. She tells herself she is. She repeats it like a mantra.

But she still feels like something is slipping through her fingers.

And she doesn't know how to hold on without holding too tight.

---

Let your inhibitions go
Make every touch electrical
When you're feeling beautiful
Will you remember me?

Mio's books have remained untouched for a long time.

She leans back in her chair, staring at the ceiling. Easily is playing in her headphones. The bassline isn't the best Mio has ever heard, but there's something about it. No wonder Naya likes it. Distorted, but just enough. Good choice of notes, subtle flourishes. A bassline that carries the melody of the song, in the background. You don't notice it unless you're paying attention, but once you are, it's impossible not to.

Like Naya, Mio thinks.

Why is she thinking about her? About that? She doesn't know. Maybe because she's listening to Muse. To Easily.

That must be it.

That's definitely it.

Mio checks the time on her phone. Not too late, but still a bit late. Maybe she should go to sleep. It's not like she's making progress with her studies tonight. She's a bit distracted. Why, she doesn't know.

Her hand travels to the back of her neck, unconsciously. She caresses it carefully, her fingertips barely ghosting over the skin.

I want to touch you deep inside
And find the secrets that you hide
When your fears are cast aside
Will you remember me?

She splays her fingers, cascading them through her raven hair, before sweeping it on her right shoulder.

Her hair is really soft. She knows that. She's proud of that. Though it attracts more attention than she would like. On the street. On campus. Back in high school. In life.

Mio exhales and pulls off her headphones.

The silence in her room isn't really silence. The absence of Easily leaves a hollow sort of quiet in her room, like the song is still playing somewhere in the back of her mind, just beneath the surface, leaving too much space for her thoughts to stretch, to swell, to demand attention.

She reaches for her lyrics notebook, flipping through pages filled with melodies she can't seem to complete.

Half-written verses. Scraps of ideas. Lines scratched out, rewritten, abandoned. Words that once felt promising now feel distant, weightless. She stops at the last page of her unfinished composition. The one she's supposed to complete for the piano. For the end of the year.

It stares back at her, still incomplete, still hesitant. As if waiting for something. For her.

For the right feeling.

She stares at it, trying to find the thread of inspiration she lost again.

Nothing comes.

Her gaze shifts, landing on the shelf by her desk.

Two framed photos, side by side. One in front—Ho-Kago Tea Time, arms slung around each other, grins wide. And just behind it, a photo of her and Kenji. The one he keeps framed in his dorm, too. She doesn't remember placing them like that. If it was intentional.

And next to them, the rabbit plush.

She thinks of the little girl inside her.

The one who pressed stuffed animals to her chest at night, hoping love was something warm, something kind. The one who believed in fairytales, who thought love would arrive in a grand, inevitable moment, sweeping her off her feet, turning the world into poetry.

She's always been a romantic. A fool for fairytales. For the idea of love.

She used to think it was a virtue. A softness inside her, unshaken, untouched by the world's cynicism. But lately, she wonders if it's just childish. If it's naivety wrapped in lace. If it's the reason she's been so blind.

She should have outgrown it by now.

But some part of her still believes. Still wants. Still dreams.

Is that foolish? Childish? To still cling to the idea that love—real love—is pure, gentle, unwavering? To believe that it should be sweet, sweeter than chocolate, the kind of love that makes the world feel softer, that makes you feel safe, that lets you be seen?

Is that a virtue?

Or a flaw?

Maybe it doesn't matter.

Maybe what matters is the fact that she wants it. That some part of her is still waiting, still searching, still hoping that kind of love exists—not just in books, not just in lyrics, but for her.

She opens her notebook to a blank page, picks up her pen and writes.

Deep inside my chest, there is a little girl.
All she wants is a pure thing, fluffy and glistening.

Mio pauses, tapping the pen against her lip.

She knows this girl. She's met her before, in childhood daydreams, in the stories she used to write in her diary, in the way she clung to love songs she didn't fully understand.

This girl still exists. She always has.

But Mio wonders if she's done a good job protecting her.

Or if she's just been shielding her from reality.

Please, gently call out to that girl–
Because even if you can’t see her clearly, she is my true self...
It's me, call me.

She hesitates.

Will anyone?

Will anyone ever look at her and see all the things she hides? Will anyone hold her gently enough, love her softly enough, that she won't feel the need to run, to shrink, to retreat into the safety of her own silence?

Call me.

A plea. A whisper. A hope.

When a heart that breaks easily is decorated with frills, it twinges and cries out.
The day she finds love that is sweeter, sweeter than anything like chocolate,
Is what she is dreaming of.

A love sweeter than chocolate. A love that doesn't sting, doesn't confuse, doesn't feel like something she has to force herself into. A love that simply is.

Has she ever felt that?

Has she ever let herself feel that?

She used to think she had to earn it. That she had to be deserving of love, that if she was perfect enough, careful enough, good enough, it would come.

But love isn't something you win like a prize.

It's something given. Freely.

Has she ever let herself take it?

It's foolish. She knows that. To crave something so soft, so delicate, so simple. She tells herself that she doesn't need it. That she can live without it. That love—if it ever finds her—will be a different kind of thing, something rational, something measured.

But her heart disagrees.

Because deep down, she still wants to be held. Gently. Reverently. Like something worth keeping.

There is a lost and confused girl.
She simply writes out her heartbeats and her tears with her left hand.

Her left hand.

Her fingers. Always hesitating, always second-guessing, always unsure if the next note, the next chord, the next word is right. She wonders if she's the same way with love—if she's spent too long composing with fear, afraid to be heard, afraid to make a sound that might be too loud. Too true.

Music has always been her language.

Even when she couldn't find the words, even when she felt too much and too little at once, music was there. Music understood. Music didn't ask her to explain herself—it simply let her be.

But now, even music feels... blocked. Trapped.

She's running out of time to finish her composition. Running out of time to understand what it is she's trying to say.

Running out of time.

Someone, firmly pull that girl along–
Because as the night goes on, she becomes afraid and unable to move...
It's me, guide me.

Hasn't she always been waiting for someone to pull her up? To see her, to hold her, to guide her toward whatever it is she's been missing?

But that's not fair. It's not fair to expect someone else to be the answer.

She wants to be strong. To be fearless. To stand on her own. To not need saving.

And yet—

The little girl inside her still longs for a hand to hold. A voice to tell her it's okay. A touch to remind her that she's not alone.

Because isn't that what she's always wanted? To be known. To be seen. Not as the Akiyama Mio that people assume—the responsible one, the practical one, the composed one—but as the Mio underneath.

The one who hides behind caution. The one who has always held love at a distance, like something fragile, untouchable.

The one who is afraid.

If you dress a soft girl who tends to retreat in chiffon, will she become a little stronger?

Maybe love doesn't have to be armor.

Maybe it can be soft.

Maybe soft is strong.

Maybe strength isn't about never being afraid. Maybe it's about being afraid and still choosing to reach out. Still choosing to love.

A self that doesn’t just look down with her cheeks red, red like ripe strawberries,
Is what she wants to show.

Mio stops writing.

She rereads the line.

And something stirs in her chest.

A memory. A moment. A feeling—

You are music.

The words echo in her mind, unbidden.

Mio closes her eyes. She exhales sharply.

(No.)

No, this song isn't about that. It's about herself. About the girl inside her. The one she's been afraid to face. The one she's kept hidden, even from herself. The one she has spent so long silencing—she still exists, doesn't she? She still wants something simple, something pure.

Love as a fairytale. Love as a promise that doesn't waver, doesn't demand, doesn't leave.

How childish. How naïve.

How desperately she still wants to believe in it.

Notice her, call out to her, invite her.
She's right here–that little girl.

She closes the notebook, reaches for her headphones and puts them back on.

The song plays again. Easily.

Easily forgotten love.

It's not so easily.

---

June 30, 2011

Yui is draped dramatically across the clubroom table. "Exams are the worst," she groans, forehead pressed against an open textbook she has yet to actually read.

Azusa sighs, neatly organizing her notes. "You wouldn't be suffering if you studied."

"Studying is for nerds," Ritsu declares, flopping into a chair.

"You are a nerd," Mio mutters.

Ritsu gasps. "Mio, how dare—"

Before she can finish, the clubroom door opens. Mugi enters with her signature radiance, golden as ever, carrying a bag of snacks like a benevolent queen distributing rations to her loyal subjects. She beams at them all. "Everyone!"

Heads turn immediately.

Yui gasps dramatically. "Mugi-chan!" She clutches Azusa's arm like she's just seen an angel descend. Azusa, used to this by now, only sighs.

Liz leans back on the couch, appraising Mugi with an arched brow. "Wow. That's some entrance."

Momo blinks. "I–Is it just me, or does she actually glow?"

Ayame hums, nodding as if assessing Mugi's aura. "It's the radiance of a woman with a mission."

"Bet she's got big plans," Sachi grins.

Naya, sitting cross-legged on the couch, glances up. "Do we bow, or...?"

Ritsu bolts upright. "Mugi! You're glowing today. Did you buy a castle?"

"Did you inherit an empire?" Yui adds.

"Did you—" Mio sighs. "Let her talk."

Mugi giggles, setting the snacks down. "I wanted to invite you all to my birthday party on the third!"

"But Mugi-chan, your birthday's on the second," Yui says, tilting her head.

"Yes, but I'll be spending the day with my family," Mugi explains. "So I'd really love to celebrate with you the next day. If that's okay."

The reaction is instant.

"Mugi-chan!" Yui all but flings herself off the chair, grasping Mugi's hands like she's about to propose to her. "Of course we're coming! How could you even ask?!"

"You don't even have to ask," Azusa nods.

"Damn right we're coming," Liz says, propping her chin on her palm. "Like we'd pass up an excuse to throw a party."

Sachi smirks. "I don't know why she even bothered asking. As if any of us would say no. Should we be dressing up?"

"Oh, that would be lovely! But it's nothing too formal, just something nice," Mugi beams. "I want everyone to feel comfortable."

Naya scratches the back of her head. "Sounds great," she says, then pauses, glancing around. "I mean, if you're sure you want all of us there."

"Of course! I wouldn't have asked otherwise. If you want to come, that is."

Ritsu grins. "Mugi, your birthday is sacred. Canceling plans isn't even an option."

"I just didn't want to assume! I know everyone is busy, and I'd hate to take time away from studying."

"Bah," Ritsu scoffs. "It's your twentieth birthday, Mugi! Your coming-of-age celebration! We're obligated to party."

Mugi giggles, looking delighted. "I'm so happy! I was hoping we could do something fun before dinner. I was thinking..." She pauses for dramatic effect. "A game center!"

There's a beat of silence.

"Wait, wait, let me get this straight," Ritsu says. "Mugi, our very own, filthy rich, borderline princess Mugi, wants to spend her big, super-important, coming-of-age, twenty-year-old birthday... at a game center?"

Mugi beams. "Yes!"

The room goes silent for a moment. Yui blinks. Mio tilts her head. Azusa looks vaguely concerned. Liz snorts. Akira just rubs her temples like she's already tired of whatever this is about to become.

Ritsu scratches her head. "Are you sure you don't want, like, a private island? A yacht party? Maybe a hot air balloon that drops us directly into a Michelin-star restaurant?"

Mugi giggles, pressing her hands together. "That does sound lovely, but I really want to experience what it's like to have a normal birthday with friends! You know, just a fun day out!"

"A game center's normal, alright," Ayame says. "Sticky floors, screaming teenagers, flashing lights designed to fry your brain cells—"

"And the sweet, sweet taste of victory when you win a plushie from the claw machine!" Yui interrupts, starry-eyed. "Mugi-chan, this is a great idea!"

"Thank you, Yui-chan!"

"I'll teach you my special claw machine technique, Mugi-chan! It's called 'waste all your money until you win through sheer force of will.'"

"That's not a technique," Azusa mutters.

"Hold on, hold on," Ritsu raises a hand. "First of all, I am a god at air hockey. Second of all, I am a god at DDR. Third of all—"

"You are not," Mio interrupts, already tired before this even begins.

Ritsu gasps, scandalized. "How dare you?! I literally made Yui cry last time because of my DDR skills!"

Yui pouts. "I was wearing sandals! I slipped!"

"Lies," Ritsu declares. "You were intimidated by my raw, unfiltered talent."

"I'm bringing my sneakers this time," Yui says darkly.

"You do that. You'll still lose," Ritsu shoots back, stretching like a boxer preparing for a fight.

Meanwhile, Momo raises a hesitant hand. "Um, I've actually never been to a game center..."

A collective gasp.

"What?" Liz blurts, horrified.

"You've never been to one?" Sachi asks, like Momo just confessed she's never eaten rice.

Momo shrinks a little. "My parents were kind of strict when I was a kid, and then, I just never got around to it..."

"Momo-chan," Mugi says, "this makes it even better! You can have your first game center experience with all of us!"

Momo nods, reassured, but Liz smirks, throwing an arm around her. "Don't worry, kid. We'll turn you into a full-blown delinquent in no time."

Momo pales slightly.

"Okay, okay," Azusa interrupts before anyone adopts Momo into a life of crime. "So game center first, and then dinner?"

Mugi nods. "Yes! I've made a reservation at a lovely Japanese restaurant afterward."

"Wait, wait," Akira leans forward, raising an eyebrow. "So we're going from screaming over UFO catchers to a fancy restaurant?"

"Yes!" Mugi says, delighted.

Azusa sighs. "I need to mentally prepare for the whiplash."

"And our wallets," Sachi mutters.

"No, no," Mugi waves her hands. "I insist on treating you all. I really want to, for my birthday!"

"Mugi, you can't always pay for everything," Mio says.

"But I want to," Mugi insists, pouting. "And it's my birthday."

"Okay, but fancy?" Ayame chismes in. "Like, actually fancy?"

"Yes. A very nice Japanese restaurant," Mugi confirms. "A high-end izakaya with private tatami rooms. Traditional and with beautiful presentation."

"God, I love this woman," Liz mutters under her breath. Mugi blushes slightly.

Ritsu leans over to Mio, whispering, "How much do you think a 'fancy Japanese restaurant' costs in Mugi-terms?"

Mio sighs. "Let's not think about it."

Mugi practically vibrates in place. "So everyone can come?"

There's no hesitation.

"Yes!" Yui says immediately.

"Of course," Mio adds.

"Like I'd miss this," Ritsu grins.

"Obviously," Azusa smiles.

Akira gives a single nod. "Sure."

"Count me in!" Ayame chimes with a bright smile.

Sachi chuckles. "Wouldn't miss it."

Liz smirks, leaning back. "You even have to ask?"

Momo fidgets. "... Y-yeah."

Naya shrugs. "Uh—yeah, sounds good."

Mugi claps her hands together, looking like she might burst from happiness. "Yay! I'll send the details later, but I'm so excited!"

As the conversation shifts to logistics—what time they'll meet, how much money they'll have to set aside for the inevitable claw machine disaster—Mio notices Naya sitting off to the side, looking vaguely confused, nodding along but clearly a little lost.

"Anyway," Akira says, stretching. "If we're doing this, we should get Mugi something nice."

"We already are," Ritsu says, jerking a thumb toward Mio, Azusa, and Yui.

Akira nods. "Yeah, yeah, but we were thinking of doing something too." She glances at Sachi and Ayame. "We're putting together a group gift. Momo, wanna join?"

Momo's eyes widen. "Really? That'd be great! I—um—I wasn't sure what to get her."

"Don't worry, we got you," Ayame says, smirking. "We're going hunting after practice."

"Like, for sport?" Yui asks, horrified.

"No, for gifts," Sachi deadpans.

"Oh. Phew."

Mio exhales, shifting slightly in her seat. They're all preparing something. They all already know what they're doing.

"Naya-chan, what are you going to get Mugi?" Yui asks, popping up beside her.

Naya blinks.

"Uh."

The entire room goes quiet.

"You don't know?" Azusa asks, tilting her head.

"I... I mean, I don't know how presents work... here?" Naya says, frowning slightly.

There's a collective intake of breath.

"Oh, boy," Ritsu murmurs.

Mugi giggles. "No pressure, Naya-chan! Really, your presence is more than enough."

"No, no, wait, wait." Naya looks around, like she's suddenly entered a high-stakes survival game. "No, yo, so, wait—when you give a gift here, it needs to be... wrapped, right?"

"Well, yeah," Ayame says. "You can't just hand something over."

"And the wrapping—it matters, right? Like, a lot."

There's another moment of pause.

Then, Liz starts laughing. "Oh, you poor thing."

"I mean, you wouldn't want to wrap it in red," Akira says casually. "That's for funerals."

Naya's eyes widen slightly. "Noted."

"And if you're giving it to someone, you usually use both hands," Momo says softly. "As a sign of respect."

Naya nods, absorbing this like a soldier being briefed for battle.

"And don't forget," Sachi chimes in, "it's not common etiquette to open gifts immediately in front of the giver. So don't take it personally if Mugi-chan doesn't open your gift."

Naya's expression tenses. "You guys are making it sound like I need a strategy guide for this."

"You kinda do," Ritsu says, snickering.

Naya sighs, running a hand through her hair. "Okay. Okay, I'll figure it out."

She turns to Mio, who has been watching this with quiet amusement.

"What do I do?"

Mio blinks. "Huh?"

"You," Naya gestures. "You know Mugi better than I do. What kind of gift should I get?"

"Well... it's Mugi. She loves anything thoughtful. She loves tea, music, cute things, experiences—"

"Yeah, that doesn't narrow it down," Naya mutters.

Mio chuckles. "Then go with something from the heart."

Naya nods slowly, still frowning. "Something from the heart," she murmurs. 

Mio nods back. "Yeah. Something thoughtful. Something that shows you care. It doesn't have to be big—if she can attach a memory to it, she'll love it."

Naya considers. Then, she pushes herself up. "Cool. I'll figure something out. Gracias, Mio." Without another word, Naya walks towards Liz. "Liz, we need to talk."

Liz lifts an eyebrow. "Damn, what'd I do now?"

"Nothing. Yet."

Naya crouches down beside her, speaking in a hushed voice. Mio tilts her head. She can't hear what they're saying. But she can see Naya's expression. The way she leans in, invested. The way Liz's teasing grin shifts into something more serious as she listens.

Mio doesn't know what they're planning. But Naya cares. She really cares about whatever this is.

And somehow, that stings.

She shouldn't be bothered. She shouldn't be. But the weight in her chest is heavy.

It's stupid. Petty.

But the feeling lingers.

---

Mio's pen hovers above the page.

She stares down at the open photo album, at the memories arranged carefully. The ones she chose. The ones she wanted Mugi to have.

Mugi and Mio, standing side by side at a summer festival, paper fans in their hands, yukata sleeves billowing in the humid night air. Mugi's laughter caught mid-motion, Mio's shy smile peeking from behind the folds of her sleeve.

Mugi and Mio in the clubroom, back in high school—Mugi at the keyboard, Mio at her bass, caught in an unspoken rhythm, the kind only they knew.

Mugi and Mio at the beach, volleyball in the air, sand clinging to their legs. A frozen moment where Mio, mid-stumble, is about to fall spectacularly in her attempt to save the ball. Mugi's hands are reaching out, not laughing at her, but reaching—ready to catch.

A hundred little moments, stitched together in glossy memories.

She can almost hear the sound of it. The echoes of who they used to be.

It's strange. Looking at them now, it almost feels like looking at another person. Another Mio.

The Mio in these photos is younger. Softer. She believed things more easily. Believed in fairytales, in love songs, in the kind of friendships that would last forever, untouched by time, unshaken by change.

She was happy.

And now—

Mio exhales.

She wants to say she's still the same person. But she isn't.

None of them are.

Mugi isn't just the warm, smiling girl from high school anymore. She has new people now. New memories that Mio isn't always a part of.

And Naya—

Mio shakes her head. She shouldn't even be thinking about that. About her. About the way she felt earlier, sitting there, realizing that Naya has entire days, entire weekends, that Mio doesn't even exist in.

It shouldn't bother her.

But it does.

She presses her fingertips into her temple, willing the feeling away. It's childish. It's so childish, the way she wants to be the center of something, the way she hates feeling like she's on the outside looking in.

It's not that she wants to own people. She knows better than that. It's just—

She doesn't know what it is.

She feels lost, maybe.

Like she doesn't fit anywhere anymore.

She looks at the volleyball picture again.

How silly she had been. Caught up in the moment, throwing herself toward something she was never going to reach. A second too slow. A step too hesitant. She had tried—had really tried—but in the end, she had still fallen.

Maybe that's who she's always been. Someone always reaching. Always trying. Always falling just short.

She thought she understood love. She thought she understood friendship. She thought she understood herself.

But maybe she doesn't understand anything at all.

Mio exhales, pressing the tip of her pen against the page.

She writes.

"Mugi, happy birthday."

She pauses.

What do I even write?

That she misses something she can't name? That she feels like she's losing things she didn't even know she had? That she doesn't know how to move through the world without clinging to the past like an old song she refuses to let go of?

She glances toward her desk. The rabbit plush sits where she left it. Kenji's gift.

She doesn't reach for it. Instead, she looks back down at the album.

She tries again.

"Mugi, I hope you know how much you mean to me. You really are one of the best people I've ever met. Not just because you're kind, but because you're you. I don't think you realize how much that means—just being you. You make the world softer, warmer, better. You always have."

A breath.

"You've always had this way of making people feel wanted. I don't think you even realize how rare that is. How rare you are. Back in high school, you made things feel easy, even when I didn't know how to ask for it. Even when I was scared to take up space. You never made me feel like I had to try. I don't think I ever thanked you for that."

Her chest aches.

She grips the pen tighter.

"So thank you. For then. For now. For always. And for whatever comes next. Even if we're not the same people we were back then, I still want to be beside you. Even if we change, even if we grow into different versions of ourselves, I hope we'll always be a part of each other's worlds."

She signs her name at the bottom and closes the album. She stares at the cover for a long moment, fingers pressed against the edges.

The room is too quiet.

She reaches for her headphones, slips them on and hits play.

I just want to let you know
My mind refuses to let you go.
I wanna hypnotize you so.

Mio leans back in her bed, letting her eyes close.

She doesn't know if she'll ever stop feeling like that girl in the photo—stumbling, arms outstretched, reaching for something just out of reach.

But right now, in the dark, with the music playing, with old memories pressed between pages, she lets herself fall.

You will remember me.

Notes:

First off, if you made it to the end—bless you. Second, Mio is writing Hello Little Girl—another hit in the making. And third—Mio. Oh, Mio, my beloved overthinker. Mio's introspection is a bottomless well, and I am but a humble diver.

Writing her is both a joy and an exercise in watching her spiral into existential dread. I love writing about her thought process, especially because she's such a fascinating character to analyze, and I love peeling back her layers—how she wants to be rational, but her heart betrays her at every turn. She's such a wonderful character to do a character study on because she's so thoughtful, emotionally complex, and both incredibly self-aware and completely oblivious at the same time.

And yes, I couldn't resist giving her a little jealousy moment. K-ON! fans, you might remember Ritsu getting jealous when Mio befriended Nodoka, but I firmly believe Mio would have her own version of jealousy. Not the loud, dramatic kind—no, no. Hers is the slow, creeping kind that gnaws at her quietly, whispering: Am I replaceable? Am I forgettable? Delicious.

Also: the bass strap scene? Yes. I did that. For science. For the law. For myself. No regrets.

Oh, and confession time—I completely forgot Mugi's birthday was coming up. And apparently, turning 20 in Japan is a big deal. Which means... congrats! This fic (not long enough already) just got another chapter. But Mugi deserves it, so stay tuned for a Coming of Age moment for our favorite rich girl.

Thanks again to Jules (tsuki_anne) for keeping me sane, and to all of you for sticking with Mio through her emotional rollercoaster. You're the real MVPs.

Chapter 17: I Wish I Could Stay Here

Summary:

Mio celebrates Mugi's birthday in a game center.

Notes:

OF COURSE. OF COURSE I HAD TO SPLIT THE IMPROMPTU MUGI'S BIRTHDAY CHAPTER INTO TWO PARTS BECAUSE I HAVE NO SELF-CONTROL.

In fact, my beta gently suggested (read: begged) that I split it, so here we are—this chapter covers the game center, and next time, we actually make it to dinner.

The good news? I now have two almost-finished chapters in the pipeline.

The bad news? This is officially getting longer than [insert absurdly long thing, e.g., One Piece, the director's cut of Lord of the Rings, an academic paper on the history of cheese].

Also, we're creeping toward 200k words—which, for reference, is more than The Iliad—and the most Mio and Naya have done is take some pictures together. Oh, and Naya touched Mio's waist at karaoke that one time. Scandalous. Truly, the slowest burn in recorded history.

Shoutout (and my sincerest apologies) to Jules (tsuki_anne) for beta-reading this behemoth. Seriously, betas deserve more love—especially the ones essentially beta-ing The Pillars of the Earth every other week.

I Wish I Could Stay Here, by Basement, was released on July 5, 2011.

July 3, 2011

Mugi, in all her refined, tea-loving, classical music-playing glory, has decided to celebrate her birthday at a game center.

Because, of course, to Mugi, a game center is exotic.

She claims it's because she finds mundane things fascinating. But really, it's because she loves watching her friends—college-aged, almost-adults—devolve into chaos over things like claw machines, air hockey, and rhythm games.

The moment they step inside, Mio's ears are immediately assaulted by a cacophony of clinking coins, digital explosions, and enthusiastic shouts. Neon lights flash from every corner, an unrelenting barrage to her senses. It is overwhelming—loud, chaotic, crowded, a sensory overload. She tenses instinctively. Too loud. Too bright. Too much.

She's been here before, of course—game centers were hardly foreign territory—but stepping in with another ten people makes it feel different. The energy is amplified, electric. Ritsu thrives in it. Yui is already bouncing, overstimulated in the best way possible. And Mugi—radiant, effervescent Mugi—positively glows in the vibrant artificial light, hands clasped together as she surveys the chaos with something close to wonder.

"This is so exciting!" she beams. "I've never done this with so many people before."

Mio watches her with mild amusement. Mugi, elegant as always, dressed in a soft pastel dress that flows down to her knees, looks entirely out of place among the flashing screens and neon-lit claw machines. And yet, she belongs—glowing. For someone who could probably rent out an entire arcade if she wanted, she looks genuinely delighted to be here, mingling with the crowd, just another college student out with her friends.

Poor Momo, though—she seems overwhelmed.

The little drummer stands stiffly between Azusa and Yui, eyes wide, as if she's just been dropped into another dimension—and in a way, she has. Momo has never been to a game center before. It's obvious in the way she takes a half-step back, overwhelmed by the flashing screens, the blaring sounds, the sheer number of possibilities. She flinches slightly when a nearby machine erupts with a tinny victory jingle, and Azusa gently steers her aside before  an overly enthusiastic kid can whack her with a plastic hammer.

"Uh," Momo says. "There are so many."

"Ohh, Momo-chan's first game center experience!" Yui gasps. "This is a sacred moment! A rite of passage! We should baptize her in the ways of arcade culture!"

"You make it sound like a cult," Azusa says dryly.

"It is a cult," Ayame smirks. "And we, the grand elders, must show her the way."

"She just means we'll help you, Momo-chan," Mugi reassures her with a bright smile.

Momo swallows hard. "I... I mean, it's a little intimidating, but I do want to try..."

"We gotta break her in properly," Ritsu announces, grinning. "Momo, my dear, welcome to the wild, chaotic, slightly sticky world of Japanese game centers."

"Uh. Thanks?"

"She looks like a baby deer," Sachi comments from the side. "This is gonna be fun."

Liz, however, is already scoping out the machines, arms crossed, lips curled into a smirk. "I'll beat anyone here," she declares. "No mercy."

"Confident," Akira muses. "I like it. I'll destroy you."

"Big words," Liz says. "Let's see if you can back them up."

Mio listens, adjusting the strap of her bag and shifting slightly in her flats. The blouse she's wearing is light and airy, but the button-up shirt tied over it feels unnecessary now, a little too much warmth settling over her.

Or maybe that's just Naya.

Mio glances at her, just to check—to see how she's taking it all in. She looks... exhilarated. Like a kid stepping into a carnival for the first time. It's endearing.

She hasn't moved much from where she stands, but she looks completely fascinated—her green eyes darting from game to game, taking in the flashing neon text and the moving figures on the rhythm games with awe. She traces the animated screens like she's watching something unfold in real time. Her head tilts slightly as a group of boys shout victoriously over a battle game, then she turns—slowly—toward the blaring music of a rhythm game, eyebrows raised in something like fascination.

She's never been to a place like this before.

Mio realizes this all at once, feels it sink into her like a new piece of information that somehow matters. She doesn't know why.

Maybe it's how Naya lingers a little too long, eyes tracing the machines like she's trying to understand them, quietly cataloging each one before moving on. Maybe it's her intrigued, curious gaze, like she's taking mental notes on everything she sees—a quiet kind of wonder, subtle but undeniable.

Or maybe it's the shirt.

Mio shouldn't be thinking about it, but she is. Because Naya's outfit today is unfairly good.

The short-sleeve black button-up fits her too well, hanging off her frame just right—not tight, but structured, effortlessly stylish. Paired with maroon knee-length shorts, a crossbody fanny pack, and worn black Converse—Mio doesn't even care that much about Converse, but on Naya, she suddenly does.

She looks good.

Unfairly good.

"I don't even know where to look," Naya finally says.

"You good there, flamenca?" Liz drawls, leaning against a nearby air hockey table.

"This place is..." Naya exhales, searching for the right word. "A trip."

Ayame chuckles. "Welcome to the wonderful world of Japanese game centers."

Naya rubs the back of her head. "This is next level."

"Oh, this is nothing," Ritsu says. "You should've seen this place back in high school. Remember when we had that DDR war?"

Mio grimaces. She remembers. She remembers how Ritsu almost broke an ankle trying to pull off some impossible jump-spin, how Yui got so competitive she nearly cried, and how she herself had been forced to play despite every fiber of her being screaming no.

"But you have been to an arcade before, right?" Akira asks.

"Yeah, but..." Naya's still clearly processing the sheer existence of this place. "I mean, this is nothing like the arcades back home."

"What's different?" Mio asks.

"Dunno. Maybe it's the vibe. In Spain, most are kinda... old school, gritty, full of guys. Here, it's like—" Naya gestures vaguely at the polished machines, the pastel-colored claw games, the girls in summer outfits chattering as they play rhythm games. "—cute. Flashy. Back home, arcades don't have this many games. And definitely not... whatever that is." She gestures toward a claw machine filled entirely with canned mackerel.

Mio stifles a laugh. "They put anything in crane games these days."

"Don't knock it," Ritsu says. "Sachi once won a whole set of soy sauce bottles."

Sachi, who has been standing quietly off to the side, nods solemnly. "It was a good day."

"This country is something else," Naya mutters.

Mio chuckles, shifting the weight of her shoulder bag. "You get used to it."

"Do you?" Naya raises a skeptical brow before nodding toward a massive Taiko no Tatsujin machine, where two kids are absolutely destroying the drums. "Because that looks like a full-body spiritual awakening."

Mio follows her gaze. The kids are relentless, drumsticks a blur, the screen flashing perfect combo after perfect combo.

Mio huffs a laugh. "Okay, fair."

The moment stretches half a second longer than necessary, Naya's eyes still flickering with amusement, before a sudden startled sound pulls them both out of it.

Momo.

The younger girl has jumped back slightly, eyes wide, staring at the claw machine as if it just insulted her entire bloodline.

"Oh my god," she breathes. "It moved on its own."

Liz snickers. "That's how they work, kid."

"I know that," Momo pouts, clearly flustered, her cheeks pink. "I just—wasn't ready."

Mugi giggles. "Don't worry, Momo-chan! We'll help you figure it out."

Momo nods resolutely, though she still looks like she's just been thrown into an alternate reality where stuffed animals move on their own and Taiko drumming is an Olympic-level sport.

"I think we should start together," Mugi says, looking between everyone. "That way, no one gets lost or overwhelmed."

She looks specifically at Momo when she says this.

"I'll be fine," Momo insists, but her voice is still a little uncertain.

"Yui's already gone," Akira deadpans.

Heads turn.

Yui is already in a crane game corner, shaking the machine violently, her tongue peeking out in determination.

Azusa sighs. "Yui-senpai—you can't do that!"

"It's fine!" Yui yells back, voice muffled against the glass. "I almost got it!"

Azusa marches over before an attendant can notice.

Mio sighs.

"Alright, group mission," Ritsu announces, placing her hands on her hips. "First stop: corrupting Momo's innocent soul."

Momo makes a strangled noise.

The group moves forward, shifting toward the first set of games, drawn toward Time Crisis 4. Akira and Liz immediately volunteer. Mugi and Sachi step in next. Mio slows her steps, watching as the others scatter into the next section of games.

Naya glances at her. "You play these?"

"Not really," Mio admits. "Not my thing."

Naya nods, watching the second game start, Mugi somehow managing to look graceful while holding a plastic gun. The birthday girl accidentally headshots a boss without realizing it. 

"Are you playing?" Mio asks Naya.

Naya hums, glancing at her. "Do I look like someone who plays shooter games?"

Mio tilts her head. She hasn't actually thought about it. But she assumes, because of course Naya plays. Of course she's good. It just... makes sense.

"... Kind of?"

Naya raises a brow. "Because?"

Mio doesn't know how to answer that. She doesn't even question it.

Because of your bass skills? Because of your general coolness? Because of the way you just... exist in the world like you've already figured it all out? Because—

Mio fumbles for a justification that isn't weird, but she comes up blank.

Just because?

That's not an answer. That's not an answer at all.

She doesn't even know why she thinks it. Maybe because Naya always looks like she knows what she's doing, even when she doesn't.

Naya is good at bass. She's good with pedals. She's the kind of person who picks up new things effortlessly—or at least, that's how it seems. She has that natural, laid-back confidence, the kind of effortless cool that makes it feel like she just knows how to do things. The kind Mio doesn't have.

Someone like that? She has to be good at these games. Naya will be frustratingly skilled at this, probably coolly dodging bullets in-game, lining up the crosshairs, pulling off some impossibly smooth headshot, maybe even smirking while doing it.

Mio assumes this like it's a fundamental truth of the universe. It's not even a conscious thought. It's just a fact, an unshakable assumption, as if it's written into the fabric of reality itself.

Naya waits, as if expecting a real answer. When Mio doesn't give one, she just shrugs. "Alright, let's see."

When Mugi and Sachi finish their round, Ritsu eagerly shoves a plastic gun into Naya's hands and drags her toward the co-op shooter. Naya narrows her eyes, sizing up the enemies on screen. The countdown blares in flashing red—3... 2... 1...—and the game begins.

Naya lifts the gun. Shoots.

Miss.

Naya shoots again.

Miss.

She readjusts her grip, furrows her brows, leans in slightly as if that will help. Fires.

Miss.

The on-screen enemies—slow-moving, massively telegraphed targets—shamble toward her in jerky animation. Naya fires five more times in rapid succession.

Miss. Miss. Miss. Miss. Miss.

"... Oh," Naya mutters.

Mio blinks.

Mugi appears at Mio's side, watching with curiosity. "Huh. I don't think I've ever seen someone miss that much before."

Mio barely processes what she says. "I don't understand."

"Neither does Naya, apparently," Liz chuckles.

Naya tries again. The bullet lands nowhere near the target.

Mugi tilts her head. "I think she's aiming where they were, not where they are."

"That's called missing, Mugi," Mio mutters.

Liz cackles from the side. "You do know you have to hit them, right?"

Naya adjusts her grip and tries again. The bullet flies past an enemy's huge, obvious head and lands somewhere in the background.

"Uh-huh," Naya deadpans.

Ritsu is howling.

Mio... Mio is stunned. This is not what she expected.

Because Naya—cool, composed, effortlessly skilled Naya—should be good at this, right? She plays bass. Has good reflexes. Controls her fingers, her pressure, her timing with impeccable precision. Arcade games should be easy for her.

Instead, Mio watches in increasing disbelief as Naya somehow keeps missing shots that should be physically impossible to miss.

And then—

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bangbangbangbangbangbangbang—

... Mio frowns.

Naya is—Naya is button-mashing. On a shooting game.

She's not even aiming. Just firing wildly into the air, her character spinning in place like a drunken disaster, emptying her clip into nothing.

"Naya," Liz snickers, leaning against the cabinet. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Trying."

"This is painful to watch," Ayame mutters.

"This is the worst thing I've ever seen," Akira adds.

Naya ignores them.

Ritsu is screaming and gunning down enemies with terrifying efficiency, picking them off with sniper-like precision. Naya, meanwhile, shoots the ground. Reloads when she shouldn't. Shoots Ritsu's character by accident.

"NAYA, WHAT THE HELL—"

"Oh. I can kill you guys?"

"NO."

"Oh."

Then Naya reloads wrong and drops the magazine on the floor.

"Okay, wait," Liz cackles from the side. "How are you actually this bad?"

Naya, unfazed, reloads with even less coordination, the screen blaring in angry red text:

✖✖✖ PLAYER TWO ELIMINATED

Naya lowers the gun. Shrugs. "Welp."

Mio just... stares.

The others burst into laughter. Akira claps slowly, mock applause. Liz wipes actual tears from her eyes.

Mugi beams at Naya. "That was fast!"

Mio turns to her. "That is your takeaway?!"

Mugi giggles. "I didn't expect a speedrun."

Naya hands the gun off like she just finished a chore. "Anyway," she says. "That was fun."

Mio's brain shuts off. That was... fun? No. That was objectively terrible. That was the worst gameplay she's ever seen in her life.

"That was a waste of money," she corrects.

But Naya doesn't even look remotely embarrassed. She just casually steps back, hands in pockets, watching the others with vague amusement.

Mio is stunned. Her brain refuses to compute.

Liz chuckles. "God, I thought you'd be good at this."

"Right?" Mio blurts.

Naya looks at her. Raises a brow. "Why?"

Mio freezes. She has no defense. No reason for why she assumed. Just that she did.

Momo, meanwhile, wordlessly steps forward, picks up the gun, shifts her stance, locks onto the screen with laser focus, and proceeds to clear the stage in under thirty seconds.

One-shot kills. Headshots every time. Absolute machine. She has already cleared three levels, an idle expression on her face, flawlessly executing kill shots like she was born in a first-person shooter tournament.

By the time the game ends, there's a terrifying silence.

Momo glances at them, fidgeting. "... What?"

Ritsu, eyes wide, whispers, "Holy shit."

Akira leans forward. "Momo. Have you been hustling us this entire time?"

Momo flushes. "N–No! I just—I just played a lot of FPS games when I was younger..."

Mio blinks, still processing the fact that Momo, of all people, is amazing at this, while Naya, of all people, is not.

Yui claps, delighted. "Momo-chan, that was amazing!"

Liz crosses her arms. "You're way too good at this. Not like Rivera over here."

Naya looks totally unbothered.

Mugi, ever the supportive angel, beams at Naya. "You tried your best, Naya-chan!"

Naya hums. "Yeah."

Mio narrows her eyes. This didn't go how she expected. But it was one game. Maybe Naya's good at something else. Maybe the shooting game was a fluke. Maybe Naya's just bad at shooting games. That's fine. That happens.

---

It keeps happening.

Naya, unshaken by her previous loss, steps up to the racing cabinets of Mario Kart Arcade GP 2.

"Come on, Mio. I'll redeem myself."

Liz snorts. "That's ambitious."

Mio narrows her eyes. She's skeptical, but this should be easier for Naya. Racing games require reaction time, precision, control. Naya has all of that. This will be fine.

Mugi slides into the seat behind them, not to play—just to watch.

"Who are you choosing, Naya-chan?"

Naya lazily scrolls through the character list, then selects Luigi.

Liz, naturally, can't resist. "Luigi? Really?"

Naya looks up, unfazed. "What's wrong with Luigi?"

"Out of all the characters, you pick him?"

"He's my guy! We're practically brothers, don't you see? He's Italian."

Mugi's eyebrows shot up. "Oh? Do you have Italian heritage?"

"No. But Spanish footballers complain like Italians, so spiritually, I think I qualify."

Mio sighs. "Just focus on driving."

The countdown blares. Mio's Rosalina accelerates smoothly and takes the lead, focused. Meanwhile, Naya immediately veers off course and flips her kart into a ravine.

Lakitu fishes her out. She slams on the gas. Hits the wall. Reverses. Hits another wall.

Mio side-eyes her. "Naya."

"Yeah, yeah, hang on," Naya mutters, swerving aggressively. She overcorrects. Hits another wall. This time, she doesn't even try to fix it—just reverses straight into another obstacle. Then, inexplicably, she turns completely in the wrong direction.

"Uh, Naya-chan, you're going the wrong way," Ayame points out, her voice a little too amused.

Naya nods, like she's taking notes. "I can tell."

"Why, though?"

"In Spain we drive on the right."

That doesn't explain anything.

Mugi hums thoughtfully. "You know, at this point, I think it is a skill."

Liz looks at her. "What is?"

"Being this bad yet still looking like you're having fun," Mugi says, smiling.

Mio falters. Because—yeah. Naya should be embarrassed. She should be frustrated. But she just shrugs it off, chuckling as she crashes directly into oncoming traffic.

Mugi clasps her hands together. "I quite admire it."

Mio doesn't know what to say to that.

"Oh my god," Azusa whispers. "Oh my god, she's worse than Yui-senpai."

"Oi," Yui protests.

Mio is bewildered.

"How," she demands, "are you this bad at this?"

Naya, spinning out for the eighth time, just shrugs. "Maybe I don't care enough about driving fast."

Akira watches, unimpressed. "Are you even trying?"

"Obviously," Naya says, gripping the wheel harder. It doesn't help. She drives like she's never seen a road before.

Liz shakes her head. "Terrible."

Sachi hums. "Impressively terrible."

Mio just gapes.

CRASH!

"Coño," Naya mutters.

Mio is about to say something, but then Naya starts cursing in bad Italian.

Mugi sighs happily. "I love birthdays."

The game ends. Mio wins by a landslide.

Mio is losing her mind. She can't even laugh. She just—she doesn't get it. Because this should be easy for Naya. It should. She has good reflexes. She should be capable.

"You know the funniest thing about this?" Naya says, standing up as if nothing had happened. "I have a driver's license. I drive in Spain."

Mio chokes. "You what?!"

"You're probably a public danger," Akira says flatly.

"I actually drive pretty well."

"Do you?" Liz grins.

"I should."

Mio, watching this unfold, is experiencing a personal crisis.

Mugi goes next. The birthday girl, seated primly at the arcade console, doesn't quite fit the image of a ruthless racer. She holds the steering wheel delicately, her posture perfect, the picture of elegance, even as the countdown blares across the screen.

Ritsu, taking the second cabinet, grins like a devil. "You know, this is kinda unfair," she muses, elbowing Mio, who stands now beside her, arms crossed. "Mugi literally has a chauffeur. She was probably drifting before she could walk."

Mugi's hands twitch slightly on the wheel. "Ricchan, that's—I—that's not how it works," she protests, already looking flustered.

Ritsu smirks. "Mugi, be honest. Have you ever had to drive yourself anywhere in your life?"

Mugi doesn't answer. The red creeping up her neck is answer enough.

Ritsu cackles. "I KNEW IT!"

Mio sighs, smacking Ritsu's forehead with her palm. "Ritsu, you're embarrassing her."

"I'm just stating facts!" Ritsu gestures dramatically at Mugi, who is now gripping the wheel like it might save her from the conversation. "Tsumugi-ojousama probably gets carried to the store on a silk pillow while someone feeds her strawberries."

Mugi whimpers. "That is—that is absolutely not true!"

"Then how do you get to the store?"

"I... I have someone drive me."

"That's literally the same thing!"

Before Mugi can combust entirely, the race starts. And whatever shyness she had evaporates the second her kart lurches forward.

Mio watches in quiet fascination as Mugi, eyes sharp, expression cool and focused, executes a perfect start boost with her ever-gracious Peach, launching herself ahead of the pack.

"Whoa," Momo breathes, leaning in to watch.

Mugi maneuvers with a precision that doesn't seem possible for a casual player. She drifts effortlessly around turns, collects coins, dodges obstacles, and times her power-ups with inhuman accuracy.

"You—" Mio blinks. "You're actually good at this."

Liz, watching with her usual unimpressed expression, snorts. "'Good' is an understatement. She's absolutely murdering them."

Mugi's kart takes another flawless turn, dodges a banana peel at the last second, and glides over a boost pad. Meanwhile, Ritsu is floundering somewhere in eighth place, swerving wildly before careening off a ledge.

"NOOOO!" Ritsu howls. "DAMN YOU, CAPITALISM!"

Mugi giggles. "You shouldn't have picked Funky Kong, Ricchan. He's too heavy for tight turns."

"Et tu, Mugi?!"

The final lap approaches. Mugi is leagues ahead. The other players don't stand a chance.

And then, just as the finish line comes into view—

A blue shell.

"Ah," Mugi says serenely.

It crashes down, wiping her out in an explosion of color and destruction.

For a brief moment, she is still.

Then she sighs, soft, resigned. "How unfortunate."

Mio doesn't know whether to be impressed or deeply unsettled by how calmly Mugi accepts her tragic fate. But before she can think too much about it, Mugi recovers, drifts elegantly past a desperate Donkey Kong, and crosses the finish line first.

There is a beat of silence.

Then Liz claps.

It's slow, more amused than anything else. "Damn, princess. That was brutal."

Mugi turns, beaming. "You think so?"

Liz leans in slightly, tilting her head. "Yeah," she says, voice lower, smoother. "Didn't know you had that kind of killer instinct."

The atmosphere shifts. Mio feels it. It's subtle, but there's something in the way Liz looks at Mugi—something playful, teasing, but not quite the same as how she treats the rest of them.

And Mugi—Mugi, who just moments ago was composed and elegant, suddenly drops her gaze, her fingers fidgeting slightly where they rest against the wheel. Her ears are red.

Mio stares.

Wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

What.

What was that?

Why did that feel... different?

She glances between them. Liz, still watching Mugi with a smirk. Mugi, now standing up, suddenly very interested in adjusting the hem of her dress.

Mio squints.

Something is going on here.

She doesn't have proof. She can't explain it. But something about this interaction is weird.

She narrows her eyes slightly.

Mio watches.

Liz leans in closer now, elbows propped against the game cabinet, watching Mugi with that same smirk, the one that never seems to leave her face, but—no. It's different this time. More intentional. More precise. A small shift in weight, the slow, deliberate tilt of her head, how her gaze lingers—not just teasing, but watchful. Assessing.

Mugi, for her part, looks—flustered. Which is odd. Mugi doesn't fluster easily. Not like this, at least.

She smooths out the hem of her dress, fixes the nonexistent wrinkles with a strange sort of self-consciousness, the kind Mio has only ever seen when Mugi is trying not to fidget during class presentations. Her ears are pink. Her hands are stiff. Her laugh is a little too airy, like she's trying to fill the silence.

Mio squints harder.

Something is going on here.

She doesn't know what, but she knows that she doesn't know, and the not-knowing is setting her on edge.

It's just Liz, she tells herself. Liz, who acts like this with everyone, who teases with that lazy grin and casual confidence, who never seems to mean anything by it. Liz, who is just a confident, charismatic semi-professional singer with the aura of someone used to attracting all eyes and making anyone who crosses her path sigh.

But this feels different.

Mio can't explain it.

She glances between them—Mugi, still looking anywhere but at Liz; Liz, still watching Mugi with that stupid half-smirk, saying something low, something that makes Mugi blink up at her, hesitate, then—laugh. A little breathless, a little shy.

Mio blinks.

Wait.

She's seen this before, hasn't she?

Little moments. Small things. Passing glances. The way Liz always finds Mugi in a crowded room, the way Mugi's smiles stretch a little longer when Liz is the one making her laugh. That time in the clubroom when Liz had pulled some sort of prank—something stupid, something harmless—but Mugi had swatted at her arm with mock outrage, giggling.

Mio had noticed.

She had noticed, and then she had forced herself to forget, because it was nothing, because she was reading into things again, because this wasn't the sort of thing she needed to be thinking about.

And yet.

She watches as Liz laughs now, quiet, under her breath, as if she and Mugi are sharing something no one else is privy to. Mugi tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, smiling, glancing away, shifting in place, and something in Mio coils. Tightens.

Why?

It's not like it matters.

(But it does.)

Why does it bother her?

(It doesn't. It shouldn't.)

This is nothing. This means nothing. It's not a big deal.

(Then why does it feel like one?)

Mio shifts, crosses her arms, pressing her fingers into her sleeves. Something about this unsettles her, and she doesn't know why. 

But she does. 

Doesn't she?

It's—

It's not that she's—

She's not.

Why would she be?

She has Kenji.

Kenji, who's patient, and kind, and good to her. Who tells her she looks nice when she wears something new, who texts her good morning, who holds her hand when they walk together.

Kenji, who she should want.

(Who you do want.)

... Right?

Mio shifts again, rolling her shoulders. The arcade is loud, bright, too much movement, too much sound. A group of kids rush past, a claw machine buzzes with a win, someone yells in triumph from the air hockey table. She focuses on that, lets the noise drown out whatever this is—whatever she's feeling, whatever she's not feeling.

She watches Liz nudge Mugi's arm, watches Mugi laugh, watches the way Liz's eyes flicker with something easy. Watches Mugi tilt her head just slightly toward her, watches the way it feels like nothing and everything all at once.

Mio looks away.

It doesn't mean anything.

It doesn't mean anything at all.

---

Mio is still grappling with this fundamental shift in her perception of the world as they move on to the next game.

Okay. Fine. Maybe Naya isn't good at shooting games. Maybe she isn't good at racing games. But fighting games? She has to be good at fighting games.

She's quick with her hands. She plays bass like it's an extension of herself. She has incredible control over fine movements. So naturally—naturally—she should be good at this.

Mio assumes this.

The Tekken 6 character select screen flickers to life, a lineup of fighters appearing one by one, each with their own ridiculous flair.

Naya scans them lazily, tilting her head at the sheer variety—robots, ninjas, wrestlers, whatever the hell that guy is—

And then she stops.

There's a long beat of silence. Then Naya bursts out laughing.

Mio jumps. "What?"

Naya points at the screen, still wheezing. "Oh, come on. Of course the Spanish guy is named Miguel. Of course he's called Caballero Rojo—literally Red Knight—like some dramatic telenovela character. And—oh my god, look at him. The pose. The hair. The matador shirt—he looks like he's about to star in a telenovela called Amor, Sangre y Toros."

Mio watches as the screen confirms the selection, Miguel adjusting his over-the-top matador stance.

"I have to play this guy." Naya wheezes again. "This is destiny."

Mio isn't sure whether to be concerned or entertained.

She watches as Naya and Momo go head-to-head. Mio expects Naya to be a strategist—someone who picks up patterns, who learns fast—

But no. No.

Exactly twelve seconds into the match, Naya accidentally jumps off a ledge and loses the round immediately.

Mugi, still watching politely, hums. "Oh dear."

Round two is no better.

As soon as the battle begins, Naya starts mashing buttons—slapping the controller like it personally insulted her. She has no idea what she's doing. None.

Mugi tilts her head. "That's... one approach."

Liz is in tears. "You're a button-masher?!"

"Seems like it," Naya replies.

Mio watches, horrified, as Naya's character somehow executes a full combo by sheer accident.

"Oh, nice," Naya hums, still smashing buttons at random. "Olé."

"Are you just pretending to be bad?" Mio asks, because surely, surely.

"Nope."

Mugi giggles. "You seem to be enjoying yourself, at least!"

Naya presses more random buttons. "I mean... it's fun?"

Mio feels something in her worldview shift.

Naya doesn't even learn from her mistakes. She doesn't even evolve like a halfway competent mammal. If survival of the fittest applied to gaming, Naya would've gone extinct three consoles ago.

It's a massacre. And Momo, once again, effortlessly wins.

Naya blinks. "Wow."

Mio, utterly bewildered, "You didn't even block."

"I don't know how."

Mio looks at the screen, then at Naya. "You just hold back on the stick."

Naya shrugs. "Eh."

EH?!

Momo, flustered, shifts awkwardly. "S–Sorry, I didn't mean to win so fast—"

Mugi beams. "Oh, but Momo-chan, you were wonderful! You have such quick reflexes."

Momo turns bright pink.

Naya, still unfazed by her complete defeat, grins at Momo. "You're like the hidden final boss of this place."

Mio just stares. Still processing.

---

The last hope. Dance Dance Revolution.

Mio brightens slightly. This—this could work. Because Naya plays with pedals all the time. It's her style. Her trademark. Her foot coordination is undeniable.

Maybe she's just bad at hand-eye coordination. Maybe this will be different.

The song starts. The arrows scroll up the screen.

Mio still believes. She shouldn't, but she does.

This is the one. She is so sure. So painfully sure. Because Naya is good with her feet. And timing. And rhythm. She should—should—

Nope.

She's a disaster. A full-body mess.

She steps too late. Then too early. Then completely misses. Her timing is awful. She looks painfully awkward on the platform, stepping completely out of sync with every beat.

Miss. Miss. Miss, miss, miss.

Mugi sweatdrops. "Oh. Oh, dear."

Naya freezes mid-movement. "¿Qué coño?" she exclaims, stumbling off-beat again. "I thought I hit that!"

"You didn't," Liz gasps, doubled over. "Not even close!"

Mio watches, in real time, as Naya physically battles the concept of rhythm itself.

By the time the chorus kicks in, she's just stomping randomly.

"What—" Mio breathes, actually stunned.

"She's off-beat," Azusa whispers in horror.

"She's beyond off-beat," Ayame mutters, watching Naya miss a jump step so badly that the game audibly pities her.

But Mugi is as cheerful as ever. "But you're moving so enthusiastically! That's wonderful."

Naya doesn't seem to care. She laughs at herself, like she's genuinely having fun despite being terrible. Despite having no sense of timing. No sense of rhythm. No sense of anything.

Mio cannot process this. Because—what?

This—this makes no sense.

She physically cringes.

"But you're good with pedals?!" Mio blurts, unable to contain herself anymore.

Naya, still stepping wrong, laughs. "So?"

"You play bass—the pedals—how are you bad at rhythm?!"

Naya—somehow—trips. Misses every beat. Trips again. Recovers, still laughing, not even embarrassed.

Mugi smiles. "Maybe it's just a different kind of rhythm?"

Mio just. Just.

"But she's good with pedals," Mio mumbles under her breath again.

Liz, gasping for air, chokes out, "She's only good at bass and pedals. That's it."

Mugi giggles. "Specialization is important."

Mio can't believe it. She thought. She assumed. She—

She watches, stunned. She can't even be embarrassed for her. She's too busy being in shock.

Naya fails the song. Gets a D rating. Steps off the platform like it was nothing.

Mugi claps politely. "You tried your best, Naya-chan."

Mio can't handle it.

"Naya, this is so bad," she breathes out. "You... You just..." She gestures helplessly at the screen.

"Yeah," Naya agrees, smiling like this is just a fun fact about herself. "Fun though."

Mio malfunctions.

Because Naya should be frustrated. Or embarrassed. Or literally anything. But she's just... enjoying herself. Like it's not a big deal.

And while Naya continues losing spectacularly at everything she touches, Momo is amazing. At everything. She is unbelievably good. Momo had never set foot in a game center before today—yet she's quietly destroying everyone.

Shooting games? Lightning reflexes. Headshots every time.
Racing games? Flawless drifts. Impossible shortcuts.
Fighting games? Untouchable. Perfect combos. Zero button-mashing.
Rhythm games? Top scores.

She is terrifying. And yet—she never brags. Never gloats. She just stands there, slightly flustered, apologizing as she obliterates another opponent.

Mugi beams. "Momo-chan, you have such wonderful coordination!"

"I—I'm really not that good," Momo insists.

Azusa stares at the scoreboard. "You got the highest possible rank."

Momo flushes. "Oh, um. It was just, you know. Luck."

Ritsu grips her shoulders. "Kid, that was NOT luck."

Momo hides behind her hair. "I–I don't know, I just... kinda get the timing?"

Mugi nods encouragingly. "You have a natural gift!"

Momo, panicking, seems to want to crawl into a hole.

Meanwhile, Naya loses another game. Mio doesn't even react at this point.

There's no logic to this. None. Absolutely none.

Naya is terrible at everything.

She sucks at shooting games.
She sucks at racing games.
She sucks at fighting games.
She sucks at rhythm games.

And she... doesn't even care.

Mio watches, struggling to comprehend how someone can be this bad at everything and still have fun. Because Naya does. She laughs when she loses. She grins when she gets destroyed. She never looks frustrated, never looks discouraged, never even tries to improve.

Mugi hums thoughtfully. "I think that's wonderful."

Mio blinks at her. "What?"

Mugi smiles. "That Naya-chan can enjoy something without worrying about being good at it."

And that—that—is what floors Mio the most. Because Mio—perfectionist, overthinker, constant try-hard Mio—would be mortified. She wouldn't just laugh it off. She wouldn't just move on. But Naya does.

Even though she is horrendously, laughably bad at literally every single game. And she doesn't care. She just keeps laughing.

Mugi, watching Naya still grinning, hums thoughtfully.

"Winning is fun," she muses. "But I think playing is the most important part."

Mio... doesn't know what to do with that.

Because Naya just plays, fails, shrugs, and smiles with that easy, lazy, summer-bright smile of hers. And Mio—who has spent her entire life trying to be good at things—watches in stunned silence as Naya, terrible at everything, simply exists and has fun.

Mugi leans in, voice soft. "It's nice, isn't it?"

Mio doesn't answer. She doesn't know.

How does Naya just shrug things off? How does she just move on?

Mio always overthinks. Always tries her best. Always tries to do everything as good as she can. And Naya just... doesn't. It's—it's annoying.

And also... kind of endearing.

Mio frowns at the thought and shakes her head.

---

The moment Mugi points at the arm wrestling arcade machine, Mio already knows this is going to end in disaster.

She can see it—Ritsu's fiery, misplaced confidence. Yui's boundless enthusiasm. Azusa's immediate refusal. Mugi's quiet, eerie amusement. And, of course, herself—stuck between observing and inevitably getting roped in.

Mugi claps her hands together, beaming. "This reminds me! Ricchan, do you remember when we played this back in high school?"

"You mean the time you absolutely destroyed me?"

Mugi tilts her head, radiating innocence. "But that was so fun! We should try again!"

"But it won't be easy this time, Mugi!" Ritsu says, boasting a strength she definitely doesn't have. "I've been training since then!"

"No, you haven't," Azusa deadpans.

"Hey! I lift things!"

"What things?"

"Drumsticks... a grocery bag... sometimes two at once!"

Yui gasps, eyes sparkling. "I wanna try, too!"

And just like that, Mio is trapped in a situation she never signed up for.

The game rumbles to life, displaying an overly dramatic "CHALLENGER, READY?!" in bold red letters. The mechanical arm looks sturdy, intimidating, and very much not meant for humans to play with seriously.

Ritsu rolls up her short sleeves uselessly, only for them to fall right back where they were. "Alright, Tsumugi-ojousama, let's see if all your piano-playing muscles still got it."

Mugi giggles, stepping up to the machine. "I don't know, Ricchan. You might surprise me this time."

Mio highly doubts it.

Round One is Ritsu vs. Mugi.

The game starts. Ritsu puts her entire soul into it. Mugi, smiling sweetly, barely moves. Ritsu shakes from effort. Three seconds later—

BOOM!

Mugi wins effortlessly.

Ritsu stares at the machine, slack-jawed. "H–How?!"

"Good game!" Mugi says, completely unfazed.

Yui bounces on her toes. "Oooooh! My turn!"

Round Two: Yui vs. Machine.

Yui screams dramatically before even starting. Immediately loses. Drops to the floor. 

"I HAVE BEEN DEFEATED. Azu-nyan, avenge me!"

Azusa takes one look at the machine and steps back. "Absolutely not."

Mio exhales. Maybe this is where it ends. Maybe she's safe—

"Mio-chan should try!" Yui exclaims.

Mio freezes. "... What?"

"Come on, Mio-chan, I bet you're strong!" Yui chirps. "You do all that bass-playing, and you're a lefty! That means extra power!"

"That doesn't even make sense—"

Ritsu gasps. "Wait. WAIT. She's right." She turns, her eyes glinting with sudden interest. "Mio, you should totally try. What if you're secretly crazy strong?"

"That's—" Mio starts, but then she sees them all staring at her expectantly. Even Azusa, who had opted out, is watching with mild curiosity.

This is peer pressure. This is how it happens.

She exhales sharply and steps up to the machine. "Fine. One round."

Round Three: Mio vs. Machine.

The game starts. Mio pushes against the mechanical arm, expecting instant defeat. Except—

She doesn't lose immediately. Actually, she's winning.

Mio blinks in surprise. The machine's resistance kicks in, but she pushes harder.

The game yells, "UNBELIEVABLE! SHE'S TAKING THE LEAD!"

Ritsu: "WHAT."

Azusa: "WHAT."

Yui: "MIO-CHAN!"

Mugi: "Oh."

The machine fights back, but for a second—just a second—Mio thinks she might actually win.

Then, her grip slips.

BANG!

The machine pins her arm down in one swift motion. Game Over.

There's a beat of silence. Then, Ritsu bursts out laughing.

"MIO, WHAT THE HELL?!"

Mio rubs her wrist. "I–I almost won?"

"You did! You almost beat it!" Ritsu grins like a maniac. "Holy crap, we've been sleeping on your power! You're a beast!"

"She's the Dangerous Queen," Azusa mutters.

"YES!" Ritsu yells. "Mio, we gotta put that on your band profile—Akiyama Mio, bassist, songwriter, Dangerous Queen."

"Stop it!" Mio groans.

"But it's true!"

"Whose side are you even on?!"

"Obviously not the machine's!"

Mugi giggles. "Well, Mio-chan, that was impressive. Now, shall I go next?"

Mio already knows how this will end.

Round Four: Mugi vs. Machine.

Mugi destroys it in two seconds. The machine glitches in defeat.

Yui collapses to the floor again. "Mugi-chan... you're so cool..."

"That was fun!" Mugi says cheerfully.

Mio is exhausted.

Then, Mugi suddenly sighs. "This really reminds me of that time Ritsu and I went to the game center together before summer classes started in high school."

Mio blinks. "... Wait. That was the day before summer classes?"

"Yeah, remember? I called you, but you said you were too busy studying," Ritsu reminds her. "So I ran into Mugi instead, and we just went."

Something clicks in Mio's brain.

Oh.

She remembers exactly what happened next.

After hearing about their impromptu outing, she yelled at Ritsu. Not because she was actually mad, but because—what the hell? Why didn't Ritsu invite her? Even if she was busy?!

It didn't matter that she had turned Ritsu down—she should've still been asked!

She had been fuming. Absolutely livid. Because—

Because—

She hated feeling left out.

She's an introvert. She likes her space. But she still wanted to be included.

That contradiction had tied her in knots back then. It still did.

Ritsu is grinning at her now. "Ohhh, I remember that face. You're thinking about how mad you got at me."

Mio crosses her arms. "I wasn't mad."

"You literally yelled at me on the phone."

"I was confused!"

"You called me a traitor!"

Yui gasps. "Oh no! Ricchan was a traitor?!"

"YES," Mio insists. "She should've asked me!"

"You said you were busy studying!"

"That's not the point!"

Ritsu cackles. "See? This is what I mean! Even when Mio says no, she still wants the invite!"

Mugi laughs. "I think it just means Mio-chan likes us very much."

Mio turns red. "Shut up."

Azusa smirks. "Dangerous Queen."

"I AM NOT—"

Yui tackles her in a hug. "Mio-chan, we like you too! Very much!"

Mio groans, but she doesn't push Yui away.

She likes them.

She likes them so much it's ridiculous.

And she wouldn't trade this chaos for anything.

---

The night moves in pieces. Groups shifting, flowing like tides, coming together, breaking apart. And Mio watches it happen, standing at the center of it all, untethered.

She watches, distant but present, and wonders when things started to change.

There is something inherently fleeting about moments like these.

Mio notices it in small ways—the way Yui and Akira suddenly bond over a Taiko no Tatsujin battle, the way Ayame and Sachi call Mugi over for a game of House of the Dead. Naya leans against a claw machine, arms folded, watching as Momo struggles with an absurdly large plushie wedged between the claw's merciless grip. Liz is coaching Momo through it, Azusa peering over her shoulder, while Ritsu—well, Ritsu is providing commentary that is entirely unhelpful. And just like that, the current pulls them in, the arcade swallowing them whole.

A haphazard herd of musicians stumbling through the flashing labyrinth of the arcade.

She can't pinpoint when the shift happened, but it has.

She doesn't quite remember when their group expanded so much. There was a time, not long ago, when her world had been contained within just four people, an orbit tight and unshaken, bound by music and shared history, by laughter and late nights and things they never had to say out loud. Ho-kago Tea Time had been the nucleus, and everything else had revolved around them.

The five of them. Her, Ritsu, Yui, Mugi, Azusa. The safe, predictable nucleus of her world. The unshakable core around which she quietly orbited.

But now, the map has changed. The orbit has widened.

It started in pieces—Onna Gumi first, then Ruby Riot. Names and faces that were supposed to be temporary, fleeting, distant. Mio had never planned on making new friends. She had always been content with the ones she had, the ones she had carefully built a home within. And yet, somehow, without her noticing, that home had expanded. A tangle of personalities that somehow worked, that somehow became theirs. And at some point—without noticing it—she stopped considering them as outsiders.

She isn't sure how she feels about that.

She isn't sure how to reconcile the quiet, selfish part of her that wants to freeze time, to keep things exactly as they are—because things are good. Because things are steady.

But time moves. People move.

She watches as Mugi laughs at something Liz says, the two of them shifting seamlessly into conversation as if they've been friends for years, as if they didn't meet barely three months ago. Momo lingers close to Azusa, her eyes darting toward her like an instinctive point of reference, the same way Mio herself once did when she was younger—when she still needed someone to steady her footing, to remind her she wasn't alone. Azusa, in turn, is effortlessly herself around Momo, stepping into a role she doesn't even seem to realize she's playing, adapting to Momo's presence the same way Mio has always adapted to hers.

Mio wonders if that's just who Azusa is—someone others naturally gravitate toward, someone who offers security without even realizing it. And in some ways, it mirrors her own role in the group, the way she has always hovered around her friends, always existed at the edges, always observing, always anchoring. Yet, she is a mentor too.

From the moment Azusa stepped into the Light Music Club back in high school, it was obvious she looked up to Mio because of her maturity, her bass guitar skills, and her more serious nature compared to the other band members. A sort of sisterly bond had formed, each of them seeing in the other the older—or younger—sister they never had. And maybe, Mio wonders, it was something she always wanted. Or maybe not. She's never really thought about it.

But now, that role—the older sister—has quietly fallen to Azusa, and she fills it effortlessly. She knows exactly how to meet the insecurity of a girl like Momo, who, Mio wonders, may have entered her life because the universe wanted to remind her of what she would be like if she hadn't let herself go a little over the years.

But how much has she let herself go, exactly? How much has she loosened the chain?

Mio had made a choice once—to stay with them. To hold on.

She thinks about it now, in the quiet recess of her mind, the decision she never talks about, the one that still lingers like an echo in the back of her thoughts.

The recommendation letter had come during the final stretch of high school—a prestigious music program, an opportunity most would have killed for. A chance to study under some of the most renowned instructors in Japan. The kind of offer that doesn't come twice.

She had turned it down.

She had chosen to stay.

Because how could she leave? How could she willingly separate herself from her childhood friend's stupid jokes, from Yui's boundless energy, from Mugi's warmth, from Azusa's quiet steadiness? How could she trade that for an unknown future in a place where they wouldn't be?

She doesn't regret it. But sometimes, she wonders if she should.

She remembers the look on her parents' faces when she told them—equal parts surprise and quiet resignation, like they had expected it, like they had known before she had.

"You really love them, don't you?" her mother had asked, and Mio—seventeen, headstrong, terrified of change—had nodded without hesitation.

But college isn't high school.

The reality is different here.

They are still together, but not in the same way. They are all here, but they are all changing.

Mio feels it, even if she doesn't say it out loud. Feels it in the way Azusa spends more time with Momo, in the way Mugi drifts effortlessly into new friendships, in the way Ritsu has started spending nights out with Akira's band, in the way Yui has found other people to fill her endless need for attention. They are still a unit, still a whole—but the shape of them is shifting, stretching.

And one day, eventually, inevitably, they will scatter. It's a truth she doesn't want to acknowledge, but it lingers anyway.

Time moves. People move.

And she shouldn't fear it. She shouldn't. But she does.

She glances at Mugi, the first of them to step fully into adulthood. Mugi, who has always been a little ahead of them all—worldly, perceptive, endlessly kind. Who has never feared change the way Mio has. Maybe that's why she always seems to glow. Because she moves forward without fear.

Mugi, who is already twenty.

Twenty.

A number that is supposed to mean something. A number that, in the eyes of the world, carries the weight of adulthood, of responsibility, of legitimacy. The legal threshold of drinking, of voting, of autonomy.

A number that, if Mio is honest, terrifies her.

Because Mugi is twenty. Soon, Ritsu will be twenty. Then Yui. Then everyone. And Mio will still be nineteen—just behind, just a step too late, just a fraction of a year still caught in something before.

It shouldn't matter. And yet, it does.

Because college passes. Because life moves forward.

Because what happens when they're all twenty, and then twenty-two, and then twenty-five? What happens when the structure of their lives stops aligning, when they are no longer tethered together by dorm walls, club rooms, and campus life?

What happens when this—this fragile, beautiful, fleeting sense of togetherness—becomes something that only exists in memory?

Because at some point, the safety of "together" stops being permanent.

She knows this. She's known this for a long time, in that quiet, inevitable way people know that summer will end, that time will keep turning whether they want it to or not.

And yet, she clings to it. To this. To them.

She doesn't want to lose them.

She is afraid of change. Afraid of the day she wakes up and realizes that the people she built her life around—her safe, unshakable constants—are no longer there.

And she doesn't know how to make peace with that.

She exhales, blinking back the tightness in her chest, the unwelcome weight of existentialism creeping in at the edges of an otherwise ordinary day.

She turns her gaze back toward the others, toward the movement, color, and sound, toward the effortless way Mugi threads her fingers through her long, fair hair, smiling at something Liz says.

Mugi is twenty now. And they are all moving forward.

Across the arcade, Naya's fighting with a UFO Catcher full of Doraemon plushies. The traitor, as Naya called him that day at the café, when Naya admitted she had thought dorayakis were filled with chocolate. When Mio realized that what was obvious to her was unthinkable to Naya, and then Naya had opened up like she never had to anyone before.

Mio looks at her. The foreigner.

Because when had Naya become part of this? When had Mio's world stretched far enough to include her?

It's ironic, in a way, but irony has always found a way of creeping into Mio's life. For someone who has spent so much of her existence orbiting the same nucleus—hovering at the edges, revolving around a tight-knit core of familiarity—it is almost absurd, laughable even, how her world has expanded in ways she never expected.

She has never been the type to seek people. Never been the type to welcome change. She has always been content with her quiet place, with the security of known rhythms, with the constancy of what has always been. And yet, somehow, her world has stretched, shifted, rearranged itself into something unrecognizable.

It has expanded past the walls of their old clubroom, past the boundaries of the school they left behind. It has expanded into new friendships, new faces, new conversations that once would have been impossible. And—ironically, impossibly—it has expanded so much that, without realizing it, it has reached the other side of the globe.

It has reached Spain. It has reached her. And that is the part that Mio cannot quite wrap her head around.

Because Naya—Nayara Rivera, who should have been no more than a brief exchange, a passing presence, a temporary figure in the periphery of her life—has instead become something constant. Something here.

Naya, with her unreadable green eyes, her frustratingly effortless existence, her impossible ability to fold herself into spaces she was never meant to belong in—and yet somehow does.

Naya, who doesn't belong to this place, to this country, to this language, and yet is here anyway, navigating it with all the unbothered confidence of someone who refuses to be out of place, even when she feels like it.

Naya, who shouldn't even be here, who wasn't supposed to be part of this story, who is foreign in every sense of the word—

Yet here she is.

And Mio—Mio, who has spent years carefully keeping her world small, who has always resisted the pull of anything outside—finds herself standing in the middle of an arcade, watching Naya—with her slightly detached but present stance, warm in the way a setting sun is warm, unobtrusive but impossible not to feel—trying to catch a Doraemon plushie and realizing that her world is no longer small at all.

It is vast. It is wider than she ever meant for it to be. And Mio doesn't know when that happened.

A country on the other side of the world, yet within reach of just five steps for Mio.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Mio glances at the UFO Catcher. The machine has a mountain of Doraemon plushies as big as Naya's torso, bright blue and white against the glass.

"My little brother loves Doraemon," she says, addressing Mio's presence. "Marcos would lose his mind over this."

Mio nods. "You told me that."

"I did?" Naya asks, not taking her eyes off the mountain of stuffed cosmic cats.

"Yeah, that time we hung out in the café. When we ran into each other at the record store."

"Oh, right! I told you a lot of things that day."

Mio nods again, watching as Naya feeds the machine coins like she's fueling a rocket launch. The claw jerks awkwardly toward the plush, hovering above one, then plunges. It clamps around a Doraemon, lifting it briefly—only for the plush to slip through its grasp.

"Ah, mierda," Naya mutters. Her face is determined now, jaw set as she feeds the machine more coins.

Naya's quiet determination sharpens as she inserts one coin after another. The claw swings into action. Drops. Grabs. Misses.

Naya frowns. Tries again. And again. And again. Mio watches as Naya squints in concentration, another soft curse slipping under her breath.

Mio smiles at the stubborns, though. It's not the first time Naya has talked fondly about her little brother.

"How old is he?" Mio asks.

"Eleven," Naya says, already lining up her next try.

Mio nods. "And you have another brother too, right?"

"Hugo," Naya confirms.

Mio does the math. Naya is nineteen—turning twenty later this year.

"So you're the big sister?" she chuckles.

Naya glances at her, distracted. "Eh?" She blinks, then shakes her head. "No. Hugo's older. He's twenty-four. I'm the middle sibling."

Mio pauses. Nine years between Naya and her younger brother. That's... quite a gap.

"... Oh," she says, unsure of what else to add.

Naya chuckles, eyes still on the machine. "I know."

She doesn't elaborate.

Fifteen tries later, Naya's still clawless, and Mio, standing beside her, is fighting back laughter. She feels compelled to intervene.

"I don't think it's going to work," she ventures cautiously.

"No. Marcos needs this."

"You know it's rigged, right? You'll probably spend more than the plush is worth."

Naya shrugs, her brow furrowed in concentration. "It's not about the cost. It's more out of pride than anything else."

Oh, yeah. Right. Naya's pride. Vaster than the ocean, deeper than her denial, and apparently just as unshakable as her terrible aim.

Mugi floats by at one point. "Having fun, you two?"

Naya gestures to the machine. "I'm getting this for my brother."

"More like trying," Mio teases.

Mugi tilts her head, assessing the situation. Then, with a swipe of her credit card, she buys Naya a stack of coins so high it nearly topples.

Naya looks like she might cry.

One more try. And another. And another one. The claw clamps onto Doraemon's huge head, then his hind leg, then his hand, even his pocket. It even drags it an inch closer to the chute... and drops it again.

Naya bangs her head against the glass of the machine, groaning in defeat.

"Unbelievable."

"Let me try," Mio offers.

Naya steps aside, skeptical. "Good luck."

Mio moves the joystick carefully. The claw descends. Doraemon wobbles precariously before tumbling into the chute. Mio lets out a small, triumphant gasp.

Naya stares at the plush in the prize slot like it's a miracle. "Venga, coño. Okay. Show-off."

"It was just luck," Mio says, handing it over.

Naya blinks.

"Wait—you're giving it to me?"

Mio blinks too. She hadn't even realized she was handing the plushie over.

"Uh—well, yeah? For, you know—for your little brother," Mio deflects.

But Naya, now looking softer while hugging a gigantic Doraemon, smiles at her with something warmer than gratitude. "Marcos is going to love this. Thank you."

Mio feels her cheeks heat up and looks away. "It's nothing."

---

The moment Mio spots the GuitarFreaks & DrumMania machine, she barely even reacts. But Naya does. And when Naya notices it, she stops in her tracks.

"Hostias."

Mio glances at her.

Naya's eyes are wide, locked onto the game like she's just witnessed some kind of divine revelation. She doesn't move for a second, just stares, like she's seeing something impossible.

"... You good?" Mio asks.

"You have this?" Naya breathes. "In arcades?"

Mio frowns slightly. "Well, yeah. Don't tell me you've never seen one of these before."

Mio watches as Naya slowly approaches the game like she's stepping into sacred territory. She doesn't touch anything yet—just scans the guitars, then the drum set, then the screen, trying to absorb it all. She inspects the machines like they're some kind of arcade holy grail.

"There's no way Spain doesn't have Guitar Hero," Mio points out.

Naya turns to look at her, as if remembering Mio exists. "We do. But that's not an arcade game. That's just something your cousin has in their living room and plays at every family party, and then you beg your mother to buy it, and she scolds you."

Mio huffs a small laugh.

"So, yeah, we have Guitar Hero at home, but like—this? A full-ass arcade version?" Naya looks back at the game. "This is insane."

"You act like it's some kind of futuristic technology."

"It is."

"It's not."

Naya shrugs. Mio shifts her shoulder bag as she glances at the familiar black-and-white plastic guitars hanging from the machine.

She knows this game. She's played it before. Not well, but enough to know her way around it. Enough to want to be good at it. But the setup is right-handed. Like always. And Mio is not.

"Looks fun," Naya says, vibrating with unspent energy.

Mio sighs. "You wanna try it, don't you?"

Naya nods, not even attempting to deny it.

Mio shifts her weight. "I guess I could play too..."

Naya turns to her, intrigued. "You've played this before?"

"A little," Mio admits, tucking her hair behind her ear. "It's not that different from Guitar Hero, but... I don't really play much."

"Why not?"

Mio hesitates. Because what is she supposed to do? Explain? Say, Actually, I don't want to play, because I'm a lefty and this game is a cruel right-handed conspiracy against me?

Also, it's not that she doesn't want to play. It's that she's always had a complicated relationship with it. She's competent enough at the right-handed setup—she's adapted, forced herself to get used to it, made it work—but she's still left out. Literally.

Being left-handed means the fake guitars are always wrong. The strum bar feels unnatural. The fret buttons force her fingers to move in ways they're not supposed to. It's frustrating, not because she's bad at it, but because she knows she would be better if the damn thing was flipped.

And yet, every time, she plays anyway. Because she likes it. Even if it never feels quite right.

Mio crosses her arms, looking at the right-handed guitar controller. "It's weird."

"How so?"

Mio plays it off like it doesn't bother her. "I'm a lefty," she says simply.

"I know."

Mio gestures vaguely at the guitar controllers. "Right-handed setup."

Naya makes a small sound of understanding. "And they don't have a lefty version?"

Mio shakes her head. "Nope."

That's how it's always been. Lefties adjust. That's just how things are.

She doesn't expect Naya to get it, though. Most people don't. Most people don't understand that, yes, she can technically use the right-handed setup—it's not impossible—but it's awkward, unnatural, a constant reminder that she has to adjust to a world that isn't designed for her.

But it's fine. She's used to it.

"Okay," Naya says, decisive. "Then I'll play left-handed."

Mio's brows raise. "... Huh?"

Naya is already setting the Doraemon plushie on the floor as a VIP guest at a private gig and reaching for the guitar controller, flipping it upside down.

"What are you doing?" Mio asks, dumbfounded.

"Solidarity. You can't play the way you want, so I won't either," Naya says, strapping on the guitar with zero hesitation "Problem solved, no?"

Mio blinks. Once. Twice. Three times. That's—that's the dumbest thing Mio has ever heard. That's so unbelievably stupid.

"... No???" she says, baffled. "That's not how you fix it—that's not how you play it—"

"I dunno," Naya says, tilting the guitar back like she's actually going to play it that way. "Feels pretty good."

Mio just stares at her. This is so stupid. And yet—

It's also thoughtful.

Thoughtful in the way that only Naya can be—completely unfiltered, completely unbothered by rules, completely unserious about things other people would stress over.

Naya doesn't say that sucks. She doesn't say too bad. She doesn't say guess you'll just have to deal with it. She just flips the guitar upside down and joins her.

And Mio doesn't know what to do with that.

She should be annoyed. She should be exasperated. But instead, she's—Naya's—

—endearing.

No. Wait. Not she. This. This is endearing. The situation.

"That's..." Mio trails off, unsure how to articulate how insanely stupid yet thoughtfully cute this is. "... You're gonna suck," she mutters instead.

"Mio, I already suck. It can't get worse."

Mio snorts. That's fair.

"So, you playing?" Naya asks. "Doraemon is waiting for an encore."

Mio exhales, eyeing the machine. Fine. She might as well.

She steps onto the platform, gripping the other guitar, sighing as she adjusts her right-handed hold. She glances at Naya beside her, with the guitar upside down. It looks wrong. Completely ridiculous. And thoughtfully cute.

Mio hates that she thinks that.

"This won't work."

"It'll work."

"You're gonna fail instantly."

"I already fail instantly."

Mio huffs. "That's not the point."

Mio adjusts the strap. Naya does the same, guitar still flipped upside down, still grinning like an idiot. 

"Pick a song," she says.

Mio bites the inside of her cheek. She doesn't want to pick something too hard. But also—she wants to win. She scrolls through the list, purposefully selecting something medium difficulty. Something she can manage.

The countdown starts. The song begins. And, well—Mio is fine. She's competent. Her fingers fumble slightly at first—stupid right-handed setup—but she adjusts. She finds her rhythm. She can manage.

Naya, on the other hand, is an unmitigated disaster.

The moment the chart starts, her hands flounder. The notes fly by. She completely misses the first strum. Then the second. Then the entire opening riff.

Mio watches in mounting horror. This is so much worse than she thought. Because while Mio is competent, playing with an awkward mirrored setup—Naya is a lost cause.

She's awful. Utterly, profoundly awful. She mispresses everything. Her upside-down hand coordination is nonexistent. She strums on the wrong beats. She misses every single hold note. She's barely even playing. In fact, she's playing like she's trying to lose on purpose.

"Naya—"

"I got this," Naya says, immediately missing every note in a fast section.

"You do not got this!"

Naya just laughs, completely unfazed by her abysmal performance. "Esto es muy chungo."

Mio is actively losing her mind. She has never seen anyone fail this badly at something and still enjoy it.

Naya's fingers aren't even pressing the correct buttons. Her upside-down strategy lasts a grand total of one minute before she realizes she can't physically strum notes that way and just—

Button mashes. On a fake guitar. On a rhythm game.

"Chacho," she wheezes, fingers nowhere near the correct buttons. "I don't even know what I'm pressing."

Mio snorts. Naya is—she's just—she's horrible. Absolutely, comically bad. And she doesn't care. Not one bit. She just laughs, completely unbothered by her own utter failure.

And Mio, against all logic, against all sense, has fun. She actually has fun, actually laughs along with Naya. She doesn't mean to, but it's impossible not to because Naya is so horrifically bad that it loops back around into being entertaining.

Why did she think this would work? Why did she let this happen?

Mio shakes her head, still snickering, still playing. She nails the next phrase, her muscle memory finally kicking in, ignoring Naya's absolute butchering of the song.

"This is a disaster," Mio mutters, chuckling. "I don't know why I expected you to be good at this."

"I have never claimed to be good at anything outside of bass and pedals."

At one point, even the machine gives up. They make it halfway through the song before Naya's score is so abysmal that she fails out entirely, leaving Mio to finish alone.

Naya's score is at 11%. Eleven.

Mio is at 87%. She almost feels bad. Almost.

Naya scoffs. "Wow. Rigged."

Mio looks at her—at the loose, easy way she smiles, at the way she never seems to take failure personally.

She laughs again, shaking her head. "That's the most deserved loss I've ever seen."

Naya shrugs. "Eh. Had fun."

And Mio can't deny it. So did she.

---

The Purikura booth is tucked away in the back corner of the game center, a pastel-lit enclave of cuteness amidst the neon chaos. Its pink frame is adorned with hearts and stars, promising "KAWAII MEMORIES FOR LIFE!" in oversized, bubbly font.

Naturally, they all pile in.

At first, it's a mess of limbs and laughter. Ho-kago Tea Time squeezing into the cramped space together, struggling to fit within the camera frame. Mugi, radiant as always, poses effortlessly, while Yui throws up chaotic peace signs. Ritsu leans in close, grinning wide, and Azusa ends up laughing when Yui insists on "one with cat ears."

The camera clicks once. Then again.

The soft mechanical whirl hums beneath their overlapping voices, beneath the bright neon glow, beneath the laughter. The screen flashes pink, blue, yellow, filtering their faces through a dreamlike haze.

"Ah, it's like Kyoto," Yui says, squeezing into the frame, pressing in too close, her cheek nearly against Mio's. The words spill out of nowhere, completely unprompted, but in the way Yui always has—effortlessly, like flipping to a random page in a book and deciding that the sentence found there must be fate.

Mugi's eyes widen in delighted recognition. "You're right! The photo booth we found in that shopping arcade! The one where Ritsu insisted on wearing those ridiculous sunglasses!"

"Oi, they were cool."

"They were hideous," Mio corrects, but there's no real bite behind it. The memory itself is warm, softened by the years, free of the embarrassment it once carried. A relic of their past selves, silly and unguarded.

Azusa blinks, confused. She wasn't there. A beat of silence, barely perceptible, lingers between them.

Not left out—just separate.

She always was.

Azusa in a different class, Azusa running ahead in the hallways, Azusa arriving one year later, forever half a step behind, trying to catch up. And then, in an instant, Azusa overtaking them all. The underclassman who became their leader. The one who stayed behind when the rest of them left.

It happens so suddenly.

The shift. The realization.

Not just with Azusa, but with everything.

A moment ago, they were cramped together in that tiny clubroom, steam curling from the edges of Mugi's porcelain cups. Yui, careless and unbothered, tossing another of Mugi's snacks into her mouth. Ritsu, flipping a drumstick between her fingers. Azusa, cross-legged, trying and failing to look stern as she scolded them into practicing. And Mio—watching, as always, absorbing, memorizing.

It used to be just them.

Just Ho-kago Tea Time.

Now, there are more faces.

Naya. Liz. Momo. Akira. Ayame. Sachi. Their classmates, acquaintances, people who weave in and out of their lives, adding color and complexity and unpredictability.

Taro. Ritsu's boyfriend.

Kenji. Her boyfriend.

Mio doesn't dislike it.

But something about it is... disorienting.

There was a time when she thought things would always stay the same. That the four of them—no, five—would always exist in the same frame, perfectly centered, never shifting. But change is not a single moment. It is a slow erosion, a quiet rearranging, a gradual unspooling of what once was.

They are still here.

They are still laughing, still pressed together in the tight space of the Purikura booth, still creating memories that will cling to them like static long after the moment ends.

But Mio knows now, with aching certainty, that even the most enduring things are not immune to time.

The flash pops. One. Two. Three. Their faces light up in bursts of pink and blue, their figures overlapping in the tiny preview screen, forever immortalized in sticker form.

This, too, will become a memory.

And then, the group splinters, reshuffling into different combinations.

Mio and Ritsu alone—just the two of them. The duo that's been inseparable since childhood, the pair that grew up side by side. Ritsu drapes an arm over Mio's shoulder, yanking her close in a mock-headlock. "Besties," she declares, and Mio scowls but doesn't resist.

The shutter clicks.

Then, Mio with Mugi and Yui. Mugi, graceful as ever, loops an arm around both of them, pressing their heads together as Yui makes a dramatic heart shape with her hands. Mugi tilts her head, her soft blonde hair brushing against Mio's cheek, smiling with a quiet kind of contentment.

The shutter clicks again.

Mio with Liz and Sachi. Liz throws up a rock-on gesture, Sachi remains eerily serene, and Mio, caught somewhere between amusement and resignation, just goes with it.

Then, Mio with Momo and Azusa. Momo looks nervous, eyes darting between the camera and Azusa, as if she's still unsure if she belongs here. Azusa nudges her lightly, wordlessly reassuring, and Momo's shoulders finally relax as she hesitantly lifts a peace sign.

And so it goes. The combinations shift. The laughter swells. Stickers are printed in sheets, handed out like tiny mementos, crinkling slightly at the edges as they're passed between hands.

Mio doesn't think much about it, not at first. This is what they always do—capturing moments, freezing time in glossy little snapshots, making tangible something that is, by its very nature, fleeting.

It isn't until she finds herself standing by the machine, staring at Naya across the game center, that the thought occurs to her.

They haven't taken one together yet.

The realization comes quietly, slipping into her awareness like a tide lapping at the shore. Mio watches as Naya leans against a claw machine, her fingers idly tracing the strap of her fanny pack, green eyes scanning the rows of games. She looks... present, but not anchored. Here, but not here.

The thought settles in Mio's chest like something unresolved.

She takes a breath. Steps forward.

"Hey."

Naya turns, blinking, meeting Mio's gaze.

Mio gestures vaguely toward the Purikura booth. "Wanna take a photo?"

Naya's brows raise slightly, surprised, before her lips curve into something faintly amused. "With me?"

"Obviously," Mio deadpans, then hesitates, shifting her weight. "I just... thought you should have something to remember Japan by."

Naya's expression flickers—something unreadable passing through her eyes. Then, slowly, she huffs a small laugh. "I have, like, a thousand photos on my phone."

"Yes, but this is different," Mio insists. "It's printed. It's... cute."

The corner of Naya's mouth quirks. "Oh, so you just want a cute picture with me?"

Mio scoffs, heat pricking at her ears. "Don't flatter yourself."

As Mio turns toward the booth, expecting Naya to follow, she realizes Naya isn't moving.

Instead, she's crouched slightly behind the gigantic Doraemon plush, peeking out from behind its oversized head like a poorly disguised spy.

Mio stops in her tracks. Narrows her eyes.

Naya lifts Doraemon slightly. "¡Esto es el gorrocóptero! " she announces in an exaggerated, high-pitched voice.

Mio blinks. Hard.

"... What."

Naya's face reappears. "That's what Doraemon says," she explains, shifting the plush in her hands. "In the opening theme in Spain. You know, the—" She spins her hand vaguely above her head.

Mio stares. "The Take-copter?"

Naya shrugs. "I guess?"

"That makes no sense."

"Doraemon would beg to differ."

"That is not what he says."

"Maybe your Doraemon says something different," Naya retorts, waggling the plushie slightly, "but mine has been calling it the gorrocóptero since the dawn of time."

"That's objectively wrong."

"That's just your opinion."

"It's not an opinion, it's a fact."

Naya gasps dramatically. "You hear that, Doraemon? She's calling you a liar."

"I'm calling you ridiculous."

"Why?" Naya asks innocently. "I didn't say anything. It was Doraemon."

Mio exhales. Long and slow.

"Doraemon, she's mad," Naya whispers to the plush, pressing her forehead against its round blue head like she's consoling it. "She doesn't appreciate your cultural diversity."

Mio deadpans. "Get in the booth."

And Naya does.

The space inside feels smaller all of a sudden. Maybe it feels that way because of the gigantic Doraemon. Or maybe it only feels that way because Mio is hyper-aware of the way their shoulders touch, the way the air shifts subtly as Naya moves, the way the screen's pastel glow softens the edges of Naya's face—makes her seem unreal, like a portrait with no hard lines, only color and warmth.

"Close," Naya comments.

Mio clears her throat, fixing her hair and bangs in the tiny preview screen. "They're all like this."

Pink neon lights flicker around them, the machine greeting them with its overly cheerful, robotic voice.

"WELCOME TO PURIKURA!"

Naya flinches. "Why is it screaming at me?"

"LET'S MAKE YOUR MEMORIES EXTRA KAWAII!"

"And they say I'm the loud foreigner."

Mio chuckles. "Alright, so, uh..." Mio flips through the decorative options on the screen. "Should we do stars? Or—the cat ears are kind of cute."

Naya lets out a low chuckle. "Whatever you like, señorita."

Mio elbows her lightly, ignoring the way her stomach flips at the nickname. "No weird faces."

"Can't promise anything."

Mio sighs. "So, any preference or what?"

"Anything that doesn't make my eyes bigger," Naya says dryly.

Mio snorts. "No anime filter, then?"

"God, no. And nothing with sparkles."

Mio clicks a button. The background floods pink with tiny sparkles.

Naya lets out an exaggerated groan, rolling her eyes, but Mio catches the twitch of a smile.

The countdown starts.

First pose—neutral. Easy. Safe. Both of them standing side by side, relaxed, offering small, natural smiles.

The shutter clicks.

Second pose—peace signs. Playful. Naya lifts two fingers, so Mio copies.

The shutter clicks again.

Mio looks at the countdown. "Okay, let's try not to—"

Her words cut off when Naya suddenly lifts Doraemon between them.

Mio blinks. "What are you—"

"We have to honor him," Naya says, solemn.

Mio sighs. "Honor what?"

"Our shared custody."

Mio presses her lips together, long-suffering. "We do not have shared custody."

Naya ignores her, shifting the plush so it's centered between them, its round face staring directly into the camera. "Alright, you hold his left paw, I'll hold his right."

Mio eyes her suspiciously but complies, grasping Doraemon's tiny hand.

"Now smile like we're a happy family."

The shutter clicks.

Then, just as the countdown for the next shot begins—

Naya suddenly hugs the plush dramatically, half-hiding behind its head, her voice going back to that ridiculous high pitch.

"I am but a humble blue robot cat, lost in a foreign land, betrayed by my companion of twenty years—"

Mio stares.

"—forced into the arms of a stranger, a traveler from the other side of the world."

Mio stares harder.

"I did nothing to deserve this exile—"

"Naya."

"—all I ever did was love my dorayaki—"

"Naya."

"—but alas, my days are numbered."

Mio can't believe this is happening.

The shutter clicks, immortalizing Mio's deadpan stare next to Naya dramatically clutching Doraemon—wide-eyed and vacant as ever—like he's been sentenced to death. A hostage to their nonsense.

Naya peeks at the preview screen and immediately loses it.

"Ay, la hostia," she wheezes. "We look unhinged."

Mio can't even disagree.

"I hate this," she mutters.

"You're framing this, right?"

"I am burning it."

"Yeah, yeah," Naya snickers, clicking through the next settings. "One for you, one for Doraemon."

Mio just pinches the bridge of her nose and tries to remember that violence is not the answer.

Naya lowers the plushie, keeping the photos between the both of them now, and the next round starts. Mio barely has time to think. Barely has time to process why it's suddenly so warm in here, why the scent of Naya's shampoo—something fresh, clean, citrusy—is suddenly the only thing filling her lungs.

Mio's heart is beating a little too fast.

The final countdown begins.

"Okay, last one," Naya says. "What should we do?"

Mio glances at the screen. At their reflections, side by side. "Um. Just smile?"

"Easy."

Naya grins—wide and open, looking directly at the camera.

Mio turns to face it too, but—

But her eyes catch on Naya's instead. And for a moment, she forgets about the timer. Forgets about the small space. Forgets to breathe.

They're close. Too close. Not too close in a way that's awkward. Just close in a way Mio notices. Close in a way she becomes aware of Naya's warmth beside her, the faint scent of her skin, the curve of her smile, the steady way her green eyes meet Mio's in the dim glow of the screen.

Mio hesitates. It's barely a second—a fraction of time. But then, she doesn't think about it. Doesn't plan it, doesn't analyze it, doesn't overthink the way she usually does. She just... moves.

A shift in weight. A small intake of breath. A glance, brief but lingering, toward the preview screen where their reflections are side by side, too neat, too distant.

Mio exhales, then she reaches. Not much. Just a small movement.

Her fingers curl lightly around Naya's arm, a light touch, a quiet press against the fabric of her short-sleeve button-up. Not enough to demand, not enough to startle—just enough to ask. It's not a full grasp, not even a real touch, just enough to be felt. Enough for Naya to understand.

And Naya does.

Naya—always attuned, always waiting for Mio to take the lead—responds immediately. She doesn't ask, doesn't startle—she just reacts, shifting subtly, adjusting, letting Mio pull herself closer in that barely-there way that isn't quite an embrace, isn't quite casual either. A silent, mutual thing.

But then—Naya's arm moves. Not much, just a shift of weight, a quiet, instinctive reaction. Before Mio even registers it, Naya's hand settles lightly at Mio's waist, a barely-there touch, warm and steady. Not holding, not pressing, just there—a silent answer, a presence that says I'm here. I've got you.

And Mio—Mio doesn't pull away.

She doesn't tense, doesn't freeze up like she sometimes does with touch. Instead, something inside her just... settles. Like this is fine. Like this is natural.

Her heart stutters—just a little, just enough to make her aware—but she doesn't move. She lets it happen. Lets herself stay in this small, shared space, lets Naya's touch be something easy, something good.

In fact...

The second their bodies shift, Mio realizes—too late—that she has moved without thinking. A reflex, an instinct, something outside the realm of conscious choice.

One moment, her fingers brush against the fabric of Naya's shirt, tentative, unassuming, nothing more than a touch to test the waters. The next, she is not just near, not just beside—but close.

And not just close—closer.

Her arms have moved without permission, settling along the curve of Naya's shoulders, a gesture too natural, too absent of thought to be dismissed as anything but muscle memory. Except—except there is no memory to draw from, no past precedent, no learned behavior that explains why this, of all things, feels second nature.

She doesn't hug people.

She doesn't lean.

She doesn't do this.

And yet—her body doesn't resist. No instinctive pullback, no stiffness, no cold rejection of warmth the way she has always known herself to react. Her own self-imposed restrictions don't apply here, don't scream for space, don't demand separation. Instead, something quiet inside her just... settles.

The curve of Naya's shoulder beneath her arms. The faint scent of citrus and something vaguely sun-warmed. The way the space between them ceases to be a space at all, dissolving into something intangible, imperceptible, insignificant.

The shutter clicks. The picture is taken.

And then it's over.

Mio inhales sharply. She turns her head, just slightly, and—

Naya is right there. Right there.

A fraction closer. Too close. Just enough that Mio becomes aware of things she shouldn't be aware of—the way her hair falls over her forehead, the easy curve of her summer-bright smile, the way her green eyes, flecked with something gold, flicker over Mio's face like she's memorizing something.

Mio's pulse skips. It's fine. It's nothing.

But something inside her doesn't get the memo.

And then—

Then it's gone.

Naya shifts first. Of course she does. Of course she pulls back with that easy, unbothered fluidity, neither hesitant nor abrupt, as though the moment itself were made of water—something to slip through, something to let go. She's practiced in this, in the art of knowing when. When to hold, when to loosen, when to give space before it is asked for.

Mio feels the absence immediately.

The air cools where Naya's hand had been. The place on her waist—warm only seconds ago—is untouched now, empty in a way it should not be, in a way that should not be noticeable.

Except it is.

Her body registers it before her mind can make sense of the loss. The lack of weight. The lack of presence. The loss of something she had not known she wanted.

A strange feeling unfurls in her chest, something foreign, something dangerous, something that—

(No, not wanted. That's not the word. Not the right one.)

It shouldn't matter. It shouldn't feel like this. It shouldn't—

Mio inhales sharply, jaw tightening.

She doesn't miss touch. She doesn't long for it. She's not the kind of person who seeks closeness, who craves it, who notices its absence like a phantom limb.

She has never been that person.

(Except you notice now.)

She has spent years believing she was averse to this. That her body would always reject, resist, recoil. That touch, in all its forms, was something to endure, never something to want.

And yet—

Yet, Naya's hand not being there is something she wants to undo.

The thought comes unbidden, too quick, too quiet, too insidious to be stopped before it settles.

And when it does—

Everything inside her unravels.

The machine bursts into life again, thanking them in its peppy, robotic voice.

"THANK YOU FOR USING PURIKURA! PRINTING YOUR CUTE MEMORIES NOW!"

The pictures are done, the world filters back in, and outside this tiny booth, there are friends waiting, a world still spinning, a summer that won't last forever.

Mio presses a button and collects the photo strips from the slot. She hands one to Naya, fingers brushing hers.

Naya holds up her photo strip, glancing at it. And for a moment, just a moment, something flickers in Naya's expression. Her gaze lingers—not on the whole picture, but on that last frame. On the way they're close, the way Mio is hugging her by her shoulders, the way her own arm is wrapped around Mio's waist like it belongs there.

A flicker of something—hesitation? Worry? Mio can't quite place it. Naya exhales softly through her nose, then flicks her eyes up to Mio, something unreadable behind green and gold.

Mio opens her mouth, unsure why, unsure of what she even means to say—

But before she can speak, before she can ask, Naya's expression smooths over, effortless as always, flashing that easy, lopsided grin. She flicks the strip against Mio's arm, playful, like that moment of hesitation never existed.

"Good memory," she says. "Didn't even make a weird face."

Mio huffs. "Excuse me? And what was that Doraemon thing?"

Naya chuckles, melodic as always. Then, she says, "It's almost dinner time. Let's not keep them waiting."

Mio sighs, steadying herself as she tucks the other strip into her shoulder bag, but the moment doesn't leave her.

It lingers. Clings.

Like the faint warmth of touch long since gone. Like the ghost of something that shouldn't matter but somehow does.

She tells herself it's nothing. That Naya's flicker of hesitation was just a trick of the dim light, a trick of her own overactive mind, a trick of—

(A trick of what, exactly?)

Mio presses her lips together.

Naya had looked at that last frame like it meant something. Like it was something she hadn't expected. Or maybe—maybe something she had.

And Mio—Mio doesn't even know what she expected.

She should brush it off. She should move on. She should follow Naya out of this tiny, air-conditioned box, back into the noise of the game center, back to their friends, back to normalcy.

But as she steps forward, as she follows the sound of Naya's voice, a quiet something curls in her chest.

A weight. A question. A contradiction.

Because Naya pulled away so easily, so naturally, without second thought. And yet—

Yet, Mio had felt that loss. She had noticed.

And noticing—it's worse than anything. Worse than the moment itself. Worse than the brush of fingers, worse than the click of the shutter, worse than the unspoken thing lingering between them.

Noticing means something is there.

(And something being there means it has to be reckoned with.)

Mio exhales, too slow, too careful, as if releasing it any faster might make something slip.

She keeps walking. Keeps moving forward.

Where to, she doesn't know.

Notes:

Me in Chapter 9: "Oh no, is 10k too much? Am I annoying? Do people secretly hate my word count? Should I learn to condense? This is probably full of unnecessary scenes I should cut. You all think I overwrite, don't you? :("

Me in Chapter 17: "Anyway, here's an almost 15k monster of Mio spiraling like a champion in a game center and a bunch of absurd scenes I found way too funny to delete. Also, there's sticker booth tension. Hope you've cleared your schedule. Enjoy."

Mio could solve all her problems with therapy, but since she refuses to go, we now have an almost 200k+ (and counting) slow burn. This is her fault. Blame her. (I do.) At this rate? Expect at least another 50k before Mio and Naya so much as hug. You're welcome.

Massive thanks to Jules (tsuki_anne), who somehow puts up with beta-reading this beast every time I unleash another chapter. And thanks to you, dear reader, for enduring this.

(By the way, I watched Kimi no Iro, Yamada's latest film. Not perfect, but pretty cute. Such bangers. Love to see how she evolves as a storyteller. And I'd totally have a crush on Kimi, too lmao.)

Chapter 18: Two-Way Mirror

Summary:

Mio celebrates Mugi's birthday in a high-end izakaya and laughs a lot with Naya. Dangerously, too much.

Notes:

Me in Chapter 17: "Here, have 15k words of Mio spiraling in a game center."

Me in Chapter 18: "And now, here's another 11k of Mio spiraling in a fancy izakaya. Balance."

Yes, we are still at Mugi's birthday. No, I don't regret it. Mio is overthinking, Naya is committing light crimes against Japanese dining etiquette, and Mugi is just so effortlessly elegant that we all love our rich birthday girl. Also, some bonus existential crises. And second also, four months into this fic and more than 200k words for the slowest of slow burns. You're welcome.

And, as always, a huge thanks to Jules (tsuki_anne) for beta-reading this saga. At this point, you deserve hazard pay for editing something longer than The Iliad.

Two-Way Mirror, by Crystal Antlers, was released on July 12, 2011.

July 3, 2011

Tatami rooms always carry a carefully structured serenity. A way of pressing order on an otherwise chaotic world—aesthetic equilibrium, a deliberate anchoring of past and present, of formality and comfort, of an idealized, unshaken stillness.

Mio has always liked them.

The polished wood. The symmetry. The way light filters through shoji screens in a perfect diffusion, softening the world into something manageable. The way sound folds inward, swallowed by the walls, turning voices into something warm, something distant, something gentle.

There is a reason tradition exists.

There is a reason people cling to it—because tradition means structure, and structure means reliability, and reliability means things don't change unless you let them.

But tonight, the quiet feels fragile. Temporary. Hanging by a thread.

Because Ritsu and Yui are here.

And Liz. And Ayame.

And permanence, Mio is learning, is an illusion.

Mugi takes her rightful place at the kamiza, at the head of the low table—graceful, poised, the perfect host. Ritsu and Yui flank her like chaotic bodyguards, each a perfect representation of their respective brands of disorder. Mio settles beside Ritsu. Azusa beside Yui. Momo beside Azusa. Then Sachi, then Ayame.

Naya, standing near Liz, moves as if to take the open seat beside her. A natural choice, given proximity. Given familiarity. Given logic. But at the last second, something shifts—her body betrays her, and instead, she moves without thinking, without hesitating, to sit beside Mio.

It is instinctive. Effortless. Like habit. Like something so natural, it doesn't warrant a second thought.

And yet, Mio's thoughts don't stop.

Liz raises a brow but says nothing, sliding into the seat beside Naya. Akira takes the next open spot, and just like that, the seating is set.

The moment lingers. Not outwardly—no one seems to notice. But Mio does.

She notices the way Naya starts to sit normally, like always—one knee up, weight leaned back, relaxed in that distinct, casual way that makes it seem like she belongs everywhere without trying. Then she stops. A flicker of realization crosses her face, something small, imperceptible, unless you're looking for it.

And Mio is looking.

Naya's gaze flickers across the table, assessing, noting, adapting.

Mugi sits in seiza, poised, elegant. Yui sits criss-cross, comfortable. The others vary, some folding their legs neatly beneath them, some sitting less formally, but all within a certain, unspoken structure. And Naya—who doesn't follow structure, who doesn't bend easily to expectations, who doesn't change for anyone—adjusts.

She mirrors them.

Back straight. Legs tucked. Sitting the way she thinks she should.

Liz catches it immediately.

"First time sitting on the floor, flamenca?" she teases, her voice as casual as her smirk.

Naya deadpans. "Yes. Spain famously has no floors."

Laughter erupts around the table. Mio chuckles too, but her gaze lingers. Because Naya keeps shifting.

She adjusts her legs once. Then again. Her posture is stiff, just a little off, just a little wrong.

She is uncomfortable. That much is obvious.

"You can sit however you like, Naya-chan," Mugi chimes, her voice light and kind. "It's just custom, not a rule."

Naya's shoulders ease. "Right."

She shifts again, abandoning the formal pretense, relaxing into something more natural. Something more her.

Mio stays quiet. Watching. Noticing. Noticing the way that, in her carefully crafted Japanese world, a foreigner is battling with the basics of custom and tradition, struggling against everything Mio has always known and considered correct, natural. Normal.

It should not matter that Naya looked uncomfortable. It should not matter that, for a brief, fleeting second, Naya tried. That she mirrored them, that she folded herself into this setting, into this culture, into the unspoken rules of a space that was never built for her in the first place.

It shouldn't matter.

And yet, Mio feels it.

Feels it like a dissonant note in an otherwise perfect chord, a crack in the structure of something she has always thought of as immovable.

Because this dinner—this moment, this occasion—was supposed to be theirs. A celebration of Mugi, of adulthood, of the years they have all spent together.

She looks around.

And she doesn't recognize the shape of them anymore.

There was a time, not long ago, when the five of them had been everything.

When Ho-kago Tea Time had been the nucleus of her universe. When there had been no Onna Gumi, no Ruby Riot, no semi-professional singers or wide-eyed freshmen drummers or foreign exchange students who sit beside her like it's natural.

There was a time when Mio had been certain of who they were.

Now, the map has changed. The orbit has widened. And Mio doesn't know how to feel about it. Doesn't know how to reconcile the selfish, childish part of herself that wants to freeze time.

Because things are good. Because things are steady. Because if she lets them change, if she allows herself to acknowledge that the edges are fraying, that the boundaries are shifting, that permanence has never been real—

Then she will have to face the inevitable.

That one day, this will be gone.

That one day, this will only exist in memory.

She looks at Mugi, radiant in her twenty-year-old certainty, effortlessly stepping into a future Mio is still afraid to name.

She looks at Yui, at Ritsu, at Azusa, at all the people who have been her constants.

She looks at Naya.

Naya, who shouldn't be here, who was never supposed to be part of this, who is foreign in every possible way—yet here she is. Here, slipping into Mio's life like a song she never meant to write. Here, reshaping the edges of Mio's carefully drawn lines. Here, proof that permanence is an illusion.

Because the world is shifting.

And Mio is running out of ways to stop it.

---

The menu is beautifully curated, each dish written in flowing kanji beside neat little descriptions. Mio lets her eyes skim the delicate brushstrokes of kanji, each dish rendered with a precision that suggests exclusivity.

The waiter kneels beside them, attentive, deferential. The room bends toward Mugi as if she is meant to command it, and without hesitation, she does.

The waiter kneels beside the table, attentive, deferential, and Mugi effortlessly takes control.

"We'll have..." she begins, her voice smooth, elegant. She lists selections with the ease of someone who has done this before, speaking in that way only Mugi can—graceful, decisive, refined but warm. The words slip from her lips in a cadence that turns a simple act into something artistic, the kind of refinement that can't be learned, only inherited.

Once again, Mio is reminded that there are entire worlds within Mugi that she will never fully understand.

The others, of course, accept this without question. They do not deliberate, do not second-guess, do not hesitate. They simply let Mugi decide.

Naya, however, watches Mugi with quiet curiosity. Cataloguing, absorbing, as if she is trying to decipher an unfamiliar chord progression by ear.

Then, the waiter turns to her.

"What would you like to drink?"

Mio hears it. That subtle shift. That tiny, nearly imperceptible modulation in tone—the measured spacing between words, the deliberate enunciation. The slight but unmistakable assumption that she might not understand.

Mio bristles. And so does Naya.

Not outwardly. Not noticeably. Just enough for Mio to see it.

It's a flicker of something restrained, something tempered, something that has been suppressed a thousand times before and will be a thousand times again.

It is, she realizes, the same thing she saw in the record store.

Naya's gaze flickers toward Mio, then Mugi. Just... a check-in.

Mugi, as always, handles it smoothly. "We're sharing, but feel free to ask for something special."

Naya nods, adjusting seamlessly, and orders an iced tea.

The waiter's face brightens, like he has just uncovered a hidden talent.

"Oh! You speak very good Japanese!"

Mio hates everything about that sentence.

Because it isn't a compliment. It's an expectation disguised as one. A pat on the head. A gold star for participation.

She watches Naya's response.

Nothing.

Not even a shift in expression. Just a hum. A neutral, practiced dismissal.

And yet, Mio knows it's not nothing.

Azusa, oblivious to the moment, smiles. "You really have improved a lot, Naya-senpai."

Yui, nodding enthusiastically, chimes in. "Yeah! You sound super good now!"

Mugi, ever warm, ever tactful, adds, "You've been working very hard."

Mio watches Naya absorb the words. She brushes them off with a slight nod, as if they are nothing more than background noise. And maybe, to her, they are.

But Mio isn't convinced.

The conversation moves on, flowing into safer waters, but the moment lingers—like the aftertaste of something bitter. Mio lets it sit for a while, waits until the attention shifts. Then, in the quiet space between conversations, she leans in.

"... Are you okay with that?"

It takes Naya a second to realize what she means. Then, a small shrug.

"It's fine."

A pause. A breath. Like something being pushed back down.

Mio doesn't buy it. But she doesn't push. She nods and tries to let it go.

She isn't sure she succeeds.

Ritsu, as if sensing the weight in the air, disrupts it with a raised glass. "Mugi, our elegant lady of the night, is officially twenty!"

A ripple of cheers follows.

Yui gasps dramatically. "Mugi-chan is an adult! We're just babies!"

Azusa scoffs. "You act like you weren't a baby before."

"I have always been a responsible citizen, Azu-nyan."

"Are you sure about that?" Mio asks, brow raised.

"Mugi-chan can also vote legally now," Liz comments, amused. "Now that's an accomplishment."

Mugi laughs lightly. "Yes, I suppose so."

Naya, casually sipping her iced tea, frowns slightly.

"... Wait, you can't vote?"

Sachi chuckles. "Nope. You have to be twenty for that, too."

"In Spain, you can vote at eighteen."

That earns a collective pause.

"Wait, you can vote at eighteen in Spain?" Ritsu asks.

"Yeah, like most places," Naya says. She seems more bewildered by their surprise than anything.

"Huh." Ritsu considers this for a second. Then, casually, "Man. Japan really doesn't trust teenagers with anything, huh?"

Azusa tilts her head. "You told us you can drink in Spain at eighteen, too, right?"

"Wait, wait," Yui interjects, "So, like, if we were in Spain right now, we could all just drink?"

Naya nods. Yui looks genuinely betrayed.

Ritsu gasps. "Japan, what the hell!"

Liz smirks. "So, you could already be voting for the fate of your country, flamenca?"

Naya gives her a flat look. "What do you think the consulate thing was about? You were there."

"Yeah, and you made it sound like some top-secret mission."

Ayame leans in slightly. "You mentioned something about elections, right?"

"Yep. Just bureaucracy," Naya explains with a shrug. "Since I'm not in Spain, I had to register as an absentee voter at the consulate. Otherwise, I wouldn't be able to vote in the elections this November."

Mio, who had only vaguely pieced together the reason for that particular trip, tilts her head. "Wait, so you had to go in person?"

"Yeah. You have to request the ballot from abroad—it's not automatic."

Akira hums. "So, all this time, you were just trying to exercise your democratic rights?"

"That, and they wouldn't let me leave the country if I didn't update my residency," Naya mutters.

Akira snickers. "Damn. Spain really makes you work for it."

Naya sighs dramatically, slouching slightly. "Tell me about it."

Mio listens, filing the information away. That was one of the times Naya had gone off campus with Liz and Mugi—the three of them, together. Mio hadn't thought much of it before. But now, she wonders.

Naya is someone who shouldn't be here, in a country that isn't hers, in a language that isn't hers, at a table filled with people she didn't even know existed three months ago. Naya, who doesn't belong to this moment, this history, this carefully preserved world Mio has spent years holding together—and yet she is here anyway.

Mio doesn't know what to do with that. Doesn't know what to do with the way things keep shifting, keep expanding. With the way her world has widened into something she never planned for.

---

The conversation swells and recedes. Laughter curls at the edges of the air, a soft static lingering between the low glow of the lanterns and the clink of ceramic dishes. Voices overlap—old ones, new ones, familiar ones that have existed in her life for years and others that should have been no more than fleeting echoes, temporary presences, people who, logically, have no business being here, in this room, at this table, laughing alongside them like they belong.

(They do belong. That's the problem, isn't it?)

Mio picks at the rim of her tea cup, her gaze shifting, tracking the movement around her like a spectator caught in the wrong part of a dream. Across the table, Liz teases Mugi—"Come on, ojousama, you gotta let loose at least a little now that you're a real adult." Yui is locked in a playful argument with Azusa about who would win in an all-you-can-eat parfait competition—"Yui-senpai, that's not even a real competition." "Yet." Momo watches, torn between concern and fascination.

And Naya—Naya sits with her chin propped on one hand, listening to something Sachi is saying, eyes hooded, expression unreadable. Present, but quiet. Solid.

Mio shifts her weight slightly, feeling the firmness of the tatami mat beneath her knees. Something about the sensation grounds her. Reminds her she is real, this moment is real, that she is here, even though some part of her is already slipping into the spaces between thoughts, drifting between memory and inevitability, between permanence and impermanence, between the things that last and the things that never do.

Because time moves. Because things change. Because at some point, without her noticing, their world expanded.

And it's not that Mio isn't happy about it—she is. She should be. Growth is a good thing. Change is natural. The universe expands and collapses in endless cycles, things are meant to move forward, to stretch, to evolve beyond the borders of what once was.

Right?

There was a time—just yesterday, just a breath ago, just a few rotations of the earth back—when it had only been the five of them.

Ho-Kago Tea Time, the unshakable gravitational pull of four voices interwoven with her own, a constellation of laughter and music and something sacred. There had been a time when their world fit neatly within the walls of that tiny club room, a place that had belonged only to them, where the echoes of their sound filled the space, a closed circuit, unbroken, unchanging.

But now—now, there are new voices, new rhythms interlaced with theirs. A new tempo, a new movement, an entire ensemble of people Mio never expected to be permanent, but who somehow, without her permission, have settled into the landscape of her life as though they have always been there.

Onna Gumi—loud, magnetic. Liz—sharp, impossible to ignore. Momo—quiet but present, a hesitation that feels familiar.

And Naya—the outlier, the impossible variable in this equation.

Mio watches her, caught between confusion and inevitability.

When had she become part of this? When had her presence stopped feeling like an anomaly, an unexpected detour in an otherwise mapped-out life? When had she stopped being just a name, just a new club member, just someone on the fringes, and instead become—

(What?)

(Something that matters?)

(Someone you're hyper-aware of, even when you don't want to be?)

The meal continues. Mio keeps watching. And Naya keeps committing micro-crimes against Japanese dining etiquette.

She picks up a piece of sushi and dips it rice-first into the soy sauce.
She bites into a tempura piece in multiple bites instead of eating it whole.
She rests her chopsticks across her plate instead of the holder.

When the waiter sets down an entire grilled fish, presented whole, the delicate char of the skin glistening under the warm restaurant lights—the moment it is placed in front of them, Naya goes completely still.

Mio blinks.

"You good there?" Liz snickers. "Never seen a fish before?"

"Not one staring back at me," Naya replies, deadpan.

Mugi, of course, is already eating hers gracefully, using her chopsticks to separate the flesh in perfect, delicate motions.

Mio watches as Naya navigates the dish with quiet precision—not effortlessly, not perfectly, but with a kind of confidence that doesn't waver. She figures it out, doesn't hesitate, doesn't look to anyone for cues. Mio, instinctively, almost reaches out to correct something—almost reminds her of a minor etiquette detail, almost shifts her chopsticks into a more proper position—but she stops herself.

Naya doesn't need it. She's fine.

As the dinner winds down, conversation drifts back into lightness. The waiter returns to clear some empty dishes. Naya instinctively tries to hand them over. The waiter, practiced and polite, merely nods and waits, as is custom. They take the dishes themselves.

Naya blinks. "Oh. Right."

Ritsu smirks. "Gotta say, Naya, you're handling this whole traditional setting pretty well."

Liz grins. "Yeah, flamenca. Didn't even break anything. I'm impressed."

Naya snorts. "Gee, thanks."

And then—Mugi casually drops the bomb.

"Well, she was already familiar with some of it. I explained a few etiquette things to her beforehand."

Mio freezes.

Wait.

What?

Mugi did?

Mio processes. Tries to make sense of it. So Naya wasn't completely clueless. Mugi had already taken care of it, had already been the one to explain things, to make sure Naya wasn't lost, to prepare her, to help her—

So why had Mio felt the need to?

Why did it feel like something hers to do?

Why did it feel different when she was the one helping?

And before she can stop herself—before she can shove the thought down into the recesses of her mind, where it will sit, unsaid, unacknowledged, waiting to surface at a worse time—

Why am I jealous of that?

The realization unspools like thread, too fast to catch, too sharp to ignore.

Mio shoves it down. Swallows around it. She tells herself it doesn't matter. She tells herself it's stupid.

But the thought lingers.

Even as Mugi gracefully refills her tea. Even as Naya casually bumps Liz with her shoulder. Even as the laughter flows effortlessly, the night moving forward, unchanged.

Mio sits there, watching them all.

She doesn't know when this started to matter so much.

---

Dinner passes in a blur of conversation and laughter, but Mio isn't fully present.

Mio watches them.

Not obviously—she isn't staring—but she notices. The small glances, the way Mugi's eyes flick toward Liz between bites, the way Liz, lazy and deliberate, lets her gaze linger a second too long before looking away. It's subtle. Nothing overt. But Mio catches it.

She doesn't know why she keeps catching it.

Maybe because she's paying attention.

She doesn't know why.

It's nothing.

(It should be nothing.)

Liz, effortlessly charismatic, relaxed, smirking at something Mugi says. Mugi, composed as ever—except for the brief second her eyes meet Liz's, a flicker of something unreadable before she looks away.

It's not obvious. Not to anyone else, at least. They're not sitting next to each other, not whispering conspiratorially, not doing anything that would warrant a second glance. But every now and then—just for a fraction of a second—Mugi and Liz glance at each other. Something unreadable. Something almost nothing.

Mio grips her chopsticks a little tighter.

Then, Naya shifts beside her.

"Gonna hit the bathroom," Naya murmurs, pressing her hands against her thighs as she moves to stand. But the moment she does, her leg gives out. And she stumbles.

It's clumsy, almost comically so, her foot catching awkwardly against the edge of the cushion. She tries to steady herself, but her legs are numb from sitting on the floor too long, and before she can regain balance—

She falls.

Right onto Mio.

Mio, on instinct, reaches out—hands catching the fabric of Naya's shirt—shooting up just in time to catch her by the arms before she fully collapses.

They both freeze.

Their faces are close—too close—and for a moment, neither of them moves.

For a moment, it's just that—skin against fabric, the slight press of weight, the heat creeping up Mio's neck. Then Naya pulls back.

"I—" Naya clears her throat, straightening quickly. "Sorry. My legs—uh—stopped working."

Mio blinks. Her heart is doing something weird.

Ritsu grins, barely swallowing down a laugh. "Damn, Naya. So it is true that in Spain you have no land."

Naya glares. "We have chairs."

Mio huffs, looking away. "It's fine," she mutters, but the warmth lingers where Naya had pressed against her.

Still, when Naya actually leaves, Mio doesn't hesitate before standing. "I'm going too," she announces, not looking at anyone.

She follows Naya into the bathroom, not entirely sure why. It isn't premeditated. It's barely even a conscious decision—just something that happens, like instinct, like habit, like something too natural to analyze.

Maybe it's the weight of the evening. The slow, measured unspooling of conversation, the delicate balancing act of presence and absence. Maybe it's the way her mind keeps looping back to thoughts she doesn't want to examine, the way her own voice has started sounding distant to her, detached, like she's watching herself from somewhere outside her body.

Or maybe it's just that she needs a moment.

Mio follows a few steps behind as they weave through the tatami-floored hallway, past sliding doors and soft-glowing lanterns. The restaurant's ambient noise fades into a low hum, the kind that stretches between moments, holding space for thoughts too quiet to be spoken aloud.

She makes her way to the bathroom, washing her hands just after using it, focusing on the coolness of the water, the way it runs over her fingers. The door creaks open, and not long after, Naya joins her at the sink.

The mirror is clean. Pristine. Mio glances, not at her reflection, not at the way her hair is falling slightly out of place, not at the slight crease between her brows, but at something deeper. Something more elusive.

She doesn't recognize it.

It unsettles her.

She shifts her weight, watching as Naya washes her hands, noting the casual ease with which she moves, as if existing in this space—any space—is second nature to her. Mio isn't like that. She never has been. She exists in careful deliberation, in rehearsed motions, in a life that feels mapped out before she even has a chance to question the direction.

She clears her throat.

"Can I ask you something?"

Naya glances at her through the mirror. "You just did."

Mio rolls her eyes. "You hang out a lot with Mugi and Liz, don't you?"

Naya dries her hands, her movements unhurried. "I already told you. Sometimes Liz drags me along."

"I just didn't know you three got along so well," Mio says, a deliberate evasion.

Naya leans against the counter. "Didn't think you cared."

Mio bristles, because that isn't true, is it? She cares. She cares a lot. About what, she isn't entirely sure. It's not like she begrudges Naya making more friends.

(That would be absurd, ridiculous, selfish).

It's not like she's envious of Mugi and Liz getting along.

(Why would you be? It's good that they do).

But something about it—something about them—unnerves her.

"You're the one who told me I should open up more," Naya reminds her, tone light but measured, like she knows something Mio doesn't. Then, a small, wry smile. "I can't isolate myself forever, yeah?"

Mio should be happy. That's what this feeling should be—satisfaction, relief, something pleasant at the realization that Naya has found a place within their group, that Mugi, who is kind and warm and open, has woven new connections as effortlessly as she always has.

But that's not what this is.

It's something more complicated. More selfish.

She tries to name it, but the word evades her, slipping through the cracks of her mind like water through cupped hands.

Mio looks down "That's not—" She exhales sharply. "That's not what I meant. I just didn't know Mugi and Liz got along so well."

Naya tilts her head, as if scrutinizing her. "They just started hanging out more. That's all." She shrugs. "It's not weird."

It's not weird.

It shouldn't be weird.

And yet.

"I just—Mugi was always close to us," Mio says, and it feels stupid as soon as it leaves her mouth. "I mean, last year—she was worried we weren't really her friends, that we only cared about her money." Her voice drops, almost as if she's speaking more to herself now. "She thought we were avoiding her."

The memory comes back too vividly. Mugi's face, so uncharacteristically unsure, her voice hesitant when she finally admitted that Akira's offhand joke had planted something in her—something ugly, something uncertain.

And now, Mugi, who had always held their friendship so dearly, was—what? Closer to Liz? To Naya? How had that even happened? When had it happened? How had she missed it?

(Because you weren't paying attention.)

Naya sighs, leaning back against the counter, eyes flickering toward the mirror. "Azusa goes out with Momo a lot, or with some high school friends. Yui's with her sister or that—uh—Nodoka person?"

A slight static hums in Mio's ears. Nodoka. Right. Yui's childhood best friend. The one Yui's always gravitated toward with a quiet, unconscious ease. Mio never questioned it before.

"Ritsu's always with her boyfriend. And you—" Naya stops, shrugs, like the answer is obvious. "You have your boyfriend, too."

Mio stills.

She has Kenji.

She does. Of course she does. He's her boyfriend. That's how it works. That's how it's supposed to be.

And suddenly, it's there, sharp and crystalline, the truth she's been unwilling to touch.

She has Kenji. She has a boyfriend. She has—by all societal accounts, by the unspoken rules of adulthood, by the narrative she's constructed for herself—the life she is supposed to have. Studies. University. Boyfriend. Work. Future.

She has played her role.

She has done what is expected of her.

And she hasn't even done that well. She has tried—or she thinks she has. She knows she's trying, with everything in her, with all her will—just as she also knows she isn't up to the task. That each attempt remains nothing more than a hollow anecdote, proof that she is incapable of what she should be, of following the path laid out for her.

And in doing so—in trying to do so—she has—

(Abandoned them.)

No. That's not it. That's not fair. That's not what happened.

But—

But.

She thinks of Mugi last year, worried that they only liked her for her money, hurt by the distance she had perceived between them. How Mio, Yui, and Ritsu had been so preoccupied planning a surprise for her, collecting money for a gift that would prove—what? That their friendship was real? That Mugi was irreplaceable?

And now—

Mugi, who once clung so tightly to them, who once sought their presence with quiet, unshakable devotion, now sits across from Liz, sharing glances, understanding something unspoken.

Mugi, who now has other people to turn to.

Mugi, who is no longer—

Waiting for them.

(Waiting for you.)

Mio grips the sink.

She hadn't even noticed it happening. The shift. The quiet rearranging of dynamics. The way time moves on whether or not she is ready for it.

She thought she was holding onto the life she was supposed to have. She thought she was preserving something sacred, something certain.

But maybe—

Maybe in trying to hold on, she let go first.

She shifts, something cold curling in her stomach. It's not like she forgot she has a boyfriend. But hearing it out loud from Naya's mouth, in Naya's words—like that, so plainly, so indisputably—something about it feels suffocating. Heavy.

(You chose this. This is what's normal. This is what you wanted.)

Her hands press against the cool porcelain of the sink. "Right," she says, a little too quiet. "I have Kenji."

The words taste strange. Like she's speaking a line from a script, playing a role she was assigned before she even understood what the play was about.

(Except you do understand. You do. Don't you?)

"And Mugi?" Naya lifts a shoulder. "Sometimes, Liz would invite her somewhere. Sometimes, Mugi would reach out first. Sometimes, she'd find me, and we'd just... hang out."

It's logical. It makes sense. It's an inevitability.

Her eyes flicker to Naya's reflection in the mirror. "So that's why Mugi's been spending more time with Liz?"

Naya exhales through her nose, almost amused. "What, you think she was gonna sit around waiting for you guys?"

Something about that stings. Not because it's cruel, but because it's true. Because it's an inevitability Mio should have seen coming.

Because the fear—the thing that's been gnawing at her chest for as long as she can remember—isn't just about them changing.

It's about her.

It's about how she's changed.

How she's the one who's been pulling away without even realizing it.

How she let it happen, because that's what she was supposed to do.

Because having a boyfriend means something. It means obligations, responsibilities, a place to be and a role to fulfill. It means prioritizing time with him, being good to him, because that's what people do when they love someone. Because that's what love is.

(Isn't it?)

Mugi, who once told them—hesitantly, softly, a trace of insecurity in her usually composed voice—that she had feared they only liked her for her money. Mugi, who had fretted over being left behind, over being an outsider in her own group of friends. Mugi, who now sits across the restaurant, exchanging glances with Liz, smiling in a way Mio doesn't quite recognize.

Mugi, who, when left alone, found companionship elsewhere.

It's obvious, isn't it? The natural course of things. Time passes, people change, new bonds form, old ones shift. This is how it works. This is what adulthood is.

Then why does it feel so much like loss?

Mio's throat feels tight.

She has always been afraid of this—this creeping, silent unraveling. The slow erosion of what once felt immutable.

A year ago, she, Ritsu, and Yui had been scheming, collecting spare yen, putting together enough to buy Mugi that stupid heart-shaped necklace—proof, in some small way, that she mattered, that they cared.

Now, Mugi no longer waits.

She no longer lingers, hoping to be included.

She no longer hesitates, no longer asks.

She reaches out. She finds new spaces to fill.

And Mio—Mio has been too preoccupied to notice.

Too preoccupied with what?

With Kenji?

With being a girlfriend?

With constructing the life she is supposed to have—university, music, boyfriend, future?

(Isn't this what you wanted?)

Her fingers press harder into the porcelain, knuckles faintly white.

Why does it feel like she has been moving forward while something else—something vital—has been slipping away?

But it's fine.

(It's fine, because it has to be.)

She glances at Naya, who is watching her, head tilted slightly, that quiet, perceptive kind of attention that Mio has started to recognize.

Mio exhales, too slow, too measured. "Right," she says, forcing her shoulders to relax. "Of course."

Naya doesn't say anything.

Mio closes her eyes briefly.

They should go back. She should go back.

Instead, she lingers.

As if, in this small, in-between moment, she is waiting for something—an answer, a certainty, a tether to something real.

Yet all she has is silence.

Her thoughts spiral, looping in on themselves like tangled wires. She's been absent. Not just physically, but emotionally, unknowingly pulling away from Mugi while convincing herself that nothing had changed, while wishing that nothing would change. That her life was following the right course. That prioritizing Kenji—or trying to—was what she was supposed to do.

(But then why does it feel like this?)

Am I a bad friend? Am I playing the girlfriend role well enough? Am I doing what I'm supposed to be doing?

Had she really abandoned Mugi? Had she been so caught up in—trying to—play the right role—the girlfriend, the responsible one, the one who does what she's supposed to—that she hadn't even noticed? That she had let things slip away without realizing?

Is this what she's afraid of? A distance she created herself?

Has she been so afraid of losing them that she ended up pushing them away?

(But that's what happens, right? People grow, they change, they—)

She exhales sharply, staring at her reflection, at the tension in her shoulders, the crease between her brows.

Naya, next to her, leans against the sink, watching her in that way she does—like she's piecing something together without needing words. Then, suddenly—

"I'm gonna tell you something," she says, tone casual. "But you have to promise me you'll never, ever tell anyone. Ever."

Mio blinks, snapping out of her thoughts. She turns, wary-eyed. "What?"

"Promise first."

Mio hesitates. If Naya is being this serious about it, could it be something about Mugi and Liz? Did she—does she know something?

Slowly, Mio nods. "I promise."

Naya leans in slightly, voice dropping, as if about to confess some deep, terrible secret.

"... I once had the worst mishap in Japan," she says gravely.

Mio stares at her flatly. Then, she huffs a quiet laugh. "Naya, you've had a lot of mishaps in Japan," she points out.

"No, no, no." Naya holds up a finger. "This—this was catastrophic."

Mio watches her, curious despite herself. "... Go on."

"But I'm serious," Naya insists. "No telling."

Mio tilts her head, intrigued. Naya straightens up, as if she were about to tell the greatest story ever told.

"So before I moved into the dorms in January, I had to come here a few months earlier for paperwork. You know, visa stuff, student registration, all that. I had, like, a couple of weeks in Japan before going back to Spain. Just to get familiar with things."

Mio nods.

"And on my second day," Naya continues, "I went to a shopping mall. And I needed to go to the bathroom."

Mio frowns. "That's the disaster?"

Naya levels her with a look. "No," she says, voice grave. "The disaster was the toilet."

A beat.

"... The toilet."

"The toilet." Naya nods slowly. "I don't know if you're aware of this, but in the West, Japanese toilets have... a reputation."

Mio raises a brow. "A reputation?"

"Yep. They're seen as futuristic supermachines. Gadgets. Something you need a pilot's license to operate."

"I—" Mio pauses. Actually, yes, she does know that. She's seen the occasional viral video, heard the way Western tourists talk about them like some sort of high-tech enigma. It always struck her as vaguely amusing.

Naya gestures vaguely. "See, in Spain, toilets are pretty primitive. You use paper. You flush. That's it. We don't have... buttons."

"Buttons," Mio repeats.

"Buttons, Mio," Naya says, with the solemnity of someone speaking of unspeakable horrors. 

Mio blinks. For her, Japan's washlets are a modern marvel, a perfect balance of hygiene and efficiency. But the idea of them being perceived as some kind of technological enigma is... oddly entertaining.

"So, imagine me, someone who has only ever known boring, stupidly simple toilets, walking into a stall and seeing a device with, like, fifteen buttons on the side," Naya presses on, her expression growing more dramatic with every word. "Well, I was done, about to leave, but I got curious—which, mistake number one—and I figured, 'Hey, what's the worst that could happen if I press one of these buttons?'"

Mio's breath catches.

No.

Naya didn't.

She did.

"So, naturally," Naya continues, "I press one."

A pause.

Mio just looks at her.

"... And?"

"And." Naya's expression flattens. "The toilet tried to kill me."

Mio stills.

"I pick a random button, and suddenly this tremendous jet of water shoots out." Naya's gaze turns distant, like she's reliving some tragic, unavoidable event. "And I mean tremendous. Like, a pressurized water cannon."

Mio presses her lips together, already feeling a laugh bubbling under her ribs.

"I wasn't even sitting down anymore. I was just standing there, watching, and suddenly—BWOOOSH—this insane, violent stream of water just attacks me."

Mio's hands slap over her mouth.

No.

No way.

She can't.

Naya throws up her hands. "I didn't know it was the bidet function!" she exclaims. "How was I supposed to know it would—Mio, it shot a jet of water across the room! Like—it went straight for the door as if it were trying to breach it, performing a Ritsu's drum solo!"

That's it. That's what does it.

The laugh erupts from Mio's throat before she can stop it, sharp, sudden, and impossible to contain.

"I'm serious!" Naya insists, but she's laughing now too. "It was like—that thing had pressure, okay? Pressure, Mio!"

Mio doubles over, gripping the counter for support.

"I barely dodged it, but it kept going. Thirty straight seconds of warfare. Do you understand how close I was to being directly hit?" Naya demands. "If I had still been sitting—Mio, I would have been impaled."

Mio is crying. She is actually crying.

She tries to breathe, tries to compose herself, but every time she looks at Naya, at her utterly exasperated expression, at the sheer injustice written across her face, it all falls apart again.

"And then—" Naya presses her palms against her forehead. "Then I had to deal with the aftermath. Because the floor was soaked, okay? The whole stall was drenched, and I was just standing there like an idiot, trying to figure out how to—how to undo this."

Mio wheezes. "Oh my god—" she gasps, clutching her stomach, tears pricking her eyes. "Did you—did you clean it up?"

"I did my best, but when I finally got out after struggling to clean up the carnage?" Naya sighs dramatically. "I open the door and—boom. A whole group of women just standing there, staring at me like they'd just witnessed the wrath of Poseidon."

Mio's laughter redoubles, echoing against the tiled walls. It feels reckless and warm, a moment of lightness cutting through the tension that's lingered at the edges of her mind.

Naya glares at her, but it's half-hearted. "I had to just walk past them like nothing happened. Like I was a normal, functional member of society. Which, at that point, I was not."

Mio nearly collapses against the sink.

She can't breathe. She's gripping her stomach now, because it hurts, it physically hurts how hard she's laughing, how completely unrestrained it is, how she has not laughed like this in so long. The laugh bursts out of her, sharp, breathless, uncontrollable. She slaps a hand over her mouth, but it's useless—it's happening, it's done, the dam is broken.

It's the kind of laughter that takes her whole body with it, the kind that forces her to bend forward, to grip her stomach, to gasp between each wave.

Because she sees it. The image is too much.

Naya, standing in a stall, wide-eyed in horror, dodging a deadly jet of pressurized water like some kind of action movie protagonist.

The bathroom door suffering the attack instead.

Naya, emerging after the battle, looking like she just survived a war zone, only to be met with witnesses.

Mio's body shakes with laughter. She can't breathe. Her lungs hurt.

Naya watches her, eyebrows raised, amused. "Wow. That funny?"

Mio nods vigorously, still gasping. "I—I can't—I just—Oh my god—" she gasps between breaths. "Naya—why would you—why would you press a random button?!"

Naya crosses her arms, a mock-offended expression on her face. "Listen, I was curious! It's not my fault no one warned me that Japanese toilets are designed for armed conflict."

Mio can barely see through the tears in her eyes. "I can't believe—you almost got taken out by a toilet!"

"Hey, it was a near-death experience! I'm lucky to be alive."

A fresh wave of laughter hits her, sudden and unstoppable. She leans into the sink, gripping it for support, wheezing between each breath.

Naya chuckles. "Glad my suffering is so entertaining."

Mio shakes her head, gasping, still laughing, because it is. It really is. She wipes at her eyes, trying to pull herself together, but every time she thinks she's done, the image flashes back, and she loses it all over again.

Naya's eyes widen. "Oh wait—actually, I just remembered something worse."

Mio, still wheezing, barely registers it at first. But then—worse? She blinks, breathless, eyes still wet with laughter. "What—what do you mean, worse?"

"No, no, this one—" Naya shakes her head, running a hand through her hair like she's about to confess something far graver. "This one was actually humiliating."

Mio leans against the sink, heart still racing, trying to catch up. "What—what could possibly be worse than a toilet trying to kill you?"

Naya sighs, dramatic. "So, you know how I said in Spain, we just... use toilet paper? And then, you know, flush it?" She gestures vaguely.

Mio nods hesitantly. "... Yeah?"

"Well, obviously, that's what I did in the hotel. Because why wouldn't I? That's just what you do."

Mio blinks, trying to understand. "... Okay?"

"Except, apparently, that's not what you do in Japan."

A pause.

Mio frowns. "What—"

And then—it clicks.

Mio's eyes widen. "Wait." She straightens. "Naya, no—"

"Oh, yes," Naya says gravely. "I clogged it."

Mio gasps.

"And," Naya continues, voice utterly resigned, "I had to go down to reception and explain the situation in clumsy Japanese."

Mio slaps a hand over her mouth.

"They asked me what happened, and I told them, you know, I just... used the bathroom. Like normal. And they were all polite and understanding—until they asked exactly what I did."

Mio wheezes.

"And when I said I flushed the toilet paper like usual?" Naya's expression flattens. "They panicked. They were like, 'WAIT, YOU DID WHAT NOW?!' and suddenly—it was an emergency."

Mio loses it again.

"I had like two hotel employees rushing to my room, and I was just standing there like an idiot, and they kept looking at me like I'd committed a federal crime."

Mio can't breathe. She folds, physically folds, into herself, face buried in her hands as she wheezes.

"Stop—" she chokes out, "please—I can't—"

Naya sighs dramatically. "Mio, I was just standing there, having the worst realization of my life, while those men judged me into the afterlife."

Mio screams into her hands.

"Oh my god," she wheezes. "Oh my god—"

"I didn't know! No one told me! How was I supposed to know Japanese plumbing was built different? I was just doing what I always do! How was I supposed to know the toilet had a paper limit?!"

Mio screams—a soundless, breathless laugh that shakes through her whole body as she grips the sink for dear life.

"You should've seen their faces, Mio," Naya groans, shaking her head. "It was like I told them I personally assassinated the Emperor."

Mio doubles over.

"I had to just stand there, apologizing like I'd committed some atrocity, while they politely tried to act like it was fine, but I know they were judging me."

Mio collapses against the counter.

"I swear, I thought they were gonna call the police," Naya mutters. "Or exile me. Ban me from Japan forever. Or worse—plaster my face on every bathroom door in the country with a big red 'DO NOT ENTER' sign, force me to wear a shame bell, and make me carry a government-issued emergency pee bucket like some kind of wandering bathroom outlaw."

Mio is crying. She's dying. She's picturing it—Naya trudging across Japan, shame bell clanging, clutching her sad little bucket, scouting for alleys, side streets, anywhere, while looking at every bathroom door with the mournful despair of a stray dog in the rain—and she—she just—she can't. She just can't.

She has never laughed this hard in her life.

"Naya," she croaks.

"In Spain, that's just what you do!" 

"What, carry a bucket and a shame bell?" Mio manages between hiccups. 

"Wha—no!" Naya exclaims, laughing. "Flush paper! I just—no one told me! I thought I was being normal!"

Mio is hallucinating.

"But wait," she gasps. "Wait. You—" She shakes her head, as if she's suddenly registering the information. "Why would you flush paper in Spain?"

"Why would we—what the fu—Mio!" Naya's face contorts in sheer bewilderment. "Where else would it go?!"

Mio makes an incomprehensible noise. "The trash!"

"The—THE TRASH?!" Naya recoils, horrified, as if Mio just suggested committing arson. "You mean just— marinating in there? Festering? Staring back at you?!"

"It's in a bag!"

"OH, WELL, AS LONG AS IT'S IN A BAG!" Naya says, throwing her hands up. "That makes it SO much better. My god."

Mio can't handle this. She grips the sink, eyes wide. "That's how it works! That's how it's always worked!"

"That's DISGUSTING!" Naya protests.

"That's NORMAL!"

Naya gapes at her. "Mio. No."

Mio gasps for air, the absolute absurdity of the situation knocking her sideways. She can see it, vividly—Naya, standing at the front desk, mortified, while some poor hotel receptionist stares at her like she just committed an international crime.

"No, but—Mio, I was in that hotel for four more days after that. Do you understand?" Naya adds, utterly defeated. "Four more days. Every time I passed those guys at reception, they knew."

Mio is howling.

"I can't believe this happened to you—"

"I lived through it," Naya says, exhausted. "I can't believe I'm telling you this."

Mio's stomach hurts. Her entire being hurts.

She can't even remember the last time she laughed like this.

Not politely. Not in passing. Not because something was socially funny.

But real laughter—the kind that unravels her, the kind that fills her completely.

Oh—wait.

Yes. Yes, she does.

When Naya told her the name of her pedals.

In the past few months, Naya is the only person who has made her laugh like this—that laugh that blurs the lines of time, that erases the past and the future, leaving only the present.

That laugh that makes your whole heart go to heaven and back.

And the fact that it's because of Naya—that Naya gave this to her, this feeling—

Maybe that's what makes this moment so strangely light, so strangely easy—this brief, unguarded lapse in time where nothing else exists but this. No overthinking, no spiraling thoughts, no quiet, creeping fears about permanence or impermanence or the way her world is shifting beneath her feet.

Just this.

Just laughter.

Just Naya, standing beside her in a dimly lit bathroom, telling a story so absurd that Mio's ribs ache from how hard she's laughing, from how completely, ridiculously free she feels in this single, fleeting moment.

She doesn't think about why.

She doesn't think about anything at all.

She exhales, still breathless, cheeks warm, stomach aching.

Naya smiles, and she slips, almost without thinking, "I love your laugh."

Mio freezes, her eyes locking with Naya's.

Naya's expression shifts, realizing what she's said, her cheeks flushing slightly. A flicker of something crosses her eyes, the same unreadable feeling as when Naya looked at the fourth photo they had taken at the Purikura booth.

Mio doesn't know what it is, but she feels it. A quiet pulse of something—unshaped, unnamed, but there. A quiet pull, an undercurrent threading between them, just beneath the surface of something she refuses to name.

It lingers in the way Naya holds her gaze, steady, unguarded, waiting for something Mio can't— won't—reach for.

Naya doesn't take it back. She just holds Mio's gaze, her eyes warm, honest.

And Mio feels it.

She knows she feels it.

(It's nothing.) 

(It's just familiarity.)

(It's just friendship.)

(It's just the moment.)

(It's just the way the light catches her eyes.)

(It's just—)

Then, after a beat—

"Let's head back," Naya says, her voice low.

Mio nods. "Yeah... let's go."

As they walk back to the table, Mio tries not to think so much about it. She exhales, grounding herself, but then—

A flash of memory.

Naya, recounting the tragic tale of her encounter with a high-tech toilet. The betrayal of the unexpected bidet function. The epic battle between her and a pressurized jet of water that simply would not stop.

Mio bites her lip, willing herself to keep a straight face. It doesn't work.

A quiet snort escapes before she can stop it, her shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter. Naya looks at her amused, and keeps walking. Mio presses a hand to her mouth—no, stop, this is ridiculous—but the image of Naya's utterly defeated expression—like a soldier recounting war trauma—is already cemented in her brain.

By the time they reach the table, her cheeks are flushed, her breath uneven—not from exertion, but from trying, and failing, to hold back another giggle. She slides into her seat, exhaling, willing herself to settle.

It doesn't work.

Sachi eyes her curiously. "Uh... Mio-chan? Why are you so red?"

Mio blinks, forcing a straight face. "I—" Her voice wobbles, betraying her. "It's nothing. I'm fine."

"She's fine," Naya says, her tone a little too smooth, a little too amused. She reaches for her drink, taking a slow sip before adding, "She just found herself dealing with unexpected overflow issues."

Mio chokes.

A barely contained snort escapes before she can stop it, and suddenly, it's happening again—her shoulders shake, her hand flies up to cover her mouth as laughter bubbles out, unrestrained, impossible to suppress.

The table stares.

"Wh—what?" Sachi looks even more bewildered.

"Mio? You good?" Ritsu asks, half-laughing herself now, probably just because Mio's completely lost it.

Mio waves a hand, breathless. "I'm fine, I'm fine—"

She can feel everyone staring now, confused, curious, but she can't help it. The way Naya said it—so serious, so impossibly dry—it's too much.

Naya just smirks, watching her, the barest tilt of her head.

Mio catches her gaze, still laughing, still unable to breathe, and she finds Naya already looking back, something soft in her gaze. Something steady. Something quietly, effortlessly fond.

Mio exhales, shaking her head, pressing a hand over her mouth to stifle the last of her giggles.

Mugi, watching both of them, simply smiles.

---

The night air hums with the quiet electricity of a summer evening, thick with the residue of lingering warmth. Neon reflections from the streetscape bleed softly into the pavement, distorting under the rhythmic shuffle of eleven pairs of feet.

The walk back to the dorms is a slow unraveling—of conversation, of the night itself, of the static tension that clung to the edges of the game center and dinner. Their group stretches in shifting clusters, constellations forming and dissolving as words weave between them.

Azusa, Sachi, and Momo engage in easy conversation ahead, their voices lilting over topics Mio barely registers. Liz, Akira, and Naya fall into step beside each other, their dynamic effortless—Liz's sharp humor, Akira's occasional wry interjections, and Naya's low chuckles threading between them in a rhythm that feels natural.

Ritsu, Yui, and Ayame have devolved into some chaotic mess of half-formed jokes, their laughter fracturing the quiet air. Ritsu's animated gestures nearly collide with a passing salaryman, who shoots them a bemused look.

And Mio walks with Mugi.

A quieter pairing.

A softer one.

Mio is more present in the physical sense than in the conversational one, her thoughts curving inward, spiraling into the quiet hum of overanalysis. The night feels stretched—elongated in a way that isn't uncomfortable but feels subtly displaced from time, like a moment caught in suspension, like something on the precipice of being dissected.

Mio's gaze flickers to Naya, unbidden. The memory of that ridiculous story—the absurdity, the way laughter had taken her whole body with it—lingers like warmth beneath her skin. 

Naya walks a step ahead, hands tucked into her pockets, her posture relaxed, unbothered by the cool night air.

Mio feels it then, that quiet, inexplicable fondness curling at the edges of her thoughts. She exhales softly, a small, unguarded smile ghosting over her lips before she catches herself, forcing her expression back into something neutral.

Mugi moves beside her with her usual unhurried grace, the hem of her pastel dress catching the faint breeze. The gentle glow of the streetlights softens her features, casting a warmth over the delicate angles of her face, her composed expression unreadable yet open in that way only Mugi can be.

"Did you have fun, Mio-chan?"

Mugi's voice is a gentle pull back to reality. Mio turns slightly, glancing at her.

"Yeah, of course," she says. And it's not a lie. She did.

Mugi smiles. She always does, always in that effortless way, warm and perceptive, an inherent understanding woven into the tilt of her lips.

"I'm glad. It's nice seeing everyone together like this."

Mio hums in agreement. Because it is.

It's good, the way they move through the night like this—interwoven in friendships that feel solid, real, tangible in a way that makes Mio painfully aware of their transience. The shifting nature of human connection, the impermanence of groups, the inevitability of change.

She tries not to dwell on it. Tries to focus on the now.

Mugi tilts her head slightly, eyes soft in the streetlight's glow.

"You seemed very comfortable with Naya-chan," she observes, amused.

Mio's stomach flickers. Not in a bad way. Not in a good way, either.

Just—it flickers.

Mugi's voice is gentle, observational, devoid of any implication. But the words hit too precisely, threading into the space Mio had been deliberately ignoring.

She looks ahead, silent. Because it's not untrue. Because she is comfortable with Naya. And that should be a good thing, shouldn't it?

"You even spent a lot of time with her," Mugi continues. "It's nice to see."

"What do you mean?"

Mugi chuckles. "Only that you're usually hesitant to engage with new people. It's rare for you to open up so quickly."

Mio frowns. "I'm not—" She stops herself. Because she knows what Mugi means. And Mio doesn't know how to argue with something that is technically true.

New people have always been a slow process for Mio, always hesitant, always cautious. Not because she dislikes them, but because she doesn't know what to do with them—how to categorize their presence in the structure of her world. People exist at the edges until she decides where to place them, if she places them at all. People are variables, and Mio doesn't like miscalculations.

Naya, however, is not a variable. Naya is a contradiction.

A foreign presence who doesn't feel foreign. A temporary figure who doesn't feel temporary.

A person Mio should not have let in so easily. And yet—

Here she is.

A glitch in the pattern.

Settled. Familiar. A constant.

Mugi is a constant. Ritsu, Yui, Azusa—constants.

Naya, by all accounts, should not be a constant.

And yet, she is.

In Mio's deep-seated need for certainty in an uncertain world, Naya had bypassed that entirely.

Not in an obvious way. Not in a way that even felt intentional. But in the quiet inevitability of it.

It had happened without Mio's permission.

And she doesn't know how she feels about that.

Mugi, ever patient, watches her wrestle with her own mind, and then, as if sensing the inevitable, she softens the moment before it becomes too sharp.

"I think it's wonderful," she says simply. "You've always been careful about who you let in, so seeing you so at ease with her—it makes me happy."

Mio fixes her gaze on the distant blur of streetlights. On the shimmer of neon reflecting in a puddle. On anything except the weight of what Mugi is saying.

Because it should be a good thing.

She should be happy that she has found someone easy to be around, someone who makes space feel effortless, someone who doesn't require careful maneuvering or guarded hesitation.

So why does it feel like a vulnerability? Why does it feel like something she should be running from?

"You care about her," Mugi continues after a moment, simple and devastating.

It's not a question.

Mio flushes. She shouldn't feel defensive about that.

Of course she cares. She cares about all her friends. That's normal. Expected.

But the problem isn't caring.

The problem is not knowing what kind of caring this is.

Because it's not the same as Azusa, as Yui, as Mugi—not even as Ritsu.

It's not even the same as Kenji.

It's different. And Mio doesn't do different.

She does control. She does certainty. She does understanding.

She doesn't do this.

The worst part is that Mugi isn't even pressing her. She isn't fishing for anything, isn't making it into something bigger than it is. Mugi is merely stating what she sees.

And that's what makes it unbearable.

Because Mugi sees everything.

Mio exhales slowly, measured, trying to find a path through this conversation that doesn't end with her realizing something she isn't ready to realize.

"I just... I don't know how she got here so fast."

It's the closest she can come to articulating it.

Mugi hums again, thoughtful. "Maybe she didn't," she says after a beat. "Maybe you were just waiting for her without realizing it."

Mio stops walking.

Just—stops.

A moment of stillness, the world moving around her, as if she has stepped out of sync with time.

And Mugi—Mugi only smiles, unreadable and knowing, before taking Mio's wrist, tugging her forward, seamlessly easing her back into motion.

The moment passes.

The night moves on.

But Mio is left with the echo of it, the weight of a sentence she doesn't know what to do with.

"Maybe you were just waiting for her without realizing it."

She wants to laugh. Because how absurd is that?

How absurd is it to think she was waiting for someone she wasn't supposed to meet? Someone who shouldn't have fit? Someone who is everything Mio has spent her life avoiding—new, unpredictable, fleeting, someone who doesn't fit neatly into Mio's world.

And yet, Mio can't stop watching her.

But Mugi doesn't say things she doesn't mean.

And Mio doesn't know how to disprove her.

So she keeps walking.

Keeps pretending she doesn't understand what she's running from.

---

Mio sits on the edge of her bed, hands slack on her lap, watching the dim light stretch across the room, shadows moving in slow gradients as the city hums beyond the walls. The energy of the night still lingers in her muscles, restless and unresolved, vibrating at a frequency she can't quite place. She feels full of something, though whether it is weight or absence, she doesn't know.

Her eyes drift downward.

The photo strip is there, resting on the nightstand beside her phone. Unavoidable. Inescapable. A quiet, innocuous thing, yet it holds a gravity disproportionate to its size. The glossy surface catches the dim glow of her desk lamp, reflecting distorted slivers of light. 

Four images. Four moments, crystallized into permanence.

Herself, standing beside Naya.

The first is simple—just them, side by side, neutral, the most normal of poses. The second, playful—peace signs, casual grins. The third, ridiculous—both of them holding Doraemon's paws, as a portrait family. The fourth one is no better—Naya with Doraemon, acting as though they were engaged in some kind of high-stakes hostage negotiation.

And the last—

Mio exhales sharply through her nose.

The last is the problem.

The last is just them.

Mio's arms hugging Naya's shoulders, their bodies instinctively leaning into each other, like some unseen force had pressed them close. Their smiles are real. Unforced, unguarded, open in a way Mio doesn't usually allow herself to be.

Mio, touch-averse, yet touchy in a way she's not.

Isn't she?

She picks up the strip, turning it between her fingers, flipping it over and back again as if expecting something different each time. It's just a photo. Just an absurdly decorated printout from a machine designed to distill moments into palatable, pastel-coated nostalgia. Just an image—a harmless, inconsequential artifact.

She grips the strip a little tighter, irritation curling low in her stomach. At herself, at this, at whatever ridiculous part of her brain is making this more complicated than it is.

She's overthinking. She's always overthinking.

She should put it on the shelf. That's where it belongs, doesn't it? A natural addition to the collection of permanence she has built.

Ho-kago Tea Time, frozen in time, five girls in a band that once felt like the entire world.

A quiet snapshot of herself and Kenji, framed in the golden light of a festival she barely remembers, smiling the way a couple should.

A carefully curated constellation of continuity. Of safety.

And yet—

She doesn't move.

Because this photo doesn't fit.

It doesn't slot neatly into the framework of her life, doesn't belong alongside Kenji's careful affection or the familiar, unshakable bonds of her friendships.

It's something other. Something else.

Her grip tightens, the paper flexing under her fingers. A sigh catches in her throat, heavy with something she refuses to name.

This shouldn't be a moment, and yet, it is.

And that only frustrates her more—this hesitation, this ridiculous overcomplication, this absurd weight pressing against her ribs over nothing—over a scrap of glossy paper.

Except it isn't nothing, is it?

Her body betrays her. She doesn't let go.

She could leave it on the shelf, let it sit beside the rest, let it blend into the narrative she understands.

But she already knows she won't.

Because she can't look at this photo and pretend it's the same as the others.

And if it isn't the same—

Then what is it?

She cares about Naya. That much is obvious. She cares about all her friends, she always has.

But why does this feel different?

Why does she catch herself watching Naya more than anyone else? Why does she track every small movement of Naya's—like it's a pattern she's memorized, something her mind keeps returning to without her permission? Why does she feel that shift in the air when Naya walks into a room, like it's her presence, and not just the person, that matters?

Why does she care so much that Naya is here, but also here with her?

When did admiration turn into something more complicated? When did concern become something she can't explain? When did wanting to help turn into something else—something closer to hovering, to needing to make sure Naya never stumbles, never feels left out?

She tells herself it's because she wants Naya to feel at home, to feel comfortable in a place so far from what she knows, far from her family and friends, because Mio herself knows how solitude feels—not the chosen kind, but the kind imposed upon you. So she tells herself she's just being kind, that she's just trying to help.

But why her? Why does it have to be her who makes sure Naya's happy? Why does it matter so much?

But... maybe that's the problem. Maybe it's not just that she wants Naya to be happy. Maybe she's afraid that if she doesn't keep trying, Naya will find someone else. Maybe Naya will find Mugi and Liz more interesting, easier to be around, and Mio will slip back into the background. Maybe she'll be nothing. Just another face in a crowd. Maybe she's not enough.

She tells herself it's ridiculous. That Naya isn't hers—that she's her own person, her own choices. But still...

It feels different. Because Naya is the first friend Mio made on her own. No one else connected with her this way—no one else made her feel like she wasn't just drifting along with other people's decisions. She chose Naya. And Naya chose her back.

That's it, right?

Right?

Also, what if Naya finds someone else? Is it so bad that a person she's known for three months, who won't even be here this time next year, is making her own life in Japan, looking to make the most of the experience?

What if Mio is keeping her from that?

Because the fewer people Naya meets, the harder it is for Naya to—

When did it become something more? When did it turn into something she can't stop thinking about, even when she tells herself she shouldn't?

She knows she's not possessive. She knows this isn't how friendship is supposed to feel. She knows that.

But why does it still feel this way?

Why does it feel like she's holding on too tightly to something that isn't meant to be held?

She tells herself it's fine. That it's normal. That it's nothing. But deep down, something tugs at the edges of her thoughts, just out of reach, just beyond language—something sharp and insistent, restless and wrong.

She doesn't want to name it.

She can't name it.

Because if she does—

What then?

She closes her eyes. Breathes. Tries to anchor herself in logic.

She has spent months telling herself that Naya intrigues her because she is different. Physically, emotionally. How she plays the bass, how she approaches music, her antics and attitudes. Her features. Her eyes. Her presence is unexpected. And Mio has spent months telling herself that her interest in Naya is a puzzle to be solved, a curiosity, nothing more.

And yet, here she is... sitting in the dim quiet of her dorm, fingers hovering over a photo strip, feeling something close to terror.

Because this isn't about the photo.

It's about what it means.

It's about what it represents.

Naya is a foreigner, not just in nationality, not just in language, but in everything.

In Mio's life. In Mio's mind. In Mio's carefully crafted self-perception.

She has never questioned who she is. Never had to.

Because she has always known.

She is Akiyama Mio.
She is reserved.
She is responsible.
She is a hopeless romantic in words, in fiction.
But in reality, she—
She is—

Normal.

She is normal.

She has always been normal.

She is a top student.
She is a virtuoso bassist.
She is a good, reliable friend.
She is an exemplary daughter.
She has a boyfriend.
She is steady, soft-spoken, predictable, expected.

She has spent her whole life making sure of it.

And Naya is the tide pulling it away.

Because Naya isn't just in her life—Naya is changing it.

And Mio doesn't want to change.

She wants permanence. She wants certainty. She wants to believe in forever, in the kind of constants that don't shift beneath her feet. She wants to hold onto the things she understands.

Because what happens if she doesn't? What happens if she lets go?

Her mind reaches for an answer, a rationalization, but all she finds is silence. Silence, and the small weight of a photo strip in her hand.

This is ridiculous.

She's overthinking.

Again.

She needs to stop hovering, stop watching so closely, stop—whatever this is.

She has other things to focus on. Finals are coming up. She has this piano exam. She has a boyfriend, and she's going to Hakone with him, and he expects—

She should be thinking about Kenji. About college. About things that actually matter.

Not about Naya.

Not about her smile, not about the way she lingers in Mio's mind, not about her green eyes that flicker between bored and amused, like she's seen everything before but still finds it interesting, not about the fact that she can still feel the warmth of her touch from earlier.

And yet—Kenji has never made her laugh like that.

Not once.

Not in all the months they've been together, not during their quiet dates, the phone calls, the careful, measured affection. He's made her smile, of course. Made her feel comforted, appreciated, even cared for. He's a good boyfriend, patient and understanding, always knowing the right thing to say.

But laughter— real laughter, the kind that shakes her ribs, leaves her breathless and unguarded, the kind that takes over her entire body because it can't contain it, like it's something that bursts out before she can stop it—has never come from him.

She only laughs like that with her friends. And yet, even then—it's not this. Not the way it is with Naya.

Mio always tries to cover her mouth when she laughs. Always tries to swallow it down, keep it contained, like it's something she needs to regulate, something too loud, too much. But with Naya—she forgets. She can't. It's uncontrollable, powerful, the kind of laugh that shakes her ribs, leaves her breathless. It's happened before—not just tonight, but the first time Naya told her the name of her pedals, the first time Naya made a deadpan joke that caught her off guard.

That doesn't make sense, does it?

She's spent more time with Kenji than with Naya. She's known him longer, shared more memories, built something steady and solid—and right. If laughter like that were to come from anywhere, it should be from him.

And yet, it doesn't.

And that feels impossible. Irrational.

Because shouldn't love—shouldn't happiness—be easy with the person you're meant to be with?

But she never laughs like this with Kenji.

And then there's the way she hugs Naya.

She's not supposed to like touch. She knows that. She's spent years avoiding it, resisting it, tensing every time someone reaches for her. And yet, she had pulled Naya close in the Purikura booth without a second thought. And when she let go—when Naya wasn't touching her anymore—she had missed it.

She has missed something she avoids with her boyfriend.

That's not normal.

She should be uncomfortable. She should want distance. But instead, she's letting her guard down. Instead, she's—

Naya is distracting me.

That's the problem. That's what this is. It has to be.

It's not about touch. Not about laughter. Not about any of this ridiculous overthinking.

It's just that Naya is—dangerous.

Not in a bad way. Not in an obvious way. But in a way that makes Mio's carefully built walls feel fragile. In a way that makes Mio forget herself, forget the things she's supposed to be, supposed to feel.

She needs to step back. Just a little. Just enough to reset. Before it's too late.

She needs to get her head straight.

And that means taking a step back.

With a quiet exhale, Mio moves before she can think too much about it.

Not to the shelf. Not to the place where permanence lives.

Instead, she reaches for the drawer—the one tucked beside her desk, half-hidden beneath notebooks and old ticket stubs, the one that holds things not meant for display. She slides it open with careful fingers. Inside, a few miscellaneous items—loose sheets of music, a half-filled notebook, a small box of spare bass picks.

She sets the photo strip down beside it and closes the drawer. The photo strip slides into the darkness, settling beside the notebook and a two-euro coin. The one Naya had given her, pressed into her palm that day at the café.

Another thing she can't bear to look at but refuses to throw away.

Tomorrow, she tells herself, she will be different.

She will step back.

She will not let this take root.

She will not let herself overthink this.

She will be the person she's supposed to be.

She will not let Naya take up so much space in her mind. In her life.

She has to.

She can't afford to hold on.

She turns off the light and lies awake in the dark.

The absence of the photo strip on her shelf feels more present than if it had been there at all.

Notes:

So, uh. That happened.

First off, let's take a moment to acknowledge the real MVP of this chapter: that single, solitary Purikura photo strip sitting in Mio's drawer like the goddamn Sword of Damocles. Like, truly, its presence is deafening. It has no business carrying this much weight. A tiny, pastel-coated, sticker-backed existential crisis. Amazing.

Secondly, let's talk about Naya.

Mio. Sweetheart. Why is she dangerous? She's literally just existing. Breathing. Telling you objectively hilarious bathroom horror stories. Meanwhile, you're over there gripping a photo strip like you're witnessing a full-blown shattering of the self. Why.

Also, about those stories. Yes. They're real. Yes, they happened. Yes, they happened to a friend. Yes, I am the friend. I've laid my suffering bare for the sake of literature. You're welcome. If just one person out there learns from my mistakes and does not randomly press buttons on an unfamiliar toilet in a foreign country, then my work here is done.

Anyway, shoutout to my wonderful beta Jules (tsuki_anne) for patiently beta-ing my increasingly unhinged slow burn that is now exceeding 200k and counting. I don't know what's scarier: my word count or the fact that Mio and Naya still haven't hugged (kinda, more or less, dunno).

And thank you, dead reader, for enduring a virtual book bigger than The Lord of the Rings.

See you next chapter, where Mio will continue to overthink everything except the things she should be overthinking.

Chapter 19: Arrows & Anchors

Summary:

Mio is slipping away.

Notes:

Ah, Chapter 19. The one with Mio spiraling (as per tradition) and where she overthinks everything. So... basically, every chapter. But this time, with extra feelings and a healthy dose of emotional spiraling. And Naya being dangerous in ways Mio doesn't understand (and honestly? Same). You're welcome.

And, as always, massive thanks to Jules (tsuki_anne), my tireless beta reader, for being an absolute legend and gently pointing out when I've typed the same sentence three different ways and called it "style." You're the real MVP.

Alright, on we go!

Arrows & Anchors, by Fair To Midland, was released on July 11, 2011.

July 4, 2011

Mio wants to believe in permanence.

Not in the naïve way people do when they talk about friendship, about love, about all the things that are supposed to last forever.

She wants to believe that some things can stay exactly as they are, unchanged, unshaken. That friendships can stretch across years without thinning, that laughter can be woven into the fabric of time rather than fading with distance. That people don't drift, that time doesn't pull them apart in ways they can't control. That the feeling of belonging—the quiet, steady certainty of knowing where she fits—can be something she holds onto, not something that slips through her fingers like a song dissolving into silence.

But she knows better.

Knows that forever is a construct, a hopeful illusion stitched together by human longing. An attempt to name the ephemeral, to anchor the transient.

And yet, as she watches Mugi—eyes soft, voice warm—thank them for the album they put together, Mio wonders if permanence is just another word for moments like this. If it's not about forever, but about the way certain things linger, even as time moves forward.

That if permanence exists at all, it must look like this.

"I don't even know what to say," Mugi says, her voice thick with emotion

She does know, of course. She always does. There's a particular poetry to the way Mugi speaks—elegant without feeling rehearsed. But now, in the dim afternoon glow of the clubroom, she struggles for words. Not because she lacks them, but because some emotions are simply too vast to be contained in language.

"Say you love us," Ritsu teases, elbowing her.

"Say we're the best band ever!" Yui chimes in.

"Say we're getting cake after this," Azusa mutters, only half-joking.

Laughter rises around the room, effervescent, untethered. Mio watches, quietly pleased, but beneath the warmth, there's something else—a faint, indefinable pang.

Nostalgia, maybe. Or something close to it.

"I loved it," Mugi says. "Every single message, every memory. I don't think I could ever express how much it means to me."

She smiles, radiant, the kind of smile that has always belonged to Mugi and only Mugi—effortless, unrestrained, entirely genuine. The kind that makes everything feel softer, warmer.

"I love you guys," she says simply, earnestly, and it lands like a crescendo resolving into perfect harmony.

Mio doesn't know what to say. Never has. But Yui and Ritsu fill the space easily, throwing their arms around Mugi in a dramatic, swaying hug, Azusa half-protesting but ultimately getting dragged in. Mio lingers at the edge, watching.

Then, after a moment, she reaches out, placing a quiet hand on Mugi's arm.

"Thank you," Mugi says again, softer now, just for Mio.

Mio nods.

And that is that.

---

Later, Mugi moves through the clubroom, thanking the others for their gifts.

She approaches Onna Gumi and Momo first, the ones who gave her an elegant silver bracelet—one she's already wearing. The charm—a delicate treble clef intertwined with a tiny crown—rests against the velvet lining.

Mio studies the way Mugi looks at them. She wonders, sometimes, what it must feel like to be Mugi—to be held in such universal regard, to be adored without effort. People orbit Mugi without even realizing it, drawn in by the quiet gravity of her warmth. And yet, even as she basks in affection, she remains unknowable. The truth of her never fully revealed, not even to those closest.

Akira, lounging in her chair, tosses out a careless, "Don't mention it," while Ayame grins, nudging Sachi. Momo, however—true to form—turns red the second Mugi acknowledges her.

"You're classy, but you're also kind of a queen," Sachi says casually, as if the explanation is obvious.

"I helped pick it!" Momo announces, shoulders straight, as if bracing for judgment.

Akira rolls her eyes. "Yeah, yeah. And took three hours to do it."

"I wanted to get it right!"

Mugi's laugh is bright, airy. "You did. It's perfect, Momo-chan. You have excellent taste."

Momo looks both pleased and mortified, shifting in her seat. Mio watches all of it with idle amusement.

There is something poetic about Momo's enthusiasm—an unrefined, unabashed sincerity that reminds Mio of Yui in some ways. A different kind of earnestness, perhaps. More self-conscious, less carefree. But no less genuine.

She thinks of how Momo held the bracelet in her palm the day before Mugi's birthday, inspecting it from every angle, making sure it was perfect. The way she grinned when she handed it over, wrapped, to the birthday girl, pride and nerves tangled together in equal measure.

Mio wonders if people ever outgrow that particular kind of excitement. The simple joy of giving.

If she ever did.

---

Liz is next.

She's leaning on the couch, arms crossed, expression unreadable as Mugi approaches.

Mio notices how Liz straightens, just barely, the way her fingers curl in subtly, as if bracing herself.

Mio doesn't know what Liz gave Mugi. She wonders if it has anything to do with the silver necklace she's also wearing today—a piano charm intertwined with a microphone.

Mugi thanks her with a small, soft, almost secretive smile, and Liz nods, cool, casual, but her fingers drum once against her arm before stilling. A controlled exhalation.

It's a brief exchange. A simple one. But Mio has known Liz long enough to know that nothing about her is ever simple. She wonders, distantly, if Liz is always this way when receiving gratitude—or if it's just when the gratitude is coming from Mugi.

The interaction lasts no more than a few seconds, but it leaves a peculiar impression. Mio watches, intrigued. Mugi thanks everyone with warmth, but this—this feels different. It feels like she's just witnessed something private, something fragile. Something she's not supposed to see.

Naya, standing nearby, observes the interaction with a knowing sort of amusement, saying nothing.

Of course she knows.

Mio wonders what that knowledge feels like—to be a keeper of secrets.

---

And then, Mugi turns to Naya.

Mio watches as Mugi thanks her, as Naya shifts her weight slightly, hands in her pockets, her posture as easy as ever.

Mio knows exactly what Naya gave her.

Mugi had shown it to her and the rest of Ho-Kago Tea Time—a custom sheet music arrangement of Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat Major, Op. 9, No. 2. The flowing lines of Chopin's melody, meticulously hand-traced onto the page, each note carefully preserved with subtle embellishments. A delicate, visual translation of sound. In the background, an illustration of a grand piano woven seamlessly into the composition.

It's not a flashy gift. It's quieter, more intimate. The kind of gift that doesn't demand attention, yet lingers long after the moment has passed.

Mio understands why Naya chose it. She also understands, suddenly, why Naya hesitated.

There's something personal in this. More than just a thoughtful present—something offered, something seen.

And for a fleeting second, she wonders—

If someone gave her something like this, something so precise, so careful—so quietly attuned to who she is—

What would she do?

She doesn't know.

Naya doesn't preen under Mugi's thanks the way Yui does, doesn't deflect with humor the way Ritsu might. She just nods, lets it wash over her like it's nothing, like it's ordinary, like she hasn't spent hours crafting something by hand. Just like she did when she gave Mio those handwritten notes at their first pedal session. Notes that she had spent about two hours a night on. Two hours less sleep, two hours just for Mio.

Naya, who has an expiration date in Japan, gives away time as if she had any to spare.

Mugi gives her a brief hug. Naya reciprocates, but only partially—one arm pulling Mugi in, the other hand still tucked deep in her pocket.

Mio sees it.

She doesn't know why it sticks in her mind, but it does.

There is something about the gesture. Something about the restraint of it, the asymmetry. The refusal to fully give in. The way it suggests a held breath, an unspoken thought, an almost.

It's a hug with an asterisk.

Mio tells herself she's overanalyzing. That there is nothing to parse here, nothing to extract. But the image settles in her mind anyway, tucking itself between thoughts, weaving into the architecture of her awareness.

Because there is something about Naya. About the way she moves through space. About the way she occupies absence as much as presence. About the way she gives, but only so much. About the way she seems to be waiting.

Mio doesn't know what for.

She wonders if Naya does.

Mugi lets go first, and Naya lets her. Mio feels something sitting quiet and heavy in the space between her ribs.

Mugi moves on. But Mio doesn't.

She turns her gaze to Naya, and Naya meets it. Mio searches for something in her expression. Naya doesn't offer anything.

Mio doesn't know what she was expecting.

She looks away.

And the feeling stays.

---

July 5, 2011

Mio tries to keep her guard up. She tries to be vigilant, analytical, composed.

That resolve doesn't last five minutes.

Pedal sessions with Naya are like that—deceptively easy, a gradual, insidious dismantling of walls. One moment, Mio is the disciplined musician she's supposed to be, parsing tone and texture with scholarly precision. The next, she's teasing Naya for being catastrophically bad at every arcade game in existence. Naya, utterly unfazed, laughs in that way that makes Mio's heart pick some speed.

Then Naya picks up her bass and does something ridiculous. Turns it upside down, like she did with that cheap plastic guitar at the arcade, fingers pressing the strings in all the wrong places. She doesn't hit a single note. Doesn't even try to correct herself. Instead, she grins and tosses the challenge to Mio

"Play my bass, but right-handed. Let's see how you do."

Mio, predictably, does well. She tells Naya that she used to teach Yui little guitar tricks back in high school before Azusa joined the club, that it wasn't that hard, really—

"Guitar?"

Mio nods.

"With a right-handed guitar?"

Another nod.

Naya mutters something under her breath, something about how unfair life is, how it saw fit to bestow all the beauty and intelligence and talent upon the same person.

Mio turns red. Red red.

She gets closer to Naya without thinking. Without meaning to.

(Did you mean to? No. Of course not. You wouldn't. You don't.)

It's the strangest thing, the way her body acts on its own accord. A will independent of her rational mind. A hand reaching before a thought is formed. A movement made before intention solidifies.

(Because you wouldn't do it consciously, right?)

Knees bumping. Shoulders brushing. A mingling of citrus and lavender in the charged air.

Naya never pulls away.

Sometimes, Mio catches a flicker of something in her expression—that same unreadable something she saw when Naya looked at their Purikura photo. When she told Mio she liked her laugh. But just like before, Naya tamps it down, recovers, resets. And then it's gone, swallowed up in Naya's usual nonchalance, a veil of casual detachment carefully lowered over whatever it was.

They move. Stand. Experiment. They twist knobs, test tones, press and release. They play their basslines, trade criticisms.

"Some grit would sound good here," Naya suggests.

"You don't have to make everything so dirty," Mio counters.

Mio's hands move over Naya's pedals as if they belong to her. Naya lets her. No hesitation. No reluctance.

(That should mean something. It doesn't. It shouldn't.)

And then—because controlled chaos is their rhythm, their cadence—Naya teases her about something. Mio elbows her. Naya retaliates with a light kick to the calf.

They should pack up. They should leave.

But neither of them wants to.

Not yet. Not while the air is still charged with sound and the feeling of something almost tangible between them.

Finally, finally, they pick up their things, dragging their feet about it.

Naya pulls out a folded note, holding it between two fingers like a secret. She meets Mio's gaze, winks.

Mio does the same, retrieving hers from her notebook.

"Kent - En plats i solen (Song: Gamla Ullevi). Amazing, amazing, amazing Swedish band. Gamla Ullevi is a personal favorite. I wrote you the translated lyrics too, because you have to know them."

Their unspoken game continues.

They leave together. Walk back to the dorms side by side. They talk. They laugh. They smile. They linger in the spaces between songs, between words, between breaths.

And then—Mio is alone.

The air feels different. Stiller. The silence stretches out around her, too vast, too empty.

She enters her room, sets down her things, checks her phone.

A message from Kenji.

She looks at the screen.

Then out the window.

It's like waking up abruptly from a dream.

---

July 6, 2011

Mio's fingers press against the ivory keys, firm yet hesitant, as if searching for something that isn't there. The notes unfold in a slow, weighted cascade—Chopin's Waltz in A minor, B. 150, Op. Posth.. A piece that is challenging but, by all technical accounts, easy. But technique has never been the problem.

She plays it well now. Flawlessly, even. Timing precise, phrasing immaculate, every note placed with mechanical accuracy. She could have played this years ago. She could play it now with her eyes closed. And yet, the sound that emerges is hollow. A facsimile of feeling rather than feeling itself.

Her teacher's words echo in her mind—"Let it inspire you. Not just for technique, but for emotion."

Emotion.

Her hands repeat the phrase, left hand grounding the mournful harmony, right hand tracing the gentle, descending melody, a lament so restrained it almost feels like resignation. She presses harder, leans into the weight of it, trying to will herself into feeling. But the resonance is flat. The sound, empty.

She stops. Frustrated.

She isn't supposed to struggle with this. Music is the one thing she doesn't struggle with. She's always been the diligent student, the perfectionist, the one who practices until there's no room for error. She understands expression, understands dynamics, understands the way music isn't just sound but communication—something deeper than language.

So why does this piece, so simple, feel impossible?

She exhales, runs a hand through her hair, and tries again.

The melody, sighing and unadorned, returns. Too easy. Too simple. She plays it louder, then softer, shifting dynamics, elongating pauses, grasping at something ineffable. The notes are there. But the feeling is not.

What is it missing?

It should be natural, instinctual. It should be like yesterday.

Yesterday—Naya, scribbling a band name in Mio's notebook with barely legible kanji. Mio, nudging her in retaliation, countering with a name that makes Naya snort mid-sip of her drink.

It should be easy.

Like it is with Naya. The quiet understanding, the push and pull, effortless and unthinking. The teasing, the humor, all those unspoken things that feel understood without having to be spoken at all.

Music is like that, isn't it? The best moments are unforced.

Mio's fingers press down harder.

Why does everything come so naturally with Naya—conversation, laughter, the shared rhythm they fall into—while everything with Kenji feels like a quiet kind of labor? Like something she's constructing rather than inhabiting.

Her jaw clenches. She tries again.

The notes unfurl, spiraling downward, longing and weightless. She wants to feel the ache in them, the sorrow, the tension, the slow unraveling. But she's only mimicking. She knows the shape of sadness. She just doesn't know how to let it in.

Isn't that the problem?

Her life—her entire life—feels like mimicry. The right motions, the correct responses, the appropriate emotions performed at the appropriate times. She's supposed to want this, supposed to feel this, supposed to be this.

A good pianist. A good musician. A good student. A good girlfriend. A normal person.

Her fingers tremble over the keys.

She wants to be good at this. At all of this.

But she isn't.

She should want Kenji. Should feel something more than distant affection. Should be able to sit beside him without locking up when his hand lingers too long on hers. Should be able to let herself be held, be kissed, melt into it rather than pulling away as if her own body is a fortress she doesn't know how to dismantle.

She should be able to play this piece right.

But she can't.

Her hands crash down onto the keys—too loud, a chord too dissonant to belong to Chopin, a mistake he would never normally make unless it were on purpose.

She sits there. Hands still. Silence pressing in.

If she can't control how she feels, she has to repress it harder.

That's the only answer.

She doesn't need distractions. Doesn't need pedal sessions. Doesn't need to spend hours watching Naya tweak knobs on her board. Doesn't need to get swept up in conversations about music. Doesn't need to laugh too much. Doesn't need to feel things she shouldn't feel.

She just needs to focus.

On technique. On structure. On control.

She lets out a slow breath, flexes her fingers, and begins again.

---

Mio's mind is a tangle of frayed threads that night, each one pulling in a different direction. She should be studying—should be reading, memorizing, drilling concepts into her brain—but all she feels is exhaustion.

And it's only the beginning of July.

Her fingers still ache from pressing the piano keys, from scales that felt mechanical, from repetition that did nothing to settle her thoughts. With a resigned sigh, she grabs her laptop and headphones, flopping ungracefully onto the bed.

She opens the search engine. Types.

Kent. En plats i solen.

That's what Naya wrote.

She presses play. A steady, rhythmic guitar floods her ears, pulsing like a heartbeat, something constant and unrelenting. She doesn't understand a word. In what universe would she understand Swedish? But it doesn't seem to matter. The voice carries something more than words—an ache, a kind of restless yearning she can't name but somehow recognizes.

The band is—of course—typical Naya. A fusion of electronic and rock, pop and synthesizers, things that shouldn't fit together but do. A rejection of rules, a dismantling of expectations. A sound that says, Why must art be confined? Why must it be so afraid?

Then it begins.

Gamla Ullevi.

Mio's eyes flick to the folded translated lyrics in Naya's careful handwriting. She hadn't read them yet. Had wanted to wait, to hear the music first. To feel before understanding.

She unfolds the note.

Her eyes trace the words as the song plays.

Do you hear the sound of July outside?
Last time we met it was winter and a meter of snow.
I can hear the music you gave me tonight,
The sound as the anxiety caught up.

Something shifts.

I want to hear a deserted weekend explode outside your window.
Sometimes I become so disturbed by the silence here.

A pit forms in Mio's stomach.

Give me a new drug that takes me somewhere,
I need new medicine and a new country.

Her fingers curl into the fabric of her sheets.

When I appear happy and free it was a false alarm, false advertising,
But even a habitual liar has his charm.

Mio's breath catches.

I can hear the music you gave me tonight.
Stand still, I loop at the same rate.
But there is something there that just must be said.

I think of you.
I think of you.
I think of you sometimes.

The same line, repeated like an echo.

Like a confession.

Mio swallows hard.

This is ridiculous.

It's just a song. Just music. It doesn't mean anything.

(It means nothing. It means nothing.)

She snaps her laptop shut. Pulls off her headphones. Pushes herself up. She has to focus. She has responsibilities—piano, studies, Kenji.

She can't let herself get distracted.

She can't—

Mio shoves the thought away.

Tomorrow, she will bury this. She will focus on what matters. She—

I think of you.

(I think of you.)

I think of you.

Sometimes.

---

July 7, 2011

The thick summer evening air clings to the skin, heavy with heat that slows everything down. The clubroom windows are cracked open, but it does little to help. Between them, the pedalboard glows faintly—tiny LEDs casting soft pools of color onto the floor.

It should feel routine. The same ritual they've settled into over weeks.

But today, something feels different.

Mio rolls her shoulder, stretches her fingers, tells herself this is the right decision.

"We should pause the pedal sessions," she says.

Naya, kneeling by her pedals, glances up. "Eh?"

"For finals," Mio clarifies, trying to keep her voice neutral, like it's just a practical decision and nothing more. "It's getting busy, and I—I really need to focus on studying."

She says it casually. Like it's not a decision at all but a natural inevitability. She expects Naya to nod, to understand, to take it in stride the way she always does.

Instead—

Something flickers in Naya's expression. A hesitation, a microsecond of stillness. But she schools it quickly, nodding as she reaches down to adjust a patch cable, as if the words mean nothing, as if they don't shift something imperceptible in the air.

"Yeah. Makes sense."

It's an easy answer. A simple one.

So why does it feel off?

Mio watches her closely. The way her fingers linger over a knob, the way her shoulders don't quite settle back into their usual easy posture, like she's thinking about something. Like she's stopping herself from saying it.

Mio frowns. "Are you okay with that?"

A pause. A trace of something stirred in Naya's expression—subtle, almost imperceptible. A slight tightening at the corners of her mouth, a barely-there hesitation before she nods, before she rearranges her face into something smooth, something unreadable.

Then she breathes out, a quiet, almost sheepish laugh. "Yeah. Of course."

She doesn't look at Mio when she says it.

Mio's stomach twists, even though this is exactly what she planned for.

Naya clears her throat, reaches for her tuner pedal, adjusting the position like it's suddenly necessary. "I mean, pedal sessions were my favorite days, but yeah, I get it."

Something shifts.

Mio doesn't know why she's caught off guard by that—why the quiet, unembellished sincerity in Naya's voice feels like something landing too close.

It shouldn't. It shouldn't.

But she doesn't know what to say to that. She should say something—she knows that. But the words feel slow, unformed, like she's been blindsided by something she should have seen coming.

Because of course they were Naya's favorite days.

And for a second—a fraction of a second, before she can stop herself—Mio thinks:

They were mine, too.

The realization forms too easily, too naturally, slipping into place as if it's been waiting there all along, unspoken. The pedal sessions, the hours spent with Naya, the low hum of amplifiers, the quiet, lazy rhythm of their conversations between notes—it was fun.

More than fun.

It was comfortable.

It was something she looked forward to.

It was—

No.

Her mind veers sharply away before the thought can settle, before it can take shape into something dangerous, something real. She tightens her grip on her bass pick, shifts her posture, wills herself not to linger.

This isn't about that.

This isn't about her.

She exhales, bringing a hand behind her neck, grabbing her black mane of hair. The air between them feels suddenly fragile. She tries to play it off like it's nothing, tries to smooth over the quiet weight of that confession.

"Hey, we'll still see each other," Mio reassures quickly. "In the club. And the cafeteria. At the library." She forces a lightness into her voice, but the words feel flimsy the second they leave her mouth. "It's not like I'm disappearing."

Naya nods, but her smile is smaller than usual. "I know."

A beat of silence.

Naya shifts again, adjusting the strap of her bass, looking anywhere but directly at Mio. Then, casually—too casually—she asks, "So does this mean we're done with pedals? Like, for good?"

It's an innocent enough question. A reasonable one. But something about the way Naya asks it—the careful way she frames it, the way she doesn't look at Mio as she says it—makes her feel like this conversation is larger than what it appears to be.

Mio opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.

She doesn't want to lie. But saying yes, we will feels like making a promise she isn't ready to keep.

And saying no feels wrong.

Mio's the one who said pause, but somehow, it sounds a lot like ending.

"After finals, maybe?" Naya offers, voice softer now. Lighter. Like she's giving Mio an exit.

Mio winces.

"After finals comes vacation."

It's the truth. A simple, factual statement. But the moment she says it, she regrets it.

"Oh," Naya says. A short exhale. Then a chuckle, small, like she's making fun of herself. "Right."

Right.

Naya's expression doesn't change much, but Mio can see the realization settle in her.

Mio should stop. She should stop looking at her like that, like she's trying to read something in her expression. Like she's trying to understand something.

The silence stretches, uneasy.

Mio suddenly wants to say something else, to adjust the moment, to undo the way it's settling wrong between them. But before she can, Naya's hands slip into her pockets, and her voice is different when she speaks again—softer, more careful.

"Hey." She tilts her head, studying Mio. "Are you okay with me?"

Mio blinks. "What?"

Naya shrugs one shoulder, looking at the floor now instead of at her. "I mean, I dunno. Just checking."

A pause.

Is this about...?

Mio stiffens. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Naya rolls her lips together like she's measuring her words, then exhales a quiet chuckle. "Forget it. Just a dumb thought."

"No, really."

Naya hesitates, then shrugs again, but there's tension in the movement. "Dunno, I just thought—I mean, if I—if I did something weird, you'd tell me, right?"

There is something strange about that. Mio doesn't know what it is, doesn't know why it sounds like an almost confession, like something Naya wants to say but won't.

Mio frowns. "What? Yeah, no—why would you think that?"

Naya sighs, shakes her head, dismissive. "Forget it. Just checking."

Mio doesn't know why that question catches her off guard. Why it feels like Naya is looking at something she shouldn't be able to see. Like she's waiting for Mio to admit something Mio hasn't even let herself admit.

But it does.

Like she's missed a step, like she's been caught in something she wasn't even aware she was trying to hide.

Mio exhales, steadies herself, pushes forward.

"Of course I'm okay with you," she says, carefully.

Naya looks at her, clearly not buying it. She watches her for a moment, then sighs, rubbing the back of her neck. "I don't know. When I'm with you, I let myself just... be. And I know we don't always express things the same way. I can be direct—sometimes too much. I just wanted to make sure I wasn't... overwhelming you by being, you know. That. Too much."

Mio frowns.

Too much?

Her brain stumbles over the words, still tangled in the weight of what she thought this conversation was about. What she was afraid it was about.

But then, something shifts.

The way Naya says it—offhand, casual in the way she gets when she doesn't want to make a big deal out of something but also kind of does—it nudges at something else.

Something not about Mio.

But about Naya.

Not what Mio thought.

That's not what she meant.

Of course it's not.

But then, what is this about?

She doesn't know what Naya thinks she did wrong, but she sees the way she's waiting for reassurance.

Mio shakes her head, like she can physically dislodge whatever just passed through her. "You didn't do anything weird," she says, firm, decisive, before she can start thinking too much. "I promise."

Naya studies her for a second longer than necessary. Then, finally, she nods.

"Okay."

Mio doesn't know if she believes her.

She shifts her bass on her lap, trying to move past the moment. "It's just..." she says quickly, pressing forward. "Finals are coming up, and I need to focus on that. And on the piano. And I also have this trip with my boyfriend, and I should check with him, too. Sorry."

She doesn't know why she says it.

Why she tacks that last part on.

Maybe because she feels like she's taken something away and has to replace it with something else.

Maybe because she needs to remind herself.

"Oh, you're going on a trip?" Naya says, eyebrows raised. "That's cool."

Mio blinks.

"Well, yeah," she mutters. "I told you already."

Naya tilts her head slightly. "No, you didn't."

Mio frowns.

She didn't?

"Not that you should," Naya chuckles. "It's just—you didn't. But that's okay, of course. It's not that I should know or anything."

Mio's brain tries to process.

She didn't tell Naya about Hakone?

Why?

"No, it's just..." she manages. Barely. "I thought I did."

Naya shrugs. "You don't talk to me about your boyfriend often."

Mio stills.

What?

Why?

She stares at Naya. "I don't?"

"I mean, I know he exists," Naya says, voice measured, like she's trying to tread carefully through the conversation now. "But you don't tell me about him. Maybe that you've met if I ask about your weekend, or things like that. And that he likes movies."

Mio blinks again.

Blink, blink, blinks.

Because—what?

"I assumed you're private about it," Naya adds, nonchalant.

Mio doesn't understand.

Why doesn't she talk about Kenji with Naya? Not even in passing?

And why does this suddenly feel like a shield?

Because Naya is right. Mio is private about her personal life.

But still—

"Well, we are going to Hakone after finals. Just the two of us."

Naya hums. "I'm not familiar with the place."

"It's a typical destination for a romantic getaway," Mio adds.

"Oh." Naya nods. "That's, uh, nice."

"It's been a busy semester," Mio says, "and we haven't really had time to just... be together."

Naya hums again, biting her lip, fingers tapping once against her thigh, like she isn't sure when to exit the conversation.

Why am I oversharing now?

Mio doesn't know why she keeps talking.

Why she keeps explaining.

Why does this suddenly feel like a defense?

Why does saying it out loud feel like proving something—to Naya, to herself?

She doesn't know.

Doesn't know why the words keep spilling, doesn't know why it suddenly matters that Naya understands, doesn't know why this conversation feels like something else entirely.

Because this was supposed to be simple.

This was supposed to be about finals.

About focus.

About control.

Then why does it feel like she's losing it?

The practice room is quieter now.

Not in the literal sense—the hum of amplifiers still lingers, faint and electric, and the occasional creak of a shifting chair punctuates the stillness—but in the way that conversations sometimes settle into spaces larger than words.

Mio sits on the edge of the table, bass resting lightly against her thigh. Naya crouches beside the pedalboard, fingers idly twisting the knobs of a reverb pedal, not adjusting anything, just moving.

Something about this feels... final.

Not in an explicit way. Nothing has been said. Nothing has been declared. But Mio can feel it in the way Naya lingers over the pedals, in the way she exhales through her nose like she's trying to make peace with something unspoken.

It unsettles Mio.

"You know," Naya starts, staring at the board, "when you asked me about pedals that first time, I thought it was, like, a teacher-student thing."

Mio glances up, caught off guard by the shift in conversation. "What?"

Naya's fingers still against the metal casing of the pedal, then tap lightly against it. "Like, I thought you just wanted to learn effects, you know? Like—'teach me, profe' type thing." She smirks. "Which was funny, 'cause you're obviously way better at bass than me."

Mio scoffs. "That's not—"

"Relax, I'm not fishing," Naya interrupts, waving a hand. "It's just true."

Mio doesn't know how to respond to that.

Because it's not about being better.

Because Naya plays differently, thinks about sound differently, approaches music from a direction Mio had never even considered before she watched her weave distortion and delay into a bassline like it was second nature.

"You asked me about pedals because you wanted to learn," Naya continues, voice even, contemplative. "And for a while, it felt like a student-teacher thing, you know? Like you were looking for a way to add something new to your playing, maybe change things up a little. But then..." She trails off.

Mio watches her, something twisting in her chest, waiting for the rest.

"But then I realized something." Naya leans back slightly, resting her bass against her knee. "You don't actually need to learn from me."

Mio huffs. She wants to argue.

Because she does, doesn't she?

She's spent weeks studying these effects, taking meticulous notes, testing every nuance of modulation and sustain, chasing after a feeling she couldn't quite name.

She has needed this.

Naya continues before Mio can formulate a response. "I mean, yeah, I've played with pedals longer, but you figured things out fast. Way faster than I expected. And not just in the technical sense—you get it. The subtleties. The ways sound can shift, the way distortion isn't just noise but an extension of expression, the way reverb can stretch a note into something else, something almost tangible."

Naya sounds proud of her.

"You didn't just, like, learn pedals. You felt them. Experimented with them. You figured out what you liked, what worked for you. It stopped being a 'teacher-student' thing really fast."

She leans back on her hands, glancing up at Mio now.

"And I was glad," she says. "Because it meant you weren't trying to change yourself—you were just trying to expand. You didn't need to become something else, you just... I don't know. Let what was already there shine more."

Something inside Mio tightens.

She's not sure how to respond.

Because hadn't she wanted that?

To change? To push herself past whatever invisible ceiling she felt pressing down on her?

Hadn't that been the point?

Hasn't that always been the point?

She was trying to change.

Some desperate, naive part of her thought—maybe if I learn this, if I push myself in a new direction, if I stop being so stiff, if I step outside my usual sound, maybe—

Maybe she could find something she was missing.

Maybe she could become someone else.

Maybe—

"Your style doesn't need fixing," Naya says, and the words ground Mio back into the present. "Your basslines—that's already what makes your music what it is. The way you play—it's already so good. Like, it's so, so, so good, Mio. I hope you know that."

Mio stares at her.

"It's melodic, it's expressive," Naya continues, undeterred by Mio's silence. "It moves through a song, not just in it. You don't just support—you elevate. Every line you play—it's smart. Even when it's playful, even when it's subtle, it means something."

Mio's hands tighten against her bass.

"I mean, I think about Ho-Kago Tea Time's songs, right? The way your basslines add to them. You make them fun. You make them full. And it's not because you do some flashy bass solo shit—it's because you understand space. You know when to play, but more importantly, you know when not to play. That's a hell of a lot harder than people think."

Mio exhales slowly.

Because she knows all of this.

Melodic and expressive. Playful but deliberate. Dynamic, restrained, intricate. The lines she crafts are never just a foundation—they move, they breathe, slipping between rhythm and melody in a way that adds, that makes the songs whole.

She knows she's good. She's been told she's good. She has played bass for years, studied, practiced, analyzed, poured herself into the instrument more than anything else in her life.

She knows she's good.

She knows this.

She's always known this.

So why had she been so desperate to be something else?

And why does hearing it from Naya make something inside her seize up? Why does it make her feel seen in a way that doesn't feel entirely comfortable?

Her fingers twitch over the strings. "I just... I wanted to try something new."

"I know," Naya says, voice gentle. "And you should. But not because you think you have to."

Mio huffs sharply. "It's not that simple."

"Why not?"

"Because—"

Because she's never been good at standing still.

Because she's spent her whole life correcting, perfecting, chasing some vague, unreachable standard. Because every note she plays is a choice, a calculation, an effort to be right, to be better, to be enough.

Because the idea of being content with what she already is feels like complacency.

Naya watches her, expression unreadable. Then, after a moment:

"Okay." She shrugs. "Then let me say it differently."

Mio waits.

"You already have a voice," Naya says simply. "And it's a damn good one."

Mio blinks.

"I use distortion, reverb, chaos. I'm used to controlling the sound, shaping it," Naya explains. "But you, Mio, you play clean, controlled, melodic basslines. You don't need effects. You are the effect."

Mio's breath goes still.

"You compose basslines that make people feel things. That's rare, Mio." Naya gestures vaguely, like she's trying to articulate something just beyond reach. "You're melodic without being excessive, structured without being stiff. Your playing is thoughtful. You know how to say something with your bass without overpowering the song. And that's—" She stops, exhaling. "That's what makes you great."

The room is too quiet.

Mio swallows, something pressing against her ribs. "I'm not—"

"You are," Naya interrupts, eyes sharp, voice certain. "And I think you're starting to realize that."

Mio looks down at her bass, feeling its weight in her lap, the familiar shape of it against her body.

She thinks about every bassline she's written. The way they curl around Yui's vocals, dance beneath Ritsu's drums. The way they add something—not just in presence, but in character, in feeling.

She thinks about why she plays the way she does.

"I guess what I'm saying," Naya says after a while, tilting her head, "is that pedals aren't supposed to change that. And they haven't. They've just... let you express it differently. Like, they're not covering anything up. They're amplifying it." She taps her fingers against her knee once, twice. "And I think you realized that. That you didn't need to change your style—you just needed to find the ways to make it shine more."

Mio's mouth feels dry.

Because that's not how she feels.

Because it's not that she realized she doesn't need to change—it's that she realized she can't.

She tried, didn't she?

She tried to push herself into something new, tried to let go a little, tried to be less rigid, tried to play things the way Naya does—effortlessly, instinctively, unshaken by overthinking.

She tried.

But she's still herself.

Still methodical, still restrained, still structured, still—

Still stuck.

She doesn't know why she suddenly feels angry.

Not at Naya. Never at Naya.

But at herself.

Because it's like the Chopin piece all over again.

It's like Kenji all over again.

It's like her entire life—performing things correctly, precisely, executing them with accuracy and perfection, doing all the things she's supposed to do, only to find...

That something is still missing.

And if she can't change that, then what is she supposed to do?

Her fingers tighten around her bass.

Naya, sensing the weight in the silence, exhales lightly.

"I learned a lot from you, you know," she says, shifting gears.

Mio looks up at her.

Naya grins, tapping her bass lightly. "Slap bass, for one. Never thought I'd figure that out, but here we are." She gestures vaguely to the floor. "And just... I dunno. You showed me that bass can be powerful without being at the front all the time." She leans back on her hands. "I don't think I was ever really taught that."

"Didn't you tell me that funk and disco taught you that bass doesn't need to shout to be heard?" Mio asks.

"Yeah, but..." Naya leans back, gaze drifting toward the ceiling. "Long story short, while I was a teenager experimenting with bass and pedals, there was something else in my life holding me back. And I kept running into this contradiction—precision and flexibility. Control and exploration. Consistency and variety. Stability and creativity."

Mio doesn't say anything. She just listens.

"I was so fed up with perfectionism, with constant demands, that I turned to bass as a kind of rebellion." Naya chuckles. "And then... things happened with a band I was in, but that's not really relevant. What matters is that I decided to do something completely new. To make the bass my own kind of revolution—to play in a way that said, 'Look at me. The noise I make. There's no way you can't look at me.'"

Both of them look at Naya's pedalboard.

"I don't think I'm a genius or anything," Naya admits, "but a couple of years ago, I definitely thought I was... untouchable." She laughs, almost self-deprecating. "I was so sure of my style. Don't get me wrong, I'm still proud of it. But I haven't reinvented the wheel either."

She pauses, then glances at Mio.

"At some point, I decided to be more open-minded. And then I came here, and I saw you play, and I heard you. I listened to you. And I realized... we're so different. Not just in how we play, but in how we express ourselves. And I thought, 'Look at this girl—I need nine pedals to make myself heard, and she just walks in with a bass and a smile, and that's enough. I can't stop looking at her.'"

Mio's face burns instantly.

Naya watches her reaction, a knowing smile in her lips before she sobers. "We approach music differently, but that's exactly why we've learned so much from each other. You were curious about my style, and I was curious about yours. And I'm glad these sessions weren't about proving one was better than the other, but about finding a middle ground—taking what we love most and making it our own. And growing together. As musicians. As bassists." She meets Mio's gaze, sincerity clear in her voice. "And I feel really lucky that I got to learn with you."

Mio processes all that.

And she wonders, for a moment, if that's why she was drawn to Naya's playing style to begin with—because it's so opposite to hers. Because Naya brings the bass forward, makes it the center of the song, makes it command attention.

Whereas Mio—Mio is part of something.

She makes the song whole.

And now she wonders if that's a bad thing. Or if it's just another way to be.

For the first time in a long time, she feels like she's looking at herself more clearly.

She looks to the side, shy. "I learned a lot from you, too."

Naya's eyebrows raise slightly.

Mio nods, turning the bass pick over in her fingers. "I mean, I didn't know much about pedals before. Just things I read. But more than that... I guess I didn't really think about how much a bass can change a song. Not just as support, but as something that actually shapes the sound. You use your bass in a way I never saw before."

Naya hums, tilting her head.

Mio's eyes dart. "And I guess I never really considered how much power bass can have. How many sounds can come out of four strings. How bass can be the backbone of a song, not just something that has to be in the background."

Something shifts in Naya's expression. A small, slow smile, soft around the edges.

Mio clears her throat, suddenly self-conscious, trying to lighten the mood. "And, well. You still suck at videogames."

Naya stares for one, two, three, four, five seconds, clearly not expecting such sudden criticism. Then, she laughs, abrupt and unrestrained

"Yeah, yeah," Naya says. "Guess you got me there."

A beat of silence.

Then, Naya studies her for a second longer. Slowly, she pushes herself to her feet, stretching her arms over her head before adjusting the strap of her bass.

"Well," she says. "Guess this is it."

And Mio hates that.

Because it makes it sound like something is ending.

And maybe it is.

And she tells herself that's fine.

That this is what she chose.

That this is what needs to happen.

Because if she can't change—if she can't make herself feel the things she's supposed to feel—

Then she has to bury it all deeper.

Yet, Mio tenses. She could say no. She wants to say no. But instead, she says:

"Yeah. I guess so."

Naya pushes a hand through her hair. "Okay." There's a pause, the smallest one, but it sticks. Then, she smirks, tilting her head. "Guess I'll just have to bother Liz now"

Mio gives her a small smile.

The moment stretches.

Mio exhales, presses her fingers lightly against the neck of her bass, feeling the way the wood hums faintly beneath her grip. There's nothing else to say.

Except—

"The most important thing," Naya adds, grinning, "is that it was fun."

Mio glances at her, caught off guard by the softness in her voice, by how easily she says it, like it's enough. Like it's everything.

Fun.

The word feels simple, inadequate. Too light for what this was, for what this became.

But maybe that's what makes it true.

So Mio smiles, sincere.

"Yeah. It was fun." 

Naya leans forward again, resting her forearms against her knees. "Alright, so. What you have to do now is choose a compressor or a multi-effects pedal, buy it, and have fun with it." She says it easily, like it's obvious, like it's a foregone conclusion.

Mio lets out a breathy chuckle, shifting her weight. "That's it? Just buy it and have fun?"

Naya shrugs. "Yeah. You already know what you're doing. You just need to stop thinking so much about it."

Mio rolls her eyes. "Easier said than done."

Naya grins. "That's why I said it."

A moment passes. The room feels quieter than it should.

Then—

"If you need anything," Naya says, her voice lighter now, casual, but still carrying that unshakable sincerity, "hang out, relax, help with music or piano..."

Mio smirks. "The little piano you play, you mean?"

"Oh, don't underestimate my Twinkle Twinkle Little Star skills."

Mio snorts before she can stop herself.

Naya smiles. "And if you need help with Japanese—"

"Maybe I'll call you if I need to pay something in euros."

Naya chuckles, shifting her bass against her shoulder. "We are acting like we're dying or something."

Mio lets out an undignified squeal. "Don't say that!"

Naya laughs, easy, careless. Then, suddenly—

"If this is how we behave just pausing pedal sessions," she teases, "when I leave Japan next year, we're going to be destroyed."

Mio's stomach clenches.

She freezes for half a second before forcing out a weak scoff. "You're so dramatic."

"I mean, look at us." Naya gestures vaguely between them, grinning. "We're two seconds away from writing each other heartfelt letters and swearing we'll never forget each other."

Mio crosses her arms, feigning annoyance. "We are not doing that."

Naya shrugs. "We'll see."

Mio looks away, suddenly unable to hold her gaze.

The words sit heavier than they should.

Because it's a joke. It's supposed to be a joke.

But it's also true.

And it's the first time Naya has said it out loud.

Leaving Japan.

The inevitable. The thing Mio hasn't allowed herself to think about. The thing she's now thinking about.

Mio glances at the clock. Too much time has passed already. It's late. She should go.

Then—

"Oh, wait," Naya says suddenly, perking up like she's just had the best idea. "You know what you should do when that happens?"

Mio raises an eyebrow, wary.

"One of those stupid romcom airport chases."

Mio blinks. "What?"

"You know—" Naya straightens up, setting her bass aside, already too into this. "You realize, last minute, that you can't let me go, so you run through the airport, dodging security, pushing past crowds, knocking over some poor guy's coffee." She starts miming running in place. "You're desperate, out of breath, but you finally catch up to me right before I walk through the gate."

Mio groans, pressing a hand over her face. "Oh my god."

Naya continues mercilessly, her voice dropping into something low and dramatic. "And just as I'm about to step through the gate, you catch up—you reach out, grab my wrist, turn me around."

Mio feels her entire body heat up.

"And then," Naya says, leaning forward, "you say, 'Naya, there's something I've never told you, but I can't let you leave Japan without knowing.'"

Mio's entire face is on fire.

"And then we just stare at each other—close, really close—" she steps forward slightly, squinting at Mio like she's about to confess something profound.

Mio is one more second of eye contact away from becoming a mist. "Naya—"

"And then, finally, you say..." Naya exhales deeply, placing a hand over her chest, her voice dropping into something so dramatic it's almost serious—"'Your bass has always been out of tune.'"

Mio chokes, snapping out of her stunned paralysis. "What?!"

"Or—or, I don't know, maybe—" Naya waggles her fingers in the air as if pulling from endless possibilities, "—'You've never pronounced this word right' or 'I actually hate Muse.'"

Mio lets out an actual squeal of frustration. She hates this. She hates that she's getting so red. She hates that Naya is painting the image so vividly in her mind, and now she's thinking about it—about the airport, about standing too close, about—

Mio breathes through her nose. "I'll help you pack up," she says, already moving toward the cables sprawled across the floor, trying to will away the heat in her face.

Naya watches her for a second. Then she shakes her head, reaching down to gather her own things. "It's okay. If you're busy, go do your thing, Mio."

Something about the way she says it—light, unaffected—makes Mio hesitate.

But Naya doesn't wait for a response. She's already turning back to her pedals, already moving on.

Mio thinks about it for a couple of seconds before putting her bass back into its case. Then, she shifts her bass case against her back.

"See you around," Naya says, smiling.

Mio stands there for half a second longer than necessary. Then she nods.

"Yeah," she says softly.

And then she leaves.

---

Mio pushes open the door to her dorm room. She sets her bass down carefully. Her body moves on autopilot—reaching for her study materials, flipping open a textbook—because this is what she's supposed to do. This is what she said she needed.

Focus. Structure. Control.

She stares at the pages in front of her, trying to will herself into the headspace she needs to be in.

She reaches for her lyrics notebook, flipping absently through the pages. She doesn't know why she flips forward. She doesn't know what she's looking for.

Until she finds it.

A loose sheet of paper, slipped between the pages, nearly weightless but suddenly impossibly heavy in her hands.

Her breath catches as she unfolds it.

"Air – Talkie Walkie (Song: Cherry Blossom Girl). Cherry Blossom Girl is the most beautiful song ever made. It reminds me of you. You're a good friend, a great bassist and a wonderful musician. Thanks for being my favorite part of the club."

Mio stares.

Her fingers tighten on the edges of the note, as if holding it too loosely might make it disappear.

She doesn't know how long she sits there, unmoving.

It feels like a quiet confession, buried between the lines. Like something Naya meant, but didn't say.

Her heart stumbles.

Her chest feels too tight, her pulse too loud, her thoughts too much.

She should put it away. She should go back to studying.

She doesn't.

Instead, she reaches for her headphones, hands moving before she can think, before she can rationalize, before she can decide against it, before she can start reasoning her way out of whatever this is.

She reaches for her laptop.

Opens her browser.

Searches for Cherry Blossom Girl.

Finds the song. 

Closes the laptop.

---

July 9, 2011

Kenji wrote her yesterday.

Asking if she was too busy. If they could meet.

Mio's first instinct was to say no. To say she had to study. To say she had to focus.

Her second instinct was to say yes immediately, open her laptop, and look up what to do in Hakone.

And here they are, in a café, talking about a trip that is getting closer and closer. About the moment when Mio will finally prove that she's the girlfriend Kenji deserves.

The café is small, tucked away from the main street, the kind of place Mio would usually like—dim lighting, the low hum of conversation, the soft clatter of ceramic cups against saucers. Mio stirs her tea absently, watching the delicate whirlpool form and dissolve in her cup.

Across from her, Kenji is talking—something about the Film Appreciation Club. His voice is even, familiar, easy to tune in and out of. She should be listening. She is listening. But her thoughts are moving too fast, threading themselves into loops she can't quite follow.

So she does what she does best: she compensates.

Mio straightens slightly, smiles at Kenji, pushes forward. "We should plan more for Hakone," she says suddenly, leaning in just a little. "There's so much to do there, we should make sure we don't miss anything."

Kenji blinks, caught mid-sentence, before a slow, pleased smile spreads across his face. "Oh?"

"Yeah," Mio nods, reaching into her shoulder bag and flipping open the small notebook she brought. It's mostly blank. She hasn't written anything down yet, but it doesn't matter—what matters is the gesture, the intent, the effort.

She's the girlfriend planning a trip with her boyfriend. She's engaged. Present. Here.

She clicks her pen open, glancing up at Kenji. "I mean, there's the open-air museum. They have this sculpture garden. And an indoor collection too. I read that they have pieces by Picasso, so I thought..." She trails off, glancing up at him, watching his reaction carefully.

Kenji chuckles. "That sounds like a very you place to visit."

Mio tilts her head, feigning nonchalance. "Would you like it?"

Kenji nods, his smile soft. "Of course. I think it sounds great."

Mio releases a quiet breath, nodding along, like this is natural, like she's not thinking about every word, every expression, every shift in his demeanor.

"And there's also Lake Ashi," she continues quickly, momentum carrying her forward. "We could take the sightseeing boat. The view is supposed to be beautiful in summer."

Kenji hums in agreement. "You really planned this out, huh?"

Mio kinda pouts. "I just thought it'd be nice to have some ideas."

Kenji smiles. "I love that you're excited."

Excited. Yes. That is what she is. Excited.

She nods, smiling. "Yeah."

Kenji stirs his coffee absentmindedly. "So, the open-air museum, huh? You'd like that," he says, chuckling. "They have some famous pieces there. And we can also go to the hot springs."

Mio nods, ignoring the way her stomach tightens slightly at the mention of the onsen. "And the cable car. That sounds fun."

"I bet the views will be spectacular. It's supposed to be really peaceful."

Peaceful. Yes. That's what this trip will be. A quiet, simple moment to recalibrate. To breathe. To be a good girlfriend. To—

"I think the ryokan we're staying at has a private bath in the room," Kenji says casually. "It'll be nice to relax there together."

Something in Mio seizes.

She doesn't tense visibly—doesn't flinch, doesn't shift, doesn't let the moment register in her body. But she feels it, like the ghost of a ripple beneath her skin.

She focuses on the notebook, tightening her grip on the pen.

"Oh," she says, keeping her voice light, easy, neutral. "Yeah. That sounds... nice."

Nice.

The word sits wrong in her mouth.

She doesn't look up right away, but she can feel Kenji watching her.

Don't pull away. Don't withdraw. Don't mess this up.

Mio clears her throat, presses forward. "We should book a kaiseki dinner at the inn," she says quickly, flipping a page in the notebook as if this is an essential, urgent note to take. "I read that they serve seasonal dishes, really elaborate ones. That would be nice, right?"

Kenji hesitates—just for a second—but then he nods. "Yeah," he says, smiling again. "That sounds great."

Crisis averted.

Mio exhales, her smile still perfectly in place.

She glances at her cup, watching the steam curl into the air, dissipating.

She wants to be here. Wants to be present. Wants to be normal.

Kenji reaches for his drink, taking a slow sip before glancing at her again. "Are your parents really okay with this?" he asks, casual, but curious. "I mean, a trip alone with your boyfriend?"

Mio blinks.

Yes, they are okay with this. Surprisingly okay.

It's not that her parents were particularly forbidding—Mio had been giving them plenty of reasons to trust their only daughter's judgment for nearly twenty years.

But still, Mio was surprised at how little they hesitated when she mentioned it to her mother over the phone, even when her mother asked:

"Mio-chan, are you sure about this trip?"

Mio raised a brow. "What do you mean?"

"Well," her mother chuckled, "it's just... a trip. Just the two of you. Should I be worried?"

A teasing lilt, affectionate, but Mio stiffened anyway.

"Mama—"

"I'm joking," her mother soothed. "Mostly."

"It's not a big deal. Just... a nice weekend together," Mio said quickly, trying to keep her voice even, casual. "Kenji and I have been dating for almost a year. It's normal."

Her mother hadn't pushed.

"Well, alright," she'd said. "I trust you. And Kenji's a nice boy. Very polite. We like him a lot."

Mio swallowed. She should have felt reassured by that. Instead, she had only felt more pressure.

"He's very sweet on you, you know," her mother added.

Yes.

She knows.

She exhaled, trying to steady herself. "So, you're okay with it?"

"Of course. Just be responsible."

The words had felt like a confirmation, like a stamp of approval on something Mio still wasn't sure she was building correctly.

"Right."

Her mother laughed lightly. "Mio-chan, are you blushing?"

"I have to go."

"Mmm-hmm."

Mio hung up.

Now, in the café, Mio nods. "Yeah," she says. "They like you a lot."

Kenji smiles, clearly satisfied with her answer. "That's nice to hear."

Mio smiles. Playing the part.

The perfect girlfriend.

She's doing this right, she's saying all the right things, she's—

Kenji leans forward slightly, resting his chin against his hand. "I'm really glad we're doing this," he says, his voice warm, affectionate.

"Me too," she says automatically.

And that should be enough.

Mio watches the way Kenji shifts, relaxing into the moment, into the idea of them together, away from university, away from everything else.

"It'll be nice," he says, his voice easy, expectant. "Just the two of us."

Just the two of us.

Mio feels the words settle over her like a weight, too heavy for something so light.

Kenji isn't pushing. He never pushes. But there is something in his tone, something that lingers between them, unsaid but understood.

She knows what he means.

A romantic getaway. Time alone, uninterrupted. The natural next step.

Because that is what couples do.

That is what she's supposed to want.

Mio forces her expression to remain neutral, tilting her head slightly as if considering, as if the thought doesn't make her stomach twist. "Yeah," she says, reaching for a sip of her drink. "It'll be... nice."

Kenji nods. "We both need a break."

A break. Yes. That is what this is.

A break. A moment to reset. To fix what feels off.

To finally make things right.

She takes another sip, forcing herself to focus on the heat of the drink against her tongue, on the way the spoon shifts in her cup.

Kenji reaches for her hand across the table. Mio doesn't pull away. She lets him hold it, lets his fingers trace lazy circles over her knuckles.

This is good.

This is normal.

This is what she wants.

Kenji's hand lingers, warm, steady. She squeezes his hand back.

He looks happy.

Because she's trying. Because today, she's engaged.

This is what she wants.
This is what she wants.
This is what she wants.

He smiles. Mio smiles back.

Perfect.

Everything is perfect.

---

July 10, 2011

They eat in the cafeteria. Morning, noon, night. A perpetual cycle, predictable yet shifting, the shape of their gatherings dictated by the mercurial tides of study schedules and obligations. The composition of their table is never fixed; it dissolves and reforms like the changing phases of the moon.

Sometimes, it's all five of them—Mio, Ritsu, Yui, Mugi, Azusa—a constellation aligned in its familiar orbit. Other times, Momo gravitates toward Azusa, Liz materializes like a passing comet, Akira makes a rare and fleeting appearance. Ayame and Sachi settle in from time to time.

And then there is Naya.

Naya, who has become a fixture at these meals. Naya, whose presence has quietly, irrevocably, settled into the unspoken order of things.

(That is what you wanted. Isn't it?)

Finals season stretches thin across them, taut and fraying at the edges. Conversations bleed into one another, indistinguishable from the day before.

"How's it going?"

"This subject is consuming me whole."

"Mioooo, please help me study!"

"I wish I were in Naya-chan's shoes—I wouldn't even have to bother."

"Why does your language insist on a thousand variations for the same concept?"

"How's the piano, Mio-chan?"

"Fine."

The word leaves her lips like a rehearsed line, devoid of real meaning.

If the space beside Mio is unclaimed, Naya waits—a fleeting glance, a silent question. Mio nods. She always nods. If they sit across from each other, their gazes collide too often, an unspoken rhythm of stolen glances and quiet recognition.

Naya always smiles.

Mio always smiles back.

Even when she tells herself not to.

Even when she doesn't know why she tells herself not to.

Even when she begins, little by little, to maneuver herself into seats where Naya can't sit beside her.

A shield. A futile attempt to create distance where her mind has already folded inward, betraying her intentions.

She doesn't know why.

(You know why.)

Mio wonders if Naya knows.

If she notices how Mio's hands curl tighter around her chopsticks, how she answers in monosyllables when their knees brush under the table, how her breath hitches for no reason at all.

Naya is fluent in so many arts—the art of being indecipherable, the art of understanding Mio better than Mio understands herself.

Yet Naya says nothing.

Still, Mio finds folded notes tucked between her books, as if left there by the wind.

Still, her phone lights up with messages, never intrusive, just a quiet presence.

Still, Naya keeps reaching for her.

Mio reaches back, tentative. Then, just as quickly, she recoils.

Mio wonders if Naya knows.

Naya says nothing.

---

Naya

Naya: u alive?

Mio: Yes. Why?

Naya: u didn't look at me at dinner. thought maybe u died
Naya: u studying?

Mio: Of course.

Naya: liar

Mio: (╬ಠ益ಠ) I am not!!

Naya: u totally are. if u were studying, u wouldn't be answering me this fast
Naya: if u were studying, u'd say something like "I have to focus" or "I need to sleep soon" or "I can't talk"

Mio: Fine. I was taking a break.

Naya: so what r u actually doing?

Mio: Nothing really. Just thinking.

Naya: dangerous
Naya: what r u thinking about?

Naya: if it's about the pedal sessions, don't overthink it. I get it. u need to focus on finals. it's fine, rly

Mio: You're really okay with it? (・・?)

Naya: ofc

Mio: Really?

Naya: it's not like u said "never again" just "pause" right?

Mio: (・へ・) Right.

Naya: then we're fine
Naya: also, I left u a music rec

Mio: You did? Where?

Naya: guess u'll have to find it :P

Mio: (¬_¬)

Naya: xD

Mio: Can you give me a hint?

Naya: nope :D

---

The note is on her bag. Obviously.

"Lodger – Hi-Fi High Lights Down Low (Song: I Love Death) For the days that suck. Hope you're okay."

Mio searches and presses play. A Finnish band, but English lyrics.

After a while, it's almost laughable—the lyrics are too nihilistic for her.

Still, some lyrics just get stuck.

She studies, the album a background soundtrack.

This is what we've become when nothing's real,
Mental wounds that never heal.

---

July 11, 2011

Mio flips the page of her textbook, pen tapping lightly against the table. The library hums around her—quiet murmurs, the soft rustle of pages turning, the occasional scrape of a chair against the floor. The others are here, too, settled into their usual rhythm.

Ritsu, predictably, is restless. She shifts in her chair, stretches, groans dramatically, then leans over Mio's shoulder.

"Miooooo," she whines. "What does this mean?" She jabs her finger at a question in her notes.

Mio exhales. "It's the same concept I explained twenty minutes ago."

"Yeah, but I wasn't listening twenty minutes ago."

Mio closes her eyes for a beat, then reopens them. She should be annoyed. She is annoyed. But this is Ritsu—Ritsu, who has made an art out of being impossible to stay mad at for long.

"Here," Mio mutters, adjusting her posture. "Look—this part connects to the previous equation. If you isolate this cost first, you can calculate the total revenue more easily."

"Ugh, why does everything in business come down to numbers?"

"Because money makes the world go round, Ritsu."

She walks Ritsu through it, voice steady, patient despite herself.

"Makes sense?"

Ritsu furrows her brows. "Uh. Maybe. No. Probably not."

Mugi chuckles from across the table. "You'll get it, Ricchan."

"I'll get it if Mio does my finals for me," Ritsu grumbles, slumping back.

Mio ignores her, pushing her textbook toward Yui, who has, at some point, stopped even pretending to read her own. Yui blinks, startled.

"Mio-chan?"

Mio gestures to her open page. "You were staring at my Pedagogy book like you wanted to ask something."

"Oh! Right!" Yui beams, looking relieved that Mio figured that out for her. "Um... what's this part?"

She points, and Mio leans over, answering again.

And then, once both Ritsu and Yui are temporarily pacified, she settles back into her own work.

Her notes blur slightly as she stares at them.

She blinks. Refocuses.

Her pen drags a line beneath a key term, but her hand hesitates.

There, at a table near the back, Naya is hunched over her own notes, completely absorbed in whatever she's reading.

Mio glances.

She looks back at her book.

Then back at her.

She tells herself it's just... curiosity. Just absentmindedness. A harmless, fleeting thing.

Naya tilts her head, chewing lightly on the end of her pen, brow furrowed in focus. The sight shouldn't be anything special, but something about it—her posture, the way she taps her pen rhythmically against the page—snags at Mio's attention.

Mio inhales sharply, pressing herself back into her seat, willing herself to look away.

She focuses. Reads. Underlines. Tries.

She's studying.

She's not thinking about her.

She doesn't look again.

Not immediately.

But eventually, inevitably—

Her gaze betrays her.

Again.

---

Ritsu 🥁

Mio: Hey.

Mio: I think I'm going to start studying alone in my room from now on.
Mio: Finals are coming up, and I really need to focus.
Mio: Sorry (・・;)

Ritsu: ???
Ritsu: What??
Ritsu: You're abandoning me??
Ritsu: To suffer alone?? (╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻

Mio: You have Mugi and Yui.

Ritsu: YUI is the reason I need you in the first place!
Ritsu: (ಥ﹏ಥ)

Mio: I'll help you if you have specific questions.

Ritsu: Specific questions like "Can you do my test for me?"

Mio: No (¬_¬)

Ritsu: Worth a shot (￣▽￣)

Mio: I'm serious, Ritsu. I just need space.

Mio: I can't focus.
Mio: I keep getting distracted.
Mio: I need distance.

Mio: Sorry (・へ・)

Ritsu: Okay
Ritsu: But don't burn yourself out, okay?

Mio: Yeah.

---

July 12, 2011

Kenji ❤️

Kenji: Hey, you okay? You've been quiet.
Kenji: Studying too hard again?
Kenji: Don't forget to take breaks.

Mio: Yeah. Just busy (ーー;)

Kenji: I figured. You always go into hyper-focus mode around finals.
Kenji: Don't push yourself too hard, okay?
Kenji: Still good for our trip?

Mio: Of course.

Kenji: Good.
Kenji: I'm looking forward to it.

Mio: Me too (＾▽＾)

---

"Julieta Venegas – Limón y Sal (Song: Me Voy). Because sometimes simple things are beautiful. No overthinking allowed."

A Mexican singer. Mio puts on her headphones before thinking twice. The Spanish lyrics don't distract her from her studies, but the music lulls her in some way.

Her curiosity gets the better of her and she looks for the translation of the lyrics of Me Voy.

Because I know something better awaits me,
Someone who knows how to give me love
Of that which sweetens salt and makes the sun rise.
I thought I would never leave you,
That it is love, the good one, of all life, but
I won't cry and say that I don't deserve this, because
I probably deserve it, but I don't want it, that's why
I leave.

---

July 13, 2011

Naya

Naya: how's piano?

Mio: It's okay (´・ω・｀)

Naya: that good eh?
Naya: want a study break?
Naya: we could watch something or talk about how unfair it is that u r good at right-handed guitar but i still can't aim in any videogame

Mio: I don't think I should take a break... finals are soon. Sorry (´～｀；)

Naya: u say that, but you answered me instead of studying

Mio: That's different!! (╬ Ò﹏Ó)

Naya: xD
Naya: okay okay, study. be the serious disciplined student i know u r :)
Naya: but if u need a break, i'll be here

---

"Amaral – Pájaros en la cabeza (Song: Días de Verano). Dreamy, melancholic, and restless. Kinda reminds me of your basslines. Hope finals aren't eating you alive."

Mio blinks a couple of times before resigning herself, looking for the album, pressing play and letting the music carry her away as she reads a little about the group—a Spanish rock duo from Zaragoza.

Días de Verano is the second track. She looks up for the translated lyrics. Finds them in English. Summer Days. She could just ask Naya, but still.

There are no more summer days to ask you for your forgiveness,
To wash away from the past all the hurt I made up to you.
No good-bye kisses and no beautiful words.
Because I look into your eyes and I am speechless.

Mio reads.

It was feeling your absence suddenly, like a sun eclipse.
Why don't you go to my side?

And re-reads, and re-reads, and re-reads.

If I think of you, I feel this life is unfair.
If I think of you, and that light of your looking.

Green and sharp and summer-bright.

There are summer days left.

---

July 14, 2011

Her right hand holds the folded note.

Her left hand hovers by the door, just shy of knocking.

A breath. Then another. Controlled, deliberate. As if she can exhale hesitation out of her body, as if oxygen alone could clarify what, exactly, she is doing here.

The hallway is quiet. The door closed. It's not that late, but late enough that the air feels heavier, the kind of stillness that turns the smallest of actions—this hand, this note, this hesitation—into something absurdly significant.

(You're not avoiding her.)

That is the first lie.

The second:

(You're only here because you want to return the favor.)

She doesn't know how long she's been standing here.

She doesn't remember deciding to come.

One moment, she was in her room, meticulously rearranging the same three textbooks on her desk in a futile attempt at order. The next, she was standing in the hallway—at Naya's door, with this note between her fingers, this absurd, inexplicable note that she shouldn't have written in the first place.

It's just a game. A simple exchange of music, a ritual without rules. One leaves a band recommendation. The other returns the favor.

Naya's been leaving her recommendations. Mio should return the favor.

She should have done so already. But she didn't. She hesitated.

(Not hesitation. Just bad timing. Exams. Hakone. A busy mind is a responsible mind.)

Exams, she had told herself.
Hakone, she had reasoned.
Not avoidance.
Not fear.
Not guilt.

But her mind hasn't been busy in the past hour. Or at least—it hasn't been busy with the right things. She told herself she would study, review theory, practice ear training, finish that essay on music pedagogy.

And yet, somehow, she ended up here.

In front of Naya's door, note in hand, heart in throat, her body acting before thought, before reason.

When did she get here?

Her grip tightens around the note, it bends, the edges crumpling. She had written it quickly, automatically, half a conscious thought scribbled in the margin of a textbook before she had time to reconsider.

The mechanics of it had been simple. Just another name, just another band. She had done this before, many times, when the exchange had felt like a natural rhythm between them, an unspoken coversation stitched into their routine.

It's just a band recommendation.

That's all.

Just the continuation of a game she never agreed to stop playing.

I'm not avoiding her.

She could knock. It would be easy.

Then why does it feel impossible?

This is simple. It's nothing. Just a note. Just a knock.

She lifts her hand, feeling the air between her knuckles and the door.

The space between action and inaction.

Something about that gap unsettles her.

(You're not avoiding Naya. You're just seeing her less. That's normal. That's natural.)

But she misses her.

That's what this is, isn't it?

An absence that feels too large for its timeframe, a space carved out where Naya should be but isn't. A real thing, a concrete thing, free of excuse or rationalization.

She misses the quiet moments between them, the effortless way Naya occupied space, how she filled silence without intruding on it. The steadiness. The casual way Naya looked at her, as if Mio wasn't someone to be deciphered—just someone to be seen.

But it's stupid—Mio still sees her.

In the club, in passing, in the crowded spaces of their shared circles.

But it's not the same.

She's felt the distance stretch, felt the way their usual rhythm has shifted, fallen out of sync.

Naya hasn't stopped their game.

Mio has.

She misses her.

(That's not an issue.)

(That doesn't mean anything.)

That's why she's here.

Not because she's avoiding her.

She isn't.

She's been busy. Studying. Preparing. 

I've been busy. That's all. Finals. Hakone.

Hakone is soon, and Kenji is—

The thought fragments.

She isn't avoiding Naya. She isn't.

Naya isn't a danger to her.

(She's a friend. Just a friend.)

Her fingertips brush the wood of the door, but she doesn't press. The knock doesn't come.

She has mastered the art of distraction. The relentless structuring of her time, the calculated precision of every schedule, the measured segmentation of each day into increments of study, responsibility, necessity. A week of this, and her mind has settled into a kind of dull efficiency, a numb and mechanical movement from one task to the next. Safe. Stable. Uncomplicated.

I'm not avoiding her.

The repetition soothes something jagged beneath the surface. Because if she says it enough times, it will become true.

But then—why is she here?

She doesn't know. Or rather, she refuses to acknowledge the knowing, the insistent tug in her chest, the way her steps had led her here without conscious intent. Her body had moved, had made a decision she was not yet ready to claim as her own.

Mio, you're being ridiculous.

Mio considers slipping the note under the door. A coward's solution, but a solution nonetheless. A simple, quick motion, impersonal enough to suggest casual detachment. That would be easier. No confrontation, no interaction, just a quiet offering, a silent return to the unspoken game.

She bends slightly at the waist, angling the paper toward the floor—

The door opens.

Mio's body moves before thought can catch up. An instinctual retreat, sudden and graceless. A sharp intake of breath, a step backward, and then she's not in front of the door anymore but pressed against the wall, heart stammering in the hollow space of the hallway's corner, breath caught between her teeth, a fraction of a second after instinct had propelled her there.

Naya steps out.

She doesn't notice Mio. Doesn't even glance in her direction. She simply walks, easy and unhurried, hands shoved into her pockets, her posture loose in that effortless way of hers—like she belongs everywhere and nowhere at once.

She looks... casual. Unbothered. As if nothing is amiss. As if she has no idea Mio was just standing outside her door, frozen.

As if she has no idea Mio has spent the past week avoiding the ghost of her presence.

Mio watches.

She doesn't know where Naya's going. She doesn't know what she's supposed to feel about the fact that Naya doesn't pause, doesn't look back, doesn't even glance toward her door as if expecting Mio to be there.

(It shouldn't matter.)

(It doesn't matter.)

Where is she going? Library? Dinner? Somewhere else?

Somewhere Mio isn't.

She should step forward, should call out, should—

What, exactly?

Should hand her the note and pretend it means nothing? Should ask her something meaningless, something neutral, just to hear her voice? Should apologize, though she's not sure for what?

She does none of those things.

Instead, she watches as Naya moves further away, as distance solidifies between them, as the chance she had slips further out of reach.

When Naya is gone, the hallway feels empty in a way that is more than just physical space.

The note is still in her hand, slightly wrinkled from the pressure of her fingers, warm from the heat of her palm. A physical manifestation of indecision. Of something reaching.

She shoves it in her pocket.

Turns. Leaves.

Back to her room. Back to her desk. Back to textbooks and logic and reasons that can be neatly categorized and contained.

She's not avoiding Naya.

She's not avoiding the way her stomach knots at the thought of her.

She's not avoiding the quiet, nagging truth that has begun to coil itself between the spaces of her thoughts, making itself known in the moments she tries hardest to ignore.

She's not avoiding her.

---

Kenji ❤️

Kenji: How's studying going? You okay?

Mio: Yeah, just busy.

Kenji: Don't work too hard, okay? You need to rest too.
Kenji: You sure you're alright?

Mio: I'm fine. Just focused.

Kenji: Okay. Let me know if you need anything.
Kenji: Can't wait for Hakone. Just us.

---

Mio turns off the phone.

---

She knows it's unfair.

Knows it the way she knows the weight of her own name, the chords of a song she's played a hundred times, the soft, inevitable hush of the world after a note fades. The way she knows the ocean will always pull back, only to return.

Knows it, and does it anyway.

She smiles when she should. Laughs when she's meant to. Answers when she's spoken to. There's nothing missing, nothing misplaced—only the quiet shift beneath the surface, something subtle, something no one would notice unless they were looking for it.

And no one is.

Why would they be?

She's still here.

Still Akiyama Mio.

Still reserved, still steady, still soft-spoken.

Still the same.

Right?

Right.

She tells herself this when she excuses herself earlier than usual, when she lingers less, when she starts holding her phone differently—screen tilted, messages left unread a little longer. She tells herself this when Kenji's words slip past her like rain on a windowpane, when she nods at the right moments but can't remember the color of his shirt. When she lets her friends' voices fill the spaces she used to occupy, as if the less she says, the less anyone will notice she's—

Pulling away.

(It's fine. It's nothing. It's just—)

Her mind drifts when it shouldn't. To moments that don't mean anything. Shouldn't mean anything.

Hands brushing over hers, fingertips against fabric, a voice that lingers longer than it should. A steady, grounding weight against her shoulder. The heat of someone standing too close, but never close enough—

She shakes it off.

Buries it under routine, under caution, under everything she knows about herself—everything she's supposed to be.

Because it's fine.

It has to be fine.

She just needs space, just needs to breathe, just needs to remember how to feel like herself again.

(Who is that, exactly?)

The thought unspools before she can catch it, stretching into something too thin to hold. But it doesn't matter.

She's still here.

Still Akiyama Mio.

Still reserved. Still responsible.

Still steady, still soft-spoken, still—

(Still slipping.)

But no one notices.

And that, at least, is a relief.

Notes:

Okay, Mio. What the fuck.

What is this heterosexual bullshit? I did not sign up for this. You were supposed to be figuring yourself out, not making me take notes for your Hakone trip itinerary like some kind of responsible girlfriend! (Except you're not even convincing yourself, are you, Mio? Hm? HMMM?)

Honestly, girl. Get it together.

But alas, here we are. Mio is deep in her "I'm a perfectly normal girl with a perfectly normal boyfriend and perfectly normal feelings, thank you very much" era. We all know this is going well. (It's not.)

Honestly, writing these chapters sometimes feels like watching someone try to bail water out of a sinking boat with a paper cup while refusing to admit there's a hole. Mio, sweetie, you're not fooling anyone. Except yourself. Barely.

Also, can we talk about how Naya is so dangerous for absolutely no reason? Like, why is she like this. Why is she hovering in the background, saying "You didn't tell me" in that tone, recommending songs that scream "This is my repressed crush playlist" and pulling out airport rom-com scenarios like she doesn't know exactly what she's doing. Dangerous. A menace. A health hazard. Mio should stay away. (She won't.)

Massive thanks, as always, to Jules (tsuki_anne)—beta, hype squad, and emotional support human—who patiently listens to me yell about Mio's tragic inability to understand her own feelings. You are the real MVP, and I have no idea how you put up with me.

And thank you, dear reader, for coping with our most absolute but also sweetest disaster of a girl. If Mio existed and realized we're here breaking down her entire sexuality journey, she'd faint. And we love her for it.

See you next time!

Chapter 20: Player Piano

Summary:

Mio plays perfectly lifeless.

Notes:

This chapter made me realize something. I love researching. I love writing because it's a form of discovery—not just of the world, or art, or languages, or music, but of people. Of yourself. Sometimes you think you know a character, and then you start writing and suddenly—oh. Oh no. There's more. They have layers. They have history. And now, instead of a normal scene, you're spiraling down a rabbit hole of classical piano theory, ear training drills, and the emotional trauma of a conservatory education. (Send help.)

To those who know nothing about classical piano—don't worry, I got you. The chapter holds your hand. To those who do know classical piano—uh. Sorry for being dumb. I didn't mean to offend. I promise I tried my best. Please don't throw sheet music at me. (Or do, but make it Chopin's nocturnes so I can cry romantically about it.)

Also, this chapter is 20% music theory, 70% existential crisis, and 10% "Naya, what the hell." Classic ratio.

Massive thanks, as always, to Jules (tsuki_anne)—beta, bestie, and the only person patient enough to listen to me yell about the emotional weight of diminished sevenths. You make my writing better, and you stop me from making egregious cultural-related crimes. Love you.

Player Piano, by Memory Tapes, was released on July 5, 2011.

July 17, 2011

Mio presses play.

An interval rings out. The sound exists in a space unburdened by subjectivity. It doesn't ache. It doesn't long. It doesn't misstep or hesitate. It enters her ears, neutral, mathematical, precise—an auditory equation waiting to be solved.

"Perfect fourth."

She says it aloud, firm and steady. The words leave her lips with the same clinical detachment she demands of herself. The answer is correct.

Another interval.

"Major sixth."

Another.

"Tritone."

Her voice doesn't waver. The intervals arrive in a procession of clean, digestible absolutes, and she consumes them like a machine processing input. There is no room for ambiguity. No room for hesitation. She trains her ear to recognize, to categorize, to assign meaning with precision and efficiency.

There is comfort in this.

A reassurance that sounds, when arranged in specific, familiar patterns, are not subject to misinterpretation. They simply are.

She repeats the drill. Again. Again. She has done this before, countless times, until the identification of frequencies and tonal relationships has become as natural as breathing.

Another interval.

Another.

Another.

"Major third."

"Minor seventh."

"Perfect fifth."

Click. Click. Click.

Her voice remains flat, detached. A recitation of fact, not feeling. The recognition is immediate, yet mechanical—a process of recall rather than engagement, an exercise in categorization rather than expression. She doesn't hear music; she hears structures, measurements, distances between notes. She hears logic.

It's easy. It's methodical.

She presses play. Again. Again.

The repetition is steady, predictable, controlled. No room for uncertainty. No space for hesitation. No stray thoughts to unspool in the margins. Just notes, patterns, recognition. A clean loop of input and output, untainted by feeling.

(This is productive.)

(This is necessary.)

(This is discipline.)

She adjusts the volume, increasing the sharpness of the tones, as if clarity could be forced through sheer will. The soundwaves strike her eardrums, numerical and impersonal, each frequency a distinct unit of meaning. She presses the correct button before she has time to think about it.

An interval plays.

She blinks.

What was that?

Her fingers twitch toward the keyboard, a reflexive motion. She replays the sound, and for the first time tonight, she hesitates.

It was a minor sixth. No—a tritone. No—a—

She doesn't know.

She replays the interval.

Still, nothing.

A first.

She has never hesitated on these drills. They are straightforward, finite, an exercise in memorization and pattern recognition. A skill. A technique. There is no room for error, no reason for this sudden lapse—

She replays it again.

The sound reaches her ears, but she isn't listening.

Not really.

She frowns.

Listen. Focus.

But she isn't. Not properly. Not entirely. Not in the way she should be.

Her mind is still in the hallway. In the absence left behind. In the unknocked door. The unread note. The quiet shape of something unspoken pressing against the edge of her consciousness.

She exhales sharply, almost a sigh, almost a surrender.

This is ridiculous.

(You are ridiculous.)

She presses replay.

She needs to focus.

Needs to regain control.

Needs to drown out the noise that is not music, not structure, not recognizable patterns of sound, but something else—something uncontainable, something unmeasured, something unknown.

She presses replay.

Again.

Again.

Again.

(You're overthinking. Again.)

Again.

Again.

Again.

The interval repeats.

She forces herself to answer.

Wrong.

The program flashes red. The incorrect response lodges itself in her chest, a small, irrational weight, disproportionate to its insignificance.

Mio presses replay.

Again.

Again.

The same tones cycle through, demanding recognition, demanding clarity, demanding something from her she cannot seem to give.

Recognition.

That is the essence of ear training. Not creation, not expression, not interpretation. Just the ability to hear what is already there and name it.

To acknowledge it.

To accept it as truth.

The program waits. The next interval plays.

Her mind doesn't.

She presses replay again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

---

July 18, 2011

Mio is alone.

She had dinner with Ritsu, Mugi, and Yui. She listened, laughed in the right places, contributed when necessary. They were careful with her, in the way people are when they don't want to push but know something is wrong. They had filled the spaces, kept the conversation easy, unthreatening. Yui talked about a dream where she was a cat. Ritsu leaned in, made a joke, bumped her shoulder once or twice, testing for a reaction. Mio responded. She smiled, nodded, made the correct noises at the correct times.

Now she's here, alone in her room, the silence pressing against her like something tangible.

She should study. Should push past the exhaustion that drags at the edges of her mind, pressing down on her limbs, dulling her thoughts. Should open her books, revise her notes, return to the discipline of knowledge, of clean, unambiguous logic. Should impose structure where there is none, assert control over the spaces that have begun to unravel beneath her feet.

Mio stares at the folded note in her hands, the edges softened from repeated handling, as if the creases alone could yield answers. The ink is slightly smudged where her thumb has lingered too long over certain words.

She exhales. Unfolds it again.

"You're a good friend, a great bassist, and a wonderful musician. Thanks for being my favorite part of the club."

It should feel simple. A compliment, a small kindness, a casual affirmation of the camaraderie they share within the club. And yet, something about it unsettles her. Not in the way of discomfort, but in the way of something delicate, something precariously perched on the edge of recognition.

Mio stares at the handwriting. A little slanted. A little uneven. A few letters formed differently than a native writer would shape them. But careful. Thoughtful. Like Naya had meant every word.

(It's just a game.)

Her hands fold over the paper, press into it as if the pressure alone could flatten the weight it carries.

(You are overthinking this.)

She opens her laptop.

The cursor blinks in the search bar, waiting.

Her fingers move without conscious effort, typing the words. Talkie Walkie. Cherry Blossom Girl. A methodical process, an action free of personal investment. A song is just a song. A note is just a note. The game is just a game.

The melody begins.

A low, humming drone, soft and warm. Weightless. Airy synths drifting into focus, translucent and soft, like light filtering through a half-drawn curtain. A beat emerges, slow and measured, carrying the faintest pulse of something dreamy, something unmoored. A swell of guitar, airy, expansive. The kind of sound that feels like it exists outside of time, pressing against the edges of perception, something ephemeral yet insistent.

Then the voice. Breathless, gentle, achingly sincere.

I don't want to be shy, can't stand it anymore.
I just want to say hi to the one I love.

Mio freezes.

The words settle in the space around her, threading through the air, seeping beneath her skin before she can erect the necessary barriers. There is something immediate in them, something so direct it feels like a confrontation.

(It's just a song.)

She tells herself this. Tells herself she is imagining the way the notes stretch, the way the voice drifts, the way the meaning lingers too long in her chest.

This is background music, a study companion, a passive atmosphere to cushion the sharp edges of silence.

She should be focusing on the sheet in front of her, the theory concepts she needs to drill into her mind before the next exam. She should be thinking about chord structures, harmonic progressions, the mathematical relationships between notes.

She keeps listening.

I feel sick all day long from not being with you.
I just want to go out every night for a while.

(It's just a song.)

But it isn't.

Because Naya had written it down. Because Naya had chosen it. Because Naya had said, It reminds me of you.

Mio inhales. Slowly.

The chorus arrives, unfurling itself gently, as if unaware of the weight it carries.

Tell me why can't it be true.

She exhales.

(It's just a song.)

(You're imagining things.)

(You're projecting.)

(This is absurd.)

I'll never love again, can I say that to you?
Will you run away if I try to be true?

The words settle, find a space between breath and heartbeat, somewhere uncomfortable, somewhere undeniable.

The rational part of her mind is already constructing its arguments. Coincidence. Interpretation. Subjectivity. The human tendency to assign meaning where there is none.

Cherry Blossom Girl, I'll always be there for you.
That means no time to waste, whenever there's a chance.

(Enough.)

She rips the headphones off.

The silence that follows is immediate. Deafening. A stark contrast to the gauzy warmth of the song, the quiet murmur of something pressing against the walls of her mind. Her thoughts are unraveling, spilling into places they shouldn't go.

(No.) 

She will study.

She will occupy herself with facts, with formulas, with theory drills. She will submerge herself in scales and intervals and the cold, measured precision of things that don't ask anything of her.

She needs to focus. Needs to study. Needs to drown this out before it settles too deeply into the spaces of her mind.

She buries herself in textbooks, forces her mind into the rigid structure of analysis, of discipline, of things that have answers, things that can be controlled.

(This is just exhaustion. Just stress.)

(This is nothing.)

(You are nothing if not logical. Stay logical.)

Hours pass.

The song does not.

---

July 19, 2011

Kenji ❤️

Kenji: Haven't talked much. How's finals?

Mio: Busy. But okay.

Mio: Just a lot of studying.

Kenji: I figured.
Kenji: Just don't overdo it, okay?
Kenji: Hey, we should call soon. Or maybe grab coffee?

Kenji: If you're too busy, no worries. Just wanted to check in.

Mio: Yeah, just a lot to do. Finals and all. You know how it is.

Kenji: I know. Just don't overwork yourself, okay?
Kenji: You're probably up too late, aren't you?

Mio: I'm fine. Just studying.

Kenji: Mio.
Kenji: Just promise me you'll sleep.

Mio: I will.

Kenji: You should rest.

Mio: I know. I'll try.

Kenji: Okay. Sleep well, Mio.

---

July 20, 2011

The door closes behind her with muted finality.

She steps into the hallway, fingers curled around the strap of her bag, feet moving in automatic, measured strides—steady, controlled, deliberate. The corridor is silent, save for the distant shuffle of shoes, the faint echo of voices muffled by thick walls and time-worn carpeting. Everything is ordinary, contained, perfectly in place.

So why does it feel like something is missing?

She should feel relief. Should feel satisfaction, pride, something. She has done everything right. Executed every scale, every arpeggio, every interval recognition with methodical precision. Sight-read with fluidity, never faltering, never hesitating. She has shaped Chopin's Waltz in A minor exactly as it should be—delicate but decisive, measured yet melancholic, every phrase articulated with the correct weight, the right intention. Her fingers moved as they were trained to move. She obeyed the music. She didn't resist.

She played it flawlessly.

Then why does it feel like a mistake?

The thought is irrational. Illogical. There is no mistake. She knows this. She has performed enough times, practiced enough hours, studied enough theory to understand the mechanics of correctness—of what constitutes success, what merits approval, what earns the nod, the brief acknowledgment, the stroke of pen against rubric that confirms her competence.

She was competent.

She is competent.

Then why does she feel like she failed?

She adjusts the strap on her shoulder. Keeps walking. One foot in front of the other, as if the movement itself can shake the thought loose, can untangle the strange weight lodged beneath her ribs, pressing, pressing.

Her professor had nodded. Marked something down. Acknowledged her work with the same detached professionalism as expected. "Good phrasing, solid technique, appropriate touch."  Standard feedback, routine evaluations—nothing worth fixating on. She had thanked him, as one should. He had moved on. So had she.

Then why does her mind linger?

Her piano teacher had smiled—warm, encouraging. Had said:

"Beautiful control, as always."

With the sort of tone meant to reassure, to soften something impersonal into something human.

It should have been enough.

It isn't.

She reaches the end of the corridor. Pushes open the door. Steps outside.

Heat swells around her instantly, thick and humid, pressing against her skin in a slow, suffocating weight. The cicadas are loud. The air hums with their restless song, vibrating in the spaces between shadows and sunlight, filling the air with something chaotic, unbridled, alive.

She exhales. Shallow. Sharp.

Something in her stomach turns.

She does not understand it, not fully, but it feels like absence. Like standing in the wake of something that should have happened but didn't. Like listening to music and registering only sound, only technical execution, only correctness, without feeling any of it.

(It was good. It was right. It was enough.)

Then why does she feel—

Empty?

Her fingers twitch at her side. She flexes them absently, as if loosening tension, as if shaking off the ghost of keys beneath her fingertips. But it isn't tension. Not exactly. It's something else, something unnamed, something restless.

Her mind circles back. Unwilling.

She thinks of the waltz.

She thinks of how she played it.

She thinks of how it should have felt.

(It's not a piece about sadness, not exactly. It's a piece about longing.)

She had played the notes. Had shaped them with clarity, intention, logic. Had given the phrases room to breathe, had followed the natural rise and fall, had obeyed the musical line with the careful precision of someone who knows how music is meant to be played.

She had done everything right.

Then why did it feel wrong?

A breeze drifts through the courtyard, warm and heavy with summer's weight, but the movement of it—a ripple through the heat, a shift against her skin—unsettles her.

Her pulse is steady. Controlled. Normal.

But something inside her is not.

She walks. Without thinking. Without direction. Just movement, just motion, just the need to go.

Where?

She doesn't know.

She only knows that her mind will not let go of the feeling.

The absence.

The missing.

She only knows that for all her precision, for all her control, for all her practiced ability to shape music into exactly what it should be—

She had not felt it.

And now she can't unfeel that loss.

---

The clubroom is empty.

Mio had known it would be. That's why she came.

She hadn't wanted to see anyone—not Yui, not Ritsu, not Mugi, not Azusa, not anyone who would look at her and see something wrong. Something out of place. Something missing.

She doesn't turn on the lights. The afternoon sun slants through the high windows, painting uneven shadows across the floor, the walls, the familiar clutter of music stands and abandoned amplifiers. The stillness of it presses against her, settling heavy in her chest.

She moves toward the practice room without thinking, without allowing space for second-guessing. The walls absorb the sound of her breathing, the hush of her movements, the quiet rustle of fabric as she crosses the room. The air still carries the scent of cables and old sheet music, the faint residue of sweat and dust and lingering notes from rehearsals past. A place meant for music, emptied of everything but its potential.

The upright piano stands against the wall, dark, polished, waiting.

Mio settles onto the piano bench

Her hands rest lightly on the keys, the muscle memory of Chopin's Waltz in A minor still fresh, still instinctive. She doesn't hesitate.

She plays.

The notes emerge, precise, controlled, mechanically correct. The rhythm is steady. The dynamics, measured. Each phrase unfolds exactly as it should, each section transitions seamlessly into the next, each movement obeys the logic of the composition.

It's perfect.

It's lifeless.

The sound—she hears it. Recognizes it. Knows it.

Yet it doesn't move her.

The notes land where they should. The phrases rise and fall in their designated arcs. Every chord, every resolution, every carefully measured rubato is exactly as it was meant to be.

And yet—

It is wrong.

Not in execution, not in technicality, not in any way that can be quantified or corrected.

Wrong in the way an absence is wrong. In the way silence is wrong when it should be filled.

She presses harder.

The keys don't resist. The piano gives, obedient, yielding to her hands, to her force, to her insistence that something must be there if only she demands it hard enough.

But it isn't.

She stops.

Her fingers curl inward, pressing into her palms. A deep, slow inhale. A deliberate exhale.

Then—again.

The melody restarts, each note precise, each dynamic controlled. Again, again. The rhythm is intact. The phrases breathe in the exact proportions they should. The piece unfolds like an equation neatly balanced, a sum of its parts, a problem flawlessly solved.

Why does she feel nothing?

Her hands still against the keys. The final chord lingers for a breath, then dissolves into air, into nothing.

Mio stares down at the piano.

This shouldn't feel like failure. It wasn't. She played everything right. She played it exactly as she was taught.

Then why—

The door opens.

Mio flinches, instinctive, unprepared, hands tightening against her thighs.

She turns.

Naya stands in the doorway, bass case on her back.

Still. Unmoving. A pause that stretches just long enough to register, just long enough to catch on the edges of the silence between them. Mio realizes now that she had been completely alone in the music, trapped inside it, unaware of anything beyond the sterile, detached notes of her own playing.

Naya blinks.

"Oh—" She lifts a hand, like she's about to retreat. "Didn't think anyone was here. My bad."

Mio stares. The silence between them stretches too long, too uncertain. Her fingers tighten on her lap.

"I—" She doesn't know how to finish. Doesn't know what to do with the fact that Naya is standing here, now, in this space Mio had claimed for her solitude.

Naya hesitates, then gestures vaguely toward the room. "Didn't hear you playing."

The clubroom is soundproofed.

Mio exhales. It's barely a sound.

Naya steps inside, slow, measured, as if waiting for Mio to tell her to leave. She doesn't. She should. But she doesn't.

Naya's gaze flicks toward the piano, then back to Mio. "I've never seen you play."

Mio presses her lips together, steels herself, forces coherence. "I just had my piano exam."

Naya raises a brow, stepping further into the room. "How'd it go?"

Mio hesitates. The words should be simple. She should be able to say them without complication, without hesitation. They are facts. They are true.

"It was perfect."

The moment the words leave her, something inside her recoils.

Naya studies her.

"Then why do you look like that?"

Mio blinks. "Like what?"

"Like you're pissed at the piano."

"I'm not—" Mio exhales sharply. She looks down at the keys, at the stillness of them, at the way they hold no answers.

She wants to say nothing. Wants to say she has just been studying a lot, wants to say she hasn't been sleeping enough, wants to say she's tired, because she is—she is exhausted. Wants to say anything other than the truth that presses against the backs of her teeth, heavy and restless.

Instead, she sighs.

"I don't know," she admits, quiet. "There's something about the piece I'm not understanding."

Naya puts her bass case down and steps closer, near enough that Mio can feel the faint trace of movement in the air between them. She glances down at the piano sheet, scanning it quickly, eyes darting over the notes, the markings, the instructions written in careful strokes of graphite.

"Ah. You played Chopin," she says, not a question.

Mio nods.

"Diminished sevenths," Naya murmurs, almost to herself. "He loves those."

Mio's brows raise.

Naya tilts her head toward the sheet. "You probably had to analyze that in class, right? The E diminished seventh. The way he resolves it into A minor without making it feel like a clean resolution."

Mio tilts her head. "How do you—"

"Chopin does this thing—uses diminished sevenths to create tension and chromatic movement. Here—" Naya's finger trails over the measure, resting on the chord. "E°7—E, G, B-flat, D-flat. It doesn't resolve the way you think it should, right?"

Mio stares.

"You can read this?"

Naya shrugs, nonchalant. "I mean, kinda." She shifts, her hands slipping back into her pockets. "His stuff also floats between keys a lot. A minor, C major, G major—there's no obvious modulation, just... movement. Not the dramatic kind, more like... a shift in where it's grounded."

Mio watches her, unsure what to say.

Naya glances at her. "You're probably playing it too rigid, right?"

"Excuse me?"

"No offense, but it seems you're playing it like a metronome."

Mio bristles. "It's called tempo control."

Naya snorts. "It's called rubato." She tilts her head, expression light. "You gotta let it breathe, y'know? Certain notes stretch, linger before catching up. It's not meant to be played like a scale drill."

Mio's fingers twitch in her lap.

How does Naya know this?

"I know what the rubato is," Mio says, her tone clipped and measured. "And I did play it right."

Naya watches her with that quiet, unreadable expression. The one that makes Mio feel like she's being seen.

"Sorry about that. I didn't mean to sound patronizing," she says slowly, considering her words. "But then, what are you struggling with?"

Mio exhales again.

That's what she wants to know.

She looks away.

"Honestly, I don't get why you're struggling with this," Naya continues, "You already do it all the time. You play bass like that."

Mio blinks. The words land too close, too sharp.

"What?"

Naya leans against the piano, casual, her weight shifted onto one foot. "Your fills. You like dominant sevenths. You use chromatic runs to connect phrases. You hold back on one beat, then push forward on the next." She gestures vaguely towards the air. "You throw in dominant seventh arpeggios during chord changes, mess around with chromatic scales at the end of progressions. You never play things straight."

Mio stares at her. "How do you even know that?"

"Pedal sessions." Naya shrugs. "And I've seen your sheet music."

A pause. Mio doesn't move.

She doesn't know what to do with the fact that Naya has looked at her music and understood it. That she's paid attention. That she knows Mio's habits, her instincts, the way her hands move without thinking.

"You're being too technical," Mio mutters, looking away.

Naya huffs a soft laugh. "Says the person who literally studies music theory."

Mio doesn't have a response to that.

Naya watches her, unreadable, then exhales through her nose, almost a laugh. "You know how to play this piece." She looks at her like she's missing something obvious. "You already get what Chopin was doing. You just don't think about it when you play bass. But you do when you play piano."

Mio looks at her. Gray-blue into green.

Something doesn't add up.

Naya talks about music like it's second nature, breaking down harmonic movement and compositional choices with the same ease that she teases, that she plays. Mio knows she's a good musician, but this is something else. The way she understands this piece, the way she moves through its structure as if she's walked its halls before—

Mio clenches her hands in her lap. "You know a lot about classical piano."

Silence.

A beat.

Then—

"Obviously, it's because of my amazing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star skills," Naya deadpans.

Mio levels her with a flat look.

Naya's face remains blank for exactly three seconds before she breaks, lips twitching, a smirk slipping through.

Mio doesn't bite. She just lifts a brow. "Right. Of course. That explains everything."

"Mm." Naya nods sagely. "Years of elite training. Legendary, really."

"That's not it."

"Tragic, but true."

"Naya."

A pause. The teasing lingers in the air between them, but Mio doesn't let it take root. She watches Naya carefully—how she leans, how she shifts, how she stills, how she deflects.

"You've always understood technical music terms," Mio says, voice steady. "Even when you pretend you don't."

Naya shrugs. "I'm a music nerd."

"You always deflect when it comes to piano."

Naya says nothing.

Mio presses, because the silence invites it, because she's wanted to ask this for a while. "I stopped asking because you clearly didn't want to talk about it."

Something flickers across Naya's face, gone too fast to pin down.

But still, nothing.

Then, finally, a slow inhale. A shift. A glance toward the piano, as if considering something. Mio watches, the rhythm of her heartbeat thrown slightly off by the tension in the air, by the way Naya holds still, as if weighing something.

"Fair enough," Naya says simply.

Another beat.

Then—

"Can I sit with you?" she asks.

The question is simple. Direct.

Mio hesitates. Not because she doesn't want her to—she does, in some vague, undefined way—but because the space between them has already shrunk to something small, something precarious. She can already feel the weight of Naya's presence like a shift in gravity, subtle but undeniable.

But Mio nods.

Naya shifts, settling beside her. They are close. Too close. Close enough that the warmth of Naya's presence is a tangible thing, pressing lightly against Mio's awareness. Close enough that Mio has to make a conscious effort not to tense, not to register the way their legs almost brush, not to think about the quiet space between them that feels thinner than before.

Naya doesn't seem to notice. Or maybe she does and just doesn't care.

"Y'know," Naya starts, her voice lighter, like she's choosing to lean into the music instead of everything else, "when people study Chopin, teachers usually go for the nocturnes. Or the waltzes. Maybe the scherzos if they're trying to be fancy."

Mio nods. That tracks.

"But mazurkas," Naya continues, grinning, "they're the fun ones."

Mio tilts her head. "Mazurkas?"

"Polish folk dances." Naya glances at her. "They've got this very specific rhythmic lilt."

"Lilt," Mio echoes.

Naya nods. "You don't accent the first beat like in a waltz. It's the second or third beat that gets the emphasis. Totally changes the feel. It gives them this... push-and-pull feeling." She lifts a hand, tracing the air as if shaping an invisible rhythm. "I like them. When I first played them, I treated them like waltzes—kept them too straight, too controlled. Took me forever to get it."

Mio blinks.

When she first what?

"Get what?"

"The rubato." Naya's gaze flickers, distant, as if recalling something. "Mazurkas are perfect pieces to practice rubato. You can shape the phrases so freely, but you still need to respect the pulse underneath. Too rigid, and it loses its movement. Too loose, and it collapses." She shifts slightly, hands flexing absently at her sides. "It's all about knowing where to breathe."

Mio stares. Naya has never talked like this before. Not about music. Not with this level of familiarity, of knowledge, of something deeply ingrained.

Before Mio can respond, Naya moves.

She turns slightly, fingers brushing against the keys with an unconscious familiarity that Mio immediately clocks as practice, as muscle memory. And then, with that same effortless ease, Naya settles her posture.

Properly.

That's a real posture. Not the casual, loose way someone unfamiliar with the instrument might sit. No—this is something else. Precision. Training.

Mio doesn't move. She barely breathes.

Naya lifts her hands. Then—

She looks at the ceiling.

As if remembering.

As if calling something back from memory, from long-buried instinct, from the part of herself she doesn't speak about.

And she plays.

A melody emerges. Gentle. Lyrical. The rhythm sways, not in strict time, but in something more fluid, more alive. There is movement. There is pulse. There is breath. The second beat lingers just slightly too long before resolving into the third. The phrases weave, stretch, contract, but never lose their balance. Never lose their grounding. There is control in the looseness, precision in the freedom.

Mio doesn't blink.

This is not casual. This is not incidental.

Naya knows what she is doing.

"This," Naya murmurs, eyes still fixed on some unseen point in the keys, "is Chopin's Mazurka in A minor."

Mio just watches.

Naya continues, her voice steady, unaffected. "The rubato in this mazurka is subtle, but so important. You can push and pull the tempo, but if you overdo it, you lose the rhythm—it's such a delicate balance."

She plays another phrase, letting the melody dip into something quieter, softer, before swelling again. The notes move in waves, dynamic and breathing, never stiff, never mechanical.

Naya shifts, adjusting, and in the process, her left arm brushes against Mio's. Just a light touch, fleeting, unintentional—but Mio feels it. A brief press of warmth skimming her skin before Naya leans forward slightly, her focus entirely on the keys. Mio barely has time to react before she registers something else—she's in Naya's way.

Without thinking, Mio inches to the side, just enough to give her space, to allow her arms the full range of movement. She tells herself it's just practical. That it's simply courtesy. That it's not because something about the way Naya is sitting—spine straight, fingers poised, completely present—makes it feel like interrupting would be a crime.

Still, Mio says nothing.

Because what the hell.

Naya plays piano.

And she plays well.

Mio stares, unblinking, at the way Naya's fingers move—fluid, practiced, precise. The way her posture holds perfectly. The way she doesn't glance at her hands once, as if the movements have been ingrained into her innate sense for years.

For a moment, Mio forgets how to think.

She forgets everything.

Because Naya had never—never—acted like this was something she could do.

Because Naya had always deflected, always avoided.

Because Naya had let Mio believe she didn't play.

And yet—here she is.

Playing Chopin.

Playing like this.

Mio doesn't breathe.

Because if she does, she might have to acknowledge the quiet, overwhelming realization unraveling inside her.

That Naya has been hiding this.

That Naya has been hiding something.

And Mio doesn't know why.

She doesn't know what to do with the fact that she didn't know Naya could play like this.

She doesn't know what to do with the way Naya's hands move, how they flow over the keys without hesitation, how the music breathes through her fingers like something lived-in, something instinctual. She doesn't know what to do with the fact that, even now, even as the final notes linger in the air between them, fading into the hushed quiet of the clubroom, Naya looks like it's nothing.

Like it doesn't mean anything.

Like she didn't just unravel a part of herself that Mio had never seen before.

When Naya finishes, she lifts her hands from the keys, flexes them once, then exhales through her nose. Her mouth twists—something dissatisfied, something unimpressed.

"Ugh. That was rough," she murmurs, clearly displeased with herself. "My left hand felt stiff as hell, and the last phrase was a mess."

Mio blinks.

Mess?

What mess?

That had been—well. Impressively amazing. That had been better than most people could ever dream of playing. That had been fluid, expressive, alive.

She doesn't say that.

Instead, she watches as Naya absently rolls her wrist, muttering under her breath about how the transition felt sloppy.

And Mio, brain still buffering, finds herself thinking—

Naya is not a perfectionist.

Not about music, not about bass, not about anything. She plays loosely, freely. She makes mistakes and shrugs them off. She loses at every video game ever developed by mankind and couldn't care less about it. She doesn't chase technical perfection.

So why does she sound like this? Like she's picking apart something that had sounded near flawless? Like a tiny misstep was enough to make the whole thing not worth anything at all?

Mio's mind is blank. Empty in the way that only happens when something refuses to compute, when reality and understanding have yet to meet in the middle. Naya plays piano. Not just plays—knows it, feels it, carries it in her body like something second nature.

And yet, she had never said anything.

Mio swallows, words forming too slowly, questions stacking on top of each other with nowhere to land.

"You—" Her voice comes out stiff, unsteady. "You never said you could play like that."

Naya just lifts a brow. "I did tell you I played a little."

Mio's brain malfunctions. "That was not a little."

Naya shrugs. "It's a little to me."

"That was not a little."

Mio can hear the strain in her own voice, the undeniable edge of disbelief. Naya had lied. Not outright, not deliberately, but still—Mio had spent weeks, months, thinking of Naya as someone new to theory, someone whose knowledge was scattered, intuitive, shaped purely by feel and self-discovery. But Naya is sitting here, having just played Chopin's Mazurka in A minor like it was as easy as breathing, like she's been doing this her whole life—

"You—" Mio starts again, because her mind is catching up, because this is ridiculous. "Where the hell did you learn to play like that?"

Naya just leans back slightly, casual, like this isn't sending Mio into a spiral. "I took piano classes."

Mio squints. "When?"

"For a while."

"How long is 'a while?'"

Naya glances at the ceiling, as if calculating. "Twelve years, I guess."

Mio short-circuits.

Her mouth opens. No sound comes out.

Naya, as if sensing her impending crisis, watches with mild amusement. "You good?"

"Twelve—" Mio's voice cuts off, then returns with force. "Twelve years?!"

Naya nods, unbothered. "Started when I was six. Stopped at eighteen."

Mio's eye twitches. Her mind stutters over the numbers, the sheer absurdity of them. Naya's nineteen now, twenty at some point this year. That means—

That means more than half of Naya's life was spent at the piano.

More than half.

Mio grips the edge of the bench. "And you just—what? Stopped?"

"Yep."

Mio can't process this.

Her thoughts scramble over themselves, trying to piece together this entirely new reality that has just been handed to her. "Wait, wait. So you—" She inhales. Steadies herself. "Did you, like, take exams?"

Naya nods again, as if it's nothing. "Yeah. Took my Grade 8 at sixteen."

Mio blinks.

Naya realizes Mio has absolutely no context for what she just said. "Western ABRSM. It's the highest level before diploma exams."

Mio stares.

Her brain does something strange.

Fizzles out. Reboots.

Because, wait.

Wait.

"Before what?!"

"Diploma exams," Naya repeats, like that means anything. "Like, professional certification exams. The kind people take before entering conservatories or going into music degrees." She shrugs. "I stopped before those."

Mio doesn't breathe. The world tilts slightly, her entire framework of Nayara Rivera: Casual Bass Player With Pedals thrown into disarray.

"So you're—you're saying you're classically trained?!"

Naya considers. "I was."

Mio chokes. "That's—not—" Her hands move vaguely in the air, as if trying to physically arrange the information into something comprehensible. "You are classically trained! You don't just stop being classically trained!"

"Pretty sure I do, considering I haven't touched a piano properly in years."

Mio can't handle this. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because it's not important."

"Not important?" Mio nearly screeches. "You almost have a conservatory piano qualification! You spent twelve years playing! How is that not important?!"

"Bass is what I care about now."

Mio stares at her, trying—failing—to comprehend the casualness of that statement. "That doesn't mean you should hide it."

"I wasn't hiding it," Naya says, unruffled. "I just don't bring it up."

"That's the same thing."

Naya shakes her head. "No, it's really not."

"You always deflected."

Naya shrugs.

Mio inhales sharply. Her heart is pounding, not with anger, but with frustration, with something restless, something unsettled. She thought she knew Naya. Thought she had mapped out the edges of her—her habits, her rhythms, the way she carried herself through music.

But this—this is a whole piece of her that Mio had never seen. That Naya had never shown.

Something about that makes Mio's stomach twist.

"So what," she says, voice tighter now, "you just decided it wasn't part of you anymore?"

Naya's expression flickers—just slightly. Just enough that Mio catches it. A shift in the air, in the weight of her posture, in the way she lowers her gaze slightly, as if considering something too carefully.

"No," Naya says at last. "It's part of me. I just don't let it define me."

Mio falters.

"People start expecting things," Naya murmurs. "And I didn't want to be something I'm not."

Mio's fingers tighten in her lap.

"Expecting what?" she asks, quieter now.

Naya exhales. Shifts. Doesn't answer.

Mio watches her.

Then, after a beat, she asks, "Why do you always say you play 'a little,' instead of saying nothing at all?"

Naya pauses.

And then, in a voice softer than before, she says, "Because... a part of me is still proud of it." Naya's gaze flicks toward the piano, fingers tapping absently against her thigh. "Even if that's arrogant," she adds, quiet. "Even if I quit. I guess... I still like it. Deep down."

Mio listens, heartbeat unsteady.

Then she asks, "Why did you quit?"

Another pause.

Not the usual kind. Not the easy, expected one. Not the silence Naya lets stretch when she's about to make a joke, or the lazy hesitation that comes when she's searching for the right words in Japanese.

No, this is something else. A pause with weight. A pause with history.

Mio feels it.

Naya leans back slightly, her fingers tapping against her thigh—a barely-there movement, subconscious, like a thought half-formed at the edge of action. She doesn't look at Mio. She exhales through her nose, a slow, controlled breath, then finally says, "I had this toy piano."

Mio blinks.

"... What?"

Naya glances at her, a small, fleeting smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, like she's just now registering how abrupt that must have sounded. "When I was a kid," she clarifies. "Back at home. It was my brother's. Hugo."

Hugo.

Naya never talks about her family. Not really. Not beyond the surface-level mentions. Not beyond the throwaway remarks about Spain. Mio knows she has an older brother and a younger brother with quite an age gap. But that's it.

And now—

Now she says his name like it's part of the answer.

Mio stays quiet. Listens.

Naya keeps going, her voice even, steady, practiced. "It wasn't some fancy thing or anything. Just one of those small, plastic ones that make that tinny sound. I don't even think it had all the keys. But I played with it constantly. I mean—Hugo didn't give a fuck about it, so it was basically mine." She shrugs, like this is a normal story, like it doesn't mean anything. "I don't even know why I liked it so much. I just kept messing around with it, making up little melodies. So my parents—"

A beat, an exhale.

"They signed me up for lessons when I was six," Naya continues, her voice light, almost conversational. "Because I clearly liked it, and, y'know, it's the typical thing, right? You put your kid in creative classes so they can do something in the afternoons and leave you alone for a bit."

A joke. The kind meant to lighten things.

Mio doesn't bite. Mio doesn't laugh.

Because she can tell—already—that this isn't just an anecdote. That the way Naya says it, offhand and easy, is intentional. A controlled release of information, a slow, deliberate unspooling of something measured.

Because she hears it. The difference. The way Naya says it—present tense slipping into past, something lived-in, something faded but not gone.

She watches Naya instead. Watches the way her fingers keep tapping against her knee, like they want something to do, like they miss movement. Like they want keys.

Watches the way Naya tilts her head, like she's sorting through old memories, deciding which ones to keep and which ones to discard.

"I had all the time in the world," Naya continues, her voice drifting into something thoughtful, something almost distant. "So I played. A lot. Studied music all the time because I was obsessed with it. Not a prodigy or anything, but I got pretty good—not because I was talented, just because I never stopped playing."

This makes sense.

The way Naya touches the piano without thinking. The way her fingers rest on the keys like they belong there. The way she had played the mazurka—fluid, instinctive, familiar.

This is not the story of someone who used to play.

This is the story of someone who had lived inside music.

"I improved pretty quickly," Naya continues. "And when I was, I dunno, twelve? I was playing pieces that were kind of advanced for my age. Not crazy, but enough. And people noticed."

The shift is immediate.

Mio feels it.

The way Naya's voice changes—just slightly, just enough. The way her fingers stop tapping. The way her posture tenses, barely perceptible, but there.

"The teachers started bragging about me. My parents, my friends. At family gatherings, someone would always ask me to play something." A dry, humorless chuckle. "Like a fucking circus monkey."

Mio sighs. She knows this. Not in the way Naya does, not in this exact way, but—she knows.

The weight of expectation. The way praise can feel like a tether, like something pulling you forward even when you're not sure you want to go that way.

Naya keeps going, her voice light, detached, but Mio can hear it—can hear what isn't being said.

"My teacher suggested I take the exams. I didn't even really think about it. Just did it, because why not? I passed them, did pretty well, and I guess from that point on, it wasn't just something I liked anymore. It was something I was supposed to be good at. Something people expected."

Expected.

Mio knows that feeling.

Knows it in the way people have always looked at her and assumed she must be good at something before she even proves it.

"It got to a point where people didn't even really see me anymore." Naya exhales, her voice quieter now, nearly withdrawn. "I was just... 'Nayara, the pianist.' 'Nayara, the piano player.' Like that was the whole of me, the only thing that mattered. You play well enough, and suddenly it's not about you anymore—it's about the thing you can do. And if you stop doing it, then what's left?"

Mio's breath stalls.

Her mind flickers back to the first day Naya, Liz and Momo joined the club. To the moment they all went around introducing themselves, saying one fun fact about who they were.

Ritsu talked about pranks.
Yui talked about—sigh—sweet food.
Akira said something about horror movies.
Sachi said she collects vintage records.
Ayame talked about fashion.
Momo mentioned she likes K-Pop.
She herself said she likes reading classical literature.

And then—Naya.

She didn't say anything about herself. Not about her interests, not about what she liked, not about anything remotely personal. She just said, "I'm from abroad."

That was it.

Not a fun fact. Not a hobby. Not herself.

Naya, the pianist.

Naya, the foreigner.

Mio watches her now, the way her expression shifts—neutral, distant, detached—like she's talking about someone else entirely.

Mio understands that too.

People do that. Reduce you. Take a piece of you—one that stands out, one that fits their understanding—and decide that's all you are.

The musician.
The smart one.
The quiet one.

How do you grow when the world has already decided who you are? How do you become more than one thing when no one bothers to look beyond the first?

Mio knows this too well.

She's always been Mio, the bassist.
The shy one.
The serious one.
The one who writes.
The one who never does anything reckless, anything unexpected, anything that doesn't fit.

And she's fine with that. She is.

(You have to be.)

Because she doesn't want to be anything else. Doesn't want to be labeled something she can't control.

Something she can't take back.

Something that would make people see her differently.

She's Mio, after all.

Mio, the virtuoso bassist.
Mio, the top student.
Mio, the exemplary daughter.
Mio, the soft-spoken.
Mio, the girl with a boyfriend.
Mio, the les—

She shoves the thought aside before it can take shape, before it can settle, before it can make itself known.

Then—she remembers.

Azusa mentioning, offhandedly, that her parents play in a jazz band—as if it were inevitable, as if music were something woven into her from the start.

Mugi, with her ever-gentle voice, saying she'd been trained as a classical pianist since she was four—as if it were fact, as if it were something she was meant to be.

Liz, grinning, boasting that she can hold a note for forty-five seconds straight—forty-five, as if that number alone was proof of something, as if it defined what she was.

Expectations.

About what we do.

About what we should do.

Is this what we become?

Is this what we become when we're good at something?

When we show talent, when we succeed, when we prove ourselves—even once.

Do we stop being people and start being titles?

Azusa, the jazz musician.
Mugi, the classical pianist.
Liz, the powerhouse vocalist.
Naya, the pianist.

Is that all? Is that enough?

Or does it mean that, if we ever stop—if we ever falter, if we ever choose something else—there's nothing left?

"And the pressure—" Naya exhales sharply, shaking her head. "The pressure was ridiculous. It wasn't just exams. It was recitals, competitions. The more I played, the more people expected me to play. And not just play—play perfectly. And on top of that—"

She pauses.

"—there were the showcases."

Mio already knows. Already understands, without Naya needing to elaborate.

The performance.

The need to be perfect.

"I remember these year-end recitals, and I was always one of the last ones to go on stage because I was one of the best at my school, and I felt that. I felt like I was supposed to be this grand finale or whatever. It didn't matter if I liked the piece. Didn't matter if I was exhausted or burnt out. Didn't matter if I wanted to stop." A pause. "I was expected to play perfectly."

Something about the way she says it makes Mio feel a little sick.

Not arrogance.

Not pride.

Just fact.

Cold. Detached. As if Naya has long since disowned whatever part of herself had once felt ownership over those words.

Mio's stomach twists.

Because she understands that, too.

"I felt like the headliner of a festival," Naya mutters. "And all anyone cared about was how well I played. Not whether I liked it anymore."

Mio stares at her hands.

She knows.

Not in the way Naya does, not in the way classical music demands perfection, but—she knows the way people look at you when you're good at something. The way their expectations wrap around you like invisible strings.

She knows what it's like to feel trapped inside your own ability.

"And the thing is—I liked playing. I liked music. But the more I played, the more perfection was expected. No room for mistakes. No room for... anything." Naya exhales, running a hand through her hair. "The more advanced I got, the more everything became about precision. About technical perfection. You have to play it exactly as it's written, have to follow the dynamics as marked, have to be faithful to the original composition. But the composers—" Her voice sharpens, carrying with it a growing frustration. "The composers improvised all the time. Mozart improvised. Chopin improvised. But I wasn't allowed to."

The more exasperation tilts into Naya's voice, the more her accent slips.

And then, her voice changes, just slightly.

"And I got bored."

Mio blinks.

"Bored?"

"Yeah." Naya shrugs, like it's obvious. "I liked experimenting. Adding little things to make the pieces more interesting, to have fun—messing with dynamics, shifting staccatos, improvising crescendos."

Mio tilts her head. "That doesn't sound like boredom."

Naya smirks, faint, humorless.

"Yeah, well. My teacher didn't think it was funny."

Mio exhales sharply.

Of course not.

"He always told me to play it exactly as it was written. Exactly as intended." Naya chuckles. "I remember getting into an argument with him once. About Beethoven."

Mio watches her.

Watches the way her hands move, restless, like they want to shape something out of the air, like they want to touch the keys but don't know how anymore.

"He told me that classical sonatas follow a pattern," Naya explains. "You know how classical sonatas usually go fast-slow-fast, right? First movement: fast, dramatic, bold. Second: slow, introspective, melancholic. Third: strong, fast, exciting. That's just how it is."

She says it like she's quoting someone.

Mio nods slowly.

"So I asked about Moonlight Sonata."

Mio's brows raise.

"I love that piece. It completely breaks the mold," Naya says. "It's slow, then a little dance-y, then suddenly just—chaos. Flips the structure entirely. So I asked him—if sonatas are supposed to be structured a certain way, why is Beethoven's so famous?"

Mio can already guess the response.

"And he said," Naya continues, eyes flicking upward in weariness, "'Because Beethoven was Beethoven and could do whatever he wanted.'"

Mio scoffs. "That's ridiculous."

"Right?! I was like—" Naya spreads her hands, annoyed. "'Maybe Beethoven's so well-known because he broke the rules?'"

Mio exhales, almost a laugh, but it doesn't quite make it.

Because she hears it.

The edge in Naya's voice. The quiet resentment curling beneath her words.

Naya shifts. Her voice evens out, but something lingers—something tired. "The more serious it got, the more I hated it. No one cared if I liked playing. They just cared that I was good."

Mio understands now.

Why Naya stopped.

Why she doesn't talk about this.

Why she doesn't play.

"And that's when I realized," Naya murmurs, "that studying classical music—at least for me—made music stiff. Mechanical. Soulless. Because all anyone cared about was perfection."

Mio clenches her fists.

Because that's not music.

Music is breath.

It's movement.

It's the spaces between the notes, the things you don't play, the hesitation before the resolution, the way something can feel suspended, endless, infinite.

"And I lost it," Naya says simply. "My love for it. My passion. It just—" She exhales. "Stopped being mine. It stopped being something I wanted to do and became something I had to do."

Mio closes her eyes for a moment.

She doesn't know what to say.

Because she gets it. And she hates that she gets it.

She played perfectly, flawlessly, but—

"And then," Naya continues, "Álvaro happened."

Mio opens her eyes and looks at her, waiting.

Naya stretches out one leg, tapping her foot against the floor in a quiet, irregular rhythm. Her fingers drum absently against her thigh. She is not restless, exactly, but—something close.

"He was a kid at my school," Naya says at last. "Eight years old when he started. I was sixteen."

The numbers arrange themselves in Mio's head automatically, the gap between them spanning across eight years, bridging the space between childhood and near-adulthood.

"He loved piano," Naya continues, voice even, unreadable. "Like, really loved it. He wasn't just a kid that got signed up for lessons because his parents thought it was a good idea. He—" A pause. Naya glances toward the piano, like she's looking at something past it, through it. "He was the kind of kid who played because he wanted to. Because he couldn't not play."

Something about the way she says it makes Mio's chest tighten.

Naya exhales, tilts her head slightly, the movement slow, controlled. "And he was talented. Scary talented. I don't know if he was gifted or had perfect pitch or whatever, but he picked things up fast. In a year, he was playing pieces that other kids his age wouldn't even think of touching. He did four-hand pieces with his teacher. He started playing showcases." A wry smile flickers across Naya's face, humorless. "And, again, people noticed."

Mio already knows where this is going. Because she's heard this story before, in different forms, different lives, different people.

Because she knows what happens when someone newer, younger, more brilliant steps into a space that once belonged to someone else.

Naya's voice remains steady. "He became the new star. I mean, I was still there, still playing, but we started alternating the last performance at recitals. The final spot. The one that's supposed to be the best."

Mio clenches her hands in her lap. She knows what that means. What that feels like.

"I didn't mind," Naya says. And she sounds like she means it. "He deserved it. He was insane. Like, you know those kids that just get it? Not just technically, but instinctively?"

Mio nods.

"Yeah. That was Álvaro. His teacher started giving him harder pieces. And he could do it. His parents started showing up to every showcase like it was a concert hall event, bringing half the family, getting him dressed up all fancy. It was... weird."

A pause.

"But he enjoyed it."

The way Naya says it—there's something strange in her voice. Something conflicted. Something that doesn't quite settle into certainty.

Mio stays quiet.

Then—

"The summer showcase."

Naya runs a hand through her hair. Her wrist brushes against her neck before her fingers fall back into her lap.

"Two years ago. I was about to turn eighteen," she says. "Álvaro was ten. We were both performing. He was going right before me. And he was nervous."

The words land differently. He was nervous.

"He was playing Rachmaninoff's Prelude in C# Minor. Have you heard of it?"

Mio shakes her head. Naya settles back into perfect posture, purses her lips as if searching deep within her memory, and plays. A little. About thirty seconds.

Mio stills.

A massive, dramatic, overwhelming piece.

For a ten-year-old?

She doesn't interrupt. But when Naya stops, she must see something on Mio's face because she smirks, faint, sharp-edged.

"Yeah. Exactly. Not exactly a kid-friendly piece, right? But Álvaro could do it. His teacher gave it to him because he could do it. And people wanted to see him do it."

Mio swallows.

Naya sighs. "I was playing after him. Liszt. Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2. Friska part only. Know about it?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Not by name."

Naya plays again.

Oh.

Yeah, Mio knows this piece.

Flashy. Fast. A wildfire of sound that races across the keys. Naya's hands blurring, crossing, jumping, darting from one end of the keyboard to the other, spinning through dizzying chromatic runs that shimmered like liquid silver.

Naya stops. Lets the traces of melody sit for a moment before continuing.

"So, uh—yeah, he went out. He was already... famous, I guess, in our little school circle. Parents knew him. Teachers knew him. He walked onto the stage, straight-backed, serious. He looked—" Naya hesitates, then says, "Stiff."

Mio knows what's coming before she says it.

"He sat down. Started playing."

Another pause.

"He made a mistake."

A mistake.

Naya's voice doesn't change. "He stopped. Started again."

Mio sighs.

"He made another mistake. Started again."

Mio grips her knees.

"And then another."

Another.

"And another."

Naya doesn't rush. She says it plainly, simply, like recounting a fact, but Mio can see it—sees it too clearly, too viscerally.

A small boy at a grand piano.

A hall full of people watching.

The pressure of expectation, of perfection, of knowing that if you don't get this right, it will mean something.

"He finally got it going," Naya says. "But halfway through, he made another mistake. And this time—"

She stops.

Mio already knows.

"He froze," Naya says.

And there it is.

"He just—stopped. Sat there. Didn't move. People started clapping, probably to encourage him, but he flinched. Got up. Left."

Mio doesn't breathe.

"I saw him crying."

The words hit like a weight.

"I tried to check on him," Naya continues, "but the teacher came out immediately to apologize to the audience, and before I could do anything—" A dry, humorless chuckle. "—I got shoved on stage."

Mio clenches her jaw.

So Naya played. Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2. Mio can already picture it.

Fast. Wild. Theatrical.

The kind of piece that makes an audience forget anything else happened before it.

"I was so upset that I improvised," Naya says. "Threw in extra flourishes, added chromatic runs, changed up the left-hand patterns, gave the chords more punch. I was like, 'fuck it, fuck this, fuck everything' and just had fun with it."

The irony of that. The contradiction.

"People loved it, of course. Álvaro was no longer in their minds. I got up, bowed, and went backstage. And my teacher was pissed," Naya says. "Both his stars had failed him. Álvaro ran off, and I—" She smirks, sharp. "—did whatever the hell I wanted."

A breath.

"I told him it didn't matter. That no one cared. That the audience didn't know classical music, didn't know the piece, didn't know that I changed things. They just saw someone playing fast and loud and thought, 'Wow, amazing.'"

Mio knows what's coming. Knows the next words before Naya says them.

"He told me the same thing applied to me. That the audience didn't care that I was creative and improvised and had fun because they didn't even know I did."

A pause.

"He told me they didn't care that I played with passion, because they didn't know the difference. They just saw someone playing fast and loud and thought, 'Wow, amazing.'"

The realization had hit Naya then. Hit her in a way that changed something fundamental.

"He was right," Naya says. "Music is like that sometimes: you can play with no emotion or feel like something's missing, but if it's perfect, it doesn't matter."

Another pause. Another breath.

"I walked offstage, and they were all there—my parents, my brothers. They told me I was amazing. Hugo ruffled my hair, and Marcos looked at me like I was the greatest thing in the world. They praised me, like always. My parents said we should go out to eat, make a night of it, since we were already 'dressed up.' You know, because I was wearing jeans without holes and a short-sleeved black button-down. And, get this—" She lets out a short laugh. "I had actually combed my hair."

Mio chuckles, picturing Naya's 'dressed up' version. But then, Naya's face is unreadable again.

"When we were leaving, I looked over," she says, "and saw Álvaro's parents yelling at him."

A final pause. A final exhale.

"And I decided I was done."

Mio doesn't move. Doesn't blink.

Because she understands.

Understands in a way that goes deeper than words, deeper than logic, deeper than anything she can put into language.

Because she knows.

Knows what it's like to be told you are special. Knows what it's like to feel like you are only worth as much as your last performance.

Knows what it's like to have music—something that should be joy, should be freedom—turned into something else.

Something heavy.

Something suffocating.

She looks at Naya.

Naya looks at the piano.

Neither of them say anything.

Because there is nothing left to say.

Is it?

Mio doesn't know what she expected, what she still expects—what she even wants from this moment. Naya has spoken, has laid down something raw and real in the space between them, but now she leans back, stretching her arms out like the conversation had been nothing more than a casual exchange. As if she hadn't just unraveled years of silence, peeled back a part of herself Mio never thought to question.

And then, just like that, the weight disappears.

"Fun fact," Naya says, as if shaking off dust, "all this happened when I was in a band. I told you I had a band, but it turned out so-so, right?"

Mio blinks. The pivot is sharp, a complete shift in tone, in energy, in presence. She barely has time to nod before Naya continues, like she's decided—firmly—that this is a story worth telling, that the last one belongs behind them now.

"I met them online," Naya says. "They were looking for a bass player, and I signed up. Didn't even think about it much. Just—" she gestures vaguely, "—needed something new. And honestly? It was fun. I mean, piano was a pain in the ass, but bass?" She grins, lopsided. "Bass was freedom."

Something about the way she says it makes Mio feel strange. A quiet, unsettled pull in her chest.

Naya shifts, resting one ankle on her opposite knee. "So we're practicing, little rehearsals, nothing major. And one day, I get to rehearsal early, right? No one else is there yet, so I start messing around on this old keyboard they had in the room. Not even seriously, just practicing some things I had to work on for piano class." She sighs, shaking her head. "Didn't even notice when they walked in. But apparently, they did. And they saw me playing, and, well—" she lifts a brow, "—they got ideas."

Mio doesn't like where this is going.

Naya tilts her head back slightly, staring at the ceiling. "At first, it was fine. They asked me to add some piano parts to our songs, you know, just to layer things. And I thought of my beloved Muse, how my god Matt Bellamy played the piano on his songs—I could be like Wolstenholme and Bellamy? So I said, 'sure.' We'd record them, put them in the backing tracks, and I'd still play bass on the rehearsals." She clicks her tongue. "Simple. No problem."

Mio stays silent, waiting.

"And then we got a gig," Naya continues, "a small thing, thirty minutes, nothing special. Except—obviously, I can't play bass and keyboard at the same time. And that's when the rest of the band decides, unilaterally, that I should play the keyboard."

Mio stiffens.

"And the bass," Naya smirks, sharp, humorless, "should go to the guitarist's cousin. Because, in their words—" she lifts her hands in mock-quotation, "—'the bass is an easy instrument that anyone can play.'"

Something inside Mio coils tight. A flash of indignation, instinctive, sharp. Easy? As if bass were just some afterthought, as if it were replaceable, secondary, something to be handed off like an accessory rather than the foundation of a song. She has heard this before—too many times, from too many people who don't understand what bass is, what it does, what it means. It grates, always.

Naya huffs, short and clipped. "So, yeah. I got pissed. Really pissed. And I left them. Right before the gig."

Mio's expression twists in unmistakable distaste. Naya catches it instantly.

"I know, I know. I mean—I'm not proud of it," Naya adds, shrugging, "but I wasn't exactly in the best mood, musically speaking."

Mio's not sure whether she wants to scoff or swear. Both, maybe.

"After that," Naya says, rolling her shoulders, "I decided—no more piano. No more showing it. No more talking about it. From then on, bass was my instrument. Music is my language, and bass is my tongue." She lifts her fingers, spreads them slightly, as if framing the words between them. "Didn't want to deal with the bullshit. Didn't want people looking at me and thinking, 'Oh, you play piano so well, why not this, why not that?' Just... no."

Mio swallows. Nods. Tries to let that be enough. But something doesn't settle.

She inhales, measured, steady.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

She doesn't mean for it to sound like that—too quiet, too raw, too much like something personal.

But it is.

She knows it is.

Because Mio, who has spent months memorizing the smallest details about Naya—how she moves, how she plays, how she is—

Mio had thought she was special.

And maybe that's selfish, maybe that's ridiculous, but the ache is real, sitting low in her chest, pressing against the place where she had been keeping something fragile.

And now she wonders—how much of Naya is she still not seeing?

Naya hesitates, just for a fraction of a second, before she shrugs.

"Didn't seem important."

Mio flinches at that. Just a bit. Then, tentative: "And why did you tell me now?"

Naya is quiet for a beat. A rare, quiet beat.

Then she exhales, eyes flickering to the piano, to Mio, then back down to the keys.

"Because you're music."

Mio's eyes widen.

Naya's voice is matter-of-fact, but there's something else underneath it—something unspoken.

"You don't just play it. You are it. You feel it, breathe it, think in it. And I don't want you to forget it. I don't want you to lose that."

Naya pauses, her jaw shifting slightly, as if debating whether or not to continue.

Then, softer—almost like an afterthought:

"And also... because you're you."

Just that. As if it explains everything.

It doesn't.

(It does.)

Mio looks at Naya—at the way her fingers tap absently against her knee, the way she avoids Mio's eyes, like maybe she didn't mean to say it quite like that, like maybe she didn't mean to say it at all.

"Because I'm me?" Mio echoes, quiet, questioning.

Naya glances at her then. A flicker of something almost embarrassed, almost vulnerable.

"Yeah." A small shrug. A lopsided smile. "You just... I don't know. Make me want to tell you things."

She says it like it's the simplest thing in the world.

It isn't.

(It is.)

Mio doesn't know what to do with that, so she forces herself to nod.

"Does anyone else know?"

Naya glances at her, considering.

"Mugi."

Something sharp lances through Mio's chest.

Mugi. Of course.

Mio doesn't say anything. But Naya must catch something—some shift in expression, some flicker of feeling—because she follows it up immediately. "She figured it out, though. I didn't tell her."

That should make Mio feel better. It doesn't.

"Classical piano has this language, you know?" Naya explains. "She got that. We spoke the same language."

Mio winces. Because she doesn't. Because even if she wanted to, even if she could break past the hesitations, the questions, the unsettled spaces between them—she can't speak that language.

She feels something else, too. Something closer to—

No.

"Honestly," Naya promptly says, "Mugi figured it out because I got carried away."

"Carried away how?"

Naya scratches the side of her neck, looking vaguely sheepish. "We were chatting one day—nothing major, just small talk—and Mugi mentioned that you were practicing this Chopin piece. And, uh..." She shifts slightly. "I kind of blurted out, 'Ah, Chopin, the piano diva.'"

Mio stares at her.

Naya lifts a shoulder. "Which, y'know, opened the floodgates. Mugi asked what I meant, and before I knew it, we were talking about how some people write off Chopin as this overly sentimental, cheesy composer, but when you actually understand music theory, you realize how well he knew the instrument. Like, the dude understood piano better than almost anyone."

Mio stares harder.

Naya shifts again, slightly defensive now. "I didn't mean to expose myself, but Mugi got it. We were speaking the same language, and I got excited. I think that's when she realized."

Mio squints. "And why, exactly, did you get so excited?"

A pause. Then, casually: "Because Mugi said her favorite Chopin piece is Nocturne in E-flat Major, Op. 9, No. 2."

So that's why Naya gave Mugi the custom sheet music.

"So?"

"It reminded me of Muse."

Mio frowns. "Muse?"

"United States of Eurasia ends with Chopin's Nocturne, Op. 9, No. 2."

Mio blinks. "Oh."

"And," Naya continues, shifting into full Muse-and-music-nerd mode, "in the official sheet music for the song, there's actually a mistake in bar 79. In the tenth beat of the right hand, the B natural should be a B-flat, as evidenced in the original Chopin score."

Mio just stares even harder.

Naya grins, sheepish. "I may or may not have gone on a tangent about it."

Of course she did.

"And, well, I think Liz suspects," Naya adds. "But that's it." She sighs, runs a hand through her hair. "You're the only person I've told after I quit. The only one I've told the whole story to. And the only person I've played for."

Mio's breath catches.

A strange, quiet weight presses against her ribs.

She wants to say something. She doesn't know what. She wants to reach out, touch something, press something into the space between them that she can't quite articulate.

Instead, she reaches into her bag.

A small, folded piece of paper.

She had written it days ago. Before deciding to pull back. Before things felt so confusing.

She holds it out. "Here."

Naya blinks. Takes it without hesitation. "What's this?"

Mio shifts, her fingers curling slightly in her lap. "Just... a band I think you'd like."

Naya flips it open, eyes skimming the words.

"Swans – Soundtrack for the Blind."

That's it.

Naya exhales a quiet laugh. "Damn. This is intense."

Mio fidgets. "You might like it."

Naya folds it carefully and slips it into her pocket.

"Thank you," she says. "I'll listen."

Then, almost unconsciously, she shrugs—small, barely noticeable, but there. Like she's trying to deflect, to shake something off. The weight of what she just said. The way she let Mio see something she usually keeps buried.

Mio watches her for a long moment. Then, serious now, she says, "I've been meaning to ask you something."

Naya raises a brow. Waits.

Mio hesitates. Then, after a pause, she says, deadpan, "Do your shoulders ever get tired?"

Naya blinks. "What?"

"From all the shrugging." Mio gestures vaguely, then mimics the motion, lifting her shoulders high and stiff before dropping them all at once. The movement feels awkward in her own body, but she commits. "I swear, you do that more than you breathe."

Naya smirks, leaning back lazily. "Ah, yeah. It's all the training."

Mio narrows her eyes in mock suspicion. "Training?"

"Yep. Shrug endurance drills in PE in high school back in Spain. Right between 'How to Overshare With Strangers' and 'Volume Control: A Class No One Takes.'"

Mio huffs, trying to fight back a smile. "Explains a lot."

"Excuse you, shrug endurance is very rigorous. Builds character."

Mio gives her a flat look. "Right. Because that's a normal thing."

"Necessary, even. Some people specialize in it. National-level shrugging competitions."

Mio rolls her eyes, exasperated but unable to stop the twitch of a smile. "You're an idiot."

"But a well-conditioned one."

"Debatable."

Naya shrugs again—slow, exaggerated, entirely deliberate.

Mio squints. "Your habits are weird."

Naya lifts a brow, feigning offense. "That's rich coming from someone who tilts her head like a cat."

"I do not—" Mio stops, mid-retort, suddenly aware that she is, in fact, tilting her head. 

Naya smirks, watching the realization dawn on her face. "See?"

Mio blushes. She straightens immediately, schooling her expression into something flat, unimpressed. "That was a coincidence."

Naya chuckles. "Sure it was."

The air is easier now. The weight that had settled between them has lifted, if only a little, replaced by something lighter, something that almost feels like before.

Naya exhales, then tilts her head toward the piano. "Anyway," she says, "sorry for interrupting."

Mio shakes her head. "It's okay." And, to her own surprise, she means it. She feels... better. Not entirely settled, not entirely sure what to do with everything Naya has just told her, but—better. Lighter. She glances at Naya, then, quiet but sincere, says, "Thank you. For telling me."

Naya doesn't say anything at first, just watches her, expression unreadable. Then, with a small nod, she leans back. "Thank you for listening. Just—don't tell anyone, yeah?" Her voice is light, but there's an edge to it, something that isn't quite joking.

Mio doesn't hesitate. "Of course."

A pause. A small shift in the air between them.

They have a secret now.

Naya taps her fingers against the piano's surface. "We good?"

Mio opens her mouth, but no words come.

She doesn't know what to say.

Naya waits a second longer, then pushes herself up from the bench. "I'll leave you to it," she says, stretching her arms above her head before putting on her bass case and slipping her hands into her pockets. "If you need to be alone."

Mio doesn't think. "You don't have to go."

The words are out before she fully processes them. Before she figures out what she even means.

Naya pauses. Then, softer, she says, "I was just here to play a little anyway. Just to unwind. It's not a big deal." She gestures vaguely. "I just want you to be comfortable."

Mio watches her move. She wants to say something. That she doesn't mind. That maybe, for the first time all day, she doesn't want to be alone. That—

I like you being here.

The words form somewhere just beneath the surface, just at the edge of her thoughts, but she can't seem to shape them into sound.

So instead, she just nods.

And Naya, as always, seems to understand anyway.

Notes:

So.

How are we feeling? Are we good? Are we breathing? Have we emotionally recovered from the absolute whiplash of this chapter? Because I have not. Like, imagine the betrayal. Imagine Mio, three chapters later, still staring at Naya like, you absolute liar.

Because, what the hell:

Mio:
Naya: "I played piano a little."
Naya, five minutes later: [casually drops twelve years of classical training, an existential crisis, and a full-on cinematic backstory like it's a casual Wednesday]
Mio: "What the actual fu—"

Because OF COURSE Naya, Miss I Play A Little, has actually been a classically trained pianist since childhood but decided to just... not mention it. You know, as one does. Casual. Unimportant. Nothing to see here.

No big deal. No life-altering revelations happening or anything. Nope.

But no, seriously—what the hell, Naya. What was that. You ever write a scene and realize a character has been lying to you this whole time? Because same. I sat down to write a normal conversation, and suddenly I was in an emotional hostage situation about conservatory trauma, expectation, and the sheer willpower it takes to not throw your sheet music out a window. I did not plan this. Naya did this. And now I have to live with it.

Mio, meanwhile, is having a time. First, she's spiraling over music theory drills because emotions are scary and avoidance is her brand. Then, she gets completely blindsided by an Air song, because what is queer yearning if not projecting wildly onto every piece of media? And finally, she walks into the clubroom expecting peace and solitude, only for Naya to accidentally blow up her entire worldview.

Honestly, I love how Mio spends this whole chapter in a gay disaster spiral and Naya is just there, casually dismantling her entire understanding of music while making direct eye contact. Like, oh yeah, I just played this complicated piece from memory, no big deal. Mio, babe, get out while you still can. Or don't. We all know you're doomed.

Shoutout to my amazing beta Jules (tsuki_anne), who has to deal with me sending messages at ungodly hours going, "Wait, but what if Naya played Chopin—" and still chooses to be my friend. Love you.

And special shoutout to classical musicians reading this—I'm so sorry. I know. I really tried. Please don't send Liszt's ghost after me.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go listen to Chopin nocturnes and pretend I didn't just emotionally damage my own characters. Or the mazurkas. They're the fun ones.

See you in the next chapter!

Chapter 21: Skying

Summary:

Mio sees through.

Notes:

Do you want to hear something funny? Like, really funny? Like, absurdly, ridiculously, borderline unhinged funny?

Chapters 19, 20, and 21? Yep. They were originally one single chapter.

ONE.

So, uh... yeah. That's where we're at, folks. I looked at my word count, stared into the abyss, and the abyss went, "Girl, what are you doing." And thus, the Great Chapter Division™ was born. Again.

(At this rate, these two idiots will kiss for the first time in chapter 50-ish and this fic will be longer than the Bible, but that's a problem for Future Me.)

A huge, heartfelt thanks to my amazing beta, Jules (tsuki_anne), who puts up with my nonsense, the sheer chaos that is my writing process, and my inability to write anything short. You're a saint.

Also, sorry for the wait—it took about three weeks to get this one up! This is a two-person free-for-the-love-of-it job (I research and write, Jules works her beta magic), and sometimes our schedules clash. But I trust her completely with this story, so we always wait until we're both ready before posting. I love her so much, and I'm so grateful we get to make this together. Huge thanks to everyone reading and waiting so patiently—it seriously means the world to me.

Enjoy the chapter!

Skying, by The Horrors, was released on July 11, 2011.

July 20, 2011

Mio stares at her phone. It vibrates against the desk, screen glowing, name illuminated.

Kenji.

She lets it ring for a moment. Watches the name flicker, the tiny hum rattling through the wood.

Then, she picks up.

"Hey."

"Hey, Mio," his voice filters through, warm, familiar. "How's studying?"

Mio leans back in her chair. "Fine. Exhausting."

"You sound tired."

"I am."

A small laugh. "No surprise there."

She shuts her eyes. The air is still, the room is quiet. Outside, the cicadas scream, the summer heat pressing in through the open window. She can hear the faint murmur of voices in the dorm hallway, the shuffle of someone's footsteps, the low hum of a distant TV.

Kenji sighs on the other end of the line. "Work's been insane this week. I barely have time to breathe, let alone study. Honestly, I think my brain is just static at this point."

She hums in response. "You always take on too much."

"Uh-huh, and who lives practically trapped in textbooks?"

"Touché."

It's easy. Too easy. This script they've learned. The casual back-and-forth, the routine check-ins, the empty reassurances.

She listens as he talks—about work, about exams, about how his internship has been stretching him too thin, about how he's barely had time to eat, let alone sleep. She nods along, murmurs in the right places, offers a quiet "that sucks" when needed.

She thinks about how his voice used to make her feel warm.

Now, it just makes her feel tired.

She twirls a pen between her fingers, eyes flickering to the notebook sprawled open on her desk. A half-written sentence stares back at her, the ink smudged from where her hand had rested. She doesn't remember what she was writing.

"Mio?"

"Hm?"

Kenji chuckles. "You spaced out."

"Sorry. Long day. Long month."

"Yeah, I get it." A pause. Then, "Wait, so when do you finish?"

"Exams end Friday." She rubs at her temple. "Then we have one last week of classes—mostly just wrapping up. After that, we leave for the Summer Training Camp on August 7."

"Oh, right. The music thing."

She frowns slightly. The music thing.

"That's after Hakone."

Her stomach tenses.

"Yeah, Hakone. The 29th," she says, careful. "Until the 31st."

Silence.

"You really need this trip," Kenji murmurs, voice softer now. "We both do. It'll be nice. Us, together."

Us. Together.

A beat. Two. The words sit there, waiting for something.

She exhales, fingers tracing absent patterns against her notebook. "Yeah."

Kenji hums, thoughtful. "Maybe we can meet up before then. The week before Hakone. I'll have to see—work is a lot right now—but I want to."

Want.

Not will. Not can. Want.

Mio nods. Forgets he can't see her. "Yeah. That'd be nice."

Another pause. Another breath.

"I miss you, Mio."

His voice is quiet. Sincere.

Something in her stomach knots. She knows what she's supposed to say. She knows.

(You should say it. You should feel it. You should want to feel it.)

"I miss you too," she says.

The words taste wrong.

Kenji sighs, the tension in his voice unwinding. "I'll try to make time. I really wanna see you before the trip."

"Okay," she murmurs.

Neither of them speak for a moment.

She listens to his breathing. Slow, steady. There. Present.

"I should go," he says eventually. "Still have some reading to do."

"Yeah, me too."

"Get some rest, okay?"

"Yeah. You too."

A soft chuckle. "Unlikely, but I'll try."

A click.

The line goes dead.

Mio stares at her phone.

Silence.

The cicadas drone. The summer heat lingers.

She sets the phone down.

And just sits there.

Breathes.

And waits for the feeling to come.

---

That night, her phone vibrates again.

A message.

Naya

Naya: listened to swan's album

She doesn't know what she was expecting.

She exhales, tension unspooling, just slightly.

Mio studies the text on her phone, her thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Naya

Naya: heavy -_-
Naya: u okay?

She doesn't elaborate. Doesn't press. Just leaves the question there, hanging between them like something fragile, something meant to be handled carefully. Naya never pushes, never demands. She just observes, pieces together the things Mio doesn't say.

Mio blinks at the brightness of the screen. It takes her a moment to type out a response.

She types.

She erases.

She types again.

Naya

Mio: Yeah. Just studying a lot (－‸ლ)

Naya: figured

Mio: It's a good album, right?

Naya: yeah
Naya: crushing tho. like sinking, but u don't even realize u r underwater until it's too late :')

Mio: Yeah.

Mio exhales. She doesn't know what she was expecting. Maybe for Naya to ask why she was listening to something so devastating, maybe for her to acknowledge the weight of it, the underlying mood she had undoubtedly picked up on. But Naya doesn't push, doesn't make her explain herself. Just lets the conversation drift where it wants to go.

They talk for a bit—about nothing, about everything. The way studying feels pointless when her brain is already exhausted, the inexplicable charm of Mugi casually dominating Mario Kart on her birthday, the annoyance of Ritsu continually asking for help, the other annoyance of Liz never asking for help because she's perfect.

The piano.

There's a pause. The ellipsis appears, disappears. Then—

Naya

Naya: gotta go

Mio barely has time to type out an Okay before another message appears.

Naya

Naya: u should clean your room btw
Naya: it's a mess lol
Naya: papers everywhere >_>

Mio: (°ロ°٥)??

No response.

She glances around. Her room is not a mess. There are some notes scattered on her desk, sure, but no more than usual. A few books stacked precariously near her bed, but nothing worth commenting on. And the bed is unmade, but it's not like Naya can see that.

Her gaze lands near the door.

A small, folded square of paper, just barely visible against the wooden floor.

Mio stands, crosses the room. She opens the door. The hallway is empty. Closes the door.

She bends down, picks up the paper. Unfolds it.

"The Horrors - Skying (Song: I Can See Through You). Their new album. Came out this month. Skying. What does it mean? Like, skiing? Going to the snow? No, no? Because it's by 'sky'? I don't know. For me, this album means soaring up. It's like the Beatles were psychedelic... although, wait—didn't the Beatles invent psychedelia? Well, you know what I mean. The mood's more cheerful, but I'm sure you'll love it."

She stares at it.

She was here.

She should check the hallway again, just in case. But she doesn't. She already knows what she'll find.

Nothing.

She stands there for a moment. Then, she moves, grabbing her headphones, slipping them over her ears, pulling her laptop closer. A few clicks. The album begins.

Soft synth, atmospheric. A wash of sound, shimmering like the edge of something not quite tangible. It builds. It expands. The opening track is a wash of reverb-drenched guitars and airy synths, the soundscape stretching out like the horizon after a storm. She lets it fill the space around her, lets it settle, lets herself settle.

She studies with the album in the background. It plays as she works through notes, the gentle reverb of guitars creating a strange sort of static against the white noise of her thoughts. She lets it blend into the background, a hum beneath ink and paper, barely there.

And then I Can See Through You begins.

She listens.

The bassline thrums low, steady, like something lurking just beneath the surface. The vocals slip in—dreamlike, detached, yet somehow intimate.

I got the church key
Moving in the night
Don't you wish you could live this lie?

The lyrics settle into her like mist, like a second skin, clinging, cloying. The melody wraps itself around her, slow, an unraveling thread.

I couldn't talk about
Filling up with longing
Pale horse, green eyes.

Pale horse. Green eyes.

She stares at her notes, but the words blur, shifting, reshaping themselves into something unspoken.

I can see through you and I don't get it
I can see through you and there's no way
I can see through you.

The lyrics feel esoteric, half-abstraction, half-confession. And yet, she feels them settle somewhere deep in her chest.

Some people see you.
To me, you're just see-through.
No one remembers your name,
No one tries.

It's stupid, but—

Is that how people see her?

No, that's—irrational. Dramatic.

(But isn't that exactly what you're afraid of? That no one actually sees you? That they see an outline, an image, but not—)

And let you step outside
In the fever of evening.
No one remembers your name,
No one tries.

It's absurd, the way a song—a song that Naya picked, that Naya left for her, that Naya thought she'd like—can feel like it's speaking to her directly.

She presses the pen to paper, but it doesn't move.

I can see through you and I don't get it
I can see through you and there's no way
I can see through you.

The words circle. Linger.

She glances toward the note still sitting on her desk. The folded edges, the scrawl of Naya's handwriting.

Naya—who sent this song. Who thought of her when she heard it.

Mio rises and walks to her bed, lying down, eyes to the ceiling.

She closes her eyes.

There's something uneasy about it. About the way the song moves—slightly off-center, slightly unbalanced. The way it speaks of perception, of seeing through the layers of someone, and yet still not understanding them.

The way it reminds her—

(Stop. It's nothing. Just a song.)

But it's not, is it?

She exhales.

Naya sees her. In a way no one else quite does, in a way that's almost unfair. The way she notices the weight in Mio's voice, the shift in her tone, the moods behind the music she listens to. The way she leaves notes. Little, thoughtless things. Like she's reaching through the fabric of Mio's self-made isolation and pulling her back into focus.

And the worst part?

Mio doesn't know if she wants to be seen.

Because if somebody sees her, if somebody really, truly sees her—

What then?

Why this song?

The note said the album was more cheerful. But this—this is not cheerful. It's something else. Restless. Cutting. Sharp in a way that isn't obvious, but digs in once it's under the skin.

She thinks about the way Naya looks at her sometimes. Like she already knows the answer to a question Mio hasn't even asked herself yet.

She thinks about the way she looks back.

I can see through you and I don't get it.

Something flickers at the edge of her thoughts. She pushes it down. Buries it.

The song fades into its final echoes.

She plays it again.

---

July 21, 2011

"I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!"

Ritsu's yell tears through the clubroom, echoing off the walls with the kind of dramatic despair usually reserved for anime protagonists experiencing their tragic backstories.

Mio flinches. Her pen skids across the margin of her notebook, leaving behind an ugly black line that she immediately scowls at.

"Ritsu," she says, voice slow, measured, betraying only a fraction of her exhaustion. "We agreed to study."

'We' had been a strong word. Yui suggested, Mio insisted, Ritsu resisted, Mugi mediated, and Azusa sighed, which eventually led to all five of them crammed into the clubroom, textbooks open, notes sprawled across the table. It was meant to be a productive, academic session—an echo of their old high school study meetups, except now with the added pressure of university exams looming over their heads.

And yet.

"But I'm dying, Mio! Withering away! My brain's gonna explode!" Ritsu groans, throwing herself back against the chair as if physically wounded by the mere concept of academia. "We've been at this for hours!"

"It's been thirty minutes," Azusa corrects, not even looking up from her notes.

"Exactly!" Ritsu points aggressively at her. "That's, like, a lifetime in drummer years!"

"That makes no sense," Mio mutters. "And besides, exams are almost over. One more day. You can survive until then."

Ritsu gasps, scandalized. "One more day is still one whole day, Mio! Do you know how long a day is? An eternity! A thousand years! A million drum fills wasted on studying!"

Mio groans. She's totally worn out. Tomorrow couldn't come fast enough.

Ritsu throws her arms wide in a grand, exaggerated motion. "I NEED TO HIT SOMETHING."

Yui's head shoots up from where she's been doodling in the margins of her textbook. "Like... spiritually? Or physically?"

"Physically," Ritsu says. "Spiritually would require a level of introspection that I do not have time for."

Mio groans again, already sensing where this is going. "Ritsu, no."

"Ritsu, yes." Ritsu springs to her feet, energy renewed. "I need a break. I need music. I need to drum! And you, my dear companions, need to rock."

Azusa stiffens. "But we agreed to study."

"Did we, though?" Ritsu tilts her head, feigning deep contemplation. "Or did we just agree to be here, in this room, together, existing?"

"That's... not the same thing at all."

"I'm with Ricchan!" Yui chimes in, already stretching like she's preparing for some kind of battle. "Music is food for the soul, and my soul is starving!"

"It's not starving," Mio says flatly.

Yui gasps, scandalized. "Mio-chan! You know my soul is a delicate little creature! It needs nourishment! It needs—" She slaps the table for dramatic emphasis. "—music!"

"And I need to pass my next exam," Mio mutters.

"But Mio-chan," Yui wheedles, tilting her head, "don't you concentrate better with music playing?"

Mio narrows her eyes. "I do. But that doesn't mean—"

"Great! Then you won't mind if we go jam while you study!" Ritsu waves her off. "C'mon, Yui. Let's jam."

Yui, who has all the academic endurance of a wet paper towel, immediately perks up. "Oh! Oh! Can we play Fuwa Fuwa Time? No—wait! Curry Nochi Rice! No—wait! Gohan wa Okazu! No—wait—"

"Yui," Mio interrupts.

"Yeah?"

"Just go."

Yui beams. "Yay!"

And just like that, the two disappear, practically skipping toward the small stage, the unmistakable sound of Ritsu's drumsticks clacking together fading as they go.

Mio sighs, rubbing her temple.

Azusa squares her shoulders, turning back to her notes with a determined expression. "Mio-senpai, we should—"

The sound of drums echoes from the other room. Loud. Enthusiastic.

Azusa stiffens.

Mio smirks. "You were saying?"

Azusa clears her throat. "I can ignore it."

The unmistakable sound of Yui's guitaaaaarrr~! wails over the noise.

Azusa twitches.

A few more seconds pass.

Mio doesn't say anything.

Azusa presses her lips together, gripping her pen like a weapon. "I can."

More drums. More guitar. A wild, off-key "Fuwa fuwa tiiiiime~! " from Yui.

Azusa snaps her book shut.

"I'll be right back," she mutters, as if saying it quietly enough will make it less of a betrayal.

Mio watches as Azusa marches toward the jam session, shoulders tense with internal war, her resolve crumbling with every note that filters through the walls.

"Well," Mugi chuckles, "that just leaves the two of us."

Mio huffs. "Finally. Some peace."

Mugi smiles knowingly. "You could go too, you know."

Mio scoffs, arms crossing over her chest. "No, thanks. Some of us actually care about our studies."

Mugi giggles. "But it's been a while, hasn't it? All five of us, just playing together?"

Mio falters.

That's true.

They've been together, of course. But things are different now—between schedules, responsibilities, and new friendships, their time as a unit, as Ho-kago Tea Time, had quietly faded into something rare, something precious.

Her grip on her pen loosens.

Mugi tilts her head, ever perceptive. "Did your piano exam go well?"

Mio blinks at the sudden change of topic. She hesitates.

"It was..." She exhales, glancing down at her notebook. "Perfect."

Mugi studies her for a long second. Then, she smiles—soft, knowing. "That's not what I asked."

Mio looks away.

Another drum fill sounds from the stage.

Mugi gently closes her book. "Come on," she says, standing. "Let's go play."

Mio groans. "Mugi..."

Mugi just hums, already moving toward her keyboard. "Besides, it's more fun when we're all together."

Mio sighs heavily but pushes herself up. "Fine."

They find their instruments. Ritsu counts them in.

And suddenly—there's nothing else.

No exams, no tension, no second-guessing.

Just music.

The moment she steps into the practice space, she's hit with an overwhelming sense of nostalgia.

And then Mugi presses a chord.

And suddenly, it's real.

Ritsu counts them in. Yui strums. Azusa follows. Mugi fills in. Mio exhales, her hands finding the bass like they always have—like they belong there.

The first few minutes, she's stiff—too conscious of the music, too caught in everything else in her head. But then the rhythm settles, and everything else fades.

And she remembers.

This is what she loves.

This is what matters.

Music. Playing. This band. These girls. Her friends.

It's all there—them. Their laughter. Their voices. The way Ritsu spins her sticks between her fingers, the way Yui sways dramatically with her guitar, the way Azusa looks painfully serious but still plays with all her heart.

Mio's fingers dance along the bass, the vibrations thrumming through her, grounding her, lifting her, all at once. Yui is singing, beaming, light and carefree. Ritsu's drumming fills the space, all energy, all rhythm, all heart. Mugi's keys thread through the melody, warm and steady. Azusa's guitar cuts in with its precise, sharp edges, the perfect counterpoint.

Mio doesn't realize how much she's missed this until now.

The years melt away.

They're just five girls in a clubroom, playing because they love it.

And for a while, Mio forgets everything else.

---

The last notes linger in the air before dissolving into quiet laughter.

"That was amazing!" Yui beams, slumping against Azusa.

Azusa sighs. "Yui-senpai, you're sweaty—"

"That's friendship sweat!"

Azusa makes a noise of pure suffering.

Ritsu tosses her sticks in the air triumphantly. "GOD, I missed this!"

"Ritsu, you literally play every day," Mio mutters, rolling her eyes.

"Yeah, but it's not the same!" Ritsu gestures at them. "It's this! Us! I need my high school bandmates! I need my youth!"

Yui gasps dramatically. "Wait... we're old?"

Mugi smiles. "Technically, yes."

Yui clutches her heart. "I'm too young to be old!"

Ritsu pats her shoulder sympathetically. "I know, buddy. I know."

Mio chuckles, shaking her head. Then—she notices.

Azusa.

She's quiet. Unusually so.

Mio frowns. "Azusa?"

Azusa stiffens. "Huh? What?"

"You okay?" 

Azusa hesitates. Then—her grip on her guitar tightens.

"It's just..." She exhales. "You guys have gotten really good."

Mio tilts her head. "Well, yeah. We've been practicing."

Azusa's eyes flicker, uncertain. "I know, but—I mean, Yui-senpai especially."

Yui gasps. "Was that a compliment?!"

"I'm being serious!" Azusa scowls. "Your technique is way cleaner than it used to be. Your transitions, your picking speed—it's all improved a lot."

Yui beams. "Akira-chan helped me a bunch last year!"

Azusa nods again. "And Ritsu-senpai—your timing's better. Your fills are more controlled. You're not just hitting things anymore."

"Rude," Ritsu says, but she's grinning.

Azusa glances up, startled. "Ah—sorry, Ritsu-senpai! It's just..." She hesitates, shifting uncomfortably. "It's nothing."

Yui, of course, has no patience for subtlety. "Azu-nyan, you're acting weird."

Azusa sighs. "I... I feel like I'm falling behind."

The words make Mio still.

Because she knows that feeling.

Knows it too well.

Mio sighs, stepping forward. "Yui improved a lot because Akira was helping her last year," she explains. "And Ritsu has been taking her drumming more seriously."

Azusa nods, but there's still tension in her shoulders. "I just... I don't know. I feel like I'm stuck. Like no matter how much I practice, I..."

Mio's heart clenches. Because she knows that feeling.

She knows it in herself. She's seen it, heard it in Naya. And now, it's in Azusa, too.

She studies Azusa—the way her shoulders are stiff, the way she's gripping her pick too tightly, the way she's second-guessing things she never used to second-guess.

And Mio realizes—this isn't just about technique.

This is perfectionism.

This is, I'm not enough.

And Mio understands that better than anyone.

She takes a breath, setting her bass down. Then, gently, "Azusa, do you know why I chose to study music education?"

Azusa blinks. "I mean... you always liked music?"

"That's part of it," Mio says. "But mostly? It's because I want to help musicians like you."

Azusa stiffens.

"You're not falling behind," Mio continues, voice steady. "You've been playing for years. You're incredibly talented. But that doesn't mean you won't struggle."

Azusa stares down at her guitar.

"Azusa," Mio calls gently.

Azusa looks at her again, waiting.

"You are one of the best guitarists I know," Mio says, sincere. Honest. "And I know what it feels like to think you have to be perfect. I know what it's like to feel like you're never good enough." A pause. Then, softer, "But you are."

She watches Azusa, the way her fingers tighten around the neck of her guitar, the way uncertainty lingers in her eyes, and Mio knows—knows exactly what she's feeling.

Mio smiles. "And, Azusa... even if you weren't? Even if you weren't one of the best guitarists I know? Even if you weren't a musician at all?"

Azusa blinks, startled.

"You'd still be you," Mio says, steady. "Music is a part of you, yeah. But it's not all of you. You're more than your technique, more than how fast you can play, more than how good you are. You're a person, not just a musician."

Azusa inhales sharply.

"You love music. That's what matters. Not proving anything. Not being perfect." Mio nods. "Your worth isn't measured by how well you play or how much you improve. Even if you never picked up a guitar again, you'd still be you." 

Azusa blinks, eyes widening slightly, as if the thought had never really occurred to her. As if no one had ever said it outright.

Yui, clearly emotional, throws herself onto Azusa. "AZU-NYAN, YOU'RE AMAZING!"

"Yui-senpai—please—"

Mugi chuckles. Ritsu ruffles Azusa's hair.

Azusa looks overwhelmed. But also... maybe just a little reassured.

Mio shifts. "Come here."

Azusa hesitates, but Mio gestures her over.

Carefully, gently, she places her hand over Azusa's shoulder.

"I know you're overthinking." Mio smiles a little. "But try just playing. Without thinking. Just feeling it."

Azusa hesitates.

But then—she strums.

Mio watches her, smiling. Because this—this is what she wants to do. This is what she is meant to do.

Music. Teaching. Helping someone believe in themselves.

This.

Helping someone find their music again.

Easier said than done.

If only it were that easy.

Azusa then sighs again, shoulders stiff. "But it's not just you guys," she mutters.

Mio frowns. "What do you mean?"

Azusa hesitates, gripping her pick too tightly again. "I mean—look around. It's not just Ho-kago Tea Time. It's the whole club." She gestures vaguely toward the empty room. "Onna Gumi's incredible, actually taking it seriously. And then there's Ruby Riot—Momo is a complete beast on the drums, Liz-senpai is an actual professional singer, and Naya-senpai..."

She trails off.

Mio knows what's coming.

Azusa sighs. "Naya-senpai has a really distinctive style. You can tell she's someone who actually thinks about how she plays. Someone with her own sound. Someone who takes music seriously."

Mio flinches—barely, imperceptibly—at that last part.

She knows that isn't how Naya sees herself. That Naya just wants to have fun with music.

Azusa continues, unaware. "Everyone here is good. Really good. And they're getting better. And some of them are actually... I don't know. Serious about it?" She huffs. "Onna Gumi's trying to go semi-pro. Ruby Riot, too, probably. And then there's me. Just... playing the same way I always have."

Ritsu taps her fingers idly against her knee. "I mean, Azusa's right. The level in the Light Music Club this year is way higher than last year. Even higher than high school. We're not just messing around anymore."

Mio quirks a brow. "Since when did you start taking things seriously?"

"I'm just saying. Maybe we should aim higher."

Mio hums. It's almost funny, coming from Ritsu. But now, there's a quiet determination in her voice. A real thought behind it.

Mugi sighs. "It would be nice. But college is a lot to juggle already," she says, gentle. "It's not just classes—it's work, internships, responsibilities." She pauses, then glances at Mio. "And next year, everyone but Azusa-chan and Momo-chan will be third-years. We'll have even less time."

Mio exhales, fingers tracing the edge of her bass.

Music.

Azusa, mentioning her parents' jazz band. As if it were inevitable.
Mugi, saying she was a pianist since she was four. As if it were fact.
Liz, boasting about holding a note for forty-five seconds. As if it defined her.

Mio, the bassist.

Is that all?

Ritsu shifts, standing now. "It kinda sucks, though, right?"

Mio blinks. "What does?"

"That we never even tried."

"Tried what?"

"You know," Ritsu stretches, rolling her shoulders. "That dumb thing we said in high school. About playing at the Budōkan someday."

Azusa lets out a short, dry laugh. "That was a high school dream. We were kids."

"You were in high school just last year, Azu-nyan," Yui mentions, innocent as ever.

Azusa blushes. "Shut up."

"Yeah, but—" Ritsu says. "Still kinda annoying, y'know? That we didn't even give it a shot."

No one speaks. Because she's right.

They never tried.

It was a dream they said out loud—not because they really thought it would happen, but because it felt good to dream. Because they wanted to believe, just for a little while, that it was possible.

And then life happened. College happened. Adulthood happened.

Reality happened.

Mio speaks.

"But do we even want to be professionals? Or do we just want to play together?"

She doesn't even know why she says it. Maybe because she needs to hear the answer. Maybe because she's tired of this black-and-white thinking.

Professional or casual. Serious or fun. All or nothing.

Maybe because she wants someone to say it's okay to just be.

The room is quiet.

Then Yui smiles.

"Who cares about the Budōkan?"

They all blink.

Yui continues, smiling. "I mean, yeah, it'd be cool to play at a big festival. Live houses are fun too. But I just like playing with you guys. That's what I care about most."

Mugi chuckles. "That's very you, Yui-chan."

Mio looks at Yui. The five of them, just playing together. It's what Mio cares about most, too. She wants to believe that. She does. But nothing stays the same forever, does it?

"But Yui," she muses, "weren't you the one who got a fever last year for thinking too much about becoming pro?"

Azusa's eyes widen. "Wait, that happened?!"

"Oh, yes," Ritsu smirks. "Our Yui here got so worried about taking music seriously that she literally got sick."

"And it's not worth it!" Yui laughs, strumming idly. "I don't care if it's in a stadium with fourteen thousand people, or alone in the clubroom, like now." She grins. "Or with Onna Gumi and Ruby Riot cheering us on like we're their favorite band."

Ritsu snorts. "They kinda are our biggest fans."

Azusa smiles, just a little.

Yui suddenly claps her hands together. "Alright! Then let's make a promise."

Mio tilts her head. "A promise?"

Yui nods, gripping her guitar with conviction. "No matter what happens, no matter how busy we get, no matter where we end up—let's promise we'll always find time to play together!"

Azusa sighs, half-exasperated, half-fond. "That sounds like another childish dream."

"No, it's not!" Yui pouts. "As long as we're all around, and together, Ho-Kago Tea Time will always exist!"

Silence.

Then—Ritsu grins. "Well, duh. Obviously."

Mugi chuckles, soft and warm. "I'd like that."

Azusa hesitates. Then, finally, she nods. "Me too."

Mio looks at them. At everything they are, everything they've been, everything they still might be.

Her friends, their instruments, the clubroom that once felt so big and now feels almost too small for everything they are becoming.

She lets out a slow breath.

Maybe they don't need to prove anything to anyone. Maybe they don't need to define what they are. Maybe it's enough to just play.

Maybe that's the real dream.

Not Budōkan. Not being professionals. Just this.

Just them.

And then, finally—she nods, too.

Maybe this is enough.

Maybe it always was.

Maybe that's all it ever had to be.

Yui throws herself forward without warning, arms outstretched, crashing into all of them at once.

"GROUP HUG!"

It's instant chaos.

Azusa yelps, nearly dropping her guitar. Ritsu stumbles backward, knocking into the drum kit. Mugi laughs as Yui clings to her like a koala. Mio wheezes as Yui slams into her bass, the strap nearly choking her.

Instruments collide, strings buzz, drumsticks clatter.

It's messy. It's ridiculous.

It's so them.

Mio doesn't mind hugging all of them at all.

---

July 22, 2011

Freedom.

The word vibrates in the air, electrified, bouncing between walls, faces, fingers tapping against instruments, strings humming with absentminded plucks. It lingers in the way Yui stretches her arms toward the ceiling, groaning dramatically, "Exams are over! We're ALIVE!" and the way Ritsu responds by smacking her on the back and yelling, "Hell yeah, baby! No thoughts, head empty, just vibes!"

It rings through Mugi's bright laughter, Azusa's exhausted sigh, Liz and Akira high-fiving across the couch, and Momo, still too stunned from finals to do anything but stare at the ceiling in silence. It echoes in Ayame and Ritsu's impromptu attempt at synchronized air-drumming, a joint performance of utter nonsense that has Akira rolling her eyes and muttering, "Drummers."

It's loud.

It's chaotic.

It's kind of perfect.

Mio smiles, small but real. It's nice—this kind of mindless, post-finals energy, where no one has to worry about anything for a little while.

Except—

She should feel relief. She should feel light, weightless, like the rest of them. And in a way, she does. The tension in her shoulders has eased, the vice grip around her chest has loosened, but underneath it all, she's drained.

Still, she smiles when Sachi sits beside her, nudging her with her shoulder.

"You did well?" Sachi asks, careful, quiet.

"I think so," Mio says. "And you?"

Sachi nods, eyes downcast. "A few close calls, but... I passed everything."

"That's great," Mio says, meaning it.

Sachi's a Music Education major, like her—a small department, a niche group. There's something comforting about knowing someone else gets it.

Across the room, Azusa and Momo are locked in a spirited debate about which professor gave the hardest mixdown final, both half-laughing and half-traumatized. Akira and Yui are loudly arguing about which pedagogy class was worse.

"Yours didn't even require lesson plans!"

"Yeah, but yours had pop quizzes about child psychology!"

Nearby, Ritsu is attempting to explain "business synergy" to Ayame, who is using drumsticks and a whiteboard marker to illustrate her interpretation of project-based grading. "This is what capitalism does to your GPA!" she yells as a marker rolls dramatically off the desk.

And then there's Naya, sitting at the edge of it all.

Sachi asks her, "How'd you do on exams, Naya-chan?"

Naya lifts a shoulder. "Pretty well."

Liz snorts. "Pretty well?"

Ritsu narrows her eyes. "A foreigner with kid-level Japanese, passing finals? Suspicious."

Naya just scoffs, shifting her bass in her lap. "Actually, it's toddler level," she corrects, dry as hell. "I mastered the alphabet this week."

Mugi, ever kind, claps supportively. "That's wonderful progress, Naya-chan!"

"Gracias," Naya deadpans, which makes Liz absolutely lose it.

Everyone laughs. The room hums with it—warm, unrestrained, carefree. And for a moment, Mio lets herself be carried by it.

Someone suggests celebrating—someone always does. And the idea is instantaneously embraced.

"Someone's room?"
"Out somewhere?"
"Drinks?"
"Food?"
"Both?"

Mio laughs. She's happy, she really is, but the idea of going anywhere feels like too much. Her limbs are heavy, her shoulders are stiff, and something deep in her bones is tired. She's been running herself into the ground, pushing and pushing and pushing, and now that the pressure is gone, her body is begging for rest.

She hasn't processed it yet. The last few days. The way she's been running herself into the ground. The way she's been keeping her mind occupied, occupied, occupied, because if she slows down, she'll have to actually think.

Still, she stands with them, follows them to the door—until she notices Naya lingering behind.

"I'll catch up," she says, crouching to pack up her pedals. "Go on."

Mio hesitates. The others are leaving, the energy pulling away from the room. She should go with them.

But instead—

"I'll help."

Naya looks up, one brow slightly raised.

"You don't have to."

"I know."

A beat. Then, a small, almost amused sound. "Alright."

They work in silence—a comfortable one. Mio gathers wires, loops them carefully, places them in Naya's worn-out pedal bag. Naya secures knobs, presses down Velcro, adjusts, readjusts. It's a quiet rhythm they've mastered across a dozen pedal sessions—efficient, wordless, oddly intimate.

It's nice.

"I'm glad you did well," Naya says after a moment. "With exams."

Mio smiles. "I'm glad you did, too."

Naya smirks. "You didn't think I would?"

Mio rolls her eyes. "That's not what I meant." A pause. Then, impulsively, quietly: "I really liked The Horrors' album."

Naya's hands still. She turns her head slightly, lips twitching, like she wasn't expecting that. "... Yeah?"

Mio nods, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "The bass tones are incredible."

Naya grins, easy and genuine.

Mio wants to say more, but she's exhausted. She's so tired. It's creeping in at the edges, pressing down on her limbs, dragging her under. It creeps in without warning, a heavy, dragging weight behind her eyes, settling into her limbs.

She sways, just a little.

Naya notices.

"Hey," she calls. "You're falling asleep."

Mio snaps upright. "No."

Naya huffs. "If you say so."

Mio straightens further, grabbing a handful of cables, gripping them tightly like that'll keep her upright. 

She wobbles.

"Mio," Naya calls again, voice softer.

"I'm fine." She reaches for another wire, but her fingers feel clumsy, sluggish.

"You're one blink away from hitting the floor."

Mio shakes her head. Keeps moving. Keeps gathering. Keeps going.

Naya watches her for a moment, then shrugs, returning to her pedals.

Mio blinks, blinks, blinks.

Her hands move automatically—gathering wires, adjusting knobs, placing things in their proper spots.

She blinks again.

Her eyelids flutter.

She yawns and closes her eyes for a moment.

Just a moment.

---

There's something citrusy in the air. Sharp and clean. It lingers at the edge of her senses, threading through the hazy fog of sleep, wrapping around her like a scent-memory she can't quite place.

There's music, too. Muffled. Distant. A melody drifting through the haze of her half-conscious mind, slow and hypnotic, wrapping around her senses like a thick fog, filtering through the slow beat of her own pulse.

Mio blinks. Slowly. Groggily. The world is blurred. It takes her a moment to find herself, to grasp onto the edges of reality, to ground herself in something tangible. 

Her cheek is resting on something.

Her whole body is pressed against it.

Someone.

Her breath catches.

Oh, no.

Naya.

Mio blinks again, her heart skipping once, twice.

She doesn't move. She doesn't even breathe for a second, like staying perfectly still might rewind time, might make this moment not real.

The air between them is warm. Not uncomfortably so, just shared. A quiet, steady heat where her cheek meets Naya's shoulder, where her body unconsciously pressed close. There's a softness to it, something slow and easy, something she wasn't aware of until now.

She registers the rise and fall of Naya's breathing—slow, even, steady. A rhythm. Like a metronome. Like the pulse of something constant, something unshakable.

And then it hits her.

She's been here for a while.

Long enough to slip into it. Long enough to settle, to relax, to trust.

That's the worst part.

Naya must have moved them at some point. Mio's head is resting in the crook of her neck, fully nestled against her shoulder, the way a body instinctively seeks warmth, the way something half-conscious drifts toward something steady.

And she's leaning. Curling into her, her entire side molded against Naya's, pressed against her in a way that is beyond familiar, beyond casual, beyond anything that makes sense. As if her body had chosen without her permission, as if exhaustion had granted her a moment of unconscious selfishness.

Naya is leaning against the wall, left arm wrapped around Mio—not touching, not pulling, just... there. A barrier. A presence. As if she had simply adjusted to make Mio comfortable without thinking twice about it.

And it's embarrassingly comfortable.

Heat rises up, slow and suffocating, pooling under her skin.

No. No no no.

Mio wants to die.

Or run. Or disappear. Or dissolve into pure energy and escape into the stratosphere.

What is she supposed to do? Say something? Pretend to still be asleep? Carefully untangle herself and pretend she was never here at all? Consider a career change to invisible gas?

Her mind spirals. The rational part of her—the one still clinging to sense, to control, to the safe, neat, structured version of herself—is screaming. She should get up, now, immediately, make a joke, apologize, create distance before this turns into something it shouldn't.

But she doesn't move.

Carefully—so, so carefully—she sneaks a peek at Naya's face.

Naya is chill.

Unfazed.

Not indifferent, but not panicking either. Her expression is unreadable in that lazy, easy way of hers, as if this is nothing, as if finding herself pinned beneath someone else's weight is just a mild inconvenience. As if this—being leaned on, needed—is the most natural thing in the world.

The only giveaway is the faintest hint of pink at the tips of her ears.

She has earphones on.

She's listening to music.

She doesn't seem to have noticed that Mio is awake.

Mio should move. She should. But—

(But what?)

She should get up.

She should get up.

But she doesn't.

She stays.

Minutes pass. Or seconds. Or something in between. Time is strange, fluid, meaningless in this moment.

It takes a while for Naya to notice.

She shifts, stretching her arm slightly. The movement is slow, absent, casual—until she glances down, catching Mio's eyes, and pauses. She pulls her earphones out.

"Hey. You're awake," she says, like this is normal. Like this is fine.

Mio flushes. "I wasn't—"

"You totally were."

"I wasn't—"

"What, you're telling me you were awake the whole time and wanted to cuddle with me?" Naya jokes.

Mio turns crimson. "I—"

"Don't worry. You didn't snore."

Mio groans, burying her face in Naya's shoulder. The fabric of Naya's shirt is soft against her skin.

Naya adjusts, tilting her head against the wall, blinking at her with easy familiarity. "You were out for a while."

"How long?" Mio's voice is muffled against Naya's shirt.

Naya glances down, taps her MP3 player screen. "Five songs, give or take. So... about twenty, twenty-five minutes?"

Mio's stomach drops. Twenty-five minutes. Twenty-five minutes of this. Twenty-five minutes of unconsciously using Naya as a pillow.

"Guess all that time with me is rubbing off on you," Naya says, smirking. "That was a pretty solid Spanish siesta."

Mio chokes on air, mortified. "And you... didn't wake me up?"

"You looked like you needed to rest."

"You didn't have to let me—" She gestures vaguely between them, between the weight of her against Naya's side. "This. You didn't have to stay like that."

"What, and leave you to wake up with a stiff neck? Nah. Not my style."

"You know what I mean."

Naya just huffs a quiet laugh.

Mio feels her face heat. "Sorry. I didn't mean to fall asleep on you."

Naya shrugs her free shoulder so as not to disturb Mio. "You were tired."

"Yeah, but—"

"It's fine, Mio. You need to stop apologizing for things that aren't a big deal."

Mio looks at her properly now. Naya's expression is easy, unbothered, like holding a half-asleep bassist wasn't even worth mentioning.

The silence stretches between them. Warm. Gentle. Mio's eyes fall half-shut again, her body instinctively relaxing. She feels Naya shift slightly, adjusting the angle of her shoulder, making it more comfortable for both of them.

"Long day?" Naya asks, breaking the quiet.

Mio nods against her. "Long month."

Naya hums. "Seriously, Mio, it's okay," she says. "You work too hard. You're allowed to crash every now and then."

Mio looks at her. Naya is grinning, reassuring.

"Still," Mio mutters, "it's embarrassing."

"Why? Falling asleep is human. Besides," Naya's grin widens, "I'm flattered you trust me enough to pass out on me."

Mio's cheeks burn hotter, and she looks away, muttering something about not being very good company. Naya just laughs, warm and unrestrained.

"Thanks," Mio murmurs.

Naya smiles, softer now. She doesn't say anything, but Mio can tell she doesn't mind.

Mio finally lifts herself, just slightly, peeling away from the warmth of Naya's side. It takes effort. The air is cold without the contact.

"... I might have been pushing myself too hard," she admits.

Naya doesn't say I noticed, but Mio feels it in the pause, in the glance.

"You've been running on empty, haven't you?" Naya says instead.

Mio doesn't answer. 

"You should take it easy. You work too hard," Naya adds, tone light. "Though I know it's not as easy as saying it."

Mio nods, dragging a hand through her hair. "I just... have a lot on my mind."

Too much.

More than she knows how to name, how to deal with.

"Good thing finals are over, then," Naya says. "You can finally unwind."

Mio rubs at her temple. "Yeah. I think tomorrow I'll just stay in. And Sunday, I'll be alone—Azusa's meeting her friends, Yui's with Nodoka, Ritsu's seeing Taro, and Mugi has plans."

Naya hums, thoughtful. "Oh yeah. Mugi and Liz have that thing."

Mio doesn't respond right away. Her mind lingers on it, mulling it over. That thing.

There's a small flicker of something—something deep in her chest, something uncomfortable, something irrational and ugly that she wants to crush immediately.

She doesn't know what it is, exactly. But something is there. Something significant. And for some reason, it bothers her. More than it should.

Why does it bother her?

Why does it matter?

(It doesn't. It shouldn't.)

She doesn't say anything. Just nods.

Naya studies her, quiet for a moment. Then, carefully—casually—she asks:

"You're not going out with your boyfriend?"

Mio looks down at her hands. "He's busy with work stuff."

It's the truth. Kenji's busy. And she doesn't mind.

(Shouldn't you mind?)

Naya doesn't respond.

They sit in silence for a moment. Then Naya breaks it, her tone teasing.

"You drooled on me, you know."

Mio's face explodes red. "Wha—I did not!"

Naya grins. "No, you didn't. But you should've seen your face."

Mio shoves her shoulder. "Idiot."

Naya chuckles and offers an earphone to Mio without a word.

Mio looks at it. Then at her.

She takes it.

Naya presses play in her player.

Music floods in—soft, ambient, dreamlike. A hazy, looping melody, wrapping around them like a fog. A slow, dreamy melody that feels almost surreal in its gentleness.

Still Life, by The Horrors.

Mio recognizes it instantly.

Naya glances at her. "One of my favorites on the album."

Mio presses the earphone in properly. "Mine, too."

She leans back against the wall. Closer this time. Letting her shoulder brush against Naya's. Letting herself sink into the music.

They sit there, together, side by side. 

Under a sky, no one sees,
Waiting, watching it happening
Don't hurry, give it time.

Not talking. Not moving. Just listening.

Things are the way they have to be
Slow down, give it time.
Still life, you know I'm listening.

Mio's heartbeat slows. Her body feels lighter.

The moment that you want is coming if you give it time.

The chorus swells.

When you wake up, when you wake up,
You will find me.

It repeats. Again.

When you wake up, when you wake up,
You will find me.

Naya shifts beside her, like she wants to say something.

Like she's on the edge of a thought but isn't sure if she should let it out.

Mio turns to her. "What?"

Under a sky, no one else sees.
Your shape appears in front of me.

Naya hesitates, looking at her hands. Then, like it's not a big deal:

"I was thinking of going to the music store on Sunday," she says, voice quiet, casual, careful. "I need some new bass strings. Thought I'd look around while I'm at it."

A pause.

The sky clears, the sun hits, I'm here.
Waiting, it's happening.

Then—

"Since you were thinking of buying a pedal," she continues, nonchalant, "wanna come with me?"

Mio looks at her.

The moment that you want is coming if you give it time.

"It's fine if you don't want to," Naya adds, watching her closely. "If you'd rather stay in and rest, I get it."

She's giving her an out. She's letting her choose.

And Mio should. She should take the out. She should say no.

When you wake up, when you wake up,
You will find me.

She knows this is dangerous.

She knows that spending a morning alone with Naya is—

(You know.)

When you wake up, when you wake up,
You will find me.

Her mind is in the danger zone, sending alarms, telling her to be careful.

Naya is dangerous.

Naya is a shift in gravity. A ripple in the surface of something Mio has tried so hard to keep still.

When you wake up, when you wake up,
You will find me.

(You shouldn't.)

When you wake up, when you wake up,
You will find me.

(You shouldn't.)

When you wake up, when you wake up,
You will find me.

(You shouldn't.)

When you wake up, when you wake up,
You will find me.

Naya just waits. Just looks at her. Smiling summer-bright.

Like the summer days left.

When you wake up, when you wake up,
You will find me.

The chorus repeats in the background.

Soft.

Constant.

When you wake up, when you wake up,
You will find me.

Inescapable.

---

July 24, 2011

Mio stands before the mirror, comb in hand, trapped in an absurd, endless cycle of self-scrutiny. Her reflection stares back, unimpressed, unsatisfied, uncertain. She's been combing her hair for—she checks the clock—fifteen minutes. Tugging at strands, smoothing them down, letting them fall. Again and again. A pointless ritual. A futile attempt at... something.

It's ridiculous.

She pulls at the strands of her hair, pushes them back, lets them fall, tucks them behind her ears—undoes it.

Rinse.

Repeat. 

It's ridiculous.

She is ridiculous.

She sighs, setting the comb down with more force than necessary, and turns to face the battlefield that was once her bed. Clothes—so many clothes—strewn across the sheets in a chaotic display of indecision. T-shirts, tank tops, skirts, shorts, all rejected in a trial by fire.

This is not an important outing. This is not a date. This is not... anything. It's just—

It's just a trip to the music store. Just a walk with Naya.

So why does it feel like she's trying to crack some impossible code?

Her fingers run through her hair—again, always—and she debates pulling it up. Ponytail? Practical. Efficient. But then she imagines Naya's hair, the way it always falls just right despite the sheer recklessness of it. Always undone, always just shy of messy, yet effortlessly cool, as if the wind itself bends to her aesthetic.

It would be pathetic to try, wouldn't it? To make it seem like she isn't trying at all?

She lets her own hair fall back around her shoulders, smooths it once more, and glares at herself in the mirror.

She glances at the bed again.

The clothes loom like an existential crisis waiting to happen.

She's changed three times already. She doesn't understand why today—today—everything in her wardrobe feels like a calculated decision. It's just a walk, she tells herself, for the hundredth time.

And yet.

The heap of rejected outfits on the bed is a battlefield of fabric casualties. She sighs, already annoyed at herself. Why is she like this? Why does her wardrobe suddenly feel like an intricate game of chess, where every move must be carefully calculated, where one wrong piece of clothing could spell disaster?

She grabs a shirt. Changes. Stares. Changes again. Stares harder.

(Stop this. It doesn't matter.)

But it does, because nothing looks right, nothing feels right, and her brain is betraying her in ways she doesn't have the energy to unpack.

Her fingers hover over a loose, cold-shoulder blouse in a rich shade of blue with a delicate white lace trim in the neckline. Soft fabric, light, breathable, flattering without being too much. She slips it on, hesitating when she catches sight of the open cutouts exposing her shoulders. The fabric is smooth, breezy against her skin.

Casual, she tells herself. Nothing more than that.

It's fine. It's nothing.

She moves on.

Bottom part. She reaches for a light beige mini skirt with a simple, casual design and belt loops. She decides to go with a brown belt for contrast. Practical, neutral, safe.

But when she pulls it on and feels the fabric slightly fitted at the waist, she hesitates again. She doesn't wear skirts regularly. She prefers pants. And this mini skirt is shorter than usual. She tilts her head. Not too short, just... shorter. Not something she'd usually dare to wear.

So why today, of all days—

Anyway.

It shouldn't matter.

But she shifts in place, glancing at her reflection, eyes trailing down her legs, then back up. Her stomach tightens.

Does this look like I'm trying too hard?

(And if it does—who are you trying for? And why would that be a problem?)

Mio scowls, shaking the thought away.

It's just a walk.

She exhales, combs through her hair again, for the eighth—no, ninth—time. Maybe she should put it up. Maybe a ponytail would be practical, sensible.

It's fine. It's just hair.

Still, she decides to add a pop of color with a red hair clip on the left side of her long, straight black hair, subtly pulling back a few strands. Because it's summer. And it's hot.

Yeah, that must be it.

And just in case, a red scrunchie on her wrist. Because the ponytail is still on the table.

Another glance at the mirror. A small adjustment of her bamgs. A frown. Are her bangs a bit too long? Maybe she should have gotten a trim. She checks her reflection again, touches the bangs, lets the. fall back into place. She takes the comb again. She doesn't know why she cares so much. She's being ridiculous, she knows it. Her heart flutters a bit too much for something so simple.

Why am I like this?

A knock at the door.

She jumps, nearly flinging the comb across the room. A deep breath, a final sweep of her hands over her hair, and she reaches for the door handle, schooling her face into something approaching normalcy, heart lurching for reasons she definitely doesn't have time to analyze.

She smooths her hair one last time and opens the door.

And—

Oh.

Naya stands there, one hand lazily tucked into her pocket, the other resting against the doorframe in a way that is entirely too nonchalant for someone who looks like that. A black Justice tee, slightly worn-in but still effortlessly cool, drapes over her frame, paired with ripped black shorts that hit just at the knee. Her maroon Converse—scuffed, lived-in—are loosely laced, and over it all, she wears an unbuttoned maroon shirt, sleeves casually rolled.

Her crossbody fanny pack on the front. Her bass case on her back.

The same outfit she wore to karaoke, except for the pants. The same outfit Mio had told her looked good. 

Her traitorous mind lurches toward a single, devastating thought:

Did she dress like that because I told her she looked good?

No. That's ridiculous. That's—Naya doesn't do things like that. It's a stupid thought. Impossible to prove. And yet—

Mio shakes her head. She does not have time for this.

"Good morning, Mio," Naya drawls, dipping into a mock bow. "Your prom date is here."

Heat rushes to Mio's face, an instant betrayal of her own carefully maintained composure.

"H–Hey." She tries to collect herself, tries to find normal words in a normal order, but fails spectacularly. "I—um, sorry, I just..."

Naya chuckles, waving a hand. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding." And then, casual as ever: "You look great."

Mio malfunctions.

Her heart flips in a way that is entirely disproportionate to a simple compliment.

(It's nothing. It's just a compliment. It's just Naya being Naya.)

But her heart doesn't get the memo.

"Thanks," she manages, voice quieter than intended.

Naya's lips twitch with something almost amused. "Ready to go?"

Mio nods, grabbing her bag, her bass case and—after five seconds of pause—her camera, with hands that feel slightly less coordinated than they should. She steps into the hallway, falling into step beside Naya, their strides naturally syncing as they make their way outside.

The summer air is warm, the scent of grass and sun-drenched pavement filling the space between them. Mio casts a sideways glance—Naya moves with that same easy confidence, the kind that Mio has never quite mastered.

"You really do look pretty," Naya says, offhandedly, like it's the simplest thing in the world. "That color suits you."

Mio's heart does something uncooperative.

She looks down, biting her lip, traitorously pleased.

Pretty.

Not just "you look great." No, no. Pretty.

"Thanks," she mutters. Then, before she can stop herself—"You too."

Naya snorts, slightly surprised. "Well, thanks, but I didn't spend half an hour in front of the mirror."

Mio dies on the spot. She combust internally.

"I didn't—! It wasn't—! I haven't—! Okay, maybe a little," she admits, wanting to disappear, because it's impossible to lie to Naya, impossible when she's looking at her like that, all knowing and amused and—

Naya bumps her shoulder lightly, grin lazy, laughter spilling out of her like an easy melody. "Relax, I'm just messing with you."

Mio exhales sharply, somewhere between exasperated and something else entirely. She glances at Naya, at the way her hair shifts with each step, the way her bangs brush her eyes. It's funny, Mio thinks, how much she agonized over her own bangs earlier.

Ridiculous, really.

Naya catches her looking. Grins—bright, easy, effortless. Like summer itself. And Mio—without thinking, without meaning to—smiles back. A small, tentative thing that feels like it wants to be more.

They walk on, their steps unconsciously falling into rhythm, their shoulders brushing in the smallest, passing moments. Conversation drifts between music and nonsense and everything in between.

And for some reason—some absurd, indefensible, absolutely stupid reason—Mio feels light. Happy, even.

Probably because she's going to the music store. That's all. She likes those things. She's going to buy a pedal, maybe look at some basses. Finals are over. Summer is here.

And the sun—somehow—shines a little brighter today.

Notes:

Well. That was a chapter.

We had a lot going on—emotional dissonance, musical bonding, sleepy gay yearning, classic HTT chaos, and a healthy dose of existential bangs anxiety. Truly, a full-course meal.

The HTT jam session that devolves into emotional support and a group hug? Healing. Skying coming in with its dreamy, reverb-drenched soundtrack to Mio's unraveling sense of self? And Mio accidentally napping on Naya? Peak disaster queer behavior. Naya pretending it's fine while listening to The Horrors like she isn't having a gay crisis of her own? Yes, it's all happening. Everything is happening. Slowly. So slowly. And that's the point.

Anyway! Coming up next: The Pedal Outing™.

That's right, folks, it's time for Mio to finally, officially pick a pedal. Will she overthink it? Yes. Will Naya tease her? Absolutely. Will this somehow make Mio even more confused about her feelings? Oh, you better believe it.

It's the moment we've all been waiting for: two emotionally constipated disaster lesbians go on a totally platonic not-date to the music store. One of them is absolutely Not In Love™ and the other is pretending she's chill but has already picked out a metaphorical promise ring in the form of an Electro-Harmonix product. Romance.

This is the first time Mio and Naya are going to hang out alone-officially-outside-of-college for an extended period of time, and you know that's going to go well. (By 'well' I mean 'emotionally confusing and full of longing looks over boutique distortion units.')

Thank you, truly, to everyone who's been reading, commenting, waiting, and just being here. You're part of the reason I keep writing this chaotic, tender little monster of a fic. If you're still with me—whether you've been here from the beginning or just hopped on recently—you're the best. Seriously. Go get yourself a treat. You deserve it.

And of course, eternal thanks to Jules (tsuki_anne), who betaed this beast, soothed my spiral moments, and continues to be the co-pilot of my dreams. None of this would exist without her. I love her with my whole gay heart.

See you next chapter for what may or may not be the slowest gay awakening to ever occur in the pedal section of a Shibuya music store. Or the AO3 website. Stay tuned, like our instruments.

Chapter 22: Within and Without

Summary:

Mio turns a casual errand into a 5k word dissertation on Fender basses.

Notes:

Hey hey hey! Long time no see! Thanks for your patience—life's a bitch and gets in the way, but here we are with another chapter where Mio and Naya maintain their gold-medal streak in pretending they're just really intense friends.

Oh oh oh oh by the way, guess what.

Yeah.

This chapter?

IT'S BEEN SPLIT. AGAIN.

At first, it was one big chunk: Mio overthinking and buying a pedal, and then—well, what you're about to read. But my beta (bless her chaos-loving soul) said the pacing was weird and suggested I split it: first... this, and next chapter the pedal shit. And yeah, it made it better! (Or so she claims. I'm choosing to believe her.) I edited this after a truly hellish day at work, and I'm convinced that somehow tainted the vibe. It reads like capitalism-induced despair. But maybe that's just projection. My beta loves it, though, so what she says is gospel.

Speaking of: THANK YOU JULES (tsuki_anne), as always. Her schedule is so full and yet she still makes time for me and this brick of a fic that has zero filter and physically cannot be under 10k words per chapter (and I have almost up to chapter 40 drafted, so do the math, lol). I'm honestly so grateful. I love her. I adore her. I worship her. Her beta work is tremendous—she truly makes this story so much better. Sometimes I think anything good in this fic is more thanks to her than me. Go read her work.

ANYWAY. Go get that chapter. Give it hell.

(By the way, sorry if this author's note is a little all over the place. My ADHD meds got changed and the new ones have amphetamines and I feel like I snorted a truckload of Red Bull up my ass???? Or maybe I'm just having a heart attack, who's to say.)

Let's see what excuses Mio pulls out this time to rationalize the fact that Naya's green eyes make her feel warm. Upstairs and downstairs, if you know what I mean.

Within and Without, by Washed Out, was released on July 6, 2011.

July 24, 2011

They walk in silence after a while. Not an awkward silence, not even a purposeful one—just something suspended, provisional, like breath held under the surface of still water. The kind of silence that acknowledges history without naming it. The kind that says we're doing this anyway.

Mio keeps her gaze forward. Tries to, at least. But her mind betrays her—ravenous, relentless—cataloging Naya's details with the precision of someone who's spent too long pretending not to look.

The maroon overshirt is unbuttoned again today, lazy and wind-tugged, revealing that same threadbare Justice tee underneath. The hem curls slightly at her waist, soft cotton stretched from years of wear. Her hair is messier than usual, if that's even possible—tousled in that distinctively Naya way, half in her eyes, half everywhere else. She doesn't fix it. Doesn't even try. Mio had spent twelve minutes earlier that morning on her fringe alone, parting and re-parting like she was rehearsing the possibility of being seen, and yet here Naya is, barely concerned with something that looks effortlessly perfect.

Unfair. It's all so unfair. How effortless Naya looks, always. As if beauty isn't something that has to be earned or performed, just worn.

The morning air is warm, but not unpleasantly so. A faint breeze rolls through the quiet streets, stirring the leaves, the scent of asphalt and greenery mingling in a way that feels distinctly like summer. It's the kind of Sunday meant for doing nothing, for lying around and letting time stretch lazily and unbothered. Instead, they're heading into the pulsing heart of Tokyo, the rhythm of their footsteps—hers tentative, Naya's unbothered—feels louder than it should.

This is not a date.

This is not a date.

This is—

"So," she says, too abruptly, her voice cutting into the quiet like a tuning fork struck wrong. "You did well in all your exams, then?"

Naya turns her head slightly, lips tugging up, that mild half-smile that always feels like a secret shared. "Yeah. Japanese grammar tried to kill me, though."

Mio smiles too. Of course it did. And of course she'd say it like that—like even failure isn't failure, just another story to laugh about later. Like nothing touches her too deeply.

(Or maybe it does. Maybe she just edits it before it shows.)

Mio used to think people like Naya belonged to a different species. The kind who move through the world as if their bodies had never been sites of conflict. As if wanting was something safe. As if presence didn't require permission.

Now, walking beside her, she doesn't feel entirely like a different species. But she still feels small. Not in height—though Naya is a little taller, something Mio is not entirely used to—but in scale. In density. In certainty.

She uses to feel like this next to Kenji, too. But differently. With Kenji it's quieter. Painless. Like soft background static. With Naya it's more like... gravity. Like proximity rewires the current in her spine.

She should say more. Should fill the silence with something safe, light. But her mouth is dry. Her pulse stutters. And her mind—traitorous as ever—spirals into motion:

Does she know I've been avoiding her? Is she mad? Is this too easy? Is she pretending she doesn't mind? Should I apologize? Would that make it worse?

(You had exams. You needed space. You did nothing wrong.)

But she feels like she did. Because the truth is, she didn't pause their pedal sessions because she was busy. She paused them because it was too much. Because Naya's voice, easy and laughing in her ear, had started echoing somewhere deeper. Because her own body had become unreliable—traitorous, loud, aching.

She'd stood outside Naya's door one night, clutching a new band recommendation in her hand like it might shield her from herself. She didn't knock. Just stood there. Then walked away. Eventually, Skying by The Horrors had appeared under her own door.

She'd listened to it. And something in her cracked open again.

Now here they are, four days later. Shoulder to shoulder. Walking toward the station like nothing happened. Like everything is still where they left it. And maybe it is.

Or maybe it's not.

The sidewalk glows pale with sunlight, the concrete fractured with tree shadows, dappled and slow-moving like water. Their footsteps are unsynchronized. Naya's loose, rhythmic, heel-toe. Mio's—too conscious. A beat too short. The spacing of someone walking beside someone she hasn't seen in weeks, and still isn't sure how to look at.

She told me everything.

And that should have made this easier.

It doesn't.

Because now Mio doesn't know where the edges are. Doesn't know what's safe anymore. Doesn't know how to hold herself in this—whatever this is—without fracturing.

She wonders if Naya remembers what she said. You're music. If she meant it. If she regrets it. If it was just one of those things people say when they're tired and full of sound and honesty slips out before it can be softened. If she even remembers Mio falling asleep on her shoulder.

If Naya noticed she almost cried.

Of course she noticed.

That's the thing about Naya. She always notices. She just doesn't show it unless you're paying attention.

Which Mio does. Constantly.

She wishes she could stop.

Her fingers curl inside the hem of her skirt. She shouldn't be this nervous. She agreed to this outing. She said yes. She chose this. Chose to stand beside Naya again, after a month of avoidance dressed up as obligation.

But even now, walking toward the station under the honest sun, her nerves are an open circuit.

Not because anything is wrong.

But because nothing is.

Naya hasn't asked. Hasn't prodded. Hasn't said anything like, So, why did you ghost me during finals?

No accusations. No passive comments. Not even a weird look.

Just that same damn calm.

That impossible ease that makes Mio feel like the storm inside her is embarrassing, childish, unjustified.

She adjusts her bag. Glances sideways. Naya's hands are tucked into her pockets. Her shirt sways slightly with the breeze. She looks... at home. In her body. In the moment. As if the gap between them hadn't existed. As if the past four weeks were just a blink.

And yet—

She told me everything.

Why?

Why now? Why her?

Mio had been the one pulling away. She'd stepped back from the pedal sessions, blaming her schedule, her exhaustion—anything but the truth. That something had begun to shift. That sitting close on the clubroom floor, listening to delay pedals hum against the air between them, had started to feel... unsettled. Not because of Naya. But because of something inside herself.

A restlessness she didn't know how to name.

Thoughts she couldn't quite stop.

Not gestures. Not images. Just a kind of warmth she didn't trust.

She wished she could shut it down. But she couldn't. She can't.

So she disappeared.

And Naya?

Naya responded by opening a vault and playing her heart.

Not even metaphorically. Literally. She played. Twelve years protected by silence and deflection, cracked open like it meant nothing. Letting Mio see it—hear it—without demand, without performance.

No strings.

Just trust.

And now here they are. Walking to a music store. Like any other Sunday. Like nothing happened. Like Naya hadn't poured her history into the shape of a mazurka and left it in Mio's hands to hold or forget.

And still—

Still Mio hasn't said thank you.

Still hasn't said I heard you.

Still hasn't said anything that feels like enough.

Her steps falter slightly, her voice catching before it even rises. She glances at Naya again.

Casual. Relaxed. Not looking.

Does she remember?

"Hey," Mio says, too softly.

Naya turns, brows raised slightly, as if surprised Mio spoke at all.

"... I've been thinking about that mazurka."

It's not enough. Not even close.

But Naya's eyes soften. Just slightly. The corner of her mouth turns, not quite a smile, but something open.

She nods. "Yeah?"

Mio nods too. Then looks down at the ground, suddenly fascinated by the cracks in the sidewalk. The uneven rhythm of their steps. How her own breath stutters against the curve of her ribs.

"Just... you said it's all about knowing where to breathe."

Naya hums.

"And I think..." Her voice tapers, but she catches it. Reclaims it. "I think I forgot how to."

Silence.

Then Naya says, "Yeah. I figured."

And that—that—should sting. But it doesn't.

Because Naya says it gently. Without judgment. Just truth.

They take a right turn past the narrow alley where the sun hits slanted between buildings, and Mio's shadow briefly intersects with Naya's before stretching apart again. She tries not to read into it. Fails.

She can feel the rhythm of her heart in her throat. Not fast. Just rhythmic. Pressurized. Like something syncing with the pace of their steps but ever so slightly off. Half a beat late. Too much rubato in her chest. It should resolve. It doesn't.

She said yes to this.

She said yes, and still, her limbs feel like they don't know how to belong. Her body too stiff, her hands too empty. Her thoughts fracture: Why did I say yes?

(You missed her friendship, that's all.)

Why now?

(Because she asked.)

Is she mad at me?

(She's calm.)

Maybe too calm.

Naya doesn't press. Doesn't ask about the past month. Doesn't even comment on the absence of the pedal sessions or the way their exchanges thinned to silence. She just walks beside her like none of it happened.

Which is somehow worse.

Because Mio doesn't know if Naya is doing this to spare her. Or if she really doesn't care. Or if she cares exactly enough not to make her say something she isn't ready to say.

And that—that grace, that easy nonchalance—is what makes it harder to breathe.

Because Mio remembers. She can't help it. Her mind circles, again and again. Not the whole conversation. Just the way Naya's voice lowered when she talked about the little boy. The unshowy quiet of the phrase I decided I was done. The memory of her hands brushing the air like she still felt the weight of invisible keys.

Mio was pulling away, and Naya responded by handing her a map of her past.

Who does that?

She doesn't deserve it. Not really. Not when she spent four weeks staring at her phone and doing nothing. Not when she stood in front of Naya's door and walked away. Not when all she offered in return was Swans—beautiful, yes, but evasive. Wordless. Oblique.

Naya gave her a story. A scar. A song. Mio gave her Soundtracks for the Blind.

It wasn't enough.

And now Naya walks beside her like nothing's changed. Like everything still fits.

Mio's chest constricts.

She wonders, absently, how long Naya's been able to do that—adjust the tempo without letting the pulse collapse. Play around the silence without demanding explanation. Not erase what hurt, but accommodate it. Like rubato. Like mazurkas. The rhythm stretches. The rhythm returns.

Mio's never known how to do that.

Her steps falter for half a second. Naya doesn't comment, but Mio notices the slight turn of her head, the way her eyes flicker over without lingering. Always watching. Always pretending not to.

She wants to speak. Say something. Anything. Maybe thank her. Maybe apologize. Maybe ask her how she does it—how she's still here, beside her, unbothered.

But instead she just says, "Do you still play mazurkas?"

Naya's head tilts, faint surprise coloring her glance. "What, like at night, in secret?"

Mio gives a breath of a laugh.

Naya shrugs. "Nah. I've barely touched a piano this year." A pause. "Once was that day." Another pause, softer. "The other was in Spain. Christmas. My mom insisted." She glances ahead, then adds, almost as an afterthought, "Sometimes I mess around a bit in the clubroom. When no one's around. But that doesn't really count."

Mio nods. Silence again.

Then—

"I think about that day a lot," she says, before she can stop herself.

Naya doesn't look over, but Mio sees her jaw shift.

Mio breathes in. "The way you played. The way you—" She stops. Rephrases. "The way you let me see that."

A beat.

"I didn't deserve it," she says softly.

That makes Naya glance over. Fully, this time. "You keep deciding what you deserve," she says. Not sharp. Just plain. "It's kind of exhausting."

Mio blinks.

Naya doesn't smile, but something about her face softens anyway. "You didn't do anything wrong."

Mio lowers her eyes to the sidewalk. The cracks between concrete. The blur of her shadow merging, then separating again from Naya's.

It's not about guilt, not really. It's about relief. That the tempo is still there. That even after the phrase stretched, even after the pulse threatened to vanish, they're still playing the same piece.

Mio exhales.

"Thank you," she whispers.

Naya doesn't answer. But she bumps their shoulders together lightly, like a grace note. Small. Peripheral. But undeniably there.

---

They reach the station, descending the stairs into the cool underground, the air shifting to something cooler, laced with the scent of metal and transit and the distant hum of a vending machine. The fluorescent lights cast a stark glow over the platform. Naya slows, her brows lifting slightly at the neat, orderly queue forming at the platform.

"That still gets me," she mutters with a soft chuckle.

"What?"

Naya's eyes flicker over the scene, amused. "The whole lining-up-to-get-on-the-train thing."

Mio tilts her head. "What do you mean?"

"It's just—" Naya gestures vaguely at the line, at the quiet efficiency of people stepping aside, waiting their turn. "You're so organized. Everyone waits, everyone moves in sync. It still surprises me."

Mio frowns, glancing at the queue. "Surprises you? Isn't that... normal?"

"Not where I come from. I've been to some concerts in Madrid, and taking the subway is warfare."

"Warfare?"

Naya nods solemnly. "No line. No order. No patience. Everyone's just scattered around the platform. Then, the train arrives, the doors open, and it's every man for himself. People push, shove, squeeze into spaces that shouldn't physically fit them. Sometimes they don't even let people out before getting in. It's pure chaos."

Mio tries to picture it—an undulating mass of bodies surging toward the train, no clear structure, no unspoken agreement of fairness. Uncoordinated. Unrelenting. Unthinkable. It's hard to imagine. Here, everything has order, a quiet understanding of how things should function.

Her lips twitch. "Sounds... stressful."

"Depends," Naya muses. "If you don't think about it, it's just another part of life. Like breathing."

The train pulls in with a gentle whoosh. Mio watches the passengers shuffle forward in an unhurried, methodical rhythm. She's lived in this city all her life, taken these subways a thousand times. But now, suddenly, she sees it—sees the order through Naya's eyes, sees how something as simple as waiting in line can be remarkable to someone else.

That thought stays with her as they step inside.

And with it—something else.

A hesitation. Thin, invisible, taut.

Mio's body moves first, following Naya across the platform's yellow edge, into the cool, humming shell of the car. But her mind—her mind wavers. Stalls. Catches.

The air inside the car is sterile, scrubbed faintly of humanity—metal, electric hum, something plasticky beneath it. A woman in a blouse taps her phone with glossy nails. An old man reads a folded newspaper with a magnifier balanced in his lap. A teen in headphones bobs slightly with the rhythm of his music.

The doors slide shut behind them. The train jerks forward. Naya grabs the pole, eyes scanning the other passengers. Mio follows.

The proximity is immediate. Not claustrophobic, not packed, but dense in the way stillness becomes more noticeable when there's nothing to press against. Naya is close—close enough that her shoulder nearly brushes Mio's as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Close enough that Mio hears the faint drag of fabric when Naya adjusts the strap of her case. Close enough that she can see the way Naya's shirt shifts against her collarbone. Close enough that Mio feels her there, that she catches the scent of her again—citrusy, something warm and sweet beneath it.

The presence of her, solid and certain, like something steady to hold onto.

Mio stiffens, just slightly.

(It's fine. It's nothing.)

Mio looks away.

Too late.

Her gaze returns like it's caught in orbit, gravitational.

(Don't.)

She shifts her weight. Forces herself to fixate on the route map above the door. But her vision slides again—like water spilling into a groove it already carved.

She counts the rise and fall of Naya's shoulders with each sway of the train. Watches the way her eyes trace a ceiling ad in lazy motion, like nothing about this moment means anything. Like she isn't the center of a silent storm Mio can't name.

Why did I stop the sessions?

The thought lands without warning. Lodges in her ribs like a stuck breath.

(You said it was finals. Said you were too tired. Too busy. You nodded, smiling, when Naya said "it's okay," when she waved it off like it didn't matter. And maybe it didn't.)

But I felt the quiet after. The missing.

She missed the small sounds—the static of a cable clicking into a jack, the soft whirr of a knob being turned. She missed the floor between them, the wordless calibration of her fingers reaching past hers to adjust something. The game. The shared language of recommendations passed silently, album covers scribbled onto notebook paper like secret codes. She missed the stupid inside jokes, the quiet hum of comfort in the room.

But mostly—

I missed her.

(And you hated that.)

I missed her.

(You hated how it made you feel. As if Naya's presence had started to hum under your skin, resonant, dissonant, utterly inconvenient.)

So she stopped showing up.

I shouldn't have stopped the sessions.

(It was the right thing to do. It was mature. Necessary. You were losing control of something. Of yourself.)

But I missed her.

(But that's normal. Missing a friend is normal. Shared rituals form attachment. It's just human patterning. Oxytocin. Dopamine. Familiarity.)

Then why did she stop? Why the silence? Why that specific, aching fear—that if she kept sitting beside Naya, shoulder to shoulder, cord-tangled and surrounded by reverb, something inside her would tilt irreversibly toward—

Toward what?

Mio doesn't have the word for it.

(It was the right thing to do.)

Except now she's here. Beside me. And nothing about her feels unsafe.

(But everything about her feels dangerous.)

It's not fair. But it's true.

Dangerous in the way fire is when you've never learned what warmth feels like.

Not in any way that can be defined. Not with vocabulary you trust.

Naya smells the same—bright, subtle, not a scent you'd find in any bottle you own. She stands like she knows her shape. Not performative. Not coy. Just easy. She's quiet now, watching the world blur through the window.

Mio's gaze drops to her own sandals.

The silence between them stretches.

She wants to say something. Ask a question. Comment on the station, the weather, the headlines crawling across the overhead screen. But she doesn't trust her voice not to tremble.

She watches the reflection in the glass instead—her own face slightly distorted, ghosted beside Naya's. They look like strangers, standing side by side. They look like something she doesn't understand yet.

(You're overthinking again.)

Probably.

Naya shifts, and the space between them shifts too.

"At first," she promptly says, and Mio blinks out of her reverie, "I kept forgetting to stay on the left side of escalators. One of my first days here, I got on the escalator and, you know, just stood there—on the right side. By sheer instinct. Back home, you stand on the right if you're not in a rush, so I wasn't thinking about it. And then..." She pauses, laughs. "People started queuing up behind me. Just... waiting. No one said a word. No sighs, no 'excuse me,' nothing. Just this eerie, suffocating silence. I didn't realize until we got to the end of the escalator. Then, I saw all of them, waiting behind me, and I swear, I could feel the judgment radiating off them. They must have been cursing me in their heads, but outwardly? Not a single complaint. Too polite."

Mio watches Naya animatedly recount the story, her hands moving, her expression a mix of bewilderment and amusement. She laughs, because the image is ridiculous—Naya standing obliviously on the right side of the escalator, an entire line of Japanese commuters behind her, trapped in the silent agony of their own politeness.

But more than that, Mio finds herself fascinated by the way something so small, so everyday, could be a puzzle to someone else. A thing she never even thought about, never questioned, suddenly made strange just by the fact that it isn't normal somewhere else.

Escalators. Just escalators. Something as simple as standing in a certain place could mean nothing to her, but to Naya, it was a moment of cultural dissonance—one of many, probably. Mio wonders how many other invisible rules Naya has stumbled into, how many quiet adjustments she's had to make without anyone even noticing.

"I've never thought about it," Mio admits, still smiling. "It's just... how things are here. It never even crossed my mind that it might be different somewhere else."

"Yeah, well. You don't think about gravity until you trip and fall, either."

Mio hums at that, tucking the thought away. The world is so much bigger than she lets herself remember sometimes.

"And same thing with cars and such," Naya adds. "I don't understand how I haven't been run over on the street yet."

Mio chuckles. "You seem to be adjusting well, though."

"Yeah, well..." Naya trails off, shrugs. "I'm trying."

The train lurches.

Mio stumbles.

It happens fast—too fast for thought, too fast for anything but reflex. Her balance shifts, her body tilting, and before she can catch herself, her hand reaches for —

Naya.

Her fingers clutch at Naya's arm.

And then—another touch.

Naya reacts instinctively. One steady hand finds Mio's waist, bracing her, keeping her upright. Not gripping, not pulling, just there, steadying.

Mio stops breathing.

It lasts no more than a second. A second too long. A second stretched impossibly thin, drawn out in unbearable clarity.

Naya's fingers, warm against the fabric of Mio's shirt. The heat bleeding through. The way Mio's skin prickles under the touch, every nerve alight, unprepared, overwhelmed.

And then it's gone.

The moment is nothing.

It's just an accident.

It's just a brief, insignificant touch.

Except—

Except Mio feels it. Feels the warmth of Naya's hands through the thin fabric of her top, the firm yet easy grip, the way Naya doesn't flinch, doesn't overreact, just... holds.

Her stomach flips.

She rights herself, pulling back faster than necessary, the absence of touch almost startling. She forces herself to focus on anything else—the grip of the subway rail, the flickering advertisement on the wall, the faint hum of the train as it moves.

Naya scratches her check, a bit pink in the ears. "Uh, sorry for grabbing you by the waist, I just—it was instinctive."

"I–It's okay, thank you for—that," Mio mutters, eyes fixed anywhere but on Naya's face. "I—sorry."

Naya huffs a quiet laugh. "It's fine. Happens all the time in Spain, too. Just... without the politeness."

Mio nods. She wants to move past it, to pretend it was nothing.

(It was nothing.)

But her body betrays her.

Her pulse is still racing.

Because the feeling lingers, phantom warmth still pressed into her skin, a residual static humming beneath her ribs.

It's ridiculous—she has bumped into people before, has accidentally touched people before, has been touched before.

She swallows, hard, hands clenching at the rail as if that will keep her steady when the train has already done its part.

She sneaks a glance—just a small one, just long enough to confirm that Naya is fine, that Naya is unaffected, that Naya isn't—

Naya is looking out the window.

The city blurs past in fleeting shadows and streaks of color, and in the reflection, Mio sees them both—Naya, calm and distant, and herself, standing too still, breathing too carefully.

(It's nothing. Not a big deal. Just an accident. Just an instinctual reaction. Just a friend helping a friend.)

Her reflection stares back at her from the subway window.

Naya's, too.

Mio finds herself looking—not at herself, but at Naya, at the easy set of her shoulders, the way her fingers drum absentmindedly against the subway rail, the way she looks like she belongs anywhere she stands.

The train rumbles beneath them. The city waits beyond the glass.

Mio averts her gaze, keeps her eyes forward.

She doesn't let herself look again.

---

"Any idea where we're going?"

Mio blinks.

What. 

"Didn't you want to go to the music store to get some strings?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, but I don't care which store," Naya shrugs. "I don't know any places around here. And I'm assuming they all have the strings I'm looking for."

"And if they don't?"

"Then we'll check somewhere else."

Mio glares.

Naya smiles.

Mio sighs. "Fine. Let me think."

"Sorry," Naya chuckles. "I'm a horrible date."

Mio whips her head around, pretending to check the zone, praying that Naya didn't see her blush.

Then it dawns on her.

Nearby is the music store where she saw the pedals she wanted to buy. The one she went to with—

"There's a store around here," she says, looking back at Naya. "Where I saw the pedals I wanted to buy."

"Cool. Lead the way, señorita."

As they weave through the midday crowd, the city vibrates around them—snippets of conversation, the distant chime of a crossing signal, the rhythmic click of Mio's sandals against pavement. Naya walks beside her, easy, unhurried, like she has all the time in the world.

They round the corner. The music store sign comes into view.

They step inside—the scent of polished wood and metal strings mixing with the faint hum of an amp being tested somewhere in the distance. The air is cooler here, a contrast to the warmth outside, and for a moment, there's nothing but the quiet, reverent atmosphere of a place dedicated to music.

Naya slows, taking in the space with a visible shift—shoulders relaxing, gaze sweeping the neat rows of guitars, basses, pedals, amplifiers, cables curled like sleeping snakes. Mio catches the flicker of her expression: a small, almost bewildered tilt of the mouth. As if she hadn't quite expected this—the precision, the sterility, the strange reverence of Japanese music shops.

"Alright," Naya says, tone practical. "Bass section. Strings. Where to?"

Mio doesn't answer. She's not ignoring her on purpose. She simply... stops existing in the same temporal plane. She isn't there anymore.

Her body is. Her sandals are planted neatly on the polished floor. Her bag is slung obediently over her shoulder. Her bass case rests on her back. But her mind—her mind is already gone, lifted like a paper boat into a current she can't control.

Because there—there, in the heart of the store, past the cashier and the displays of overpriced picks and tuner pedals—

A shrine.

A curated constellation.

A display of Fender basses across decades, lined in careful, chronological reverence. Precision. Jazz. Mustang. Musicmaster. Lefty models, rare and defiant, gleaming under reverent halogen glow.

Mio's sandals scuff against the polished tile as she slows, as if pulled by some inexorable, gravitational force. Her body moves before her mind does, carrying on currents she can't name, can't resist.

"Mio?" Naya calls, somewhere distant.

She doesn't hear. Or maybe she does. Maybe she chooses not to. She barely registers Naya's quiet, amused exhale behind her. Doesn't register the murmur of another customer drifting somewhere near the pedals. Doesn't even register the faint mechanical squawk of a guitar being tuned badly in the background.

All she knows—all she feels—is the pull.

The invisible thread wrapping around her ribs, yanking gently but inexorably forward, unthinking, untethered, the outside world narrowing to a single, breathless point of light.

This.

This is what temples should feel like.

A timeline stretches across the exhibit, broken into clear sections. A small plaque at the start lays it out:

The Fender Bass Revolution: A Timeline of Sound

1951–1960s: The Birth of the Precision Bass – The first mass-produced electric bass, shaping modern music.
1960–1970s: The Arrival of the Jazz Bass – A slimmer neck, brighter tone, more articulation for complex playing.
1960s–1970s: The Short-Scale Revolution – The Mustang and Musicmaster basses, favored in punk and indie scenes.
1980s–Present: The Modern Era – Innovations, active electronics, new materials, evolving to meet changing demands.

Mio reads none of it. She knows it already. She has lived inside these facts like fairy tales. Dreamed of these basses the way other girls might dream of first kisses or movie-star weddings.

Rows and rows of instruments, each one a fossilized piece of history, lacquered and gleaming, a lineage she has memorized since before she even knew what longing was. The first Precision bass—the thick, carved contours, the slab body, the thick neck. The slender Jazz Bass, sharp and articulate, designed for the nimble articulation of jazz hands and restless punk spirits. The stubborn, stout Mustangs and Musicmasters, rebellious short-scales that gave birth to entire subcultures.

Her fingers twitch at her sides. She almost reaches out, but stops herself just shy of sacrilege. Instead, she hovers. Barely breathing.

And—God, the lefty models. Rare, beautiful, glinting under the light like mythical creatures.

There's something so cruelly beautiful about them. Like finding an oasis in a desert after a lifetime of parched wandering. The majority of the world strings left to right; she has spent her whole life seeing it backwards, living it backwards, compensating in small invisible ways that nobody thinks about unless they are her.

Mio has always been used to adjusting—to stepping aside, fitting the mold where she can, pretending the world was made for her too.

But here—

Here are instruments built for her hands. Built wrong and right at once.

The ache that unfurls inside her is sweet and dizzying.

She stares.

And stares.

Something in her chest folds in on itself.

The world collapses down to this: lacquered wood, chrome hardware, strings stretched into luminous lines across fretboards. A symphony of objects. A history she could touch if she just dared to lift her hand.

She circles the display like a satellite, wide-eyed. She crouches slightly to read the small plaques beneath each instrument. She pouts—actually pouts—when she realizes she can't touch them. She clasps her hands behind her back like a child at a museum field trip.

She doesn't touch. She hovers. The way you hover in front of sacred things.

"Mio," Naya says again, closer now. Amused.

Mio doesn't turn.

Instead, a small, almost inaudible noise leaves her throat. A small, throttled squeak, too fragile to be anything but instinct, not quite language.

Naya steps beside her, peering at the display, one brow quirking lazily. "Lost her," she mutters under her breath, but makes no move to retrieve her.

Mio doesn't dignify that with a response. She just stares, rapt, vibrating slightly where she stands.

Something wells up inside her, irrepressible. Something giddy, ridiculous, childish. And somewhere inside, Mio's grown-up self—the one who studies late into the night, who navigates politeness with surgical precision, who carefully guards every inch of her real self—lets go.

(Professionalism. Maturity. You're nineteen years old.)

And yet—

"I want that one," Mio says, pointing at a vintage lefty Jazz Bass, her voice a little too high, too breathless.

Naya hums appreciatively. "Good taste. Only, uh—" She leans in, squinting at the tiny plaque beneath it, "—it's, like, four hundred thousand yen."

Mio doesn't care. In fact, she immediately points to another.

"Okay, that one then."

Naya snorts, following her gaze. "That one's a limited reissue. Might be even worse."

Mio glares. Naya watches her, openly entertained.

Mio knows—knows—that she should rein it in. Should act her age. Should remember the self she's tried so carefully to cultivate all these years: the composed, responsible, vaguely aloof bassist. The adult.

Instead—

"I want all of them," she announces. The words burst out of her mouth—petulant, unfiltered, absurd. "They should just give them to me," she mumbles, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. "For being a good citizen."

Naya, to her immense credit, doesn't laugh. Not audibly, anyway. Mio can feel her vibrating faintly with suppressed amusement, like a human earthquake.

"Yeah? You want me to grab the manager? Tell him it's a national emergency?"

Mio scowls at the display. "These are rare," she insists. "You don't understand."

"I understand," Naya says, tone saintly, as if speaking to a particularly stubborn toddler.

"They're lefty models," Mio presses, pointing accusingly at one gleaming specimen. "They never stock lefty models."

"I see that," Naya says, nodding gravely.

Mio jabs her finger closer to the glass, as if physically underlining the fact. "That's a '62 Jazz Bass reissue. LEFTY."

"Scandalous. A crime if you don't get it."

Mio pouts again, full lower-lip jut, weight shifting dramatically onto one hip like a sulky five-year-old in a toy store.

"I don't wanna leave," she mutters.

"Well. Guess we'll have to file a change of address. You live here now."

"I'm serious."

"I believe you."

Mio scowls harder at the display, willing the glass to shatter, willing the basses to tumble into her waiting arms like gifts from some benevolent god of sound.

She leans closer. Her fingers lift—hovering a breath from the polished shell of a vintage lefty Precision Bass, the one she's only ever seen once, cataloged in some dusty magazine article she clipped out and saved between books.

A helpless, subconscious whimper escapes her throat.

She steps sideways, then back again, hovering between two models—the classic 1957 reissue Precision Bass, sunburst and heavy-bodied, and a rare left-handed Jazz Bass from the late '60s. The kind of thing she could sell her soul for without a second thought.

"Naya," she whispers, voice sharp with wonder, tugging at the sleeve of Naya's shirt like a toddler needing parental validation. "Look at that one. It's an actual '68."

Naya peers over, amused. "Cool."

"Cool," Mio echoes, aghast. "It's historic."

"You planning to marry it, or...?"

"Don't be stupid," Mio huffs, cheeks puffing out in indignation. "You don't marry a bass." Pause. "... You elope."

Naya presses her lips together to contain her laughter, but it leaks out anyway—crooked, bright, helpless.

Mio drifts sideways, sandals whispering against polished tile.

"They even have a Mustang," she murmurs, half to herself, in the tone of someone encountering a holy relic. "A lefty Mustang. That never happens. They're extinct. Like dinosaurs. Look at it," she breathes, pointing again, "the '75 Mustang. With the racing stripe. LEFTY."

Naya leans in too, pretending to squint. "You sure that's not just a weird shadow?"

Mio huffs again, nose wrinkling, voice reaching a pitch that shouldn't belong to a nineteen-year-old with university exams behind her.

(You are a serious adult. You are mature and composed. You don't whimper in front of bass guitars.)

She squints dramatically at a lefty Jazz Bass, nudging closer to the glass like sheer willpower might allow her to merge through it.

Naya looks at the time on her phone and taps the screen meaningfully. "You're gonna need to file for bass visitation rights soon."

Mio ignores her.

Because it's not just instruments. It's not just admiration. It's a deep, bone-marrow longing. A kind of love that predates rational thought.

Music had been her salvation since the moment Ritsu dragged her into it. Bass had been the one thing in the chaos that felt like her.

This isn't a hobby. It's identity.

"I want it," she repeats pitifully, breathing fog onto the display case.

Naya snorts.

A store clerk rounds the corner at that moment, giving them a vaguely alarmed look. Mio immediately straightens, hands behind her back, posture rigid, guilty as sin.

Naya, the traitor, waves politely.

The clerk nods hesitantly and retreats.

Mio exhales.

Then, quieter: "I could steal one."

Naya raises her brows. "You? Break the law?"

"I could," Mio insists. "In theory."

"Sure. The great Bass Heist of 2011. Headlines tomorrow: 'Mysterious Lefty Bandit Strikes Tokyo.'"

Mio frowns, deflating. "They'd catch me immediately."

"Probably before you even leave the store."

Mio groans, melodramatic, resting her cheek against the glass again.

Naya laughs—not mockingly, but soft, delighted. The kind of laugh you make when watching something precious happen in real time.

"I'll just live here," she half-whispers, sweeping her hand across the entire display. "I'll move in. Sleep under the Mustang basses."

"You'll have to sign some paperwork for that," Naya says. "Lease agreement, rental insurance, maybe an electricity bill."

"Fine," Mio says grandly. "I'll pay rent in... basslines."

"Strong currency," Naya acknowledges solemnly. "But I think they only accept cash."

"Maybe if I just stay here long enough, they'll forget I'm a customer and assume I'm part of the exhibit."

"We'll have to get you a plaque. 'Akiyama Mio: Rare Endangered Lefty Bassist. 1992–Present.'"

Mio pretends to consider it. "Could work."

"I'll bring you food."

"Deal."

Mio shifts her weight from foot to foot, nose almost pressed to the glass.

(You look ridiculous.)

She does. She knows.

Ridiculous. Absurd. Undignified.

But there's a part of her that wants to stay pressed there forever. Something in her refuses to move. Something in her—something small and soft and too often hidden—cracks open, fully, shamelessly, because for once, no one is telling her to be mature, no one is dragging her away, no one is laughing at her for wanting something so badly she could cry.

Naya just stands there. A quiet orbit. Letting her exist.

Mio feels the ache of it, low and unfamiliar, behind her ribs.

She has never acted like this with—

(No. No need to finish that thought.)

She leans closer again, hands almost pressed against the glass now, heart clattering inside her chest like a pick against strings.

"I could name all of them," she says, half to herself.

"Yeah?" Naya murmurs.

"I could," Mio insists. "That one's a '58 P-Bass. That one's a '72 Jazz Bass. That one's a '66 Mustang—"

"Show-off," Naya says, not unkindly.

"It's history, " Mio argues, fiercely.

She sees the 1951 Fender Precision Bass—butterscotch finish, black pickguard, the kind of instrument that defined what an electric bass could be. Thick, weighty, built for endurance. The very first of its kind.

She doesn't even realize she's walking toward it until she's already there, standing close enough to see the wood grain beneath the lacquer, the slight curve of the body, the distinct, unmistakable shape.

She dreamily sighs, slow. "The '51 P-Bass..."

Naya, trailing behind her, lifts a brow. "The what now?"

Mio barely looks at her before she keeps talking—because her brain has already activated. The floodgates have opened. The information is coming.

"The first commercially successful electric bass," she says, voice quicker than usual, excitement threading through the words. "Fender made it in '51. It changed everything. Before this, upright basses were the standard, but they were huge, hard to transport, and didn't project well in loud band settings. Then this came out—fretted, smaller, portable, and amplified. It revolutionized popular music. Before this, bassists had to play upright double basses, and those were—well. Huge. Difficult to transport. And hard to amplify properly."

Naya tilts her head. "So like, the electric guitar moment for bassists?"

"Exactly," Mio breathes, eyes still locked to the display. The slab body. The single-coil pickup. The maple neck. Brutal in its simplicity. It must have felt like time travel when someone held it for the first time.

She gestures with one hand, her voice smooth, sure. "The early ones had a really bright sound. Single coil. Sharp. But then, in '57, they switched to a split-coil pickup—more low-end, more punch. That's the Precision Bass sound everyone knows now."

They reach the Jazz Bass section and Mio lights up again without thinking.

"This is where everything changed," she murmurs, eyes fixed on a '60s Sunburst Jazz Bass. "This was made for people who wanted something different. Something sleeker. More refined. They made the neck slimmer so you could play faster. Added a second pickup for more tonal variety."

She lifts her hand toward the offset body, palm hovering just shy of the glass.

"Look at that shape," she says softly. "It's—"

She cuts off, not because she's embarrassed. Just because words don't always keep up with awe.

But the momentum holds.

Naya steps up beside her, eyes tracing the Jazz Bass's silhouette. "Yeah, and they're sick for rock, too. Chris Wolstenholme plays a ton of Jazz Basses. He's got a '77 sunburst, a '73 butterscotch, Geddy Lee signature model—dude's got a shrine."

Mio glances at her, startled. "You know the years?"

"I read a lot about Muse," Naya says, grinning. "His '77? Maple fretboard, pearloid block inlays, sounds like a brick wall crashing into a choir."

"Well, Jazz Basses have a bite," Mio replies, falling back into the current of it. "Bright midrange. Growl. Perfect for a pick player like him." She tilts her head. "Though with all the fuzz he uses, he could probably make a soup ladle sound massive."

Naya hums, considering. "Maybe. But the feel is different. Plus, the man's a monster—his downpicking stamina is insane. You ever tried playing Hysteria at full speed?"

Mio gives her a flat look. "I'm a bassist, not a machine."

"Exactly. That guy's bionic."

"Technically, he does alternate pick. Down for attack, up to survive. It's subtle, but it keeps the stamina up."

Naya gawks at her. "Wait—you've analyzed his technique?"

Mio flushes slightly. Damn it.

"I—I just—" she falters, then sighs. "You talk about Muse a lot, and you said he inspired you to play bass the way you do, and I got curious." Mio crosses her arms, glancing at the basses again, ignoring the way Naya is looking at her now. "But yeah. Jazz Basses fit that sound. Especially with a maple neck—makes it even brighter."

"True. But he switches to a Precision for the doomy stuff. The destroy-the-floor mixes."

Mio laughs. "Sounds about right."

Her fingers twitch toward the display again. She doesn't touch. But she wants to.

"I switched to a Jazz Bass in high school," she says, voice softer. "Before that, I played a Precision Bass. It was good—really good—but when I tried a Jazz, something just... clicked. The sound, the feel, the way I could move around the fretboard more easily... I knew it was my bass the moment I played it."

It's strange, remembering it now—the weight of it, the feel of the wider neck, the difference in tone. The way she'd learned on it, grown on it. The way she'd thought, back then, that it was perfect.

Then, one day, she walked into a store, picked up the Jazz Bass, and knew, immediately, that this was what she was supposed to be playing.

Mio glances at Naya. She's watching her with a smile.

Mio doesn't know what to do with that.

So she keeps going. Down the timeline.

"The '60s and '70s were experimental. Fender tried short-scale basses—Mustangs, Musicmasters. Easier for guitarists switching to bass. Smaller hands. Lighter bodies. They didn't catch on big at first, but then punk and indie scenes picked them up. Gave them a second life."

She gestures at the Fender Mustang Bass in the display—a dark red vintage reissue, the kind that looks like it belonged on a gritty CBGB stage in the '70s.

Naya perks up. "Gotta admit, that one looks sick."

Mio lifts a brow. "You like Mustangs?"

"Kinda. I don't know a ton about them, but I've seen some cool bassists use them. They sound different, right?"

Mio nods. "Yeah. They have a unique midrange—more thumpy, more immediate attack. Kind of aggressive, but still warm. If you like post-punk tones, you'd probably love them."

Naya hums thoughtfully, eyes moving over the plaque.

Mio watches her for a moment. Watches her take it in. Actually take it in.

So she goes on.

She talks about the difference in tone—the way a Precision Bass punches, the way a Jazz Bass sings. How one is a foundation, a backbone, steady and strong, and the other is fluid, adaptable, capable of slipping between sounds effortlessly. She talks about tonewood and pickup placement. About Jaco Pastorius ripping the frets off his Jazz Bass to invent a sound no one else could touch. About how Geddy Lee's Jazz Bass is basically a Frankensteined monster that still sounds like lightning in a bottle. She talks about Musicmasters showing up in the hands of punks and shoegaze kids and session players who never got their due.

She talks. And Naya listens.

Not in the way people sometimes listen when they're being polite, when they're waiting for you to finish so they can change the subject.

Like she wants to remember it later. Like she wants to know what Mio will say next. Like she's trying to see the world the way Mio does.

Like the way someone listens when they're watching a constellation arrange itself in real time.

It's easy. Too easy.

Talking like this. Explaining things. Letting herself slip past the membrane of caution and into that open, glimmering space where her voice doesn't feel like performance, where her knowledge isn't currency or armor or proof-of-worth but simply breath—rhythmic, real, given.

Naya listens like she means it.

Not with nods. Not with interruptions. But with presence. With her body angled slightly toward Mio, her eyes flickering between the plaques and Mio's face, her hands slack in her pockets like she has no impulse to check the time, no agenda ticking beneath the skin.

And the thing is—

Mio knows she's spiraling. Rambling. She's doing that thing she does when she gets excited—stacking facts like scaffolding, climbing too high, forgetting to check if the other person is still with her. Normally she would feel it by now. That subtle shift. That brittle pause in someone's smile. The way interest gives way to indulgence.

But Naya hasn't shifted. Not once. She just stays.

And Mio can't remember the last time someone let her go this long uninterrupted.

She can't do this with Kenji.

(That's not fair.)

But it's true.

She tried. Once. In the early days, before the comfort calcified into routine. She had started talking about bridge pickup placement, about roundwounds versus flatwounds, about the way certain basses compress differently in small venues—and Kenji had smiled, nodded, said something like that's cool, then changed the subject. As if a relationship were a back-and-forth of two people waiting their turn to speak.

She hadn't tried again after that.

(But maybe he would've listened if you had explained it better.)

No. He wouldn't have. Not like this. Not the way Naya does—with that quiet, unpretending attentiveness. With the kind of gaze that isn't seeking an opportunity to speak, but just watching. Like she's letting Mio write something across her.

Her pulse feels too loud in her throat.

And suddenly—embarrassingly—Mio remembers what they're actually here for.

Strings.

Naya needed strings.

Not a tour of Fender's entire historical trajectory delivered in expository monologue form. Not an unsolicited dissertation on the sacred tonal differences between slab bodies and offset waist contours.

She glances sideways.

Naya's still watching the display. Still listening.

But—

How long have we been here?

Ten minutes? Twenty? Forty? Time feels sticky now. Elastic. Bent around the sound of her own voice and the glint of lacquered wood.

And Mio—

Mio hasn't asked. Hasn't made space.

Her cheeks flush.

(You're being selfish again.)

She steps back slightly, like the glass might burn her now.

First she disappeared. Pulled away during exams. Cowered from her own doubts and called it time management. Then Naya played for her—played for her—and Mio said nothing. Gave nothing. Just absorbed it like a privilege she hadn't earned and walked away without reciprocation.

And now—now she's hijacked their outing.

Hijacked it with her own obsession, her own indulgent fascination. Not once stopping to ask if Naya wanted to keep looking. Not once pausing to ask about the strings.

(Not even a thank-you for the piano.)

Her stomach twists.

This was supposed to be Naya's errand. A simple morning. Strings for her bass. Nothing special.

And now—

Now Mio's pressed against a display case, waxing poetic about pickup coils while Naya plays the role of patient chaperone.

(You're doing it again. Taking. Talking. Turning everything into orbit around yourself.)

She closes her eyes for a moment.

Beneath her ribs, something curls.

She remembers—second year of high school. Fifteen. The first time she ever stood in front of a display like this and forgot how to behave.

Ritsu had dragged her out that day.

Had laughed—too loud, too bright. "Come on, Mio, you look like you're gonna lick the basses."

It wasn't cruel. Just Ritsu being Ritsu—restless, irreverent, already halfway to the next joke. But Mio had flushed, stung in that quiet, invisible way only someone you love can sting you. She hadn't budged. Not at first. Just stood there, frozen in the posture of longing, heart aching with the stupid unfairness of wanting something so deeply and being made to feel silly for it.

Later, they fought. Kinda.

Not about the basses. Not about the store. But about Nodoka.

About how Mio started to hang out with Yui and Nodoka like a third wheel. About how Mio had started sitting with her at lunch. About how Ritsu didn't say anything, but sulked in that way she sometimes did—loud silences, exaggerated sighs, over-the-top jokes, throwing pencils across the room during study breaks.

At the time, Mio hadn't known how to name it. But now—

Now she wonders if part of her did it on purpose. Not to punish Ritsu. Never that. She loves her too much for that.

But maybe—quietly, subconsciously—she was trying to become something else.

Something better.

Something more composed. More adult. Like Nodoka, with her quiet competence and her student council planner and her never-wrinkled skirt. Two mature girls in their fifteens. Sitting in the shade of the school building, trading notes and nodding at each other like miniature grown-ups.

It felt aspirational.

Like maybe if she aligned herself with someone like Nodoka, the shame of being childish would fade.

Like maybe she could shed the part of herself that pouted in music stores and cried over discontinued lefty models and wanted things too loudly.

Because Ritsu saw her. All of her. The flailing, the overthinking, the weird facts, the high-pitched voice she tried to bury when she got too excited. And sometimes Ritsu laughed. Not to mock her—but to shake her out of it. To make the ache smaller.

But sometimes—

Sometimes Mio just wanted to not be shaken.

Just once, she wanted to be taken seriously. To speak about basses with the reverence they deserved and not be told she sounded like a walking guitar magazine.

And Nodoka—

Nodoka didn't know her the way Ritsu did.

And somehow, that had felt like a relief. At the time.

But now she wonders—was she trading understanding for approval? Is she still?

(It was petty.)

But we were fifteen.

(But maybe you never stopped doing it.)

Because even now, at nineteen, she still hides that part. The part that gawks at Jazz Basses and accidentally whimpers in public. The part that could spend an hour explaining the tonal difference between rosewood and maple fretboards and still have more to say.

She hides it because she wants to be someone people respect.

Because she's afraid no one wants to stay with the version of her that forgets how to be cool.

Who would want to keep up with that?

Kenji wouldn't. Not really. He would smile. Nod. Offer to carry her bass case. But he wouldn't get it.

She thinks, absurdly, of how this would look if her friends were here.

Ritsu would crack a joke—something loud and teasing—trying to make her laugh, to yank her back into orbit. Yui would listen with big, earnest eyes until a dog or a vending machine or the glint of a sunbeam stole her attention away, because that's just how Yui is—wonder scattered across a thousand windows. Azusa would nod along, polite, diligent, maybe a little bewildered at the depths of trivia Mio could summon without breathing. Even Mugi—dear, generous Mugi—would smile and tilt her head and gently steer the conversation elsewhere if she sensed Mio getting too lost inside her own labyrinth of facts and longing.

Not because they don't care. Not because they don't love her. They wouldn't mean to hurt her. They never have.

Still, Mio feels the pull to self-censor. To tuck herself back into the version of herself she's always been expected to maintain: mature, composed, sensible. Reliable. The quiet bassist, the steady hand. The one who doesn't whimper in music stores, who doesn't get glassy-eyed over lefty Mustangs and '68 Jazz Basses like they're sacred texts.

Because loving something too much—loving it out loud —feels dangerous. Feels like asking too much space. Feels like risking becoming the kind of person others sigh about behind polite smiles.

(You have a place. You have a role. Don't outgrow it. Don't break it.)

Because she's supposed to be the composed one. The grounded one. The responsible bassist who catches the threads and ties them neatly back together.

Because somewhere along the way, she assigned herself that role—and now she wears it like a skin she can't shed without fear of what will be left underneath.

Because if she lets herself be this—unguarded, incandescent, absurd—what if she becomes a burden? What if she demands too much?

What if the people she loves the most look at her and—without meaning to—pull away?

(You're not supposed to want like this. You're supposed to know better by now.)

And so—she hides it. This part of her.

The part that wants to press her face to the glass and ache. The part that still names bass models like prayers. The part that can't always separate identity from sound.

So she tucks it away. Smiles and reins herself in before the wanting becomes visible, before it spills over and reveals just how much she still craves to be seen and chosen even when she's messy, even when she's too much.

Because she is supposed to be mature now. Composed.

Because nobody wants to keep up with a girl who turns every passion into a lecture and every feeling into a dissertation. Nobody wants to be with the girl who hoards music facts like talismans and can't flirt without comparing you to a pre-CBS Jazz Bass.

Nobody wants that.

So she folded that part of herself down. Learned to smile politely when her friends made fun of her gear obsession. Learned to edit her sentences. Learned to shut the hell up.

But here she is again.

And Naya—

Naya is still here.

Still watching. Still orbiting. Still letting her be.

And that—that unasked permission, that undemanding presence—is the very thing that makes Mio want to retreat.

Because she doesn't deserve it. Because she has done nothing to earn this quiet grace. Because she is—

Too much.

Too little.

Too selfish.

She crosses her arms, retreating slightly from the glass, from herself.

She doesn't say anything.

The guilt is still blooming. Slow. Sticky. Shame-shaped. And the next words will have to be careful.

She steps back from the display case.

Just a little. Just enough to remind herself that glass is a barrier. That reverence is not the same as possession. That wanting something too much, too visibly, has consequences—even if they're only in your own mind.

She folds her arms. One breath. Then another. Steadier now, but not enough to fake nonchalance.

Naya is still beside her. Silent. Watching.

Not judgmental. Not amused. Just there.

Mio doesn't know how to deal with that. With someone who doesn't interrupt her wonder. Who doesn't tease it or redirect it or press against it with expectations.

It's too much space. Too much grace.

She exhales, sharp. Quiet.

And then, softly—so softly she's not even sure she means to say it aloud—

"... Sorry."

Naya turns toward her.

Mio keeps her eyes on the floor. "For hijacking your errand. I just—"

She gestures vaguely at the display. At herself.

Naya chuckles. "Got distracted?"

Mio winces. "Got ridiculous."

Naya tilts her head. "I wouldn't say that."

Mio's mouth twitches, but it doesn't quite form a smile. Her voice lowers again, thin and unguarded.

"It's just... I act like this sometimes. Like a kid. I get carried away and forget what we're actually here for. And I know it's selfish. I know it's a lot."

Naya doesn't interrupt. Just lets her talk.

"I know we came here for strings. And I sort of... took over." She presses her hands flat against her arms, fingers tensing. "It's stupid."

There's a beat of silence.

"I didn't mean to take up so much time," Mio adds, a little quieter. "I know you were just being polite."

Still no interruption. Just the sound of distant tuning, a doorbell chime as someone walks in, a faint hum of an amp in the background.

Mio closes her eyes briefly. When she opens them, she stares at her reflection in the glass. Her own face ghosted over the row of basses, layered over history. She looks small. Not in stature. Just in contrast.

"I keep doing this," she says, her voice low. "I get too excited, or I go on too long, or I forget I'm not alone in my head. And then I realize—too late—that I probably made it boring for the person next to me." Her breath hitches. She pushes past it. "I used to do this with Ritsu. And the girls. And Kenji, even." Her voice thins. "Just... talk too much. Ramble. Make it all about music. About bass. Like I'm not capable of turning it off."

She doesn't say like I don't know how to be normal. But it hangs there anyway.

A pause. Then, without meaning to:

"... It feels ridiculous sometimes. Being this way. At this age. Because I'm nineteen. I'm supposed to be mature by now. Not... pressing my face to the glass like I'm five years old in a toy store." Her hand curls slightly at her side. "I shouldn't want things that badly anymore."

There's a breath beside her. She thinks it's a laugh, but when she looks, Naya isn't laughing.

She's just watching her. Eyebrows lifted slightly. Something unreadable in her expression—like surprise softened by affection.

Mio looks down again. "I sound like a child."

She doesn't expect a response.

Which is why it almost startles her when Naya says, gently, "You sound like someone who loves something."

Mio blinks.

"That's not childish," Naya adds, shrugging one shoulder.

Mio stares at her, unsure whether to believe it.

"And for the record," Naya continues, "you didn't take up space. You just showed up inside it. There's a difference."

She says it like it's obvious.

Mio looks away, flustered. Her chest tightens—not in shame, not exactly, but in the way air feels strange after a storm. Lighter, too sharp.

"I just..." she starts. Then stops. Starts again. "... I want things, sometimes, and I don't know how to be quiet about it. But it always feels like I should be."

Naya hums. "Says who?"

Mio doesn't answer.

Because she doesn't know. Or maybe she does, and just can't admit it.

Naya steps closer, just enough that their shoulders almost align. "You think it's immature to care about something?"

"No. Just..." Mio flinches. "To show it."

"To who?"

Mio doesn't answer.

Because she doesn't know.

Maybe everyone. Maybe no one. Maybe herself.

"I just... don't want to be annoying."

"You're not."

"I don't want to be—" she bites it back, then says it anyway, "—too much."

Naya turns her body toward her now. Face open. Voice dry, but gentler than usual. "You literally just taught me the entire history of electric bass in fifteen minutes. I liked it."

Mio swallows. "You sure?"

"Yeah. You sounded alive."

That startles her more than anything.

Alive.

She looks away.

There's a long moment where neither of them says anything. The store air feels sacred again. Like a cathedral made of string tension and lacquer.

Then Naya shifts her weight, eyes flicking back to the display.

"If you had to pick one bass from here, which one would you take home?"

Mio stares.

She wasn't expecting that.

"Just one?"

Naya nods. "Just one."

One bass? Just one?

Mio looks back at the display. At the rows of basses lined up like a gallery of history, each one carrying history, weight, meaning. And suddenly, it feels impossible to choose. It's like asking someone to pick just one book from a library. Just one star from the sky.

She should think about this. She should calculate.

But she already knows the answer. She's known the answer before Naya even asked.

Her feet shift instinctively toward the 1962 Fender Jazz Bass.

Sunburst finish. Rosewood fingerboard. Classic tortoiseshell pickguard.

Her bass.

Or—the closest thing to the one she plays now.

Her fingers twitch at her sides. This is the one. She knew it the second she saw it, the second she recognized that familiar silhouette, the curve of the offset body that always felt like it was meant to be played by her.

And maybe it's cliché. Maybe it's expected. Maybe it's ridiculous to stare at something so familiar in a lineup of history-defining instruments and still think, That one. That's the one I'd take home.

But she does.

So she says it.

"This one." No doubt. No hesitation.

"The '62?"

Mio nods, her gaze fixed on it. "This is the one that changed everything for me."

Naya follows her gaze. "Your Jazz Bass is a '62 reissue, right?"

Mio nods again. "Yeah. Same model. Left-handed, though." She exhales, tilting her head. "When I switched from a P-Bass to a Jazz Bass, it was like—I don't know. Like suddenly realizing you've been speaking the wrong language your whole life. And then one day, you say something, and everything makes sense," she murmurs, almost to herself.

Naya watches her, head tilted slightly, like she's memorizing every word.

"That's cool," she says after a moment. "You really know what you want."

Mio huffs a small laugh. "Well, when it comes to basses, at least."

"That's what matters." Naya steps beside her, glancing at the instrument. "What's different about it?"

Mio hesitates. She could say the specs—thinner neck, dual pickups, brighter tone, more articulation, more midrange clarity. But that's not really it.

Instead, she says, "The moment I picked up the Jazz, it just... the sound, the neck, the way it responded to my playing—it wasn't just me playing a bass. It was my bass."

She doesn't know why she says it like that.

Maybe because it's true.

She keeps going, though. "It's balanced, you know? The sound, the feel. P-Basses are great—solid, deep, punchy—but a Jazz just... it sings. It lets you move. It's like—" She struggles, trying to find the right words. "You don't just play it. You speak with it."

She trails off, suddenly aware of how much she's saying.

But when she glances at Naya, she finds her watching, listening.

Her green eyes flicker toward the bass, thoughtful. "That makes sense. It fits you."

"Huh?"

Naya shrugs. "I dunno. Like—I can't picture you playing anything else. You're precise, but you're not rigid. You like control, but not too much. You want something you can express yourself with, not just hold down the rhythm."

For some reason, the way Naya says it—so casually, so effortlessly perceptive—makes her chest flutter.

"I—yeah. I guess so." Mio clears her throat, trying not to feel weirdly flustered by that. She looks back at the bass. "Yeah. This would be the one."

She glances at the Jazz Bass again. It's identical to hers in every way, pulling at her like a gravitational force.

Naya watches her, nodding slowly, like she's cataloging the way Mio looks at the instrument, the way she talks about it—not just with knowledge, but with something deeper.

"I see," Naya says. "Makes sense."

"What about you?"

"Hmm?"

"If you had to pick one. Which would you take?"

"Are you seriously asking me that?"

"What do you mean?"

"Mio, I bought my bass because I liked the color. Same with the ME-50. You've seen how I pick my gear."

Mio snorts. "That doesn't mean you can't have a favorite."

Naya hums, looking over the display. "Well," she drawls, "I could go for something classic, something refined, something legendary—" she stops, then points dramatically at the Mustang Bass. "—or, I could just go for the little guy because it looks cool."

Mio rolls her eyes. "Not surprising."

"What? It's small, it's punchy, it's got attitude. What's not to love?"

"You just like it because it's short-scale and you wouldn't have to stretch as much."

"Not true," Naya retorts. "I also like it because it looks badass."

Mio shakes her head but doesn't argue. It's fitting. A Mustang Bass is something she could see Naya playing—not in the same way she plays her Jaguar, but in an alternate universe, maybe.

"See? You like it because it looks cool," she says.

Naya grins, satisfied with her choice. "Well, yeah," she admits. "But also, short scales have a different feel, right? A little punchier, a little tighter?"

Mio hums. "Yeah. Different attack, warmer mids. But the scale length is way shorter than I'm used to. I'd have to adjust everything about my playing."

"So no Mustangs for you?"

Mio shakes her head. "I'd try one. But I don't think I could love one."

Naya chuckles. "So, you're set on the Jazz Bass?"

Mio looks at it again. Nods.

"Yeah," she says, softer this time. "Yeah, I am."

Naya watches her, then tilts her head. "You ever think about getting another bass?" she asks, casual.

Mio pauses.

It's a fair question. She's been playing the same one since high school. But—

"No," she admits. "I mean, maybe one day. But right now... I don't know. This one feels right."

Naya smiles.

Mio smiles back and steps away from the display. "We should probably go before I try to sell my soul for one of these."

Naya laughs, but doesn't move right away. Her voice is easy. "You sure? We don't have to rush."

Mio blinks.

"You can stay a little longer, if you want," Naya adds, more gently this time. "Take another look."

Something in her tone—it isn't teasing. It's sincere.

And for a second, Mio doesn't know what to do with that.

Then—she clears her throat, turning back to Naya, something dawning on her.

"It's okay, but thanks. And, uh. Sorry if it was hard to keep up with the Japanese," she says, slipping back into habit, into politeness, into the instinct to shrink. "I know I was speaking fast, so..."

She trails off. She doesn't mean it as an insult—she knows Naya is fluent enough in Japanese for normal conversations, but this? This was her rambling about technical music history, about details, about specifics that even some native speakers might have trouble keeping up with.

Naya's brow lifts slightly. Then, she just huffs a quiet laugh.

"I kept up fine."

"You did?"

"Yeah. I mean, you did nerd out at like, 1.5x speed, but I got most of it."

Mio exhales, relief trickling in—but Naya isn't done.

"And besides," Naya shrugs, "I don't need to read every plaque to get it. I just watched you." Naya shifts her weight casually, like she didn't just say something that made Mio's pulse spike for no reason. "You made it easy," she adds, "the way you talk about it. I could tell what mattered."

The air suddenly feels too much.

"So yeah, I got it," Naya continues. "You were talking fast, yeah, but I could follow. Besides, when someone talks about what they love, it's easier to understand, y'know?"

Mio stares at her for a second.

Then she looks away.

Because suddenly, the way Naya is looking at her—like this was never about coping with the language, like she was paying attention to Mio, not just the words—feels like an unraveling.

"Well... that's good, then," Mio murmurs, trying to push past it.

"Yeah," Naya says, still smirking. "And hey, I learned some new bass facts today. Now I can sound cooler when I pretend to know what I'm talking about."

Mio scoffs, but the corners of her mouth twitch. "You already do that all the time."

"Shh." Naya lifts a finger to her lips, mock-serious. "Don't expose me."

Mio chuckles. "I just get carried away, sometimes. Talking about this stuff."

"I know," Naya says, looking at her. "I like it."

Mio's fingers twitch slightly.

She doesn't look at Naya.

She can't.

"We should look for your strings," she mumbles, already moving toward the bass section before her brain catches up with her body.

Naya follows without a word.

And Mio tells herself that's the end of it.

That she's fine.

That her heartbeat is normal.

That the warmth she feels is just the store lighting, the summer heat.

That Naya's words don't linger in her head longer than they should.

Even though, somehow, they do.

They always do.

Notes:

So. Yeah. That was not a date. Definitely not. Not at all. Just two disaster sapphics walking shoulder to shoulder, absolutely swimming in yearning, and somehow managing to talk about basses like they're love letters written in chrome and string tension.

Shoutout to Mio for turning a casual errand into a 5k word dissertation on Fender history, spiritual crisis included. We love a girl who can't flirt but can cite the tonal differences between rosewood and maple fingerboards with trembling conviction.

Also! Bass facts! So many bass facts! I did my homework (and I hope I did it well). I blacked out somewhere around the Jazz Bass section and came to 8k words later surrounded by emotional metaphors and fretboard terminology. If you're still here after all that: congratulations, you now have honorary bassist status and are entitled to one (1) existential crisis at a music store of your choosing.

Huge thanks again to Jules (tsuki_anne) for betaing this monument to overthinking and being the patron saint of "just write it out and cry about it later." You are the best and I owe you five lefty Mustangs and a hug.

Thank you for reading this emotional bass shrine masquerading as a chapter. Please pray for Naya's composure next time, and Mio's ability to survive being witnessed with affection. See you next chapter, where Mio continues to emotionally combust in 13/8 time.

(Fun fact: 13/8 is a classic prog-rock time signature—yes, really—but did you know Jóga by Björk is actually in 13/4? That's basically 4/4 + 4/4 + 5/4, aka soft apocalypse math. Also, the Terminator theme? 13/16. Even Ocarina of Time's Fairy Flying uses 13/8. What does this mean? I don't know. I'm spiraling. Anyway. Enough rambling. I need to lie down. Go back to your lives.)

Besitos.

Chapter 23: Universal Pulse

Summary:

Mio chooses a pedal.

Notes:

Huge thanks to my lovely beta, Jules (tsuki_anne), for helping me fine-tune this chaos. Chapter 23 turned out longer than intended (surprise, surprise), but I'm honestly really proud of how it grew. Mio's pedal journey has been living rent-free in my head for months, and now it lives in 10,000+ words, so... here we are.

Also: shout-out to my ADHD meds for kicking in just enough to make me hyperfocus on this fic and spend three hours choosing the perfect IKEA shelf for my manga collection, but not enough to do adult things like... survive, budget, or eat healthy. If you're wondering whether this chapter is a metaphor for decision paralysis, yes. If you're wondering whether my Drive folder is covered in bass pedal comparison charts and color swatches, also yes.

Thank you for reading this behemoth. Truly.

Universal Pulse, by 311, was released on July 19, 2011.

July 24, 2011

The air tastes different now.

Cooler. Filtered. Slightly antiseptic, with a faint trace of metal, cardboard, and lacquered wood—something synthetic nestled beside the dust of old speaker cones and the preserved scent of vinyl sleeves too pristine to touch. Even the lighting has changed: overhead fluorescents that don't flicker, just hum faintly, casting a clinical sheen across rows of sealed packages and shrink-wrapped obligation.

Mio breathes in, slow and shallow. The scent doesn't belong to memory. It belongs to a room made of choices.

There's nothing sacred about this part of the store. No polished shrines, no vintage glass, no timeline of holy relics. Just merchandise. Rows and racks and hanging hooks. Packages sorted by function, not feeling. The space where maintenance lives. Utility, not longing.

She steps forward anyway.

Still moving. Still pretending she isn't spiraling. Still performing the role of someone who knows exactly where she's going and why.

Her sandals squeak slightly on the polished tile.

(This is normal. This is fine.)

But her chest still feels too open. Like something was cracked earlier and hasn't quite closed.

Mio instinctively makes a beeline toward the bass section. Naya follows, hands stuffed into her pockets, a half step behind her—close, but not too close. Her footsteps softer now. Less rhythm. More syncopation. Mio doesn't look back.

She feels her instead.

The shift in air pressure. The faint weight of attention. That intangible awareness, like being tuned by proximity—like a string slightly tightened just by the presence of another hand in the room.

She shouldn't be thinking like this. About pressure. About hands.

(It's just the store. It's just the smell. It's just residual emotional static from before.)

But the truth is harder to name.

Because it's not just the display of basses that unraveled her.

It's that she was allowed to unravel.

That Naya stood there and didn't look away.

That she listened.

That she didn't flinch when Mio wanted something out loud.

And now—now every breath Mio takes feels suspect. Measured. Like she might trip some invisible alarm if she lets herself want again too soon.

She adjusts her bag. Her bass case. The straps dig into her shoulder, too warm, too sharp. The familiar ache of something functional pressing against skin.

The aisle bends left.

She follows it.

They haven't spoken since they left the display.

A silence not of awkwardness, but of recalibration. A space made not of absence, but of containment. Something still reverberating in the body that words would only flatten.

She wonders if Naya hears it too. The ghost-note hum of something unfinished.

(You're being dramatic. She's fine. You're the one spiraling.)

Mio stops in front of a row of strings.

The small boxes stare back—color-coded, labeled with gauges, acronyms, and promises. Balanced tension. Bright tone. Long life. It's all marketing. But also, it's not.

She knows the difference.

Knows which ones hum under the fingers with just the right resistance. Which ones drag too hard across calluses. Which ones buzz too easily. Which ones sing.

Naya moves beside her now. Not past her. Not behind her. Beside.

Mio doesn't look at her. She watches the boxes.

Naya touches various boxes of strings with her fingertips, as if she could extract the sound just by touch alone. Something you can do once the strings are on the bass. But sometimes, Naya seems able to make things sing even when the sound is still trapped in a closed box no one could access until her hands reached it.

Mio watches her for a moment before speaking. "What kind of strings are you looking for?"

"Short-scale. Dunno which ones, though." 

Mio hums, flipping through the neatly arranged sets of bass strings. "You're using a Jaguar, right? Thirty-inch scale?"

Naya nods. "Trying to decide if I should try flatwounds."

"Flatwounds? Really?"

Naya shrugs, pulling a pack of D'Addario ECB81S Chromes from the rack. "I dunno. I kind of like the idea of a warmer, deeper tone. Something smoother." She turns the pack in her hands. "Might lean into that post-punk thump, y'know?"

Mio tilts her head, considering. "Wouldn't that kill some of your attack, though?"

Naya doesn't answer right away. She rolls the pack between her fingers, then grabs another option—the La Bella 760FS-S. "Maybe. But if I roll off the highs just right, I could get that vintage-y growl. More definition in the mids."

Mio watches her. She knows Naya doesn't just play bass—she thinks about it. Considers it. So it's not a surprise that she's not just picking strings, but thinking about them. Not just choosing a sound, but crafting her sound. That's what all her pedals are about, anyway.

But it still surprises Mio.

Or maybe she's just seeing it differently now.

Is this the piano part of Naya speaking? A memory of who she used to be—meticulous, measured? Or is Mio thinking too much into it?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

She steps forward, reaching past Naya to pull down another pack. "You could also go for these," she says, holding up the D'Addario EXL170S. "Nickel roundwounds. Balanced brightness, warmth, and sustain. Versatile."

Naya blinks at the pack, then at Mio, then back at the pack.

Mio lifts a brow. "What?"

Naya huffs a small laugh. "Nothing. Just funny."

Mio frowns. "Funny how?"

Naya takes the pack for Mio's hand and spins it between her fingers. "You didn't even hesitate. You just know."

"I use EXL160s. Slightly heavier gauge, but same material. Same brightness."

Naya scans the D'Addario EXL170S again. "Welp, that's that, then."

Mio gives her a questioning look.

Naya smirks slightly. "Sounds like the universe is telling me to go for these."

"That is your logic?"

"If you say they're good, I trust you," Naya shrugs. "Anything else I should get, sensei?"

Mio sighs but fights a smile. "Are you going to pick up some polish while we're here?"

Naya blinks. "Some what?"

"Polish," Mio repeats, like it's obvious.

"Like, for furniture?"

"For your bass."

Naya stares.

Mio inhales, already sensing the battle she's about to fight. "You do clean your bass, right?"

"I mean, I wipe it down with my shirt sometimes."

Mio's soul briefly leaves her body.

Naya, at least, has the decency to look mildly sheepish. "What? It's fine."

Mio exhales. "It's not fine." She steps past Naya, reaching for a bottle of Smith Classic Wax Polish. "This is what I use. Essential for oil and varnish finishes. Cleans, protects, and restores the finish."

Naya squints at the label like it might bite her. "That sounds unnecessarily fancy."

Mio ignores her, grabbing another bottle. "And this—Howard Orange Oil. Good for the wood."

Naya stares at her like she's just spoken an entirely different language. "You really—" she chuckles, amused. "You really take care of your bass."

"Of course I do." Mio levels her with a look. "And you should, too."

"Alright, alright." Naya says. Then, a little quieter, almost contemplative: "Didn't think about it that much before."

Naya turns the bottles over in her hands like she's holding something fragile, but not valuable—like she's not sure if she should break it, drink it, or place it on a shelf she doesn't own yet. Her fingers leave faint smudges on the label. Mio sees them. Watches them appear, faint and real and human.

The kind of marks you only leave on something you haven't claimed yet.

"... So I just... what, rub it on with a cloth?" Naya says eventually, eyeing the orange oil like it might explode.

Mio sighs, softly. "I'll show you sometime."

Naya looks up, like that was always the answer. Then, without a word, she places both bottles in her basket. No hesitation. No argument. No bargain to be made.

And something twists in Mio's stomach. A flicker of heat, then cold, then something tender. She watches the curve of Naya's hand as it rests lightly on the basket's edge. The carelessness of the motion. The care within it.

Most people resist being told what to do.

Naya doesn't.

Not with her, at least.

There's a kind of intimacy in that. In the way she follows her instructions. Not blindly, exactly, but with trust. With faith. With the quiet certainty that if Mio says it, it matters. That Mio's preferences are valid. That Mio's knowledge is real. That her world, the small one built from polishing cloths and string gauges and setup rituals, is worth entering.

Mio lowers her eyes to the floor.

She just believes me. Like it's obvious.

It shouldn't feel this intimate. But it does.

More than a touch. More than a shared laugh. More than the brief brush of hands over a pedalboard or a tuning peg.

This. This small obedience. This quiet trust.

It makes something ache, somewhere beneath her ribs.

It makes her want to explain everything. The wax cloth tucked in her gig bag. The time she stripped too much oil from the neck and panicked. The years of figuring out what care meant, one mistake at a time. The rituals that no one taught her, but she built like scaffolding anyway. Just to make things stay. Just to prove she could.

She wants to say I'll show you how I do it. If you want. If you want to know how I take care of things.

But the words don't come.

Instead, she just nods once. Small.

And Naya doesn't press. She never does.

Mio turns away before she can register how warm that makes her feel.

"Let's go find the pedals," she says, already walking ahead.

Naya smiles and follows. Like a song in a different key that still fits underneath the melody.

---

The bass section stretches before them, a quiet sanctuary of deep frequencies and untapped potential. They weave through the aisles, past the gleaming displays of basses, rows of amps humming faintly with residual electricity, and walls adorned with posters of musicians frozen mid-performance.

Mio moves ahead without thinking, her eyes scanning the display, seeking out something familiar—something she's already seen, already considered.

There.

The bass pedals.

She stops in front of the display, heart settling into a familiar rhythm.

Rows of neatly arranged boxes, each promising something different.

Naya scans the pedal wall with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious icons. Then she spots something at the bottom shelf. She lets out a small gasp. "No me jodas."

Mio turns. "What?"

Naya points, eyes wide. "The new Whammy DT. I thought it was vaporware."

"Whammy what?"

Naya doesn't answer right away. She's too busy making a face like she just saw her crush across the room at a funeral.

"It just came out. DigiTech released it like... I don't know, a few months ago? I've wanted a Whammy for years, but the pitch drop feature? Detune on the fly? I could cry."

Mio gives her a sideways look. "You already have a pedal problem."

"I have a personality," Naya corrects. "And this would only make me stronger."

Mio lifts a brow. "Why don't you just get it, then?"

Naya sighs, dramatic. "Because I'm not made of money. And because if I start, I'll never stop. Today it's the Whammy DT. Tomorrow it's a Moogerfooger. Next thing you know I've sold my liver for a boutique reverb pedal."

Mio laughs despite herself. "You're ridiculous."

Naya stands back up reluctantly, as if leaving a shrine. "Yeah. But at least I know my financial priorities... kinda."

Mio's gaze lands on the Keeley 4-Knob Compressor. Sleek, precise, a sculptor of sound. It sits neatly on the shelf, gleaming under the store's lighting, pristine and minimalist, its  design standing out in a sea of colors and dials.

Precision. Consistency. A promise of control. Compression means clarity. Stability. The assurance that every note will be balanced, controlled, intentional. A tool for refinement, for perfection.

Then, her eyes shift.

The Zoom B2.1u sits just a few inches away, compact but brimming with possibility, its knobs and digital screen offering endless permutations of sound—exploration, variety, the unknown. A playground of tones, a device built for exploration. Overdrive, chorus, reverb, delay. Endless possibilities. A shapeshifter. A question, rather than an answer.

She stares at them both, her fingers hovering, caught between two choices that feel like more than just equipment.

"Thinking about it again?" Naya's voice is light, amused.

Mio doesn't look away from the pedals. "I came here before," she says. "With Kenji."

Naya hums, stepping closer. "And?"

"I couldn't decide."

She expects Naya to tease her, but when she finally glances sideways, Naya is simply watching, her gaze steady, thoughtful.

Naya crouches down beside her, glancing between the pedals. "Ohh, nice picks." Without waiting for Mio's response, she reaches for the Keeley, tilting the box toward her to inspect it. "This one's solid. Four knobs mean you've got better control over attack and release. It lets you fine-tune sustain without killing your dynamics. Super transparent compression, doesn't color your tone too much." She pauses, looking up. "Would you say you're a sustain person?"

Mio blinks. "I—I don't know. Maybe?"

Naya grins. "Good answer." She turns the box in her hands, studying the specs. "This one'll smooth out your playing, keep everything even. You'll get more consistency in your tone, better articulation. It's great for fingerstyle, really dials in the punch of your attack, keeps everything from sounding too all over the place."

Mio already knows all of this. She's read the specs, watched reviews, debated the choice in her head for weeks. But hearing Naya say it—so easily, so enthusiastically—makes it feel different. Less clinical. More like something she wants to understand, not just something she's supposed to.

Naya tilts her head. "And this one—" She reaches for the Zoom, turning it over in her hands. "Now this is just fun. Digital modeling, a bunch of different amp sims, built-in expression pedal. It's a damn rabbit hole. You could get lost in this thing for hours—and that's not even counting the looper or drum machine. Kinda overwhelming, but in a good way."

Mio knows. That's why she's drawn to it. But, as Naya says, it's overwhelming.

But also limitless.

She lets her fingers hover between the two boxes like she's testing the current between them. Like if she holds still long enough, her body might settle into the shape of a decision.

She already knows which one makes more sense.

The compressor gleams like a clean line through noise. A fixed point. A disciplined hand. It doesn't beg for attention; it's content to remain invisible. Just quietly present. Underneath everything. Evening her out. Correcting her impulses. Rewarding restraint. It doesn't offer new sounds—it just ensures the ones she already has don't get too loud. Too soft. Too much.

Like a safety net made of glass. Like a version of herself that never risks falling.

It's elegant. Subtle. Useful. The kind of gear you build a rig around. The kind of tool that says: I know what I'm doing. I don't need to be loud to matter.

It's the choice of someone responsible. Someone controlled. Someone who understands the assignment.

It's the kind of choice Kenji would expect her to make.

She shifts her gaze.

The Zoom stares back, almost smug in its ridiculous versatility. Ugly, in a way. Cluttered with too many buttons, too much digital promise. It doesn't blend in. It demands to be learned. It invites chaos, layering and looping and reverbs that spill into oblivion. Sounds that bounce, stack, reverse. Distortions that fray at the edges like a dream you forgot to write down.

It isn't clean. It isn't safe. But it makes her curious.

Even now, something about it pulls at her—the possibility of a foot hovering just before the switch, a hand lingering on a dial not because it's unsure, but because it wants to be. Because uncertainty is where the fun lives.

Because not knowing means it's still becoming.

Her own hand twitches. She doesn't touch it.

Why does this feel like something else?

Why does it feel like a test?

She remembers standing here weeks ago, maybe months, maybe longer, with Kenji just a step behind her. He'd said something neutral, something kind.

"You should get it. Whichever one feels right."

And she'd felt small. Like a child being handed a menu she wasn't hungry for. Smiling through the nausea of it. Grateful. Suppressed. Knowing she'd end up with water and the cheapest entrée because she didn't want to inconvenience anyone. Because choice didn't feel real when there was no permission to want.

But now—

Now Naya crouches beside her like an equal. No expectation, no gentle nudges toward utility. No reassurance masked as support. Just the facts, the options, the weight of them. Held out like a question.

And Mio still doesn't know the answer.

She looks down at the compressor. Thinks about control. Balance. Smooth articulation. Her tone, neat and intelligible. Crisp edges and low risk. The pleasure of never standing out too much. The dignity of restraint.

She looks at the Zoom. Thinks about what if.

Thinks about how her fingers had stumbled across Naya's ME-50 during the pedal sessions, how a single tap had exploded her clean tone into a cathedral of echoes. How it had felt like touching something forbidden and beautiful. Unruly. Not hers—but almost.

Thinks about how she'd laughed.

Thinks about how Naya had looked at her like the sound was hers.

And she hates that it's even a question.

(You're not a pedal nerd. You're not a sonic adventurer. You like things tidy. Defined. Linear. You've always liked things that flatten the noise.)

But something inside her won't shut up. Something between her lungs and her throat. Something behind the cartilage of her ears where sound becomes sensation. A vibration. A longing. A desire that doesn't have language yet, only pull.

She should want the compressor.

Instead, her pulse ticks faster at the thought of delay trails. Of octave shifts. Of placing her foot on a pedal and not knowing what will happen—not entirely. Just knowing she wants to find out.

A compressor would help her blend.

A multi-effects pedal might help her break.

"You don't need effects. You are the effect."

That's what Naya told her the day Mio canceled their pedal sessions.

Naya had praised her like she was some kind of prodigy, a voice unto herself. And Mio—

Mio didn't say anything back.

No thank you. No compliment in return. Not even an explanation that made sense.

Because what could she say, when she didn't even know why she was pulling away?

Naya had offered kindness, reverence, truth. And Mio hadn't told her even a fraction of what she thinks of her in return.

That Naya plays like someone who grew up with pressure and found freedom anyway.
That her fingers make chaos sound elegant.
That she listens better than anyone Mio has ever met—picking up a rhythm, a groove, a joke, a hesitation, like it's second nature.
That even her sloppier runs feel like intention, not accident.
That watching her build loops from nothing, layering tones like brushstrokes, taught Mio that complexity isn't the opposite of care.
That Naya's playing makes her feel. And Mio doesn't feel things that easily.

That it wasn't just fun, those two days a week. It was music in the truest sense.

Dialogue. Resonance.

And she didn't say any of that.

She just... stopped showing up.

Mio exhales, eyes still on the floor. Her knees ache. Her thoughts ache. The air around her feels static-heavy.

She closes her eyes.

And the questions bloom—

Who do I want to sound like?
Who am I, when no one's mixing me down?
When I am not being adjusted for clarity, EQ'd for pleasantness, filtered for ease?
What does my tone become when no one's listening for perfection?
When no one's smoothing out my peaks?
When I stop smoothing them out myself?

She opens her eyes.

Still silent. Still crouched.

The choice is still there, waiting.

"Gotta admit," Naya breaks through her thoughts, "the Zoom is chaos."

Mio looks at her. "That bad?"

"Not bad," Naya corrects, picking up the box and turning it over. "Just—look at this. Amp modeling, delays, reverbs, distortions, phaser, modulation effects, chorus. Over fifty built-in options! And it's got presets, so you can save your favorite tones, mess around, stack effects. But..." Mio watches as Naya's fingers skim over the text on the box, her eyes lighting up a little. "It's like handing a toddler a box of fireworks and seeing what happens."

Mio can't help but laugh. "That's one way to put it."

"Not that I'm saying you are a toddler, though." Naya studies the specs for another second before setting the box down. "What's calling to you more?"

Mio wants to say the compressor, because it makes sense. Because it's what a bassist should start with. Because it aligns with everything she's been taught about control, precision, and correctness. But her hand... her hand is still hovering over the multi-effects pedal.

Mio doesn't answer.

There's a soundless interval between the question and her body's response, as though her spine is waiting for some unseen metronome to count her in. A tempo she doesn't trust yet. Not because it's too fast, but because it's hers.

"What's calling to you more?"

She could laugh. Could deflect. Could pull the compressor from the shelf and be done with it—walk away with the tidy satisfaction of a decision made and a mind that never faltered. A purchase that affirms everything she already is.

Everything that's already been decided for her.

But instead, she stares at the floor.

Her hand, traitorous, still floats above the Zoom's packaging like a compass needle disoriented by magnetism. There's no logic in it—just pull. Just... the aftertaste of something she hasn't admitted yet.

It's not just about the pedal.

It's never just about the gear.

It's about the feeling she gets when she touches something volatile and doesn't flinch. When she hears something distorted and doesn't turn it down. When she lets sound spill out of its boundaries and still calls it music.

The Zoom hums at her like a dare. Like it already knows what she'd sound like if she stopped editing herself mid-note.

Naya's question still lingers in the air. It's soft. Casual. But it rings through Mio's body like a low-frequency tremor, subtle but structural.

"What's calling to you more?"

It doesn't sound like pressure.

It sounds like permission.

She should say the compressor.

It would mean something. It would reaffirm a kind of musical morality—tasteful, practical, intentional. A pedal that shapes, not overpowers. That supports, not leads. It's the kind of gear that doesn't change who you are. It just... clarifies it.

But maybe that's what she's afraid of.

Because clarity requires knowing.

And she doesn't know. Not really.

Not what she sounds like when she stops trying to impress people who aren't in the room. Not who she is when she lets go of balance. Not what it means to choose something not because it's smart, but because it makes her curious. Because it makes her feel more.

The Zoom is chaos, Naya said.

But Mio knows the truth: chaos is just freedom without choreography.

And maybe—for once—she wants to move without a score.

The thought startles her. Makes her inhale too sharply through her nose. She curls her fingers inward, grounding herself in the familiar ache of restraint.

(Don't romanticize it. Don't overthink. You're just being indulgent.)

Naya watches her carefully. Mio doesn't look at her, but she feels watched.

"... I don't know yet," Mio finally admits.

It's not a lie, but it's not quite the truth, either.

Her fingers reach instinctively toward the Zoom again, tracing the edges. She doesn't press any buttons, doesn't turn the knobs—just lets her fingertips rest there, feeling the weight of possibility beneath her hands.

Naya grins. "Multi-effects is tempting, eh?"

Mio nods, a little more hesitant than she wants to be. "It's just... interesting. You can experiment with so much."

Naya watches her. Then: "Alright, sell them to me. What's making you hesitate?"

Mio sighs. "The compressor is the smart choice. I know that. It balances everything, evens out my tone, makes things clean, controlled. If I start adding effects without compression first, the whole thing could sound—"

"Muddy," Naya finishes.

Mio nods. "Exactly."

Naya leans back on her heels, waiting. "And the Zoom?"

Mio stares at it. Her fingers itch.

"It's fun," she admits. "It's unpredictable. It's..." She hesitates. "... possibility."

Naya's head tilts slightly, but she doesn't press. "Alright. And practically speaking, what's the best choice?"

Mio exhales sharply. "The compressor."

"Because?"

"Because... I need to master control before I experiment."

Naya nods, satisfied. "Controlled chaos."

Mio's mouth twitches. Naya says that a lot. The phrase lingers in her mind, stretching beyond just pedals, beyond just music.

"If you're gonna mess around with effects, you need a solid base first," Naya adds. "Compression keeps everything balanced—makes sure your dynamics aren't all over the place when you start adding layers. It's like I always say—controlled chaos."

Mio stares at the Keeley, processing.

Control before chaos.

"Control lets you do more," Naya continues, knocking lightly on the Zoom pedal. "This is fun, but if you don't know how to handle it, you'll just end up with noise. If you want to experiment later, you're gonna need it anyway. But that's just my input. Of course, you can get the pedal you want."

It makes sense. Of course it makes sense. Mio's always known the Keeley is the logical choice. She's always known compression is the next step in refining her sound. It's not even a debate. A compressor is the right choice. The smart choice. It aligns with everything she's been taught—start with control, then add complexity.

Naya sets the Zoom down and taps the Keeley box. "If you want a stronger core tone, you get a compressor. It shapes your sound before you add anything else. Without it, multi-effects can get muddy, inconsistent. You'll be throwing effects on a tone that isn't stable yet." She leans back on her heels, casual. "And you do like control, don't you?"

Mio wants to scoff, but the way Naya says it—genuine, amused, yet oddly perceptive—makes her pause.

Also, it's a truth Mio can't deny. She's never been good at losing control. She needs control, or else, she'll feel like she's slipping away.

"It makes the most sense," Mio mutters.

"Exactly," Naya says. "You need to know your core sound before you experiment. Otherwise, you're just throwing effects at a problem instead of solving it." She smirks, and repeats: "Controlled chaos."

Mio lets the words settle.

She knows Naya's right. She knows.

And yet.

She doesn't move.

Her gaze drifts back to the Zoom. The promise of endless options, of creativity without boundaries. A playground of sound, a labyrinth of tones. It's for the restless, the curious, the ones who don't settle for one thing when they could have a hundred. It's not about control—it's about the thrill of not knowing exactly what will happen.

It's a terrible first pedal.

But it's so, so tempting.

She doesn't know why she feels reluctant, why something inside her holds on to it for just a second longer than necessary.

Naya catches it.

She doesn't say anything, doesn't push. Just watches as Mio stands at the threshold of a decision, hovering between structure and spontaneity, control and chaos.

Mio's fingers brush against the Zoom's box. Just for a second. Just long enough to hesitate. A small, barely perceptible hesitation—like a breath held between two notes.

Then, slowly, she withdraws her hand and picks up the Keeley instead. It's the right choice. The logical choice. The controlled choice.

The weight of it in her hands feels—

Solid. Defined. Expected.

Right.

Mostly.

She tells herself this weight in her hands is certainty. That the tightness in her chest is relief. That she isn't—wasn't—thinking about the way her fingers brushed against the Zoom one last time.

Naya watches, then nods approvingly. "Good call."

Mio nods back. She tells herself it is. That this is the right decision. That there's no reason to feel like she's leaving something behind.

And yet.

The multi-effects pedal stays in her periphery as they walk away, its buttons gleaming, its possibilities waiting.

---

They reach the testing area—a corner of the store with a few amps lined up, a handful of stools, a tangle of cables coiled neatly along the walls, and just enough space to sit and play without feeling entirely exposed. A single employee lingers at the counter, chatting with a customer, but otherwise, it's quiet.

The pedal in Mio's hands feels different. Not just a product. Not just a piece of gear.

But a decision.

And decisions have weight.

Maybe it's because this is the first pedal she's ever bought for herself.

Maybe it's because of the way she almost didn't choose it.

Maybe it's because of Naya, casually strolling beside her, her own bass slung over her shoulder, looking as if she belongs in this space more than Mio ever could.

(That's absurd. This—music—is your space.)

Still, she grips the box tighter, hesitating. There's something about this moment—about unboxing something new, about that first sound, that first experiment—that feels ceremonial. Like it deserves some kind of gravity, some pause for significance.

Naya notices.

"You gonna try it out or just admire the box?" she asks, voice light.

Mio shifts on her feet. "I—of course I'm going to try it."

She just—she isn't used to playing outside of structured settings. In the clubroom, in a practice space, on a stage where she's supposed to be. Not here, in a store, where it feels like an open invitation for scrutiny.

Naya tilts her head, considering her. Then, as if she's sensed exactly what's going on in Mio's head, she steps forward, setting her own bass case down.

"Alright. I'll go first," she says, crouching to set up the cables. "That way, you don't have to be the first one making noise."

Mio blinks. "You don't have anything to test."

Naya shrugs. "Doesn't matter. I'll make something up."

Mio watches as Naya crouches beside the amp, movement fluid, unbothered. She moves like she belongs here—like this space recognizes her weight and adjusts accordingly. Her hand reaches for the jack, plugs it in with the ease of second nature, like this too is a kind of breathing. The shoulder roll that follows is slow, effortless. Practiced without pretense.

Mio's own body tightens in contrast. Her posture, suddenly conscious of itself, feels wrong—too vertical, too formal, like a statue trying to mimic a girl.

Naya slings her bass into place and starts playing without flourish, no audience, no need for one. Just sound for the sake of sound. Idle plucks that stutter at first, then cohere. She isn't performing. She's releasing.

A low groove builds from nowhere—lazy, soft-edged, but steady. A pulse more than a pattern. It loops under the fluorescent quiet of the room, fills the gaps between cables and stools and floor tiles with something warm, something bodily. Something that doesn't need to justify itself.

Mio feels it settle into her chest, somewhere just under her collarbone.

It's not complex. Not technical. Not the kind of line you transcribe or memorize. But it moves. Unfolds. It wants.

Naya plays like she doesn't care what it becomes. Fingers shifting between pick and hand with unhurried dexterity, carving out textures instead of licks. Every few bars, she slides across notes that hang just a moment too long, a drawl at the edge of speech, the kind of articulation that tastes like suggestion.

And Mio—

Mio is watching.

And suddenly, Mio is back in the pedal sessions.

In the quiet dorm practice room, late. Headphones on. Knees almost touching. Her hand guiding Naya's to the right pressure point, the right slap angle. The way Naya furrowed her brow in focus, missed the string, laughed, tried again. How she'd gotten it, eventually—not perfect, but better. Enough to groove.

They hadn't just tested tones. They'd played. Improvised. Built grooves from nonsense. Blended their lines. Naya would loop something, and Mio would answer. They'd nod in sync, stop at the same time, erupt into quiet laughter like they'd shared a joke no one else could hear.

Mio didn't realize how much she missed it until now.

Not just the sound, but her. The shape of Naya's playing. The slight swing in her timing. The soft tap of her heel keeping tempo. Their rhythm. The way Naya would watch her hands, listen to her basslines, then echo them in her own register, warped through fuzz or reverb—always altered, always listening.

And now, in the middle of the test room, Naya slaps again—carefully. It's still not her most natural style, but it's better. Cleaner. She remembered.

She remembered.

Mio stares. Then freezes.

There's a phrase nestled in Naya's improvisation. Four notes, inverted. A variation of one of her old HTT basslines—Watashi no Koi wa Hotchikiss. Not obvious. But Mio hears it. Her chest tightens.

It's her song. No—their song. A silly one. A beginning.

And it's inside Naya's fingers now. Living there. Woven into the way she plays.

How long has it been there?

The melody is subtle, slanted. Just the contour of it. But Mio hears the rhythm. The phrasing. That accidental upward slide at the end of the phrase.

Watashi no Koi wa Hotchikiss.

She wrote it when she was fifteen. In the corner of her room, notebook open, stapler beside her. A song about wanting to say something and failing. About having too much to share, too many pages to bind. About staples bending against the weight of her feelings.

A crush-song. A secret-song. Too sweet. Too much.

She blushes even now, remembering the lyrics.

My mood was only simple at the start
but it got hot inside without me knowing.

Ugh.

Now my feelings will be revealed
Searching for words without a dictionary.

God.

She'd buried that part of herself. The version that believed in metaphors about school supplies and glowy sheets and love you couldn't quite press flat. The part that wanted. The part that felt. She grew up. Got practical. Got careful.

And yet here it is, threaded into Naya's fingers, echoing from her amp. Not mocking. Not ironic. Just part of her now.

How?

Why?

Mio swallows, suddenly overwhelmed by the realization that she isn't just watching someone play bass. She's watching someone remember her. Not in words. In rhythm. In muscle. In tone.

Naya takes the things Mio gives her—lessons, phrases, jokes, music—and stores them somewhere secret. Deep. In her hands. In her heart. In her sound.

And Mio—

She misses her.

Not just this moment. Not just this store.

She misses her.

Misses her way of playing. Her ease. Her groove. Their rhythm, together. That quiet magic that made her feel seen and heard without needing to speak.

But how can you miss someone who's right next to you?

How can you ache for someone who hasn't gone anywhere?

(You're the one who pulled away. You're the one who made it stop.)

And still—still—the ache is there. Small and sharp and steady. Louder than the compressor. Louder than logic.

She tells herself it's the groove. The tone. The way Naya dials the amp into something thick, vintage, loose around the edges. But her eyes betray her.

The strap over Naya's shoulder is twisted slightly, catching against the curve of her collarbone, dipping just beneath the frayed neck of her t-shirt. Her clavicle moves when she leans forward, flickering in small, visible shifts. Her hair falls across one eye—just enough to obscure, not enough to hide.

And her right hand—God. Her fingers are moving over the strings again, index and ring alternating with a practiced fluency Mio can't stop tracing. That rhythm. That economy. That sound.

It shouldn't matter. It's just technique. Just articulation.

But there's something unguarded in it. Something deeply of her. The way her hands move when no one's asking them to perform.

Why does that matter?

Mio blinks.

Her face is hot. She's blushing, and she doesn't know why.

(You're overanalyzing. You're just jealous of how relaxed she looks. That's all it is.)

But the heat doesn't fade when she exhales. It lingers at the base of her throat like static. Her fingers twitch against the frets of her untouched bass. Her knees feel locked.

She shakes herself. Physically. Like a dog after a bath.

"Okay, okay," she mutters, voice too sharp in the quiet. "Enough stalling."

Naya grins, stopping mid-note. "That's the spirit."

Mio tries not to be affected by the way Naya watches her, the lazy confidence in her gaze, the amused tilt of her mouth as Mio kneels, setting the box down, fingers sliding over the edges as she pulls back the lid. Inside, the Keeley 4-Knob Compressor sits, pristine, waiting. A neat coil of cables tucked beside it, a manual folded with precision. She lifts the pedal, lets the weight settle in her palm. It's light but solid. Minimalist. No excess. Purposeful.

She sets it down, reaching for a cable. Naya watches as she plugs it in, her movements slow, methodical.

"Moment of truth," Naya murmurs.

Mio exhales and flicks the switch.

The pedal comes to life. A small LED glows.

Mio sets her bass onto her lap, resting the familiar weight against her thigh, and adjusts the strap with more force than necessary. It bites into her skin. The amp waits, humming softly, like an instrument clearing its throat. She adjusts the settings carefully, fingers hovering over the knobs, fine-tuning before even playing a note.

Naya's watching. And part of Mio wants to look again. Not at the pedal. Not at the amp.

At her.

"Meticulous," Naya muses.

Mio shoots her a glance. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Not at all," Naya says easily. "Just very... you."

Mio isn't sure what to do with that.

Instead, she focuses on the pedal.

Deep breath. Fingers planted against the strings.

She plays a note.

And—

It's subtle. The kind of effect that doesn't scream for attention. No distortion, no reverb, no delay. Just a tightening, a smoothing-out, a soft but unmistakable correction.

The compression kicks in immediately, tightening the sound, evening it out, giving it an edge of clarity Mio hadn't realized she was missing. She plucks a few more notes, feeling the difference—the steadiness, the smooth attack, the balance. Her usual dynamics, the way her soft notes tend to get lost and her harder plucks sometimes overwhelm, are now sitting neatly in place.

Naya nods approvingly. "Crisp. I like it."

Mio plucks again. Another note. Then a slow scale.

The compression is seamless—rounding out the edges, ironing out the inconsistencies in her attack. Where she might normally hit one note a fraction harder, the Keeley balances it. No excess. No uncertainty. Every note leveled, smoothed into coherence.

Control.

She doesn't know why that word sits so heavily in her chest.

She keeps playing, fingers settling into a groove, something slow and warm, letting the compressor shape rather than overtake. It doesn't change her sound—it just refines it.

"Damn," Naya mutters, tilting her head, eyes sharp with appreciation. "That's clean."

Mio nods, barely aware of the movement.

It is.

It's everything she expected it to be. Everything it should be.

She shifts the knobs slightly—adjusting the sustain, increasing the attack. The response changes subtly, tightening in a way that feels like pulling a thread taut. She plays again, a simple bassline looping under her fingers, feeling out the response, how it nestles into her sound.

It's... good.

It's right.

And yet—

She doesn't know what she was expecting.

Maybe something... more.

But what does that even mean?

The pedal does exactly what it's supposed to do. No more, no less. It tightens, it balances, it makes her sound like the version of herself she tries to be—clean, prepared, inoffensive. It's not showy. Not indulgent. It doesn't sing for attention. It doesn't need to.

It just... works.

And isn't that the goal?

Isn't that who she is?

Still, the notes feel too even. Too processed. As if her playing has been translated into a version of itself with all the breath marks erased. As if the spaces between the notes—the little wobbles, the hums, the minor inconsistencies that give her sound texture and shape—have been tidied into obedience.

She keeps waiting for the moment where it will thrill her.

It doesn't.

Instead, it confirms her. Folds her into the image she already knows. Makes her easier to hear, easier to manage. Easier to predict.

Is that what she wants?

(Yes. Of course. It's what you came here for. What you're supposed to want.)

But her fingers itch. Not with dissatisfaction, exactly—but with something quieter, less nameable. A kind of restlessness that has nothing to do with quality. A desire not to be better, but to be else.

To be more than a good sound.

To be surprised.

She glances at the pedal again. Its LED glows softly, like an eye that never blinks. Reassuring. Constant. Polite.

It reminds her, irrationally, of Kenji.

Always steady. Always there. A background hum. A reliable floor beneath her, so reliable she stopped noticing it. Until it wasn't enough.

Not because he did anything wrong. But because he did everything right.

Because there's a difference between being supported and being moved.

And lately—

Lately, Mio wants to be moved.

She plays another note. It sounds great. Better than great. Professional. Studio-ready. A perfectly compressed, even tone that could sit on any mix and not offend a single ear.

So why does it feel like she's playing inside parentheses?

Like the pedal has taken her voice and sanded it down to something agreeable?

She breathes in, sharp through her nose. Holds it.

(You're just being immature. Looking for drama where there is none.)

Maybe. Maybe that's it. Maybe she just misses the thrill of not knowing what would come out next. The chaos Naya joked about—like firecrackers in the hands of someone reckless. A sound that could fail. Or flare.

The kind of sound that demands you listen while it's being made.

Because it might never happen the same way again.

She imagines herself holding that other pedal. The multi-effects one. All those knobs, the tiny screen, the unintuitive interface that begs to be learned like a foreign language.

Unruly. Unrefined. But full of possibility.

And she wonders, not for the first time today, why her hand keeps hovering toward the thing that asks her to grow, not the one that affirms who she already is.

She doesn't want to be a child again. Not really. But maybe she wants permission to play. To stop optimizing. To stop pruning herself into something tasteful.

Maybe she wants her mistakes to be heard. Because at least they'd be hers.

(You already chose. It's done. You don't have to think about it anymore.)

But she does.

Because it feels like this—this whole day, this moment, this choice—is a question she hasn't figured out how to answer. And maybe never will.

Mio keeps playing, adjusting the sustain, tweaking the ratio. She knows she should be focusing purely on sound, on functionality, on technique.

But she's aware—too aware—of the way Naya leans forward slightly, forearms resting on her knees, watching her play with something like curiosity.

Mio forces herself to focus.

She doesn't realize she's frowning until Naya chuckles.

"You're thinking too hard."

"I'm not."

"You totally are." Naya leans forward, propping an elbow on her knee, studying Mio's hands, the way she's adjusting the settings without even thinking about it. "What's up?"

Mio hesitates. She doesn't know how to answer that question without sounding ridiculous.

"It's great," she says instead. Because it is. Objectively. Logically. The Keeley does exactly what it's supposed to do.

Naya hums, unconvinced.

Mio sighs, pressing her fingers against the strings again, trying to feel the sound. "I guess I just..." She searches for the word. "I guess I thought I'd... feel different."

Naya's brows lift slightly.

Mio shakes her head, embarrassed by her own reasoning. "Never mind. That doesn't make sense."

But Naya doesn't brush it off. "You thought it'd be more fun."

Mio doesn't answer.

Naya reaches for her bass again. "Scoot."

Mio blinks. "What?"

Naya gestures vaguely. "Move over, señorita. Lemme in."

Mio glares at her, but shifts anyway.

Naya plugs in her Jaguar again, resting the bass against her knee. She doesn't test the compressor first.

Instead, she flips through the amp settings, adjusting, dialing the tone into something thicker, heavier, something reminiscent of post-punk—slightly scooped, warm yet aggressive. Then, she kicks on the Keeley.

She plays a single note. Then another. A slow, pulsing rhythm. Letting the pedal shape the sound.

Mio watches.

The difference is small, but perceptible. The notes come through with more weight, more definition, the sustain blooming just slightly at the tail-end. Naya leans into it, layering a melody over a droning low E, watching how the compression tightens the edges.

"Yeah," she murmurs, half to herself. "This thing is crisp."

Mio nods, caught in observation.

Naya keeps playing. The sound is hypnotic, her fingers moving between notes in a way that doesn't seem calculated, yet somehow feels intentional. A pulse, a rhythm, something that grows and evolves with each cycle.

And then—Naya turns a knob.

The sustain increases slightly, just enough to lift the notes into the air a little longer before fading. Naya flicks a glance at Mio.

"See? Fun."

Mio rolls her eyes. "That's not—"

"Controlled chaos," Naya interrupts, grinning. "See? It doesn't have to be boring."

Mio huffs, but something inside her loosens.

She takes her bass back, fingers settling against the strings again. The wood rests against her thigh like a heartbeat.

She plays.

She listens.

She lets it happen—lets the pedal do what it does, lets the circuit shape her attack and spread it across time with invisible precision. A single note. Then a pair. Then a phrase that rises and folds, rises and folds, like waves reaching toward a shore they'll never quite touch.

It's simple.

It's not revelation. Not transcendence. Not some sudden spark that sets her veins alight.

But it's... nice.

No overthinking. No hesitation. Just her, her bass, the way her fingers slide over the strings with practiced certainty, the subtle way the compressor reins them in, turns uneven into even, nervous into clean. The familiar pressure of the strings beneath her calluses. The vibration of the body against her own.

The sound resonates—not just in air, but in her bones.

This is you, it says. This is you, made legible.

She exhales, finally, easing into it. The tension in her shoulders lowers by degrees, like a dimmer switch turned down until her posture begins to remember what comfort is. Her left hand falls into rhythm, right hand tracing the fretboard like punctuation.

"Good pick," Naya says after a while.

Mio looks up, pulse still soft from the groove.

"The pedal, I mean."

Mio presses her lips together, trying not to smile. "I know."

Naya grins, one shoulder lifting. "Just making sure."

But she is sure. Or almost.

The Keeley is solid. Reliable. A foundation. It's not an adventure. Not a question. But maybe it doesn't have to be. Maybe it's something else—something quieter. A scaffolding. A spine.

Not everything has to burn to make you warm.

She adjusts the knobs again—slight, minimal tweaks—and listens closely, like tuning a whisper. The pedal doesn't give her thrill. It gives her permission. To sound the way she intends. To draw a line and know it won't blur.

To be clear.

She plucks another note, and this time she can hear it—the inconsistency vanish, the sound land like a period at the end of a thought. There. Exactly there. Not too loud. Not too soft. Nothing extra. Nothing exposed.

It's not dazzling, no. But it's hers. And maybe she needs that more than she realized.

Because maybe she's been too many things to too many people lately. A daughter. A bandmate. A girlfriend. A not-girlfriend. A good girl. A neat girl. A girl who doesn't ask for too much. A girl who doesn't make noise unless she's supposed to.

The compressor doesn't erase her. It lets her contain herself.

And she needs that.

For now.

Because maybe you have to build the floor before you can leap from it. Maybe you need to know what your baseline is before you start twisting knobs and chasing spark.

She looks up at Naya, who's pretending not to watch her too closely.

Mio doesn't say anything.

But she turns the knobs one more time, carefully, slowly, until the tone hums with just the right friction—something tight but pliant. Something that stays in its lane until she wants it not to.

Controlled chaos.

Yeah.

Maybe that's what she needs.

Not a fire. A fuse.

Mio adjusts one last setting, then sits back, nodding to herself. "Yeah. I think this was the right choice."

She expects the relief to settle in fully now, to feel completely certain. But a small, almost imperceptible weight lingers. Something like... an unfinished thought.

She glances at the multi-effects pedal still sitting on the shelf.

Just for a second.

Then she brushes it aside.

"Alright," Naya says, stretching as she stands. "Let's pay and get out of here."

Mio nods. They gather their things, stepping away from the test zone, weaving back toward the front of the store. She feels the weight of the box in her hand—not heavy, but solid. Real.

A decision made, even if the echo of another still hums somewhere behind her ribs.

---

They approach the counter, but just before reaching it, Mio slows.

She doesn't mean to. Not consciously. But she stops.

Because there—just to the side, lined up neatly along a metal display—are the straps.

She hadn't even been thinking about them. But now, standing in front of them again, she feels an odd pull.

A memory stirs—the faint brush of her fingers against leather, the weight of a voice behind her.

"That one suits you."

She blinks. The shop's cool air hums around her, the distant chatter of a customer speaking to a clerk. Naya steps forward but halts when she notices Mio has stopped.

A beat of silence.

Then, with the kind of lazy amusement only Naya can pull off—

"Mio."

Mio turns her head slightly.

"Are we ever leaving this store?"

"I just—I might need another strap. Mine's getting kind of old."

Naya leans slightly against a nearby rack. "Fair enough. But if we get sidetracked again, I'm making you buy me the strings as interest."

Mio huffs. "Fine."

She turns back to the straps.

There are plenty of options—various materials, patterns, colors. Some loud and bold, some sleek and understated. Some with intricate designs, others purely practical.

But, of course, she's already looking at two.

The same two she lingered on last time.

The dark brown leather strap. Simple. Classic. Sturdy. The one Kenji said suited her.

And—

The deep, rich blue strap with silver accents.

Mio hesitates.

It's not just the color. It's something about the way it stands out—not loud, but different. Something she wouldn't usually wear. Something that feels... like a decision she wouldn't normally make.

Her fingers brush the surface, tracing the silver accents, the softness of the fabric. She likes it. She doesn't know why, but she does.

"That one's cool," Naya comments.

Mio glances at her.

Naya nods at the blue one, casual but genuine. "Suits you."

"You think so?"

"Yeah." Naya shrugs. "Dunno. Feels like you."

Mio looks back at it. Her fingers rest against the strap, considering.

(It's just a strap.)

That's what she tells herself.

Something replaceable. Functional. Nothing like the weight of a pedal. Nothing like a decision that changes how you sound.

And yet—

Her hand lingers. Again.

The blue isn't loud, but it asks something of her. A softness that isn't passivity. A shimmer that doesn't beg for attention, just... exists. Like a secret she hasn't earned yet. Like the color knows her better than she does.

What does it mean to choose something just because it feels good? What does it say about her, to reach for something not because it's smart, or safe, or expected—but because her body leans toward it first?

It terrifies her. And it thrills her, too.

She remembers the feel of her old strap, the dependable drag of leather against her shoulder, worn to the shape of her. She remembers never questioning it.

Like Kenji. Like comfort. Like inertia dressed up as care.

But this—

This blue feels like movement. Like stepping slightly out of frame, out of alignment with who she thinks she's supposed to be—and toward something else. Something warmer. Stranger. Hers.

"... I usually go for brown ones," she says, almost absently. "Maybe I should just replace my old one with the same thing."

Naya watches her for a second. Then, tone light:

"But do you want to?"

Mio's grip on the strap tightens.

She doesn't answer immediately.

Kenji had said the brown one suited her. And he wasn't wrong—it's simple, practical, clean. The kind of thing she would usually pick without hesitation.

But this blue one—

She likes it.

She just... hadn't thought about choosing it.

She doesn't know what it means that she keeps hesitating.

Doesn't know why Naya's words make something shift in her chest.

But before she can overthink it—

"That color suits you."

Naya's voice. Said so easily. Said like it was obvious.

Mio turns to her, confused for a second.

"Blue, I mean." Naya gives her a lazy smirk. "Told you that already."

Mio blinks. Remembers.

The morning light. The heat creeping into her face as Naya leaned in, appraising her with that same confident ease.

"That color suits you."

Mio looks back at the strap.

Then, before she can let herself hesitate again—

She grabs it. The blue one. The one she actually wants.

"... Okay," she mutters, more to herself than anything. "This one."

Naya grins, like she knew all along.

They finally make their way to the counter. Mio glances at the strap again as she picks up her bag.

Deep blue. Silver accents catching the light.

She almost wonders if she'll regret not choosing the brown one.

But deep down, knows she won't.

Mio sets down the pedal and the strap. Naya sets down her strings. The cashier—a woman in her late twenties, her hair tied back in a neat ponytail—glances up as she takes Mio's items first.

"Did you find everything you were looking for?" she asks, addressing Mio directly.

Mio nods. "Yes, thank you."

The cashier hums, scanning the pedal and strap, fingers tapping rhythmically against the register.

Then, she glances at the strings. Just briefly. Then back at Mio.

"And this as well?"

Mio blinks.

Before she can even open her mouth, Naya steps in, her voice fluid, practiced. "No, those are mine."

The shift is subtle. Small. Almost imperceptible.

But Mio notices.

The cashier's smile tightens just slightly. The recalibration of her expression, the tiny moment of readjustment.

"Ah, I see," she says, nodding once before scanning the strings. Then—her gaze flickers back to Naya. A brief, automatic shift in tone. Lighter, slower.

"That will be 4,800 yen," she says, each syllable carefully measured.

Mio presses her lips together.

Naya, of course, doesn't react. Or, rather, she does—but only in the way she always does. She smiles, easy, as if she didn't notice. As if this isn't the hundredth time it's happened.

She places a 5,000 yen note on the counter. She thanks the cashier—polite, fluid Japanese, nothing about it hesitant or unsure.

The woman pauses, just for a second.

It's brief. Barely a flicker. But Mio catches it.

The same momentary hesitation as before. That tiny, invisible moment where some doubt crosses the clerk's mind, as if confirming something.

But then, she processes the payment, hands back the change, and bows.

"Thank you for shopping with us."

Naya tucks the strings into her fanny pack, nodding. "Thanks."

And just like that, it's over.

But Mio doesn't move yet.

She just stands there for a second too long, eyes fixed on the counter as if the residual weight of that moment still lingers between the coins and the air.

A delay. A softness in tone. A fraction of space carved by doubt.

What is she supposed to do with that?

Not enough to name. But too much to ignore.

Her hands tighten around the strap in her bag. It feels too new. Too blue.

(You're not the one being looked at differently.)

She knows that.

But still—

Watching Naya smile like it's nothing, watching her speak in perfect grammar with vowels curled just slightly wrong and watching people treat that like a deficiency—

It burns.

A quiet kind of helplessness. Not loud enough to name, but deep enough to settle in the lungs like humidity.

Like silence you can't swallow.

Mio sighs.

They step outside. The city air is thick with the heat of midday, but Mio barely feels it. She's still thinking.

Because of course.

Of course, this happens.

She knows it. She's seen it. It's always like this.

It's never overt. Never outright rude. Just small things. The pause. The slower speech. The polite but cautious readjustment of tone. The way people assume things—assume she's the one in charge, assume Naya needs extra clarification, assume she's different.

And it makes her feel—

She doesn't know.

It's not about her, obviously. Naya is the one dealing with it. But still.

She hates that she sees it. She hates that Naya notices it too, but just lets it roll off her like water on glass.

She hates that this is just a thing. A thing Naya deals with. A thing Mio would never have to.

"... You okay?"

Mio blinks, startled out of her thoughts.

Naya's watching her.

"I—yeah," Mio says quickly. "Just thinking."

Naya smirks. "Dangerous habit."

Mio scoffs, rolling her eyes, but something about it still sits wrong.

She doesn't know how to say it. How to voice it without making it sound like she is the one making a big deal out of it.

But shouldn't it be a big deal?

Before she can figure it out, Naya stretches her arms behind her head, exhaling lazily. "That was fast. Usually, clerks take an extra five seconds to decide whether my money's real."

Mio frowns. "Naya—"

"Joking, joking," Naya chuckles. "Mostly."

"That's not funny."

"It kind of is," Naya counters, her smirk lazy. "If you squint."

Mio exhales sharply. "You shouldn't have to—" She stops herself.

Naya glances at her.

Then, with an easy, knowing smile, she shrugs.

"Yeah," she says simply. "But it is what it is."

And Mio hates that.

She hates how easy that acceptance sounds. Like it's just a fact of life, like gravity, like the sky being blue.

Like this is just how things are.

She presses her lips together, shifting her grip on her bag.

Naya nudges her shoulder lightly. "Don't make that face. My strings survived the transaction. We're all good."

Mio wants to say something else. Wants to push back. But what can she say?

So, instead, she just exhales and forces herself to move on.

Naya takes her phone out of her fanny pack and checks the time. The motion is lazy, almost absentminded, but when her eyes land on the screen, she blinks.

"Oh. Past noon already."

Mio hums in acknowledgment, adjusting the strap of her bass case.

Then, something unexpected.

Naya hesitates.

It's brief, a flicker of something uncharacteristically shy passing over her expression. But Mio catches it.

"So," Naya starts, scratching the back of her neck, "you hungry?"

Mio nods. "Yeah, I guess."

"Okay. Uh..." Naya shifts her weight. "Wanna grab something to eat?"

The question is simple. Neutral. But there's something in the way she asks it, in the way she lingers on the words, like she's weighing them before speaking. Something a little shy, a little uncertain. And that, more than anything, throws Mio off.

Naya doesn't get shy when she asks things.

And yet, here she is, waiting, watching Mio like this actually matters.

She's been easy all day—carefree, fluid, unbothered by anything. Testing strings like she was born to do it. Playing bass in a shop like it was a stage made just for her. Laughing off the slow speech of a cashier like it couldn't touch her.

And now she's hesitating.

For this?

Not a new pedal. Not a question about tone or style or form. Just lunch. Just something small. And yet she asks it like she's asking for permission.

It throws Mio. It disorients something quiet inside her.

Why does she look like that matters?

Mio tilts her head. "We could just go back to the dorms."

"Yeah, but it might be a little late for you," Naya muses. "Though, I mean, this time seems unholy to eat, but oh well."

Mio glares at her. "It's literally lunch time now."

"Not for me, it's not." Naya chuckles. "Sunday. Noon. Back home? I'd probably still be sleeping."

Mio lifts a brow. "Didn't you say earlier that you'd be having breakfast at ten?"

"Or I'd be sleeping."

Mio sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You do realize that in this country, we eat at reasonable hours?"

"You think they're reasonable," Naya counters. 

"So, what, Spanish people just never eat on time?"

"No, we eat at the right time." Naya looks deeply offended by the mere suggestion otherwise. "It's you guys that eat too early. In Spain, I usually eat lunch at two."

"Two? That's late."

"No, it's not."

Mio gives her a flat look. "Two is late."

"It's tradition," Naya corrects, hand over her heart, like she's defending something inviolable. "Lunch at two watching The Simpsons on Antena 3. That's just how it is."

Mio stares at her, dumbfounded. "... I didn't understand half of that sentence."

"Doesn't matter. It's the truth."

Mio huffs.

Naya laughs. Then, softer this time: "But seriously. Do you wanna find a place around here and eat with me? Or go back to the dorms? Whatever you decide."

An out.

Naya always gives her an out.

Mio hesitates.

There it is again—that pause, that moment where things feel too aware, where she feels too aware.

Should she?

She could just go back to the dorms, eat there, keep things simple. But they might be late for that anyway. Going back to the dorms would be cutting it close for lunch. And yet, spending more time alone with Naya is dangerous. Tempting in ways Mio doesn't quite want to acknowledge.

But it's just food.

Just lunch.

And they'd be late getting back to the dorms anyway.

(You shouldn't. You've already done enough. You already pulled away. You made the distance. You drew the line and then sat behind it like that was the brave thing to do.)

And still, Naya asks. Still, she smiles. Still, she plays Mio's songs, learns the slap technique Mio showed her, remembers every offhand joke.

Naya takes everything Mio gives her and stores it somewhere deeper than Mio ever meant for it to go.

And what has she done, exactly?

Listened to Naya play piano once and ran from it.
Took Naya's story and said nothing.
Let Naya carry Mio's music like a second heart, and didn't even thank her for it.

(You're the one who said you needed space.)

But Naya never asked for more than this. She just stayed.

Mio swallows. The guilt tastes metallic in her tongue.

And also...

She's been trapped in the dorms for a month. She deserves a break. And she's comfortable, isn't she? And she's having fun. And she—

She misses Naya, doesn't she?

She misses their pedal sessions. Their back and forth. Their easy flow.

She shouldn't. It hasn't even been that long. But she does.

"... Yeah," she finally says. "Okay."

Naya's brows lift, like she wasn't sure what Mio's answer would be. But then, she smiles, tentative, as if she's trying to keep from letting out a smile too big. "Cool."

"Do you want something specific?" Mio asks.

Naya shrugs. "I'm craving something Japanese. Ramen, maybe?"

Mio thinks for a second, then nods. "There's a ramen place not too far from here," she suggests. "Small, but popular with students."

"Sounds good to me," Naya says, clearly pleased with the suggestion.

And just like that, off they go.

Through the midday crowd, through the pulsing energy of the city. The streets hum with movement—conversations blending, traffic murmuring, a train passing in the distance. Mio listens to the rhythm of their steps against the pavement, to the occasional rustling of Naya's shirt in the warm summer breeze.

And as they weave through Tokyo's heartbeat, side by side, Mio tells herself this is nothing.

Just food.

Just lunch.

And nothing more.

Even if something inside her still hums louder than it should.

Mio keeps her eyes ahead. Naya walks beside her, easy, unhurried, as if time doesn't matter at all.

Notes:

If you made it to the end: thank you. This chapter was a beast, but it's one I've been building toward for a long time. Writing Mio's first pedal purchase turned out to be way more emotional than I expected (why does gear shopping feel like a crisis of identity??), but I loved digging into all the layers here: control vs. chaos, voice vs. utility, want vs. permission. And of course, Naya just vibing through it all with a fanny pack full of judgment and affection.

Endless thanks again to my beta Jules (tsuki_anne), who continues to catch my comma crimes and gently steer me away from emotional spirals (both fictional and real). You are the Keeley Compressor to my chaotic multi-effects impulse.

Actually, my beta loves Mio's introspection in this fic, and I'm but a humble servant, so if she wants 30k of Mio spiraling over a bass strap, I bow to my queens (Jules, Mio and Naya).

Also: wow. So Naya and Mio are eating out. Together. After gear shopping. Alone. With fluttery pauses. And shy questions. And shared glances. And heart things. But it's definitely not a date. Noooo. Mio said so, then obviously it isn't. Obviously. Definitely. Unquestionably. Just two gals being emotionally evasive under the harsh fluorescent light of denial.

Thanks for sticking around for this slow descent into musical intimacy and pedal induced yearning. See you in Chapter 24, aka "How Many More Ways Can We Almost Touch But Not Talk About It?" (Answer: many.)

Until next time ♫

Chapter 24: Kaleidoscope

Summary:

Mio goes to an impromptu not-date.

Notes:

Welcome back to two emotionally constipated dorks go out for ramen and somehow unlock three new levels of intimacy without meaning to. This chapter is brought to you by: oversharing, cultural dissonance, passive-aggressive slurping, and the unmistakable vibe of a date that is definitely not a date (except it totally is).

Huge thanks to my wonderful beta, Jules (tsuki_anne), for helping me untangle the cultural side of things—especially the meal customs.

Hope you enjoy watching these two try very hard not to fall in love. Spoiler: it's not going great.

Kaleidoscope, by DJ Okawari, was released on July 13, 2011.

July 24, 2011

Naya reaches for the door first, pushing it open and stepping aside to hold it open for Mio. It's a thoughtless action, automatic, the kind of ingrained habit that Mio recognizes instantly.

Just like in the café.

Naya catches herself a second too late, exhaling sharply through her nose, but Mio is already chuckling as she steps inside.

"You do that a lot," Mio notes, glancing at her as they find their seats.

Naya shrugs. "Force of habit."

Mio hums, amused, watching as Naya picks up the menu, eyes scanning the contents like she's studying for an exam.

Mio doesn't need to look. She already knows what she wants. Knows every option by heart, the kanji familiar, readable. Naya, on the other hand, takes longer. She frowns slightly, tilting her head, lips moving faintly like she's mouthing the words to herself. It takes Mio a second to realize she's translating—deciphering the meanings, working her way through the strokes and syllables in her head.

She doesn't say anything, but something about it sits strangely in Mio's chest.

The waitress approaches their table. She turns to Mio first, of course. Always Mio first.

"What can I get for you?"

Mio gives her order smoothly, then glances at Naya.

And then there's the shift. That brief, almost imperceptible moment where the waitress registers the foreignness of the other girl sitting at the table.

Naya straightens slightly, setting the menu down. "Tonkotsu ramen, please."

Her pronunciation is fine—good, even. But when she says 'ramen', the 'r' rolls in in that familiar Naya accent that ties her to where she is from.

Naya hears it too. Winces. Mouth twitching in that way Mio recognizes now—mild frustration, the kind that isn't loud, just resigned.

The waitress nods and turns away without comment.

Naya exhales, drumming her fingers against the table. "That 'r' is gonna be the death of me."

Mio tries, valiantly, to suppress a smile. She fails. "It wasn't that bad."

"You hesitated."

"I was trying to be nice."

Naya groans, slumping forward. "It's always the 'r' sounds. No matter what I do, they come out wrong."

"It's charming."

"It's annoying."

Mio chuckles. "You can't help it. It's your accent. But you're fine."

Naya leans back with a sigh. "Yeah, yeah. One day, I'll nail it. Just wait."

Mio watches her for a moment, something unreadable in her gaze.

The ramen shop is warm. The kind of warmth that seeps into the air rather than the skin, carried in laughter, the sizzle of the kitchen, the rise and fall of voices overlapping like layered harmonies. It's small but lively—popular among students, with posters curling slightly at the edges and tables packed tightly together. The scent of broth, rich and heavy with umami, drifts through the space.

Naya takes it in. The whole scene.

Mio gazes at her.

Pretends not to, though. She lets her eyes drift, feigning absentmindedness, as if lost in thought. As if she's not acutely aware of Naya's eyes moving, flicking from one table to the next, from one group to another. Taking note. Taking in.

The way a foreigner does.

Because that's what she is. Foreign.

It's easy to forget, sometimes. Naya carries herself like she belongs—confident, unbothered. And Naya never speaks about it, never acknowledges the weight of existing in a place that was never built for her. She's adaptable. Confident, even. She makes people laugh, teases, navigates the space around her with an ease that Mio once mistook for complete self-assurance.

But now, here, in the soft glow of hanging lanterns and the quiet hum of easy, unthinking camaraderie, Mio sees something else.

Naya's gaze lingers on a group by the counter—three girls, maybe their age, maybe younger—laughing in that effortless, weightless way that comes from years of shared memories. Naya watches not in longing, not in envy, but in something quieter. Something observational. Something detached.

And Mio imagines what it must be like.

To always be thinking in a language that isn't yours, translating and recalibrating before every response. To move through a culture where the rules are silent, implicit, unspoken yet universally understood except by you. To constantly adjust, to bend and shift and fit, knowing that no matter how seamless you make it look, there will always be a gap, an imperceptible distance.

Mio doesn't have to think about these things. About where she belongs. About what it's like to constantly adjust, to monitor, to measure.

She takes it for granted, doesn't she?

She has her friends. Her people. The ones who have always been there, unchanging, unquestioning, constant. The ones who know the rhythm of her silences, who can pull her back into a conversation with a simple glance, a teasing remark, a familiarity that runs deeper than words.

She also has her culture. The quiet security of knowing, instinctively, how to navigate a space without questioning whether she belongs in it. She doesn't have to hesitate before she speaks, to wonder if what she says will be received the way she intends. She doesn't have to think about whether she's too much or not enough, doesn't have to worry about the weight of perception culturally speaking—her insecurities, though, that's another story. But she doesn't have to second-guess her words, doesn't have to filter her thoughts through the fragile sieve of a second language. She doesn't have to double-check if she's interpreting a joke right, or if the pause in a conversation means discomfort, or if the way someone looks at her is amusement or impatience.

She doesn't have to think about what's lost in translation.

But Naya does.

Naya, who is here in a country that isn't hers, speaking a language that wasn't hers first. Who doesn't have childhood friends here, no familiar landmarks of memory, no street corners that smell like nostalgia, no places that feel like home.

Mio wonders what that must feel like.

(You're overthinking it.)

Maybe.

Her gaze flickers back to Naya, who is just observing.

And Mio sees it, now, with startling clarity—the way Naya holds herself, the way she doesn't try to force herself into the rhythm of the room. She exists in it, but not quite with it.

How exhausting it must be.

Mio has always thought of herself as the quiet one, the one who lingers on the edges, but now she wonders—has she ever really been alone? Has she ever known what it's like to stand in a room full of people and feel like an observer rather than a participant?

No.

Because even in her silence, she has always belonged.

She has never been the one adapting.

Naya has.

And maybe that's part of why she finds herself so drawn to Naya, in this strange, quiet way she's still trying to make sense of.

It's a strange thing, being so attuned to someone else's quiet hesitations.

She knows Naya doesn't talk about it. Not often. She hides it well—laughing, joking, deflecting. But Mio has seen the cracks. The pauses before speaking, like she's rearranging words in her head. The way she hesitates, just briefly, before slipping into a conversation. The way she watches, always a second behind the rhythm of things.

She wonders if Naya ever thinks about home. If she misses it—not just in the fleeting way people miss a favorite food or a childhood street, but in the deep, aching way that comes from being untethered, from knowing that no matter how much time passes, something will always feel slightly out of sync.

Mio doesn't ask, and she doesn't know why.

Maybe because she's afraid of the answer.

Or maybe because she's afraid of what it means that she cares so much about it. About her.

She does, though. She cares. She has from the start, hasn't she? And she knows she cares. She's known for a while now.

She cared when she first saw Naya stepping into the club, when she helped her with the club form, when she started noticing the pauses in her speech, the careful way she navigated spaces that weren't built for her.

She's been trying to make things easier for Naya since the start. Offering small reassurances, careful gestures, guiding her through unspoken rules without ever acknowledging that's what she was doing.

And then she tried to pull away.

Why?

If she's always cared, if she's always wanted to make things easier—then why did she try to pull away? Why had she let herself hesitate?

(Because it's safer. Because if you step back now, it won't mean anything. Because if you don't let yourself think too much about it, then you won't have to understand what it means.)

But she does think about it.

And that's the problem.

But yes. It was safer. Because she didn't know what to do with the way Naya had started settling into her life so effortlessly, with the way she had started thinking about her outside of club meetings, outside of bass, outside of the excuses she used to justify it.

Because some part of her knew—knows—that if she keeps letting Naya in, it will change things.

And Mio doesn't like change.

Not when it's something she can't define.

So she cared, and yet she still tried to leave space between them. As if space could erase the pull.

Mio knows Naya gets along well with the girls at the club. Yui loves her, Mugi likes her, Liz teases her, Momo looks up to her in that quiet, unspoken way that Mio recognizes as admiration. But Naya doesn't talk about them much. She doesn't talk about Ruby Riot much either, despite how obvious it is that she and Liz have a natural rhythm, despite how protective she is of Momo.

Despite all of it, there is still something... distant about her.

Liz and Naya have known each other for a while now. Liz, who barrels through social barriers like they don't exist, who probably forced her way into Naya's life with sheer willpower. That kind of friendship helps, Mio thinks. It must. But Liz has her own life. Her own people.

And what about Naya?

Does she have anyone else?

Does she feel lonely?

Mio watches as Naya's gaze follows a burst of laughter from a nearby table. A group of students, their conversation spilling over into the air, full of inside jokes, shared experiences, a casual intimacy that can't be replicated overnight.

Does she miss that?

The easy camaraderie, the effortless laughter. The kind of belonging you don't have to work for.

Mio doesn't ask.

She knows that Naya chooses not to talk about certain things. Her family. Her friends. Her life before she came here. She's mentioned them—once, maybe twice—but always in passing, like a detail too insignificant to linger on.

She wonders what it would be like to be in Naya's position. To know that everything here—every connection, every routine, every place she's learned to love—is temporary. That no matter how much she settles in, no matter how much she adapts, she will never fully belong in the way she once did back home.

What does that feel like? To make friends while knowing they will never be lifelong ones? To exist in a space where you are welcomed but never woven into the fabric of it?

Mio has never known that kind of loneliness.

Even at her most withdrawn, even when her shyness made her hesitate, she was never truly alone. Ritsu was always there, yanking her into the moment, forcing her to be present. Mugi, with her endless warmth. Yui, with her unwavering affection. Azusa, with her quiet but steady presence.

She has never had to wonder if she's temporary.

She has never had to question whether she's an outsider in her own life.

But Naya?

Mio's gaze flickers back to the girl across from her.

Naya sighs, leaning back in her chair, the faintest trace of something unreadable lingering in her expression. It disappears as quickly as it comes, replaced by the usual ease, the lazy, lopsided smirk that Mio has come to recognize as deflection.

Mio wonders if anyone else notices.

She wonders if anyone else sees the quiet distance, the pauses before she speaks, the way her eyes move—not aimlessly, but like she's observing. Calculating. Adjusting.

She wonders how often Naya feels alone.

Mio's hands curl slightly in her lap.

She thinks about all the times they've hung out in the club, in groups, surrounded by chatter and music. Naya always seems fine. Always laughing. Always easygoing. But it's not quite the same as what Mio has with the others.

With Ritsu, Yui, Mugi, Azusa—it's effortless. The kind of familiarity that doesn't require thinking, the kind of bond built over years, where silences don't have to be filled, where understanding is implicit.

With Naya, it's different. New.

And maybe Mio is beginning to understand just how much that means.

Just the two of them. Sitting here.

It should feel easy. It always has. But Mio can't ignore the weight in her chest, the way something small and tight coils in the space between them.

Maybe it's guilt.

For pausing the pedal sessions. For stepping back. For convincing herself that distance was what she needed, when in reality, it was what she feared.

She told herself she was busy, that she needed to focus, that it wasn't personal. But now, sitting here, watching Naya pick absently at the edge of the menu, Mio wonders—had it felt personal to her?

Had Naya noticed the space Mio had tried to create between them? Had she understood why?

Do I even understand why?

She should say something. She should do something.

But instead, she just sits there, caught in a strange, quiet awareness of the space between them. Of the fact that, for weeks now, she's been trying to make space—pulling back from the pedal sessions, withdrawing into the excuse of exams, of needing to focus.

(Because it was too much. Because she was getting too close.)

And yet, here she is. Sitting across from Naya. Watching her. Thinking about her.

It doesn't make sense.

Or maybe it does.

Naya's expression is neutral now, but there's something in the set of her shoulders, in the stillness of her posture, that makes Mio wonder.

She wants to ask. She wants to say something. But the words tangle in her throat, uncertain.

Naya glances up. Their eyes meet, just briefly, just enough for something unspoken to pass between them.

Mio looks away first.

Maybe that's why she thinks about Naya more and more these days.

Not in a conscious way.

But in these quiet moments—where the world fades into the background, where the only thing she's aware of is the girl sitting across from her—Mio realizes something.

Something she's not sure she knows how to name.

Then, before she can think too much about it, she speaks.

"Do you miss it?"

Naya blinks. "Miss what?"

"Home." Mio's voice is quiet. "Your friends. Your family. Spain."

Naya stares, as if she were internalizing the question. Then she exhales softly, giving Mio a small smile. It's not a deflection, not quite. Just something light.

"Yeah," she admits. "Sometimes. But it's not so bad. I mean, I've got the girls at the club. And I've got you. You're a great friend."

She says it easily, casually. But something in Mio stills.

It shouldn't make her pause. It shouldn't make something in her chest twist—just slightly, just enough for her to notice.

"You're a great friend."

The words settle, heavier than they should be. And Mio doesn't know why.

Or she does.

She remembers the café. The warmth in Naya's voice when she had said it then, too—"You're my best friend here."

And now, hearing this—after weeks of pulling away, of making excuses, of convincing herself that space was necessary—now the words feel different.

She doesn't deserve them.

She's spent the last few weeks telling herself she was just busy. That it wasn't personal. That Naya was fine without her.

But she wasn't withdrawing because she was busy. She was withdrawing because—

Maybe Naya never even noticed. Maybe she doesn't think anything of it. But the ease with which she says it—"You're a great friend"—somehow makes it worse. Because it means that, despite everything, despite Mio's hesitations and distance, Naya still enjoys her company. She still trusts her enough to say that.

And that trust—Mio isn't sure she's earned it. Not after trying so hard to step back.

So why does it feel like something inside her is pulling her forward instead?

Why does it feel like she's the one who doesn't understand what she's doing anymore?

She should feel relieved. This is good. Safe. It means nothing has changed. Just like she wanted.

Just like she told herself she wanted.

So why does it feel like a quiet kind of ache?

She looks down.

Maybe she's overthinking.

Or maybe she's finally thinking about it the way she should.

Either way, she doesn't get much time to dwell on it because, before she can figure out what to say next, Naya is frowning at the time on the clock in the wall.

"Man, it's not even one," she comments offhandedly.

Mio looks up. She waits for the rest of the sentence. The explanation. The logic behind the complaint.

It doesn't come.

She frowns. "And?"

Naya shrugs, as if the answer is obvious. "It just feels weird."

"What does?"

"Having lunch."

Mio glances around the ramen shop. It's full. Students crowding tables, people coming and going, the usual lunch rush well underway. "It's normal. People eat lunch around this time."

"Here, maybe." Naya leans back in her seat. "Not where I'm from. I told you, we eat at two. Maybe even three."

Mio stares. Processing. Counting. Doing the math. Then—

"Three?!"

Naya shrugs again, unbothered. "Yeah. That's normal."

Mio can't. She just... can't. Normal? Having lunch at three in the afternoon is normal? What do they even do before that? Just starve?

"That's practically dinner," she says, bemused.

"Nope. Dinner is at nine. Or ten."

"... What?"

"What?" Naya echoes, smirking at Mio's visible distress.

"TEN?!"

Some nearby students glance their way. Mio doesn't care. She needs clarification.

Naya is already laughing. "It's not that bad."

"That's practically midnight!"

"It's not."

"It is! You—" Mio gestures at her, at everything about this nonsense. "You eat dinner at bedtime?"

"It's not bedtime, it's dinner time."

"No! No, it's not! I'm asleep by ten!"

"You're asleep by ten?" Naya repeats, eyebrows raised. "Like... willingly?"

"Yes, willingly!"

"That's kind of tragic."

"It's normal!"

"Not where I'm from."

Mio slumps back in her seat. This is ridiculous. A whole country of people just casually eating dinner when she's brushing her teeth and winding down for bed?

And Naya acts like she's the normal one here.

Mio exhales, exhausted by the mere concept of Spain.

"Okay. So... lunch at three."

"Yep."

"And dinner at ten?"

"More or less."

Mio stares. "How are you not dead by eight?"

Naya grins, unfazed. "We have merienda."

Mio blinks. "Excuse me?"

"Merienda," Naya repeats, like it's a spell.

There's a long pause. Mio waits. No explanation comes.

"Okay, and that is...?"

"A snack."

Mio gives her a flat look. "Then just say snack."

"No, no. It's not just a snack. It's... a structured snack. A cultural institution. Like the Brits and their five o'clock tea."

Mio raises an eyebrow. "So... you sit around at six in the afternoon eating cookies and pretending it’s sophisticated?"

Naya scoffs. "Please. Spain isn't sophisticated. And neither are the Brits, to be fair—especially when they're sunburnt and drunk in Ibiza."

Mio snorts. "Fair enough." She drags her chopsticks through her broth. "So, you eat lunch at three. Then meh... ri-en-da—"

"Around six, seven."

"—and then dinner at ten."

"Sí."

"... So you basically snack your way through the afternoon?"

Naya shrugs. "We're a nation built on grazing."

Mio's brow furrows. "That sounds chaotic."

"It's cozy. You'd like it. You get to try little things, bit by bit. Like tapas."

Mio perks up. "Oh, wait, I've heard of those. Aren't they like, bar snacks?"

Naya gasps. "Blasphemy."

"What? That's what I read."

"They are not bar snacks. They are an artform. A philosophy. A lifestyle."

"A lifestyle," Mio echoes, dubious.

"Sí." Naya holds up a finger for each point. "Small portions. Shared plates. No rush. You sit, you eat, you talk. You order more if you want. There's no pressure."

Mio hums. "Okay. That sounds... kind of nice, actually."

Naya grins, victorious. "See? You're halfway Spanish already."

"I'm not sure that's how it works."

"But you get it. The joy of a small bite. The rhythm of food and conversation."

Mio chuckles softly. "I mean, we have snacks too. Combini runs. Ramen after gigs. Convenience store sandwiches."

"And they're the best, no?"

"Undeniably."

Naya leans in slightly. "Then maybe we're not so different."

Mio lifts her gaze, playful. "Except I eat three meals a day and you... eat whenever the spirit moves you."

"The spirit of jamón ibérico, sí."

They laugh, their bowls forgotten for a moment.

Naya leans back, chopsticks still in hand, gaze drifting toward the steam curling off her ramen. "I do miss it sometimes, though."

"Ha-mon?" Mio asks.

"Jamón, croquetas, tortilla, pan con tomate..." She sighs wistfully. "And eating at a normal hour."

Mio tilts her head, incredulous. "You think having dinner at ten is normal?"

"It is for us." Naya scoops up some noodles, then pauses, squinting at the clock on the wall. "This is nice, though. Even if it's happening at an unholy hour."

"And with so many snacks and tapasu, how are you not constantly full?"

Naya shrugs. "Efficient metabolism?"

Mio glares, accusatory. Of course. Of course Naya has an "efficient metabolism." The universe just hands some people things like perfect pitch, great hair, and the ability to inhale an entire bakery without consequence. Meanwhile, Mio spends one evening indulging in extra rice, and suddenly, her jeans feels tighter. She so much as looks at a slice of cake and immediately regrets it. Life is unfair.

She immediately regrets every pastry, every cookie, every bite she has ever taken in Naya's presence. How dare she just casually throw out "efficient metabolism" like that? Mio already has enough unresolved grievances with biology—this is just cruel.

But it's fine. She's fine.

Naya, unaware of the existential crisis she has triggered, simply shrugs. "You're just jealous we figured out the best way to live. It's a good life."

"You're constantly eating."

"And yet," Naya says smugly, "we're still thriving."

Mio pinches the bridge of her nose. Spain is wild.

She still doesn't understand how people can have so many snacks in the middle of the day, but then again, she's spent months now learning that things that feel obvious to her aren't necessarily universal.

Like how ten o'clock is bedtime.

Or how ramen isn't eaten quietly.

Or how someone like Naya, who has fit so easily into her life, can still feel like a mystery she's only just beginning to unravel.

She exhales, shaking her head. "You people are eating nonstop."

"And you," Naya counters, "go to bed way too early."

"I do not."

"You do."

"I don't."

"Mio, I bet you yawned at nine thirty last night."

Mio hesitates. "... Irrelevant."

Naya cackles.

The ramen arrives, steaming and fragrant, the rich scent of the broth rising in warm, curling tendrils as the waitress sets down their bowls. A steaming bowl of tonkotsu ramen is set in front of Naya. The noodles glisten under the shop's lights, the golden yolk of the ajitama peeking through the layers of chashu and green onions. It looks perfect.

Mio picks up her chopsticks automatically, ready to dig in.

Naya, however, doesn't move.

She's staring. Not at her ramen, but at the people around them.

Mio pauses, glancing at her. "... What?"

Naya doesn't respond immediately. She's too busy observing. Her eyes flick from one table to the next, tracking the movements of other diners—specifically, how they eat.

Or rather, how they slurp.

Slurping is everywhere. At nearly every table, people are hunched over their bowls, chopsticks in one hand, spoons in the other, inhaling noodles with enthusiastic, unapologetic slurps.

It's loud. Completely normal.

And Naya is fascinated. Or maybe horrified. Mio isn't sure.

Naya's eyes track the movement of a guy at the counter as he lifts a bundle of noodles, leans forward, and sucks them up with practiced ease. The sound is obnoxious, long and unbroken, punctuated only by the soft clatter of his chopsticks against the edge of the bowl.

Mio doesn't even blink. It's background noise.

Naya, however, is staring like she's witnessing a crime. Not quite disgusted. Not quite fascinated. Something in between.

Naya winces. "They're so loud."

Mio stifles a laugh. Here we go.

"It's normal," she says, breaking apart her chopsticks.

"I know," Naya says quickly. "I know that. But still."

Naya winces again as another particularly intense slurp echoes from a nearby table. A guy at the counter tilts his bowl and sucks up a mouthful of noodles, the sound obnoxiously loud even over the buzz of conversation. A woman a few seats down does the same, inhaling her ramen like a vacuum.

Mio chuckles, amused. "You don't slurp your ramen?"

Naya visibly shudders. "No."

"You know it's fine, right?"

"I know." Naya nudges her noodles around with her chopsticks. "It's just—where I'm from, slurping is rude."

Mio blinks. "Really?"

"Yeah." Naya glances at her bowl, then at the people around them. "I mean, obviously I know it's normal here. But it's been drilled into my brain since I was a kid—don't slurp."

Mio raises an eyebrow. "It's just how you eat ramen."

Naya makes a face. "If you slurp your soup in Spain, people will judge you. This—" Naya gestures vaguely toward the room, where at least three different people are mid-slurp—"is lawlessness."

"So, you never slurp?"

"Nope."

"Not even a little?"

"Nope."

"Even when you eat ramen?"

Naya sighs. "Mio."

Mio smirks. "It's just funny. You're in Japan, eating ramen, surrounded by people slurping—"

"And yet, I refuse," Naya deadpans.

"Stubborn."

"Culturally ingrained."

Mio chuckles. Naya huffs but finally picks up her chopsticks. Still, she hesitates before reaching for her noodles. It's like she's mentally preparing herself.

Mio pretends not to notice.

She pulls up a bite of noodles, leans forward, and slurps.

Loudly.

Just to see what Naya does.

Naya freezes. Then, slowly, she looks at her. Expression flat. Unamused.

Mio chews, swallows, and sets down her chopsticks with exaggerated nonchalance. "Problem?"

"You did that on purpose."

Mio picks up her spoon, feigning innocence. "Did what?"

Naya sighs and finally picks up her own noodles. Mio assumes she's going to take a bite. But then—

Naya blows on the noodles.

And that—that—makes Mio stare.

Naya pauses mid-blow. "What?"

"What are you doing?"

"Cooling it down," Naya answers, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Mio is baffled. "Why?"

"Because it's hot?"

"Yeah, but... that's why you slurp."

Naya blinks.

"Slurping cools it down," Mio explains. "It mixes the air in as you eat."

Naya doesn't look convinced. "You're telling me you slurp to cool it down?"

"Yeah."

"So instead of just waiting, or blowing on it like a normal person, you make it sound like you're vacuuming up your meal?"

Mio snorts.

"Anyway," Naya says. "You slurp, I blow. Balance."

"That's not how that works."

"Well, I refuse to inhale my food while sounding like a malfunctioning sink."

"It's efficient."

Naya gives her a look.

Mio gives her one back.

A brief, silent standoff.

Then—Naya picks up another noodle. Mio watches as Naya gently exhales, cooling the steam from the broth before carefully bringing the noodles to her mouth. Then she lifts her chopsticks carefully, cautiously, before taking a bite—completely silent.

Mio smirks. Of course. She takes another bite—slurping freely, just to be annoying.

Naya glares.

Mio enjoys herself immensely.

She's already halfway through her bowl of ramen when she notices another thing.

Naya is eating slowly.

Not hesitantly—just naturally, casually, at her own pace.

Mio frowns slightly. It's not like she's scarfing her food down, but compared to Naya, she's already ahead.

She watches as Naya picks up another bite, chews thoughtfully, sets her chopsticks down for a moment, takes a sip of broth, leans back slightly—relaxed.

"... Are you even hungry?"

Naya looks at her. "Yeah. Why?"

"You said this is too early for you. And..." Mio gestures at her own bowl. "You're eating so slowly."

"No, you're just eating fast."

"I'm eating normally."

"Not for me."

Mio can't believe this. Everything can't be a cultural battle.

"Okay. How long does it take you to eat?" she asks.

Naya shrugs. "Depends. In a place like this, if we're talking, between half an hour and an hour."

Mio chokes. "An hour?!"

"Yeah."

"To eat a meal?!"

"Yeah."

Mio gapes. "How?!"

"Sobremesa."

Mio narrows her eyes. "That sounds made up."

Naya sets her chopsticks down. "It's not. It's what we do after meals—just sit, relax, talk."

Mio stares at her like she's witnessing an unsolvable paradox. "You just... sit there? After eating?"

"Yeah."

"For how long?"

"Depends."

"Five minutes?"

Naya scoffs. "Five minutes? Mio, please. That's barely a bathroom pause."

Mio braces herself. "Then how long?"

"Could be thirty minutes. Could be an hour. Maybe longer if you're with family or friends."

"So you're telling me... that after stuffing yourself full of food, instead of getting up and doing something, you just sit there?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

Naya shrugs, like it's obvious. "To enjoy the time together."

Mio does some quick, horrified math. "Okay. So you eat lunch at, what, two or three—which is already insane."

"More or less."

"And then that takes an hour—"

"Depends, but yeah."

"And then... soh-bu-reh-meh-sa takes another hour—"

"If you're lucky."

"So it's already five." Mio's eye twitches. "Five. In the afternoon. And you've just spent two hours doing nothing but eating and sitting?"

"Not nothing. Talking."

"Fine, talking," Mio huffs. "Then at six or seven, you eat again?"

"Yup, merienda."

"And then dinner at nine or ten?"

"More or less."

Mio is physically struggling with this information. "Naya."

"Hm?"

"When do you stop eating?"

"I don't understand the question."

"How is Spain still functioning as a country?!"

"Barely."

Mio exhales, trying to process this madness. "And you do this at restaurants?"

"Pretty much."

"And nobody kicks you out?"

Naya raises an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Because—the table? Other people need to use it?"

Naya snorts at that.

Mio is having an existential crisis. She grips the edge of the table like she might lose consciousness. 

"Japan would never allow this. The moment you finish, you're expected to leave."

Naya shakes her head in deep, profound disappointment. "Tragic."

"It's efficient."

"It's soulless."

"It's normal."

"Not where I'm from."

Mio exhales, watching as Naya casually picks up her chopsticks again, completely unbothered by the fact that she's still got half her meal left while Mio is almost done.

And, now that Mio thinks about it...

She's eating slower than usual.

She never lingers over ramen. It's always a quick meal—get in, eat, get out. But here she is, sitting with Naya, still picking at her food even though she should've been done minutes ago.

Weird.

She doesn't dwell on it.

Instead, she rests her chin on her hand and studies Naya. "Didn't you say you weren't used to Japanese breakfasts before?"

Naya nods. "Yeah. Took me a while."

"What do you normally eat for breakfast in Spain?"

Naya leans back slightly, thinking. "Something light. Cereals. Or coffee, toast, maybe some pastries."

"That's not a meal."

"It is for us. Besides, we make up for it with merienda."

"Of course you do."

Naya laughs. "But yeah, at first, eating a full meal in the morning was weird. Rice, miso soup, grilled fish—it felt like lunch."

Mio hums. "And now?"

Naya shrugs. "Now I don't think about it. I got used to it." She pauses. "But sometimes I do miss just having coffee and toast."

Mio chuckles. "I guess you really have adapted."

"Survival instincts."

Mio smirks. "Sure."

They eat in comfortable silence for a while.

Then—

Someone at a nearby table stands up and walks toward the bathroom and leaves their bag behind. Mio doesn't think much of it. Again—normal.

But then she notices Naya staring, eyes locked on the unattended bag.

Mio sighs. "What now?"

Naya gestures subtly. "That."

Mio follows her gaze. The bag. "What about it?"

"They just left it."

"Yeah?"

Naya blinks. "Like... just sitting there. Alone."

"Yeah?"

Naya's voice is full of genuine fascination. "Japan is wild."

"You wouldn't do that in Spain?"

"Pfft. Absolutely not. That bag would be gone in five minutes."

Mio raises an eyebrow. "Even in a nice place?"

"Doesn't matter. You don't leave stuff unattended." Naya leans forward. "And you guys do it with bikes too. Just parked outside, unlocked, no one steals them. It's insane."

"It's just how it is."

Naya shakes her head. "Wild."

Mio chuckles. "Culture shock?"

Naya nods.

There's something else, though.

A beat of silence.

Then, almost offhandedly, Naya murmurs, "Sometimes I feel like I'm being watched."

Mio blinks. "What?"

"Not in a creepy way," Naya clarifies. "Just... aware. Like people notice me."

"Because you're foreign?"

Naya nods, stirring her broth absentmindedly. "Yeah. I mean, I get it. I'm different. But sometimes, I catch people staring. Not in a bad way—just... observing."

Mio considers this.

She's heard of this before. How Japan has a strong sense of social self-policing, where people are hyper-aware of each other's actions. And, of course, Naya stands out.

She's never really thought about how that must feel.

"... Does it bother you?" Mio asks quietly.

"Not really. Not anymore. I think. Just something I notice." Naya pauses. "Guess it just reminds me that no matter how much I adapt, I'm still different."

Mio doesn't know what to say to that. So she doesn't say anything.

Instead, she picks up her chopsticks again.

Eats a little slower.

---

They step out into the warm summer air, the ramen shop's door clicking shut behind them. The street is alive with the hum of passing conversations, the distant whir of cicadas, the occasional rush of a bicycle zipping past.

Naya pouts. "You didn't let me do sobremesa."

Mio adjusts the strap of her bag. "I'm not going to sit at a table for thirty minutes doing nothing."

"It's not nothing," Naya argues, stuffing her hands into her pockets. "It's about appreciating the moment. Digesting. Enjoying the company."

Mio side-eyes her. "You just want an excuse to sit around longer."

"And? Is that a crime?"

"I swear, you're like some kind of food hoarder. You just stack meals like New Year's mochi—layer after layer, until it collapses."

Naya blinks. "Like what now?"

"Kagami mochi," Mio says, gesturing vaguely in the air. "You know, those round rice cakes you stack for New Year. One on top of the other. Symbol of luck or something. We put them on shrines, in living rooms... They're everywhere."

Naya tilts her head, curious. "With the tangerine on top?"

"Yes! That's the one. You've seen it?"

"In textbooks. And supermarket displays. Never in an actual house, though."

"You will, probably. Around winter break. Although, wait—you'll be home by then."

"Mmm. Not this year." Naya offers a small smile, almost offhand. "I'm not going home for the holidays. Just summer. Flights are too expensive, and I have finals right after. So... I guess kagami mochi it is."

That makes sense. It's lonely, but it practical.

Yet, a silence slips between them. Not heavy, just thoughtful. The kind that settles in when two people know they're full. Not just of ramen, but of something else. Steam and laughter and shared things they didn't expect to share.

They walk side by side, sunlight catching on Naya's hair, tousled from the summer breeze. Mio keeps her eyes forward. Tries not to think too much about the way their steps have started to match.

"You could come over one day during winter break," she says, softly. "With us. Or to my house. If you want."

She hears herself say it before she really thinks it through. And then it sits there between them, real and strange. Not strange like awkward—strange like personal.

Because she's never invited someone like this, except for Ritsu. Not casually. Not... easily. And yet with Naya, it comes out without friction.

She frowns at the ground. It's just a polite offer between two friends. So Naya feels less alone when the winter comes. It doesn't mean anything. It's not—

Naya glances at her, unreadable for a beat. Then smiles, gentle. "You'll have to teach me the mochi thing properly, then."

Mio tries not to blush. "It's not that complicated. Just... don't eat it right away. It's for decoration."

Naya chuckles. "A snack you're not allowed to eat. Japan would do that."

And just like that, Mio feels it again—that light pressure in her chest, not quite panic, not quite warmth. Like she's opened a door she didn't mean to open, and now there's a breeze coming in.

She huffs. "Japan would never allow your kind of loitering."

Naya stops on her tracks and gasps, dramatic. "Mio! No wonder you people are so stressed all the time."

"We are not stressed—"

"You barely take breaks. You rush through lunch. And yet, you still don't eat while walking to save time?"

"It's frowned upon."

Naya squints. "Why?"

"It's just... rude."

"Okay, but why? If you're hungry, why wouldn't you just eat while walking?"

Mio hesitates. She's never really thought about it in depth. It's just how things are. "I don't know. It's just considered bad manners. You're supposed to sit and eat properly."

"That explains why people were looking at me weird my first week here. I was walking down the street with a snack, and I swear, some old guy gave me a look."

Mio chuckles. "You were probably committing a cultural crime."

Naya sighs. "But what's the big deal? I wasn't throwing food around. I was just... eating."

Mio doesn't have an answer. Not one she can explain, at least.

She realizes, again, how deeply ingrained these things are. How normal they feel to her. How strange they must feel to Naya.

And for the first time, she wonders—if she were in Spain, what would she do wrong without even realizing it?

She doesn't say it aloud.

Instead, she nudges Naya forward. "C'mon, let's go before you offend the entire country."

"Too late," Naya mutters.

They fall into a comfortable rhythm, walking side by side, dodging the occasional pedestrian. The summer heat lingers, but the ramen shop's warmth still clings to Mio's skin, making it feel even heavier.

Then, as they wait at a crosswalk, something clicks in her head.

She turns to Naya. "Wait—you almost left money on the table."

Naya shrugs. "Force of habit."

"That's not a habit. That's literally giving money away."

"It's called tipping."

"In Japan, it's called confusing everyone in the restaurant."

Naya laughs. "I know. It happened before. When I got here before moving into the dorms, I went to a restaurant, ate, left a tip, walked out. Next thing I know, the waitress chased me down the street."

Mio's jaw drops. "No way."

"Yep. She caught up to me and tried to give it back. I was so confused. I was like, 'No, no, it's for you,' and she looked at me like I'd just committed a crime."

Mio wheezes. "I told you! You can't just leave money like that!"

"I figured it out eventually." Naya grins. "But at first? I thought I was being pranked. I was like, 'Am I getting robbed in reverse right now?'"

Mio laughs. "Oh my god, that's so dumb."

"Hey. You're dumb."

"You literally thought someone was robbing you by giving you money."

"Reverse robbery is a valid concern."

Mio shakes her head, but she can't stop smiling. Naya's strange sense of humor is weird, but refreshing somehow. Or maybe she's used to it already.

The crosswalk light changes, and they continue strolling down the street, weaving through the light foot traffic.

They settle into an easy silence.

Then, suddenly—

Naya stops.

Mio takes another step before noticing and turns back, confused. "What now—"

But Naya isn't listening.

She's staring at something.

Or at somewhere.

Mio follows her gaze and finds a small, cozy-looking café with large glass windows, decorated with pastel colors and delicate string lights. But it's not the decor that's caught Naya's attention.

It's the cats.

Inside, curled up on chairs, lounging on platforms, napping in baskets, or just wandering freely between customers, is an entire café full of cats.

Naya is frozen, eyes wide, utterly transfixed.

Mio watches as her face slowly shifts—confusion, realization, then pure, unfiltered joy.

"No. Way."

"You've never seen a cat café before?"

Naya turns to her, scandalized. "A what?"

"A cat café," Mio says, amused. "It's a place where you can have tea or coffee while petting and playing with cats."

Naya physically reels. "You can just... hang out with cats? While drinking coffee?"

"Yeah."

"That's a thing?"

"Yeah."

"Here? Right now?"

Mio nods, and Naya whips back around, pressing a hand to the glass like a child outside a toy store.

"This is the greatest thing I've ever seen."

Mio chuckles. "You like cats?"

Naya turns back, offended. "I love cats. I adore cats. This is—this is incredible. This is genius. This is a money making machine. Why don't we have this in Spain?!"

"You tell me."

"And they just let you pet them? Just like that?"

"Yeah. Some places have time limits, but you can stay for an hour or so. They usually have drinks, sometimes desserts."

Naya gasps. "Desserts?"

Mio nods, already knowing.

Naya wants to go in.

She's clearly dying to go in.

Mio watches her for a moment, watches how her face is practically glowing, how she hasn't moved from the window, how she keeps bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet, like she's restraining herself from running inside.

Mio sighs, crossing her arms. "I guess we can hang out there for a bit."

Naya spins around. "Really?!"

Mio shifts her weight, feigning nonchalance. "You're constantly eating. And you always have something after a meal anyway, right?"

Naya beams. "Mio, I could kiss you right now."

Mio's brain blue-screens.

It's a joke. Obviously, it's a joke. Naya says things like that all the time. Casual, teasing, exaggerated.

But Mio feels her face heat up anyway.

She turns toward the café door before Naya can notice. "Let's go before I change my mind."

She doesn't look back to check if Naya is following.

She already knows she is.

---

The moment they step inside, the clerk greets them with a polite bow, hands clasped neatly in front of her apron. She smiles—a practiced, customer-service kind of smile—before launching into the café's rules.

Mio listens.

Naya doesn't.

Mio can tell she's trying to listen. She really is.

But there are cats.

Right there. In the café. Wandering around, lounging on chairs, perched on shelves. Some are lazily grooming themselves, some are curled up in baskets, some are just right there, within reach, and yet—

Naya pretends to listen, nodding at appropriate intervals, making the occasional polite hmm or got it, but her eyes are locked on the cats beyond the barrier. She's physically vibrating. The only thing keeping her from bolting past the clerk is, presumably, sheer force of will.

Mio has never seen her like this.

Naya—usually calm and unfazed by most things—is vibrating with barely contained energy. It's ridiculous. She has transformed into a child at the mere sight of fluffy creatures. Her fingers twitch at her sides, and Mio can practically hear the silent screaming in her head every time a cat flicks its tail or stretches.

Naya, who is never in a rush, who moves through life with an effortless, laid-back air, who always seems mildly entertained but never too invested, looks five seconds away from combusting.

Meanwhile, the clerk continues, oblivious, explaining the café's rules. No picking up the cats. No waking up the sleeping ones. No feeding them anything but the provided treats. Wash your hands before interacting.

"—please be mindful of their space. If they come to you, you may pet them gently. Don't pick them up or wake them if they are sleeping—"

Mio watches as Naya nods along, eyes flicking between the clerk and the nearest cat like she's plotting.

"Yes. Sure. Of course."

No one has ever agreed to anything faster.

The clerk continues, listing rules about treats, playtime limits, not using flash photography. Naya's foot taps impatiently. Her head bobs in exaggerated agreement.

"Got it. Totally."

Mio has to bite the inside of her cheek.

Finally—finally—the clerk finishes, bows again, and waves them inside.

"Enjoy your time!"

And Naya is gone.

Not literally—she doesn't run—but she moves with the kind of purpose Mio has only ever seen when someone is sprinting toward the last train of the night. Her eyes scan the room like a general surveying the battlefield, assessing targets, deciding on the best approach.

She's practically glowing.

Mio is still trying to process this shift in personality as they order their drinks—tea for Mio, a latte for Naya, because of course she needs more energy right now—and then they step into the seating area.

Mio expects to have to physically restrain Naya from launching herself at the first cat she sees.

She doesn't.

Because the moment they step forward, something fascinating happens.

Naya slows.

Even as her entire body vibrates with excitement, even as she's clearly dying to pet them, she holds back. She gets down on her haunches, meeting a small, orange male tabby at eye level. She reaches out, slow, palm upturned in invitation.

She waits.

Mio watches, intrigued.

The cat sniffs her fingers, gives her a long, unimpressed look, then promptly flops onto his side.

Naya's face lights up.

She strokes his head gently, murmuring something soft—something Mio can't quite catch, until she listens closer.

"Hola, cosita. ¿Cómo estás? Sí, sí, eres monísimo. Lo sabes, ¿verdad?"

Mio blinks.

Naya is talking to the cat. In Spanish.

And not just talking—she's cooing, murmuring sweet nothings in the kind of voice people use for babies. She's gushing. The same girl who always sounds so casual, so nonchalant, with her deadpan and dry jokes, is now whispering endearments to a cat in the most ridiculous, sappy tone.

Mio is stunned.

Naya rubs behind the cat's ears, utterly smitten. "Por favor, eres adorable. Eres como un bebote grande."

The cat purrs. Naya looks like she has ascended to another plane of existence.

Mio exhales softly. She doesn't know why she assumed Naya would be reckless. Even at full excitement, she's careful—waiting for the cat's cues, respecting his space, not taking more than the cat is willing to give. That calm patience she always carries with her—it's there, even now.

It's... weirdly endearing.

Mio clears her throat. "You know they don't speak Spanish, right?"

Naya looks up, grinning. "They understand me in their hearts."

Mio snorts. "Right." She watches Naya, amused. "You know, I have never seen you this impatient and childlike."

"Mio." Naya turns to her, voice urgent, eyes alight with something bordering on religious fervor. "Do you understand what this place is?" She gestures dramatically. "This is a café. Full of cats."

"Yes, I know."

"Do you? Do you really?!"

"Did you think I was lying when I explained it outside?"

"Listen, conceptually, I understood. But in practice? This is revolutionary."

Mio smiles, watching as Naya extends a hand, slowly, letting another cat—a thin white male cutie—sniff her fingers before she even attempts to pet him.

"Hola, guapo," Naya coos, voice quiet and absurdly fond. "Mira qué bonito eres..."

Mio watches as Naya lets the cat approach on his own terms. Even beaming, even as she's clearly overwhelmed with excitement, she doesn't grab, doesn't push, doesn't disrupt. She just waits. And when the cat finally leans into her hand, Naya melts, stroking along his head with a kind of reverence usually reserved for religious experiences.

Mio doesn't think she's ever seen Naya look this happy.

It does something weird to her stomach.

She ignores it.

Instead, she makes her way to a nearby table and takes a seat. She takes a sip of her tea just as a soft thump lands against her lap.

She looks down.

A cat. A brown, short-haired female tabby with green eyes, slightly scruffy-looking, hops up onto her lap, paws tucked neatly under her chest, tail around herself, curling into a contented loaf like she owns the place.

Mio blinks.

Naya gasps.

"Oh my god," she whispers, eyes shining. "Mio. Mio. She chose you. You've been chosen."

Mio smiles, fond. "Apparently."

"This is a great honor."

"It really is."

The cat settles, closing her eyes as she begins a low, steady purr. Mio scratches lightly behind the cat's ear, feeling the purr vibrate against her legs. Then, she hesitates before carefully resting her hand against the cat's back.

Soft.

... Kind of nice.

Naya beams like a proud parent. She sighs happily, glancing around as she picks up her latte. She starts to move toward the seat across from Mio when something by her side makes her pause.

An elegant, sleek female black cat stands there, fur smooth and polished, poised like something carved from ink and shadow. Her grey-blue eyes fix on Naya with a cautious, unblinking stare.

Quiet.

Naya stills, lowering her hand in a slow, open gesture. She doesn't reach out, doesn't press.

"Hola, preciosa," she murmurs, soft enough that Mio almost doesn't catch it.

But the cat only flicks her ear, watching her for another beat, before she turns away and slinks beneath the table.

Naya smiles and withdraws her hand with an easy patience Mio recognizes too well. Then she sits across from Mio, sinking into the chair with the same ease she always carries, though her eyes keep drifting to the black cat beside her.

"I can't believe this place exists," she says after a sip of her latte, her eyes darting across the café, tracking every tail flick, every tiny stretch, every slow blink of contentment. "Your country has the coolest ideas."

Mio shifts slightly to get comfortable, her hand resting against the tabby's back. "Japan has a lot of themed cafés."

Naya raises an eyebrow. "Like what?"

Mio tilts her head, thinking. "There are owl cafés, hedgehog cafés, even reptile cafés."

"Reptile cafés?"

"Yeah."

"Wait. So I could be drinking coffee. And hanging out with a lizard."

"... I guess."

Naya seems deeply moved. "This country is amazing."

Mio laughs. "There are also cosplay cafés. Robot cafés. Some places where you can hang out with capybaras, I think."

Naya lights up again. "Capybaras?!"

"Yeah."

"Okay, why have we not gone to one of those?"

"You never asked."

"Because I didn't know those existed!"

There's a faint sound then—a soft rustle, the whisper of paws on cushion. Naya glances down, her breath catching.

The black cat is back.

She's climbed onto the bench beside Naya, her movements cautious. She pauses there, assessing, tail curling neatly around her paws.

Then, slowly, she steps closer.

A careful paw onto Naya's lap.

Then another.

Until she's settled there, tentative at first, as if waiting to be told to leave.

But when Naya says nothing—only stays still, warmth blooming across her face—the cat meows, low and content, and curls up, pressing her body lightly against Naya's stomach. A quiet, steady purr hums against her shorts.

Naya doesn't move at first.

Then, with a reverent slowness, she lifts her hand and runs her fingers gently along the sleek line of the cat's back.

Mio watches her do it, the way Naya's eyes soften, the way something quiet and unguarded settles across her face.

It does something else strange to Mio's stomach. Something warmer this time.

"Wow," Naya murmurs.

Mio watches.

"She's picky," Naya says quietly, stroking behind the cat's ears. "I can tell."

She glances up, her grin slow and bright and softer than Mio is ready for.

"You were saying?" Naya prompts, her voice hushed like she's afraid to break whatever fragile spell they're under.

Mio smiles and pets the tabby absentmindedly.

"There are even maid cafés," she says, because it's the first thing her brain offers up.

Naya blinks.

For a moment, she says nothing.

Then—

"... A what—"

"Maid cafés. You know, where the waitresses dress as maids and act all cutesy, and serve food while calling you 'Master' or 'Mistress.'"

Naya stares at her like she's malfunctioning. "Wait—that's real?"

"Yeah."

"And people go there... willingly?"

"Yes."

"And pay for that?"

"Yes."

"You're telling me. Grown men and women—adults—willingly walk into a place where girls in maid outfits serve them tea and act cute?"

"Yes."

"That's wild."

"It's just another theme café."

"Yeah, but—" Naya is clearly struggling to process this. "That's some next-level stuff."

Mio chuckles. But she shouldn't have brought it up.

She really, really shouldn't have.

Because for some godforsaken reason, she hears herself say—

"I worked at one in high school."

...

The silence is immediate.

Mio freezes.

Naya stares.

"WHAT?!"

Some cats flinch. Some people turn their heads.

Mio lets out the longest, most suffering sigh known to humankind.

Naya is staring. Mouth slightly open, brows raised, eyes wide with the kind of disbelief that isn't even exaggerated. It's just... pure, unfiltered, what the hell with the kind of scandalized intrigue that makes Mio want to curl into a ball and disappear.

She shifts uncomfortably, tracing her finger along the rim of her tea cup. "... What."

Naya blinks. "You."

"... Me?"

"You worked at a maid café."

Mio exhales, bracing herself. "Yes."

Naya doesn't immediately say anything, but her expression is doing a lot. She leans forward slightly, like she's trying to reconcile this new, earth-shattering information with everything she knows about Mio.

Which, okay. Fair. Mio isn't exactly the maid café type. She knows this.

Naya, still clearly processing, opens her mouth. Then closes it. Then squints at Mio like she's trying to see it. Like maybe if she stares hard enough, some hidden fragment of Maid Mio will magically appear.

Mio glares. "Don't."

"I'm trying to picture it," Naya admits, entirely unbothered. "You, in a frilly maid dress. Going up to strangers. Saying 'Welcome, Master.'"

Mio covers her face. "Please stop."

"Oh my god," Naya breathes. "Did you curtsy?"

Mio lowers her hands. "Naya."

"No, no, but seriously. You," Naya says, voice now slow, like she's making sure she's heard herself correctly, "worked at a maid café."

Mio shifts in her seat. "... It wasn't exactly work—"

"Oh, no, no, no." Naya leans forward, eyes alight with something—delight? Horror? Pure mischief? "You don't just drop that on me and move on like it's nothing. Mio. You? In a maid outfit? Calling people Master? Serving tea with a smile?"

Mio groans. "It wasn't my idea."

"That makes it worse."

"Listen, I had to do it, okay?" Mio crosses her arms over her fluffy companion. "It was a training exercise."

That gets Naya's attention. Her amusement dims just slightly as she tilts her head, intrigued. "Training for what?"

Mio hesitates. Because—okay. The maid café is embarrassing. But that wasn't the worst part.

And she knows—she knows—the next part is going to break Naya's brain.

She stares at the table. "... It was for a play."

Naya frowns slightly. "A play?"

Mio nods, very much avoiding eye contact. "At my high school festival."

There's a brief pause as Naya pieces this together.

"... So, let me get this straight." She leans forward. "You were training at a maid café for a school play?"

Mio nods again, slower this time.

That does nothing to pacify Naya. If anything, it makes her lean in even further. "Were you, like... playing a maid in the play?"

Mio shakes her head.

"But wait, wait—hold on." Naya pauses, tilting her head, narrowing her eyes. "You—shy, introverted, painfully stage-frightened Mio—were in a play? Voluntarily?"

"I wasn't voluntary." Mio mutters. "They voted me in."

Naya looks utterly scandalized. "You didn't volunteer?"

"Absolutely not."

"You didn't audition?"

"God, no!"

"... Okay, then what—"

"I was playing Romeo."

Silence.

A full beat of dead, empty silence.

Mio risks a glance up.

Naya is frozen. Mouth slightly open, eyebrows lifted in complete, genuine shock.

"You... you played Romeo."

"Yes."

Naya blinks, processing. "As in... Romeo Romeo."

"Yes."

"In Romeo and Juliet."

"Yes."

"... You."

Mio slumps slightly forward. "Yes."

Naya stares at her like she's witnessing a natural phenomenon. "Mio."

Mio doesn't look up.

"Mio."

Mio sighs. "What?"

"You played Romeo."

Mio lifts her head just enough to glare at her. "You don't have to keep repeating it."

"No, no. I'm just—" Naya shakes her head. "I'm struggling with this. Like, a lot."

Mio groans. "Why?"

"Because." Naya gestures vaguely at her. "You're you."

"What does that mean?"

"I mean," Naya says, "you're, like, the shyest person I've ever met. You hate attention. You despise being in the spotlight. And yet, somehow, you—" she gestures more aggressively—"played Romeo. In a school play."

Mio scowls slightly. "I didn't choose it."

A pause.

Then, Naya suddenly claps a hand over her mouth, snorting.

Mio glares.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Naya is not sorry.

Mio refuses to look at her. She stares very intently at the cat in her lap, who is purring obliviously, blissfully unaware that her human is currently dying inside.

Then a thought visibly clicks in Naya's head. Her expression shifts.

"... Wait a second. If you were Romeo... then who was Juliet? Because you were in an all-girls high school, right?"

Mio stiffens.

"Mio."

Mio tries to sip her tea. Casually. Like this is fine. Like she's fine.

Naya leans in. "Who was Juliet?"

Mio clears her throat. "... Ritsu."

Silence.

Naya doesn't move. Doesn't blink.

And then—

She howls.

It's loud, too. A full-bodied, holy shit, this is the funniest thing I've ever heard kind of laughter. She practically folds over that black cat on her lap, shoulders shaking as she wheezes. She bursts into laughter so loud that one of the café staff glances over, mildly concerned. The tabby on Mio's lap is startled, but stays put. The black cat on Naya's lap seems to be considering her life choices.

"Oh my god," Naya gasps between laughs, nearly tipping her latte over. "Oh my god, I'm going to die. You—Romeo? And Ritsu—Juliet?!"

Mio doesn't dignify that with a response.

"I need you to know," Naya wheezes, "I will never—never—get over this."

Mio scowls, cheeks burning. "It wasn't that funny."

"No—" Naya struggles to breathe. "It is."

"It's not."

Naya wipes at her eyes, still cackling. "You. And Ritsu. Playing Romeo and Juliet."

Mio huffs. "Can I just tell the story so you stop laughing?"

"I make no promises."

Mio glares.

Naya bites her lip, trying to regain composure.

Mio exhales deeply, steadying herself before launching into it. "It was our final year of high school. My class decided to do Romeo and Juliet for the school festival. I had zero interest in participating, but then—" she scowls, "they voted me in."

"Because you were a good actress or something?"

Mio shakes her head.

"... Because you looked like Romeo?"

Mio shakes her head again.

"... Because Romio?"

Mio winces.

"... Because you—"

Mio mumbles something.

Naya tilts her head. "What?"

Mio mumbles it again, slightly louder, but still muffled.

Naya leans in. "Mio, I can't hear—"

"Because I was popular, okay?!"

Naya stops.

Mio cringes.

Slowly, Naya leans back, blinking. "You were popular."

Mio sighs, utterly defeated. "Yes."

"... Like, popular popular?"

Mio nods miserably.

Naya tilts her head, considering. 

The silence that follows is excruciating.

Then, with absolutely no hesitation, Naya shrugs and says, "Yeah, makes sense."

Mio frowns. "What?"

"You. Being popular. It checks out."

Mio blinks, caught completely off guard. "... It does?"

"Yeah. You're pretty, intelligent, kind, talented—"

Mio's heart flatlines.

"—and funny."

Her entire body malfunctions.

She stares at Naya, waiting for the punchline, the teasing smirk, the ironic tilt of her voice that says just kidding, but it never comes. Naya just sits there, sipping her latte like she didn't just drop an entire existential crisis onto Mio's plate.

Mio gapes. "I'm—I'm funny?"

"That's what you're stuck on?"

"Yes?" Mio sputters. "I mean—everything else was already ridiculous, but funny? Me?"

"You don't think you're funny?"

"No!"

"That's tragic."

"You can't just say things like that."

"Why not? It's true." Naya shrugs. "You have great comedic timing."

Mio stares at her in absolute, unfiltered disbelief.

Naya is unbothered. Like she hasn't just completely rewritten the laws of Mio's existence. Like she didn't just throw 'funny' in there like it was a thing Mio apparently is now.

Mio shakes her head, trying to process. "I—that's not—that's wrong."

"You keep saying that, but I think you're just mad because I'm right."

Mio exhales, trying—failing—to shake it off. Her heart is still pounding. Naya doesn't mean anything by it, she knows that, but god, how is she supposed to just exist when Naya says things like that so easily?

She grips her tea like it's a life raft and tries to move on.

"Anyway," she mutters. "I was popular, yes. To the point that I had a... fan club."

Naya, who had just taken a sip of her latte, chokes.

Mio shrinks. Here we go again. Why won't she stop talking? Why won't she stop telling Naya embarrassing things about her life?

Naya slams her cup down, coughing into her fist. "What."

Mio is already regretting this. "A fan club."

"A fan club? In high school?" Naya is scandalized. "Is that even legal?!"

"I don't—it's not—" Mio sighs deeply. "It wasn't official, okay? It was just... a thing that happened."

Naya looks like she's five seconds away from demanding a full-blown documentary. "What do you mean, 'a thing that happened?' How does that just happen?"

(Don't tell her. Shut up.)

"It started after our first school concert. I, um... I tripped on a cable."

"Ouch. And?"

(Shut. Up.)

Mio avoids her gaze. "And my... skirt may have flipped up."

Naya blinks.

(Oh my god, just shut up—)

Mio clears her throat, face scarlet. "And... the entire crowd may have seen."

A beat.

Mio would like to Ctrl+Z this entire conversation.

Why did she say that?!

Why did she just casually tell Naya that an entire school saw her underwear? Why did she phrase it like that? Why is she like this?!

She could have easily skipped the details. She could have just said she tripped, left it at that. But no, her mouth had to betray her. Her brain had to glitch. And now Naya is looking at her like she's processing something far more important than it actually is.

Her underwear.

She just told Naya about her underwear.

To Naya.

Mio is now 50% embarrassment, 50% regret, and 100% done with herself.

She just told Naya—Naya, with her stupid smirk and stupid confidence and stupid ability to make Mio's stomach do summersaults for whatever reasons we are not discussing now—that she fell, and her skirt flipped, and people saw—

And now Naya is probably imagining—

Oh god.

Mio is about five seconds away from astral projecting out of sheer humiliation.

And then—

She sees it.

Naya's not teasing her. She's not even looking directly at her anymore.

Her face is red.

Like, red.

From her cheeks to her ears to the tip of her nose.

Mio blinks.

Wait.

Hold on.

Is Naya blushing?

Mio squints. Watches as Naya shifts, suddenly finds her latte very interesting. Mio leans forward slightly, studying her. That red tinge against her otherwise sun-kissed skin? Busted.

She hears Naya clear her throat, still a bit offbeat, still not looking at her.

"Anyway." Naya's voice is a little too forced, a little too eager to move on. "You didn't actually answered—how did that start a fan club?"

And just like that—Mio's crisis is neatly sidestepped.

She blinks at Naya, who now looks very invested in a nearby siamese cat, as if she didn't just get thrown off for a full ten seconds.

Mio frowns suspiciously.

That was a deflection.

But she still has to answer.

She exhales sharply. "Sokabe Megumi. She was the student council president."

Naya finally looks back at her. "And she founded a fan club for you after your underwear incident?"

"I hate how you phrased that."

"But am I wrong?"

Mio glares. "Yes."

A pause.

Naya raises an eyebrow. "But also no?"

Mio wonders if it's too late to change dorms.

"So," Naya continues, "the student council president was also the president of your fan club? That's the most unhinged thing I've ever heard."

Mio bites her lip. "She, uh. Stalked me for a bit."

Naya's eyebrows shoot up.

Mio recoils. "Not like bad stalking! She just... followed me around. Took pictures. Secretly documented my entire life."

"Mio. That's bad stalking."

Mio sighs. "Anyway, when she graduated, Nodoka—Yui's childhood friend—became the new president."

"Wait, there was a succession?"

"Apparently."

"You're telling me this was a dynasty?!"

"Can we not talk about this anymore?"

"Gotta admit," Naya says, unbothered, "if I didn't know this made you uncomfortable, I would totally be a member."

"That's not funny."

"I'm dead serious. I'm a Mio fan."

Mio hates the way her face heats up. "Stop."

"I mean, c'mon. The beauty, the talent, the charm. I get it."

"Stop."

"Akiyama Mio supremacy."

Mio would like to formally request an exit from this plane of existence.

Naya suddenly gasps. "Wait. I can't believe I'm hanging out with one of the popular kids."

Mio frowns, thrown by the shift. "What?"

"You were a popular kid. I should be honored."

"... Weren't you?"

Naya raises an eyebrow. "Me?"

Mio nods. "I assumed you were popular in high school."

And that's when Naya short-circuits.

She blinks once, twice—expression frozen like her brain just blue-screened.

Mio watches as Naya's lips part slightly, as if she's about to say something—but no words come out. Instead, she just sits there, processing. Recalibrating. Like Mio just spoke to her in—another—completely foreign language.

Then—slowly—her brows lift. "Wait." Her voice is soft, almost hesitant, like she's making sure she heard correctly. "You think I was... popular?"

"I mean... yes?"

A pause.

Then—Naya snorts. A small, involuntary sound, like she genuinely can't help it. She shakes her head slightly, still blinking, still trying to compute what Mio just said.

And then the laughter hits. Again.

It starts as a disbelieving chuckle, then snowballs—her shoulders shaking, her breath coming out in wheezes as she leans forward.

"Oh my god," she gasps. "That's—that's the funniest thing I've ever heard."

"Why are you—"

"No, no, no." Naya waves a hand, still laughing. "Mio. You—" she pauses, shakes her head, inhales deeply, like she needs oxygen to process this. "You think I was popular?"

"Yes?"

Naya lets out another wheezing laugh, slumping back in her chair, like she's physically exhausted by the sheer absurdity of the statement.

"Tío, I have never heard something so wrong in my life."

"Why is that wrong?"

Naya grins, eyes alight with sheer amusement. "Mio, I was not popular!"

"You're popular here."

"I'm not popular. I'm foreign ," Naya chuckles. "People are curious. But I don't think I'm popular. And I definitely wasn't popular back home in my high school days."

"But how? How were you not popular?"

Naya smirks, resting her chin on her palm. "I should be asking you that. Why do you think I was?"

Mio flinches, instantly regretting this entire conversation. She shouldn't have said anything. She really shouldn't have said anything. But now Naya is looking at her, waiting, and there's no escape.

Mio swallows. "I mean... you're cool."

Naya's eyes widen. "I'm what."

Mio groans, averting her gaze. "Forget it."

"No, no, no." Naya grins, sitting up. "Mio, please. I need to hear this."

Mio resists the urge to sink into the floor. She doesn't want to say it. But Naya is waiting, and Mio knows she won't let it go, so she takes a deep breath and mutters, "You're confident. You don't care what people think. You act like nothing embarrasses you. And..." She exhales, miserable. "... You just have this... presence."

Naya blinks, like she wasn't expecting that. But Mio doesn't stop. Because now it's coming out—against her will, but it's coming out.

"You play bass in this—" she gestures vaguely, "—completely different way. More than just rhythm, like it's something bigger. You don't just follow the rhythm, you lead it. And you're—" Mio mumbles. "You're kind."

Naya tilts her head.

"You—you notice things. You don't make a big deal out of it, but you do. You're just... considerate."

Naya blinks again, caught off guard.

And that—that—makes Mio want to dig a hole and disappear, because why did she say all that out loud? Why did she just list a hundred reasons why Naya could have been popular, like it's some kind of carefully thought-out thesis?

She should have just said 'cool' and left it at that.

"And you have a weird sense of humor," Mio continues, because apparently, her mouth is operating independently from her brain now. 

Naya snorts. "Wow. Compliment of the year."

"I mean it," Mio huffs. "You say the dumbest things sometimes. You make fun of everything. Your puns are horrible. And it's—" she stops herself. Looks away. "And I don't even—I don't even know when it happened, but I think I've started—" she pouts. "—finding it funny."

Naya beams. The kind of beam that says she's going to weaponize and quote this moment back to Mio for the rest of her natural life. And Mio wants to crawl into her bass case and live there forever.

Naya leans forward, snickering. "You think I'm funny."

"I didn't say that."

"You just did."

Mio sighs. "And you're classically trained on piano," she rushes on, desperate to steer the conversation anywhere else. "Which is impressive, even if you act like it doesn't matter. And your music taste is—" she hesitates. "Wide."

"Wide?"

Mio nods. "You listen to everything. Classical, rock, electronic, indie, metal, flamenco—everything. Most people just stick to what's popular, or a couple of genres."

"Most people are missing out."

"Yeah, well." Mio exhales, deflating. "That's why I thought you were popular."

The words taste like humiliation. Like she's revealing too much.

And she should stop. She should stop.

But now she's looking at Naya—at her green eyes, the ones she's catalogued since the day they met. Green like the first breath of spring, like a meadow after rain, like wild ivy climbing brick—stubborn, growing where it shouldn't.

Like something she was never supposed to look at this closely.

"And—" Mio inhales sharply, realizing too late what almost came out.

(No. No, absolutely not.)

She shakes her head, eyes snapping away. "Never mind."

Naya doesn't press.

There's a pause.

Mio risks a glance up.

Naya isn't teasing.

She just looks... surprised. And something else. Something quieter. Something soft.

Mio immediately regrets everything.

Naya watches her for a long moment.

Then she leans back, shaking her head, like Mio just told her the sky is green.

"That's nice of you to say," Naya murmurs, voice unreadable. "But that's not how it works."

"What do you mean?"

Naya hums, gaze flickering toward the window. "I was different. And in Spain, different doesn't get you popularity points."

Mio watches her carefully.

Naya rolls her cup between her hands. "In Spain, I checked every box not to be popular. The more different you are at school, the more likely you are to get picked on," Naya continues. "And I was really different."

Mio stiffens. "... You got bullied?"

Naya lifts a shoulder. "Nothing major. No one beat me up or anything." She huffs out a laugh. "But people talked. Made fun of me. It was whatever. I had enough problems as a teenager, so I just ignored it."

Mio's fingers curl slightly in the tabby's back. She can't imagine Naya being picked on. The idea of it feels wrong.

"Why would they make fun of you?"

"Oh, you're gonna love this." Naya lifts a finger, counting off. "One—music geek. Listened to everything. Not just pop or what was cool at the time, but old stuff, weird stuff, experimental stuff. That alone was enough to get me called weird."

"That's dumb."

"Two—played classical piano. Liked it. And actually cared about it."

"That's impressive."

"Not in high school in Spain." Naya raises a third finger. "Three—looked 'like a boy.' Never wore skirts, never wore dresses, never wore 'feminine' clothes. Always in jeans, hoodies, Converse, oversized shirts. Hair the length of the shirt collar. That alone was a crime."

Mio grimaces. "That's stupid."

"Oh, we're not done." Naya lifts a fourth finger. "Four—studied Japanese."

"That's a bad thing?"

"In Spain? If you were into Japan—anime, manga, the whole thing—you were a friki."

Mio squints. "A what?"

"Friki. It's like... geek, nerd, weirdo. But it's not just about being an otaku, or book-smart—it's about liking anything too much. Too into videogames? Friki. Too into fantasy novels? Friki. And if you liked Japan? Súper friki."

Mio stares, appalled. "That's... so absurd."

"So, yeah. I wasn't exactly high on the social ladder."

"That's a shame."

Naya shrugs. "It's just how it was."

"Well, it's stupid," Mio mutters. "All of that sounds cool."

Naya chuckles. "Not where I'm from."

"Still. It's ridiculous. Picking on you for playing music, or dressing comfortably, or—" She shakes her head, indignant. "I don't get it."

"You don't get it because you're nice and kind, Mio." Naya lifts her latte to her lips, unbothered. Casual. Thoughtless.

And then—laughing, careless, easy—she says:

"It didn't help that I like girls, either."

It falls into the air as if it's nothing. As if it belongs there, weightless, slipping into the space between them like an afterthought. A throwaway comment. A half-formed joke.

Before Naya even realizes what she's said.

Before either of them truly registers it.

And then, everything stops.

Naya freezes. Not subtly. Not slightly. It's immediate, sharp—an unseen edge catching her mid-step. A breath cut short, a hand tightening around ceramic, the barely-there tremor of fingers curled too tight. Mio sees it all. The exact second the words catch up to her, the instant realization blooms into something almost like fear.

Mio blinks.

The words are still settling, still arranging themselves in her mind, like they've been spoken in a language she understands but hasn't spoken in so long that they don't register immediately.

Like girls.
Like girls.
Like girls.

She watches Naya stiffen, fingers flexing around her cup, shoulders going rigid, as if she can physically brace against what's already escaped.

Naya doesn't move. Doesn't breathe.

Just looks at Mio, briefly—before she wrenches her gaze away. But it's enough.

A flicker of something raw. Open. Unguarded. Like an old wound torn just wide enough to sting.

It vanishes just as fast, slammed shut behind the clench of her jaw, the set of her shoulders, the kind of tension that reads like armor being shoved into place. A door locked, bolted.

Mio feels her own breath catch, her mind struggling to keep pace with what just happened. What just shifted. The moment stretches—too big, too fragile, pressing against her ribs as she tries to make sense of it.

She should react. Should do something, should say something—

But she knows.

She knows.

That things left unspoken can be denied. Rewritten. Unraveled before they ever have the chance to settle. That if she moves too quickly, breathes too loudly, acknowledges too soon—this will become real in a way neither of them is ready for.

And then—

A sharp breath. A muttered curse. Low, harsh, bitten between Naya's teeth, like she wants to swallow the words whole, like she wants to take all of it back.

"Mierda."

Notes:

Plot twist: Naya likes girls. Who knew? (Everyone. Everyone knew.)

Anyway, shoutout to Mio for reacting to that revelation by absolutely not reacting, immediately recontextualizing her entire emotional breakdown in silence. Queen of suppression. We love her.

Let's talk about the real shocker of the chapter: Spanish meal schedules. Yes, I'm Spanish. Yes, we eat lunch at 3 p.m, have merienda at 7 p.m and dinner at 10 p.m. Yes, we are deeply unrepentant about this. Yes, we also sleep at ungodly hours and somehow survive on a relaxing cup of café con leche.

What I love about this chapter is how it threads cultural difference with emotional closeness—how food, of all things, becomes the metaphor for pacing, presence, longing. Naya exists on a slightly different rhythm, in both language and life, and Mio is starting to notice. And it unnerves her. Because when you begin to understand someone like that—someone who lives outside your patterns but still feels like home—it gets hard to pretend things are casual.

Thanks again to my cultural consultant/beta Jules (tsuki_anne) for answering questions like "Would Naya get arrested for snacking while walking?" and "Can she call this mochi thing a snack or will she be banished from Japan forever?"

As always, thank you for reading! Feel free to drop your thoughts, scream into the void, or just type "Mio please" in the comments.

Chapter 25: Again and Again

Summary:

Mio goes through some music again, and again.

Notes:

Man, I'm PISSED at myself. Why did I set this fic in 2011? Why???? I could've given you a whole chapter of Mio and Naya trading songs from MARINA's new album, which is—let's be honest—A BANGER. A MASTERPIECE. ALBUM OF THE YEAR (yes, in June 2025, I said what I said).

Just imagine: Naya recommending Mio a song that goes "'Cause you know you want me and you cannot resist, yeah, I'm looking for a lover and you're top of my list" (CUPID'S GIRL). Or Mio secretly vibing to "There's nothing to complicate, I can see you're into me, call it love or call it fate, I wanna feel your body heat" (I <3 YOU)—song of the summer, people.

That same track even says: "Sorry, I'm a little late, I've been spinning 'round and 'round, welcome to the golden age, everything is peachy now" (Mio, anyone???). Or how about this gem with: "I wanna do things I'm not supposed to, I wanna go where the free ones live now, never going back to the place I lived, no" and "Baby, I've been down, I've been down so low, but the more I love myself, the higher up I wanna go."

MIO, LISTEN TO THIS.

Anyway. Sorry for the ramble. Just listen to this masterpiece. Play it while reading. Or after. Because this chapter? It's full of music again. We missed that! We missed our two disaster lesbians totally not confessing through (not at all) subtle lyrics!

Huge thanks to my wonderful beta, Jules (tsuki_anne), who, by the way, said this is one of her fave Mio/Naya chapters so you're in for a treat!!

Enjoy. Long live MARINA. Long live gay mess. Whatever.

Again and Again, by Brilliant Colors, was released on July 19, 2011.

July 24, 2011

Naya doesn't look at her.

Her body is still, unnaturally so, like a taut wire stretched to its limit, waiting for the inevitable snap. Her fingers press against her cup with a force that turns her knuckles white, as if holding onto something tangible might stop the unraveling. Her jaw tightens, her throat works through a silent swallow, and her eyes—when she does flick them toward Mio, briefly, fleetingly—are not the eyes Mio knows. The sharp, bright green is dimmed, clouded, unfocused. Not dulled in the way they sometimes are when Naya is tired, when she sinks into a quiet kind of detachment, but in a way that looks distinctly wrong. Stripped of their usual irreverence, their glint of easy amusement, their silent, knowing confidence.

She looks... not embarrassed, not even exactly afraid, but something heavier, something Mio can't quite pinpoint. A kind of tight-lipped resignation. A quiet, practiced anticipation, like someone bracing for impact.

A conditioned response.

The realization makes something unsteady stir in Mio's chest.

Naya exhales sharply, a shallow breath through her nose, like she's trying to will herself into composure. But her shoulders are set in that rigid, locked posture, her entire frame coiled with an energy Mio has never seen from her before. Her expression is tight, controlled, but beneath that control—beneath the deliberately evened-out breathing, beneath the casual slouch she forces into her posture as if she isn't about to shatter—Mio can see the truth:

She is furious.

Not at Mio, of course. At herself.

Her mouth is pressed into a grimace, teeth clenched behind lips that won't quite settle. Her brow furrows, just slightly, just enough for Mio to see the way her frustration fights against her restraint. She looks like she wants to speak, like she wants to shove the words back into her throat, to take them apart and rearrange them into something safer, something that won't wedge a permanent distance between them. But she can't. It's already out.

So instead, she does the only thing left.

She withdraws.

Not physically—she's still sitting there, still within reach, still solid and present in every measurable way—but she's gone. A subtle, imperceptible shift in energy, like a door slamming shut behind tired hands. The distance is instantaneous. A space that wasn't there a moment ago, but now yawns between them like an open fault line, unspoken and unbreachable.

Mio recognizes it only because she's done it before.

She doesn't understand why this thought unsettles her so much.

Naya rubs a hand over her mouth, exhaling slowly, carefully. She blinks down at her cup, still not meeting Mio's gaze, and for the first time since they met—since that first moment in the clubroom, since the hesitant conversations that turned into music recommendations slipped into notebooks, since laughter exchanged over the edges of practice sessions—Mio watches her struggle to regain control of the space between them.

It's different from when she's thrown off, different from when Mio has caught her off guard or flustered her. Those moments were unpracticed, raw in their own way, but they were light. Fleeting. Safe.

This is not.

This is something else entirely.

Something raw-edged and sharp, something that isn't meant to be seen.

Mio's stomach twists, not knowing why. She just stares, heartbeat erratic, heavy. But she doesn't know what to say.

Because this isn't the Naya she knows. Not the easy, confident presence that slips through rooms like she belongs in them, not the stubborn, self-sufficient girl who teases and provokes without hesitation, who takes everything in stride, who doesn't seem to care about much of anything.

This is someone different.

Someone wounded and defensive, someone that has already played out every possible outcome and decided which one will hurt the least.

Mio doesn't speak, doesn't move, but her stillness does nothing to slow the erratic staccato of her heart. Her thoughts fracture, break apart like shattering glass, slivers of reason, of comprehension, of fear cutting into her, one by one.

Confusion. Because Mio doesn't know what to do with this information. Because she should. Because it should be simple. Because it's not.

Guilt. Because Naya didn't mean to say it, didn't mean to let the words slip, and now she's trapped in the aftermath, bracing for something Mio doesn't even know how to give.

Danger. Because this means something, doesn't it? And things that mean something are dangerous.

Panic. Because this is big, bigger than she was prepared for, bigger than she knows how to handle.

Awe. Because suddenly, the world shifts into sharper focus, and Mio really sees her—not just the easy confidence, the teasing bravado, the effortless cool. But the carefully constructed equilibrium, the way she maneuvers through spaces that were not built for her, the way she wears ease like armor, the way she never, never lets it slip.

Until now.

Until this.

Until Mio.

And then—

Relief. Because—for a moment, just a fleeting, infinitesimal moment—it makes her... happy? Not in an obvious way. Not in a way she understands. But in a way that flares, warm and bright and traitorous, in the pit of her stomach before she can shove it down.

And...

Hope.

It's the cruelest of all. It sinks into her chest like something warm, something reckless, something with teeth.

Hope wants. Hope is a whisper she isn't ready to hear.

Because it means something.

Because it means something.

And Mio doesn't know what to do with that.

Her pulse roars in her ears, her hands suddenly feel unsteady, her entire body misaligned, off-kilter, like reality itself is buckling beneath the weight of this moment. This impossible, delicate, terrifying moment.

Naya exhales, jaw tight, fingers flexing once, twice, before she finally forces herself to look at Mio again.

Mio doesn't know what's on her face, doesn't know what expression she's wearing, only knows that Naya sees it—whatever it is—and that something inside her breaks.

And then, finally, Naya moves. Not much. Just a shift of her hand, a barely-there twitch of her fingers against her cup.

"You don't have to say anything."

A breath.

"I get it."

Quiet. Flat. Like she's already severing the thought before it can fully exist. A retraction. A preemptive dismissal.

Mio sees it.

The distance. The quiet resignation. The bracing-for-impact stillness.

The weight of everything else—the understanding of what this means for Naya, the implications of it here, in this place, in this moment, in this country where silence is the default, where difference is tolerated at best and quietly pushed to the margins at worst.

And then she knows.

This is what Naya's been bracing for.

She thinks I'm going to leave.

The realization lodges itself in Mio's throat. Because that's what this is, isn't it? That's what Mio is seeing in the hard line of Naya's mouth, in the rigid set of her shoulders, in the way she has already begun withdrawing—not physically, not yet, but in the way she is recalibrating, shielding, preparing for an inevitability.

She thinks Mio is going to avoid her. That she has, perhaps, already been avoiding her.

And maybe that's the worst part.

Because Mio has pulled away, hasn't she? Not because of this—not because of this—but how would Naya know that? How could she? The correlation is too easy to make, the evidence too damning. Mio hesitated, withdrew, put space between them under the guise of focus, of studies, of needing time to breathe, but what has that looked like from the other side?

Naya is expecting the inevitable. The shift. The quiet distancing. The polite coldness of a friendship redefined, repackaged as something impersonal, something safe.

Because that is what happens, isn't it? That's the lesson learned young, ingrained beneath the skin—don't say it, don't confirm it, don't make it real, because the moment you do, everything changes. It doesn't matter if they were kind before, if they laughed at your jokes, if they sat beside you every day in class. It doesn't matter if they liked you, really liked you, if they made you feel—for a fleeting moment—like maybe you weren't so different, like maybe there was a place for you after all.

It doesn't matter because the moment they know, something in their gaze shifts, something in their voice tightens, and suddenly you are other. You are a question mark, a complication, a problem to be quietly excised. And if they don't say it outright, if they don't push you away in obvious, explicit rejection, then they will do it in other ways. In ways that are harder to name, but just as sharp.

Mio doesn't know if that's what happened to Naya. She doesn't know the details, the extent of it, the shape of the bruises it has left on her perception of the world, but she knows the look of someone who has been conditioned to expect abandonment.

And Naya—who is always so unbothered, so unaffected—expects this.

The tabby shifts in Mio's lap, her weight a soft, grounding pressure against trembling legs. She blinks down at the cat, almost startled to find her still there, still warm, still purring. Unbothered by the crackling tension in the air. Unconcerned with the way Mio's hands have gone still and uncertain.

Mio's fingers move, without thinking—slow, careful strokes along the cat's spine. The simple rhythm of it grounds her, just barely, gives her something to hold on to when everything else feels like it's slipping sideways.

Across from her, the black cat has curled tighter into Naya's lap, small and unobtrusive. Naya doesn't touch her, her hand hovering in the space above as if she's no longer sure she's allowed. But the cat stays. Her purr isn't loud, but it's there. Steady. Unshaken.

For some reason, that makes something hot and painful lodge behind Mio's ribs.

Mio watches Naya. And it does something sharp and awful inside her chest—seeing her like this. Because Naya is always steady. Always unshaken. Even when she's out of place, even when she's figuring out the rules, she's never... like this.

So quiet. So still. So small.

Naya, who never flinches. Who never wavers beneath anyone's gaze. Who rolls her eyes at things that would leave Mio speechless. Who never seems to care—until now.

It's unbearable.

She's never seen Naya shrink from anything. Not the stares, not the comments, not the weight of standing out in every room she enters. And yet—

Here she is. Folding in on herself. Because of Mio.

Because Mio knows it's her silence that's doing this.

Her hesitation.

The weight of everything she hasn't said yet, pressing down between them.

She should do something. Say something. But her thoughts are still catching up, trying to sort themselves into something coherent. Dozens of threads tangled, knotted, fraying at the edges.

Her throat works around the thickness lodged there, trying to find something—anything—that won't make this worse. Something true. Something real.

And all that comes out is—

"It's okay."

The words land clumsy, heavy in the air between them. Fast. Useless.

Naya stares. Her expression doesn't shift, but her eyes do.

A single blink. Slow. Measured. And then she looks away, just for a moment. Down at her hands. Her cup. Anywhere but Mio.

Like she's cataloguing the words, weighing them, trying to decide if she believes them.

Mio winces.

Because—what was that?

It's okay?

What is she even saying? That Naya's allowed? That she's giving Naya permission to be herself? That Mio... what? Approves? 

That Mio doesn't care?

(But you do. You care more than you know what to do with.)

And suddenly she's terrified she's said the wrong thing. That it sounded careless, dismissive. That it made it worse.

Mio's mouth opens again before she can think better of it.

"I mean—" She swallows. "It doesn't... change anything."

Naya's brow creases. Slight. Subtle. But Mio sees it.

"You're still—" She stumbles over it, breath catching. "You."

The heat rises in her face. She's mortified. She opens her mouth again, scrambling for something to fix it, to make it less awkward, less wrong.

But Naya sighs.

"You don't have to—"

"I wasn't avoiding you," Mio blurts out. Her fingers stroke slowly down the tabby's back without thinking. Soft. Steady. She holds onto that.

Naya's mouth closes.

"I wasn't," Mio goes on, clumsy. "Not because of... that." Another breath. Another battle with her own tongue. "I didn't—I paused the sessions, but not because of this."

Naya's gaze flickers. It's not much, but it's something. So Mio presses on, carefully, like she's walking a tightrope.

"I've just... finals. And... things. I needed to—focus."

Mio wants to kick herself.

That was awful. She trails off, because it sounds thin and insufficient. The excuse sounds hollow in her own ears, but it's the truth she's been clinging to.

But it's the truth.

And it's the best she can do.

Naya watches her for a long moment. Then, something shifts. Barely. Her shoulders ease by a fraction. Her fingers loosen their death grip on the cup.

"You sure?" Naya says. Quiet. Careful.

Mio nods. "Yeah." A beat. "And even if I was," she adds, words tumbling out before she can stop them, "it wouldn't be because of that." She meets Naya's gaze, centering herself even though her pulse is erratic, wild. "It wouldn't. Never."

There's a beat.

Then another.

Then—

"I'm still your friend," Mio says quietly. Firmly. "I don't want that to change."

The silence that follows isn't quite as heavy. Not as brittle.

The black cat in Naya's lap stretches, slow and lazy, then curls in tighter against her legs. Naya finally lets her hand rest on the cat's back. Her fingers stroke through sleek fur, and after a moment, she huffs out a slow, measured breath. Not quite relief. But something loosens in her shoulders.

They sit like that for a moment. Quiet. Breathing.

Mio finally glances down.

The tabby in her lap has fallen asleep.

---

They leave the café in silence.

It isn't uncomfortable at first. Mio tells herself that.

Mio loves silence.

She has built her life on it. Sheltered herself in it. In the absence of noise, things are easier. People are easier. Everything simplified, manageable. She has always thought of silence as her ally. A thing she chooses. A thing she controls.

Silence soothes her in ways conversation never could. It offers her something freer, cleaner, unburdened by the demand to be anything. The absence of words, after all, is not an absence of meaning. It's room to breathe. To think.

But this silence is not room.

It's weight.

And now, walking beside Naya, she realizes there are silences that are not hers to command. Silences that happen to her.

And the longer it stretches, the heavier it becomes, settling over them like a pressure system before a storm. Dense and full of the threat of rain. Mio walks alongside Naya, their strides matching as they always do—an unthinking synchrony—but the space between them is thick with something unspoken and brittle. Something Mio feels like she could shatter if she moved the wrong way.

She hates it.

Her fingers twitch uselessly at her sides. She tells herself not to fidget. Not to look. Not to think so much. But she looks anyway. Sideways. Careful. Just a glance, out of the corner of her eye. Naya is there, half a step ahead. Loose-shouldered, like always. Her stride is easy. Her posture relaxed. Like nothing has happened. Like she didn't just pull herself apart in front of Mio and piece herself back together with thin, shaking hands.

And maybe that's the problem.

It's too easy for Naya to be this way. Too practiced. Too smooth. Switch flipped. Walls back up. Smile—ready, if necessary. Lightness in her voice—imminent, when called for. As if nothing inside her is raw or bleeding. As if she's fine.

(It's not fine.)

Mio can't tell if she's angry about that. Or afraid.

She hates how aware she is of every breath. Every step. Of Naya's hands shoved deep into her pockets, fingers tucked away like they don't belong in the world right now. Of the way Naya stares straight ahead, not indifferent—never indifferent—but distant. Partitioned. Behind glass.

And it isn't fair. Because nothing's wrong, is it?

She presses her tongue to the back of her teeth.

Nothing's wrong.

Naya likes girls.

Naya likes girls. That's all. That's what this is about. Naya likes girls. She said it. And now Mio knows. That's it. That's the only difference between now and this morning, isn't it?

Naya likes girls.

Her feet slow fractionally on the sidewalk. She adjusts her grip on the strap of her bag, even though it hasn't shifted on her shoulder. The street feels longer than it should be. The world around her feels louder. She hears the distant clang of a bicycle bell. The hiss of tires over asphalt. The faint whine of a cicada in the tree above them.

Naya likes girls.

And Mio knows that shouldn't be—isn't—a problem. It doesn't change who she is. It doesn't undo all the things Mio knows about her.

That she hums tunelessly when she's wiring pedals.

That she always rolls her sleeves up twice, no more, no less—never mind if it's hot or cold—because she can't stand the feeling of fabric at her wrists when she plays.

That she always checks her tuning twice before they start practice, even if no one else does.

That she taps rhythms on her thigh with her fingers when she's thinking, syncopated and uneven, as if there's a song only she can hear.

That her handwriting is precise in Spanish, messy in Japanese, and that she always writes Mio's name more carefully than anyone else's.

That she laughs in two parts—the surprise of it, sharp and sudden, and then the release, bright and warm.

That she smells like citrus shampoo and that sometimes Mio catches herself breathing it in without realizing.

She's still Naya.

Then why is she so quiet now?

Naya likes girls.

And that means... what, exactly?

Nothing. It doesn't have to mean anything. People like who they like. It's simple. Or it should be. Mio has read books about this. Thought about this. She considers herself open-minded. Progressive, even. For someone like her. It doesn't matter who Naya likes. It doesn't change anything. She's still Naya. Still—

(She likes girls. And you are a girl.)

The thought hits her without warning. Sharp. Clean-edged. As if it's been there all along, tucked into the marrow of her bones, and she's only now stumbled over it in the dark.

Her pulse stumbles. Picks up again.

She keeps walking.

Naya matches her pace effortlessly. She always does.

Mio doesn't know where to look. The ground is too easy. Her own hands are restless. And if she looks at Naya, she doesn't know what she'll see. Doesn't know what she's looking for.

I don't know which way to go.

Forward. That's the only direction left. She tells herself this. She walks.

And yet, her thoughts veer wildly, erratically, like a bird panicked against glass.

Should she say something? Should she break the silence? Should she leave it? Should she apologize? What for? What's there to apologize for? She hasn't done anything wrong. Has she? No. She's just processing. That's allowed. It should be allowed. She doesn't have to perform anything right now.

And yet.

The air still tastes wrong in her lungs.

Why can't I just say something normal?

She wishes, absurdly, that Yui were here. Yui would say something idiotic but kind. Something that would make Naya laugh, and the distance would vanish like a bad dream at sunrise. Yui doesn't think about these things the way Mio does. Yui doesn't overthink. She simply is.

Mio doesn't have that luxury.

She keeps her eyes down. Steps silent. Her shoulders ache with the effort of not hunching in on herself.

The street stretches ahead of them, lined with shops and vending machines, the dull hum of traffic blending with the soft shuffle of their shoes against the pavement. It's familiar. It's ordinary. And it's unbearable.

Mio glances sideways. Naya's gaze is forward, steady, like she's keeping herself fixed on something far enough ahead that nothing can touch her. Her expression is neutral. Not guarded in the way it was back in the café, but not open, either. As if she's wearing a skin she put on before they walked out the door. One that fits just well enough to pass inspection.

She's practiced this. She's done this before.

Mio hates that thought. Hates how easily it comes. How quickly her mind maps it onto everything she's seen since they met. How obvious it feels now, in retrospect. Naya is good at smiling. Naya is good at pretending.

Why does she have to be?

The question settles in Mio's chest like a stone in water, dragging the surface calm down with it. She knows the answer.

Because it's not said.

Because if you don't say it, it doesn't exist.

Japan isn't a cruel place, she thinks. Not always. Not loudly. But quiet cruelty—quiet rejection—that's harder to name. Harder to hold up to the light. A place where things are left unsaid. Where if you don't speak it, it doesn't exist.

It's safer not to say it.

That's the rule. That's the architecture of things here. You don't speak it aloud. You don't put a name to it. You keep it folded, quietly, between the pages of your life like a pressed flower. You carry it with you, knowing it will crumble if you open it too often. You don't mention it at dinner, you don't write it in letters home, you don't confess it under the purifying light of summer or under the romantic, pouring rain.

You don't say you like girls.

(And why do you know that so well?)

Mio's fingers tremble. She curls them into her bass case straps. Holds tight. She doesn't have an answer, not one she's willing to look at too closely. It's not about her. This isn't about her.

This is about Naya.

About how Naya's world has always been shaped by borders and barriers, by languages she didn't grow up speaking and customs she learned to navigate with careful precision. About how she has always been other here, first as a foreigner and then again, quietly, invisibly, as something even more foreign than that.

It's about the way Naya has learned to shape herself around spaces that weren't made for her. To move through rooms without brushing against the walls. To speak only what's safe. To look like she isn't looking for anything more.

And yet—Naya told her.

Not by design. Not deliberately. But the words are out there now. They exist in the air between them. Impossible to take back. And Mio can't stop thinking about how much that must have cost her. A girl so guarded, so selective with everything she says, and who has relaxed so much with Mio that she has left a door wide open enough for Mio to see something that, perhaps, she should never have seen.

She told me. Me.

And what did Mio do?

She froze. She floundered. She said it's okay like that meant something. Like it was enough.

Mio's stomach twists. Shame prickles beneath her skin, hot and tight.

Because now that she's thinking about it, really thinking about it, she wonders how many times Naya has had to choose between silence and existence.

She wonders how many times she herself has made the same choice, without knowing why.

Mio side-eyes Naya again. She's still there. Still herself. But more distant, somehow. More careful. Even in the easy lines of her body, even in the faint smile she wears like a placeholder for a better one.

She likes girls.

It's not a dangerous thought.

It shouldn't be.

She adjusts her bag again. The same motion. A nervous habit. She wants to look at Naya properly but doesn't trust herself not to make it worse.

(You don't know what to say. You don't know how to be normal about this.)

And then, out of the corner of her eye, she sees it.

A record store.

Small. Half tucked between a ramen shop and a bookstore, its display window half-obscured by the sun-faded posters of albums she half-recognizes. The kind of place that probably smells like old cardboard sleeves and dust. The kind of place she might have wandered into with Ritsu back in high school. When everything was simpler.

Mio stares at it. She hadn't noticed it before, but now it's all she can see. She walks slower without meaning to.

Naya notices.

"Wanna go in?" she asks, her voice casual. Effortless. It's the kind of tone Naya uses when she's already decided something's fine and is giving Mio space to catch up.

As if nothing's wrong. As if she didn't just spend half an hour holding herself together by force of will.

As if nothing has happened.

Mio turns.

And Naya's smiling at her.

Not the wide grin. Not the teasing smirk. Just a small thing, lopsided, a little tired, but real in a way that makes Mio's chest feel too small.

Mio opens her mouth, words catching behind her teeth. "We don't have to. I don't want to waste your time."

Naya stops. Just enough to make Mio stop, too. She turns her head—green eyes bright again, not quite dimmed, not quite shadowed.

"It's not a waste of time," Naya says, like it's the simplest thing in the world. "Going to a record store with you."

Mio blinks.

Something hot presses behind her eyes.

She hates that. She blinks harder. Breathes shallow.

There it is.

The shift.

That familiar inflection in Naya's voice, the faint curl of humor at the corner of her mouth. The return of the easy grace that lets her slide between moments like they're beads on a string. As if the heaviness from earlier was a different life. A different her.

Except it isn't.

Mio knows that now. She knows too much now.

This is armor. This is learned. This is survival.

Naya smiles, wide enough to reach her eyes this time, and gestures with a tilt of her head. "Come on. I'm curious what you'll pick."

And just like that—switch flipped. Distance collapsed. Naya is back in motion, easy and unbothered. As if the last hour hasn't been an exercise in quiet devastation. As if it's nothing. As if she can put herself back together just by moving forward. Like there's no choice but to keep walking.

Mio stares at her. At the slope of her shoulders. At the easy rhythm of her steps toward the door. At the easy confidence. At the warmth. At the faint gleam of something practiced, yes, but no less genuine for being so. And wonders how much of that is learned. How much is habit. How much is survival.

And how often Naya has had to do this.

How often she's had to make it look easy.

Mio stares at her for half a second longer. 

And then she moves.

Follows.

Because she doesn't know what else to do. Because maybe there's nothing else to do. Because maybe this is all they have right now—this tenuous, shifting space between silence and sound, between withdrawal and presence.

Naya pushes the door open, and the little bell above it chimes, and the familiar, comforting smell of vinyl and old paper washes over them. And then again, Naya holds the door open for her without thinking.

---

The door clicks shut behind them with a low, metallic finality. The sound dissolves into the familiar hush of a space designed for listening rather than speaking. There's a dull hum from a ceiling fan that does very little to move the air, yet it's cooler inside, though Mio isn't sure if it's the air or the atmosphere, a kind of reverent quiet that settles over worn wooden shelves and alphabetized spines.

Bins and shelves crowd the floor space, arranged in haphazard aisles that make no sense at first glance, but probably follow some arcane logic known only to whoever runs the place. The faint hiss of a record spinning somewhere in the back room overlays everything else. It's almost imperceptible, but it's there—static and breath, a needle tracing the groove of something old and still alive.

Mio inhales. Dust. Vinyl. Paper. It smells like a past she doesn't quite have, something borrowed from other people's nostalgia. She wonders if that's what all music is. Borrowed nostalgia. Someone else's memory pressed into wax.

Naya moves beside her, loose-limbed again. She walks in like she's been here before.  She hasn't—Mio would know—but she moves with that same loose, grounded ease she always does, hands still tucked in her pockets, head tilted slightly as she scans the bins like they might reveal something unexpected if she looks at just the right angle.

They skim lightly over the corners of album sleeves as they pass, fingers trailing in a way that looks incidental but isn't. She's making contact. With the room. With the moment. Maybe with Mio.

Mio follows. Because it's easy. Because Naya makes it easy. As if it doesn't cost her anything.

The aisles are narrow. They walk single-file at first. Then side by side. Their shoulders don't quite touch, but Mio is aware of the possibility. Of how little space there is between them.

"I was hoping this place wasn't just a mirage," Naya says after a minute, her voice low but amused. "Almost missed it."

Mio hums, noncommittal. It's true. She did almost miss it. She wonders if she was meant to.

They drift. Their steps slow. There's a kind of gravity to the place. Like if they stay long enough, they might settle into it permanently, become fixtures between the jazz and post-punk sections.

Mio stops first. She doesn't realize she's done it until Naya halts too, glancing back with the smallest tilt of her head.

"What'd you find?" Naya asks, easy.

Mio lifts the record in her hands. Hounds of Love. Kate Bush. A first press, judging by the spine. She runs her thumb along the edge, careful not to crease the sleeve. Naya's eyebrows lift.

"I like the B-side better," Mio says.

Naya makes a considering sound. "Of course you do."

There's no teasing in it. Only something faintly knowing. Like she's already mapped out the tracklist of Mio's brain and is unsurprised to find And Dream of Sheep circled twice in red pen.

They move again. Another row. Another decade.

They drift toward the rock section, unspoken agreement. Naya pauses to flip through the first crate they come to, the lazy shuffle of cardboard against cardboard a familiar, scratchy rhythm. She doesn't say anything at first, doesn't try to fill the air with words. She just lets the sound of records sliding over one another bridge the space between them, and somehow it works. The tension—the delicate, terrible silence of earlier—doesn't vanish, but it thins. Dissolves at the edges.

Mio exhales again, slower this time, and lets herself look. Naya's head is bowed, short hair falling forward as she tilts her face down to read the sleeves. There's a faint crease between her brows, but it's not tension, not like before. It's focus.

Mio lets her fingers drift over album covers, following the outlines of bold letters and soft colors. She doesn't know why she's touching them. She isn't going to buy anything. She's already spent more money this week than she should have, and she's saving for summer camp, and—

Naya nudges her shoulder. Barely. A tap, like punctuation.

"Look," she says. She lifts the record half out of its crate and turns it toward Mio. The cover is lurid pink with a line drawing of what looks like an anatomically incorrect heart wrapped in barbed wire. Some obscure alt-rock album Mio's never heard of.

She raises an eyebrow. "Should I be worried?"

Naya grins, just a flash of teeth. "Only if you hate industrial noise bands who think screaming into an oil drum counts as percussion."

Mio blinks. "You like that?"

"I didn't say I liked it." Naya slides the record back in with an exaggerated delicacy. "I said it was an experience."

It's stupid, the way Mio's shoulders loosen at that. The way she feels herself slip, almost imperceptibly, back into the rhythm of things. She doesn't try to analyze it. She doesn't have the bandwidth. She lets it happen.

They move down the row together. Occasionally, Naya pulls something out and hands it over without comment, like it's a test. A challenge. One is a Rage Against the Machine album. One is something Mio vaguely remembers from the clubroom—one of Akira's favorites. Another is an album in French, with a cover that looks like it was shot through a vintage fisheye lens.

Naya smirks as Mio stares at it.

"You'll hate it," she says.

Mio hums. "Then why give it to me?"

"Because you won't hate the bassline."

And somehow that's all it takes for Mio to slide the record back into its sleeve and tuck it under her arm. She doesn't even know why.

I want to know what Naya hears when she listens to this.

(It's curiosity. That's all.)

They make their slow, meandering way to the M section, and of course, it's Naya who stops first. She finds Muse section tucked between Massive Attack and Neutral Milk Hotel. She flicks through the catalog with practiced ease, lips quirking as she passes familiar titles. Absolution. Black Holes and Revelations. The Resistance.

Her fingers pause over Origin of Symmetry.

Mio watches her.

"Do you like Muse for the bass," she begins, carefully, "or the piano, too?"

Naya pauses. Her fingers still on the spine of the record, orange and white and as familiar as breathing by now. She turns her head, slow. Her expression is unreadable at first. Then it cracks, just slightly. Something bright flickers through it.

Amusement. Surprise. Maybe both.

"You remembered," Naya says. Quiet. Not surprised like she doubted Mio could. Surprised like it matters.

Mio looks away. Pretends to focus on the sleeve of Black Holes and Revelations. Pretends to huff. "You told me an odyssey about your piano adventure," she tries to tease. "Of course I remember."

Naya's grin sharpens, fond and bright. She shifts her weight onto one foot and taps the record in front of her with a fingertip.

"Did you know? Matt Bellamy," she says, like she's introducing an old friend, "started piano at six. Same age I did. Guitar when he was eleven. His first performance was piano, though. School recital. Teignmouth Community School. 1991."

Mio blinks at her. "You know the year?"

"June," Naya adds, and there's a pleased glint in her eye that Mio isn't sure is smugness or pride.

She likes it either way.

"And yeah," Naya continues, flipping Origin of Symmetry into her other hand, as if the motion helps keep her grounded, "I like Muse for the bass. Chris is incredible. Solid. Holds everything down. But—" she glances at Mio again, and this time there's something softer under it, "—I like the piano just as much. Sometimes more."

Mio nods, watching as Naya turns the record over and lists the tracks under her breath.

Naya lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. "Sometimes I think I'm only as good at piano as I am because I spent three years obsessively trying to play Muse covers."

She pushes the record back into place, slower this time. Her tone is light, but it's not dismissive. There's something almost reverent in the way she says it. Like it's a memory she's let gather dust, and now she's brushing it off to show Mio.

"I used to play Space Dementia until my fingers cramped. And Butterflies & Hurricanes. And, uh, Apocalypse Please, like, hitting the piano keys hard," Naya says, still half-smiling. "I have a lot of fun playing I Belong To You, too. And United States of Eurasia, of course. Chopin piece included."

Mio tries to picture it. Naya, smaller. Hands still too big for the keys. Playing Space Dementia for no one but herself. She can't. It doesn't fit. Or maybe it fits too well.

"Didn't have a grand piano. Didn't matter," Naya adds. "Just me and the keyboard in my parents' house. A Yamaha P-95." A beat. "I still play, sometimes, alone in the clubroom," Naya admits. "Just to remind myself I can."

"Yeah, you told me this morning," Mio says. "That's why you went alone to the clubroom the other day?"

"Yeah, and to play bass for a bit."

Mio doesn't know what to do with that information.

So she files it away. Like she does with all things Naya.

"What about bass?" she asks. "Muse songs. What's your favorite to play?"

The question seems to catch Naya off guard for half a second, but then she smiles, almost like Mio's passed some kind of test Naya hadn't mentioned they were taking.

"I figured you'd guess," Naya says. "Easily. You already know I'm obsessed with that bassline."

Mio nods, unsurprised. She does know. Naya plays it sometimes when they're warming up in the clubroom, fingers moving with casual precision, like it's second nature. It's one of those songs Mio suspects Naya could play in her sleep.

"But also..." Naya tilts her head, considering. "Exo-Politics. The bass groove in that one's underrated. Same with Darkshines. And I like to play with the effects in City of Delusion. And, uh, Futurism," Naya adds, like she's giving away a secret. "Only on the Japanese CD release. Bonus track. You're lucky, guys."

Mio hums. There's a silence that hangs for a second, but it isn't uncomfortable.

Then Naya adds casually, "I mean, I mess around with Hysteria too, of course."

Mio glances at her, eyebrows raised. "You can play Hysteria?"

Naya grins, a little too pleased with herself. "Of course."

Mio hesitates. It's automatic, what she says next. "With a pick?"

Naya looks faintly offended. "No, no. Fingers. Like it's supposed to be." She lifts her hands, flexes them absently, like recalling the muscle memory in her fingers. "Took me forever to master, though. It's a relatively easy walking bassline, but it's so fast and has no breaks, making it incredibly difficult to pull off." 

And that's fine. It's a perfectly normal thing to say. Completely ordinary. Casual bassist talk.

Except Mio's brain latches onto "fingers" and "master" and "fast" in the same sentence, and the heat that rushes to her face is immediate and mortifying.

She coughs lightly. Shifts her grip on the strap of her bag. Tells herself it's just the weather. Or dehydration. Or something physiological that isn't that.

(Why are you blushing? Why now?)

She doesn't know. She doesn't want to know.

Naya doesn't seem to notice. Or maybe she does and lets it slide, because she's already shifting the weight of the conversation again, easy as changing lanes on an empty street.

"Do you play covers on bass?" Naya asks, head tilted. "Or are you more of a composer?"

Mio considers. "Composer," she says after a beat. "I've played covers before, of course. But I like... writing something that's mine."

"And what do you like?" Naya asks.

Not about Muse. Not about basslines or technical specs or album pressings. Just... What do you like?

Mio frowns. She hates how difficult the question is. How raw it feels, even though it shouldn't. She isn't used to people asking her things like this. Or maybe she isn't used to answering.

"I like..." She hesitates. Then finds it. "I like things that tell stories."

Naya raises an eyebrow.

Mio frowns at herself, frustrated. "I mean... songs that feel like stories. Like—there's an arc. Or a mood. A narrative, even if there aren't words."

Naya hums, low in her throat. Like she's turning that over. "I figured from the recs."

"I also like..." Mio presses on. "When an album builds things. Slow. Layered. Like it's going to collapse and then it doesn't." She looks up. Meets Naya's gaze. "And when something feels too big to hold. But you hold it anyway."

Naya's smile isn't big. But it's real. "That makes sense," she says.

Mio looks away. Her ears are hot. Her hands itch. Her heart is doing that thing again, the too-fast, too-light thing. Like a tremor under her ribs. She's not sure if it's nerves or something else.

(Why do you want to be closer?)

I'm fine. This is fine.

Naya nudges her shoulder. Just a brush. Casual.

"Come on," she says, jerking her chin toward the next aisle. "Let's find something tragic and French."

---

The thing about Naya, Mio thinks, is that she's always leading without pulling. She just... walks. And people follow. Or maybe not people. Maybe just Mio.

Naya gestures toward the back aisle with a jerk of her chin, and Mio steps into motion before she realizes she's made the choice. There's a narrowness to the space they move through. Not claustrophobic, but intentional. Like the room has given them only enough space to negotiate the distance between them. To define it.

Naya's shoulder brushes hers again. Deliberate? No. Mio doesn't think so. But not incidental either. There's a proximity that feels chosen. As if Naya is saying—without saying—that this is okay. We're okay. This is how we move forward. Not by picking apart the pieces, not by dissecting every angle of the revelation left between them on that café table. But by standing in the middle of something and listening.

Music is the language they share, and right now, it's the only one that doesn't feel dangerous.

Naya pauses at a crate marked "ELECTRONIC / EXPERIMENTAL" in faded black marker. Her fingers hover, then dip in, carding through spines with an ease Mio envies. Naya reads album covers the way some people read faces. Quickly. Easily. With fluency. A skill learned through repetition. Through attention.

"Röyksopp," Naya says, plucking one out. Junior, 2009 pressing. She turns it in her hand, reading the tracklist aloud as if Mio doesn't already know it by heart. "You ever listen to them?"

The question is casual. Loose at the edges.

Mio feels something in her lungs hitch. She nods, because it's true, and because it's easier than words.

Naya glances at her. Something curious flickers in the green of her eyes. "Before I put them in your notebook?"

Mio freezes. It's not dramatic. It's not even obvious. But it's there. A fractional stillness. A static pulse in the back of her throat.

"I—" Mio starts. Stops. Her mind scrambles to reassemble itself. "Yeah."

Naya's head tilts. She doesn't look surprised. Just thoughtful. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Mio doesn't know. She should. It's not complicated. It's a fact: she'd been listening to Röyksopp, and St. Vincent, and The Asteroids Galaxy Tour before Naya ever wrote their names in her notebook margin. Before this exchange game became a thing they did without speaking of it. Before Naya was someone she watched more than she should, catalogued more than was strictly necessary.

Why didn't she say so?

"I don't know," Mio says, and the words feel raw in her mouth. Too soft. Like the truth is wearing no armor at all.

But she does know.

Because it mattered that Naya wrote them there. Because it wasn't about whether she already knew those bands. It was about knowing Naya had given them to her. That she'd noticed Mio might like them.

And saying I already knew would have taken something from that. Would've made it about knowledge, instead of something else entirely.

(You wanted her to tell you what to hear. You wanted to know how Naya hears it.)

Naya hums, pleased. "I was listening to your stuff too, you know. Before the notebook."

Mio looks at her.

"You played The Bird and the Bee once. In April. When Ritsu was late to practice." Naya glances over, a half-smile curving her mouth. "I thought, 'huh, she's got good taste.'"

Mio's ears go hot. "That was one time."

"I noticed."

The simplicity of it floors her. No fanfare. As if it were the most natural thing in the world to pay attention.

Naya turns back to the crate. "You were listening to Röyksopp's What Else Is There? the week before I wrote it in your notes."

Mio's pulse jumps.

"I thought you liked the beats," Naya adds, "but then I realized it was the vocals you were zoning out to. Karin Dreijer's voice, right?" Naya chuckles. "Her voice reminds me of Björk."

Mio doesn't answer. She doesn't have to. Naya already knows.

They stand there a moment longer, the hum of the ceiling fan and the faint pop of vinyl behind the counter filling the space between them. It isn't silence. Not the heavy kind. This one is porous. Breathable.

They find I Love You, Dude on a shelf that looks like it hasn't been dusted in months. The sleeve is minimalistic and clean, a stark white background with a simple, geometric black heart in the center and a sans serif title. Naya plucks it free with a practiced twist of her wrist, like she's done this before.

Maybe she has.

"I've been waiting to make you listen to this," Naya says.

Mio hums. "You've mentioned it before."

"Because I like it a lot. And I'd love to know what you think."

The confidence of that statement sinks somewhere deep in Mio's chest. Settles there, warm. Naya makes it sound inevitable.

They find a test station with headphones hanging from cracked vinyl hooks. The kind that are never quite clean. Naya doesn't hesitate. She grabs them, untangles the cord like she's playing a game she's already won, and plugs them in.

"Circles is my favorite one," Naya says, slotting one side of the headphones over Mio's ear, the other over her own. The cable drags between them, thin and silver. Mio becomes aware of the smallness of the space they occupy. The way their heads tilt toward one another to make the length of cord work. The angle of Naya's shoulder, just under hers. The faint smell of soap and something citrus-sweet on Naya's collar.

It's nothing. It's fine.

It's not.

But it's quiet. That's enough.

The song starts. A steady pulse, like the countdown of something inevitable.

Hello all the good times,
When did you leave me behind?
I didn't have enough time
For this stuff on my mind.

It's simple. The beat is clean. Tight. Looped synths and a vocal line that isn't quite detached, but isn't pleading either. Resigned, maybe. But in motion.

Oh, when you're trying to rewind
You're caught up in a never-ending circle.
We play it again and again and again.
Just give me more,
Just the same, just the same.
We play it again
Caught up in a never-ending circle.
Play it again.

Mio's fingers curl against her thigh. Naya doesn't say anything. She listens. Her breathing is slow. Even. Their knees almost brush.

You're friends with the madness.
Gotta give it some more loving.
'Cause you can hear what the answer is,
You won't let it begin.

It's a song about cycles. About repetition. About remembering, and how remembering can feel like rewinding a tape so thin you're afraid it will snap.

I play it again, I play it again.
I play it again and again and again.
We play it again, again and again.
I just play it again and again.
I play it again and again.
I play it again and again.
I play it again and again.
And I play it again and again
And again and again and again and again
And again and again and again and again
And again and again and again.
I play it again and again
And again and again and again

(How many times have you done that?
Played it again. And again. And again.)

The chorus loops, and Mio realizes she's mouthing the words without thinking.

Naya sees it. Doesn't say anything.

When the song fades out, Naya tilts her head, just slightly. "Feels like you, doesn't it?"

Mio looks up. "What do you mean?"

"You think in circles," Naya says.

It's not judgment. It's just fact.

Before Mio can find an answer, Naya queues up 2 Hearts.

"You might like this," she says. "The lyrics are brutal. But in a good way."

Mio huffs. "Brutal?"

"Hopeful. But not easy."

The song starts. Synths, brighter this time. Something more like the after-image of a flashbulb.

A touch too much, too soon,
Got cast away with you,
Got cast away with you.
Your words, can't hear, cause they hurt.
"Can't spend another day with you,
Can't stand another day with you"

Mio feels it in her teeth. It's not romantic. Or maybe it is, but in a way that's all edges. A song about holding on when something's already breaking. About knowing it won't last, but staying anyway.

These two hearts won't make it last.
These two hearts won't make it last.
It's like you are hopelessly in love
But I will watch you.
It's like you are hopelessly in love.

Naya doesn't move. Neither does Mio. They are close enough to breathe the same air, but neither of them breathes too deep.

Don't move, just close your eyes.
I grab your hands and then,
I grab your hands and then
You see, although you've been blind
I saved your world again,
Just saved your world again.

The chorus loops again, and Mio can feel the lyrics press against her ribs.

These two hearts won't make it last.
These two hearts won't make it last.
It's like you are hopelessly in love
But I will watch you.
It's like you are hopelessly in love.

She doesn't know why that line sticks.

(Yes, you do.)

But it's the next one that undoes her.

But it's okay, okay,
'Cause I will stay with you.

Naya's fingers tap against her knee in time with the beat. Mio is suddenly aware of her own pulse.

You don't need much operation done.
You want the moon but you've got the sun.
You don't need much operation done.
But I will watch you.
Too much, too soon, for a bit of fun.

She doesn't move away. Neither does Naya. They just listen. But it's okay, because they stay.

The song winds down. A hiss of vinyl, a thread of sound dissipating into the weightless hush of a needle lifting.

Mio exhales. Slowly. She doesn't realize she's been holding her breath until her lungs start to ache. It's a small thing. Barely a tremor. But it's there.

Naya removes the headphones first. Carefully. Gently. Like she's afraid they'll break in her hands. Mio's still wearing hers, half over one ear, until Naya reaches out—quiet, hesitant—and touches the plastic housing. Lightly. Her knuckles brush Mio's cheek in the process, but it feels unintentional. A ghost of contact. Nothing at all.

She feels it anyway.

Mio lowers the headphones herself after that. Her fingers are steady. She makes sure of it.

Naya doesn't look at her. Not right away. She's staring down at the sleeve of I Love You, Dude, turning it over in her hands like there's something more to read if she squints at the fine print.

The Japanese version has a  bonus track, too. Sleepwalker. She wonders if Naya has listened. She doesn't ask.

"Well?" Naya says, eventually. Her voice is casual.

Mio says, "I liked these songs."

Naya glances up. One brow arches. Just the barest hint of challenge. "You did?"

"I liked them more than Idealism."

And there it is—the faintest flicker of wounded pride crossing Naya's expression. She places a palm to her chest in mock offense. "You wound me, Akiyama."

"You're fine," Mio says, deadpan, though there's a faint twitch at the corner of her mouth.

Naya snorts. "I'm fine because I have excellent taste."

Mio hums. "Questionable."

"Objectively excellent," Naya corrects. She leans her hip against the listening station, that lazy sprawl that Mio recognizes now as a language of reassurance.

I'm okay. You're okay. This is fine.

(It's not. But you're pretending together now.)

Mio flips the record back into its sleeve and sets it down. She tucks her hands into the straps of her bass case. "Come on," she says. "I'll show you something I like."

Naya's smile softens. "Lead the way."

---

They find it near the Japanese pop section, though pop is a misnomer. The bin is crammed with a strange intersection of genres—art rock, shoegaze, post-rock. Mio rifles through with precision. Her fingers know what they're searching for before her mind catches up.

She finds it. Superacar. Futurama, 2000 pressing.

"This," Mio says, holding it out.

Naya takes it without question. She flips it over, scanning the tracklist, eyes catching on Yumegiwa Last Boy. And then, without preamble, they queue it up at the station. The vinyl's a little dusty; Naya wipes it off with the inside of her shirt before placing it on the turntable. The hiss and pop of the needle settling down feels like a sigh.

The music begins. Layered synths. Crisp percussion. Shoegaze vocals that blur at the edges, hazy but warm.

Mio closes her eyes. Naya doesn't say anything.

They listen.

And for a while, the weight between them is suspended. The notes are soft scaffolding, building something delicate and temporary around them, a structure they can inhabit without words.

This is the language Mio speaks best. She wonders if Naya knows that already.

She knows Naya does.

They move through a few more albums. Something experimental. Something gentle. They don't speak much, but when they do, it's easy.

"Yura Yura Teikoku," Mio says, holding up a sleeve. "I really like the song Koi Ga Shitai."

"Looks weird," Naya replies.

"It is."

"Perfect."

Their hands brush once, reaching for the same album. Neither of them acknowledges it.

---

Later, they find Talkie Walkie.

They both freeze.

It's not dramatic. Not obvious. But they stop. Like something shifts. The smallest imbalance. Like gravity changed directions for half a second and they both felt it.

Naya's hand hovers over the spine of the album. Close enough to touch, but not quite. Her fingers curl back, just slightly, like they've forgotten what they're supposed to do.

The light in her eyes dims. Not gone, but muted.

Her thumb taps a rhythm against the corner of the sleeve. It's uneven. A beat that stumbles halfway through. She doesn't correct it.

Mio stares at the cover. Then at the tracklist.

Cherry Blossom Girl.

Her.

Her favorite part of the club.

The song she's listened to more times than she can count. The one that sounds like a—

She stops herself. She doesn't finish the thought.

Naya clears her throat. Quiet. Almost imperceptible. Like it's caught there, like it doesn't want to come out.

"Did you listen to this one?" she asks. Soft. Careful. Like she already knows the answer and isn't sure if she wants it.

Mio nods. "Yeah," she says. Her voice is thin, but steady. "I liked it."

Understatement. It's not what she means. But the other words stay lodged somewhere she can't reach.

Naya doesn't say anything. She stares down at the album. Her lashes lower, casting shadows across her cheeks. Her hand tightens on the sleeve. Not enough to bend it. Just enough to hold something from breaking.

Mio watches her breathe. Watches the faint rise and fall of her shoulders, the small tremor at the edge of her wrist. It's the kind of silence Mio knows how to live in. But this time, it doesn't feel like safety. It feels like waiting.

Then Naya says, very softly:

"Mio."

Her voice is different now. Lighter, but not easy. Careful. Like holding glass that might crack if she squeezes too tight. Like she's afraid of what might happen if she gets it wrong.

Mio turns.

And Naya's looking at her. The way she doesn't often allow herself to. Not the sideways glances, not the quick flickers of attention when she thinks Mio won't notice.

This is direct.

Green eyes clear, honest. Frighteningly so. Stripped of everything she usually hides behind.

And somehow, that's the scariest part. That Naya would choose to show her this.

There's a hesitation. A single breath. A beat where Mio can almost hear the decision being made. Like the faint click of a switch inside her chest. The sound before the light changes.

Then, Naya exhales the words like they've been burning her lungs. Like if she doesn't say them now, they'll burn through everything else:

"I need to tell you something."

Notes:

So, we're knee-deep in Gay Panic: Mutual Edition™. One girl flinching from her own hope, the other girl overthinking oxygen. Classic.

And then Naya says: "I need to tell you something." WELL??? WHAT IS IT, GIRL??? Are you gonna confess? Are you gonna backpedal?? Are you gonna admit you never listened to any of Mio's recs???? (Unlikely. Let's be honest, our girl is gone. She'd listen to two hours of elevator music if Mio told her it had a good bridge.)

Also, thoughts and prayers to Mio, who heard the words "fingers," "master," and "fast" in the same sentence and had a full-body gay shutdown in the vinyl aisle. She's doing her best.

Anyway, this was a hard chapter to write. Not technically, just emotionally. It's about silence, and what it costs to break it. About what happens when someone who always holds themselves together finally lets a crack show. It's about Naya, and the weight she carries just to move through the world. And it's about Mio, starting to see that weight. Starting to feel what it means to witness someone, and be witnessed in return.

As always, eternal gratitude to my beta tsuki_anne, who held my hand through the edits and said this chapter might be one of her favorites. That means the world.

If you made it this far: thank you for sitting in the stillness with them. For reading all the way through. For listening between the lines. And thank you for riding the slowest burn of all time.

And if you're feeling things after this one, you're not alone.

Until next time, folks. Listen to MARINA.

Chapter 26: Photographs

Summary:

Mio captures what catches her eye.

Notes:

So. I'm still feral over MARINA's latest album and honestly?? The first song is so Mio-coded. Completely. Devastatingly. Offensively.

"A tale as old as time, a story just like mine, you've been hurt by those who were supposed to treat you right, but love is our design."

"I livеd the sweet and I lived the sour, been living lifе locked up in a tower, but now I'm blooming like a flower. Welcome to my world, princess of power. Stuck in a loveless generation, ready to go through a transformation. I'm gonna glow like a meteor shower. Welcome to my world, princess of power."

"It's not too late to change the way you love, the way you care, 'cause love is in the giving, not on the receiving end. You see, love don't make you weak, it's the superpower in me. Can't you see? It set me free."

HELLO??? That's literally Mio. This song is literally Mio's character arc in synthpop form. That's the entire story. That's the thesis statement. I should've just pasted this song on AO3 and saved myself 1.5 million words.

Also: we passed 1k hits!! Thank you so much!! <3 (And special thanks to Jules (tsuki_anne) for putting up with my spirals and this monstruosity, and for being my moral support and emotional CPR.)

And now... Naya had something to say to Mio, remember? Something very normal and casual that she definitely won't fumble like a girl-shaped disaster.

Let's find out what happens when you talk too much in a record store, shall we?

Photographs, by Robert Ellis, was released on July 5, 2011.

July 24, 2011

The world stops.

For a second, Mio doesn't know how to breathe. Her heart stumbles. There's too much quiet between them. Too much of something.

But she nods. Because she wants to hear it. Even if she's afraid of what it is.

Especially because she's afraid of what it is.

And then—

Nothing.

Naya doesn't speak right away. She's still holding the album, fingers tight at the edges. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

And Mio—

Mio panics. Quietly. Completely.

What is she going to say?
What does she need to say?
What if she knows?
What if she's figured it out?
What if this is the part where everything falls apart, right here, in a record store that smells like old paper and dust and sun-warmed plastic?
What if Naya knows she's been pulling away?
What if Naya's about to ask her why?

And Mio doesn't know if she can answer.

She knows why.

But she doesn't.

But she does.

Her fingers twitch at her side, useless. She should say something. But the words won't come.

She should stop this. But she doesn't want to.

She wants to hear it. Even if it's bad. Even if it's the thing that breaks them. Breaks her.

Maybe she deserves that.

Naya's hand shifts, her thumb still tapping that uneven rhythm. And Mio watches the smallness of it, the precision of it, like if she stares hard enough at the details, she might keep herself from unraveling.

But she's already unraveling. Because this is Naya. And it's always Naya now, no matter how many times she tells herself it shouldn't be.

And then Naya looks at her again.

And finally, she speaks.

And she says:

"I'm afraid I've made you uncomfortable."

The words come out low. Careful.

Mio stops thinking.

But Naya doesn't stop. She doesn't wait for Mio to catch up. She barrels forward, like if she hesitates for even a second, she'll lose the nerve. Like the words will rot on her tongue if she lets them sit there too long.

"I feel like—maybe—I have," she says. Her voice is steady, but the edges fray. "And if I have, I'd rather know. I don't want to—" A breath. Too quick. "I don't want to make things weird for you."

Mio blinks. But Naya keeps going. Like she can't help herself. Like she's digging the hole deeper just to make sure there's no way out.

"I know how I come off sometimes," Naya says, with this forced, crooked half-smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "And, yeah, sure, maybe I lean into it without thinking. That's on me. I'm... like that."

She shrugs. Like it's supposed to be casual. Like it's supposed to explain something. But it doesn't. And they both know it.

Then—

"I wouldn't..." A pause. Her hand lifts, scrubbing through her hair. She's restless in a way Mio's never seen before. "I wouldn't do that with you," Naya says. And her voice drops. Quieter now. Raw in a way that makes Mio's chest ache. "Not unless you—"

She stops. Shakes her head once, sharp, like she can physically knock the words out of her own mouth.

"Forget it," she mutters. "It doesn't matter."

But it does.

Mio feels the words settle. Heavy. Unfinished. Like a chord that's been strummed and left to ring out, unresolved.

It hums between them, low and constant, vibrating under her skin. A question she doesn't know how to answer.

She wants to.
She doesn't.
She can't.

Because she's been thinking about this.

About Naya.
About the way Naya talks to her.
The teasing, yes—but careful, always careful.
About the way Naya looks at her sometimes, and how Mio doesn't want to look away.
She has thought about whether it's flirting.
And whether it's just how Naya is.

She doesn't know which one would be easier.
She doesn't know which one would hurt more.
She doesn't know which one she wants it to be.

That's the problem. The not-knowing. The possibility. It flickers at the edges of everything, sharp and dangerous.

And Mio knows—knows—that if she lets herself reach for it, even a little, the rest of her life will come apart at the seams.

She has Kenji. Kenji, who is patient. Steady. Kind. Kenji, who walks on the outside of the sidewalk and slows his pace to match hers. Kenji, who squeezes her hand at the crosswalk.

And she can't even think about kissing him without her body stiffening, her stomach twisting, her throat closing up like something's caught there and she can't swallow it down.

But that's different. That's her problem. That's not about Naya.

Except maybe it is.

Mio swallows. She doesn't let herself look away. Her voice, when it comes, is steadier than she feels. She's good at that.

(Too good.)

"You haven't made me uncomfortable," she says.

And it's not a lie. But it's not the truth either. It's something else. Something she doesn't have the language for yet.

Naya stares at her like she doesn't quite believe it. Like she's waiting for the rest of the sentence. Like she knows there's something else Mio's not saying.

And Mio—

Mio can't give it to her.

So Naya just nods. Once.

And then:

"Did you figure it out?" Naya asks. The words are almost a whisper.

Mio hesitates. Just for a second. But Naya sees it. And she barrels through.

"Because I get it. I say things without thinking. And sometimes I'm... obvious." Her laugh is sharp and humorless. "Like the purikura. Or when I tell you you're pretty. And the song thing..." Naya leaves Talkie Walkie on the shelf. "That was stupid. I shouldn't have written that."

Mio's stomach twists.

"I just—" Naya cuts herself off. She rubs the back of her neck, looking suddenly young. "I don't want you to think I was trying to—"

She won't finish that sentence.

Mio's voice is soft. "It's fine."

Naya blinks.

"We're still friends," Mio says. "Nothing's changed."

It's not the whole truth. But it's true enough.

Except something has changed.

And the guilt of it—of knowing Kenji would never understand this, the why of it—presses at the back of her mind like a weight she can't shift.

He wouldn't ask. He wouldn't push. He never does. But he'd look at her with those quiet, patient eyes, and wait.

And she's tired of feeling like she's disappointing him just by standing still.

So she doesn't hold space for him.

She can't. Not with Naya standing this close. Not when the air between them feels different. Not when she's suddenly afraid of what might happen if she lets herself want something else.

Naya exhales. Half a laugh, half a breath. "Really? You're sure?"

Mio nods.

Naya studies her. Carefully. Like she's waiting for the catch.

When she doesn't find it, something in her eases. Just a little.

"Okay," Naya says. Quiet. "Okay. Good."

They don't move.

Mio's hands are loose at her sides. Her fingers brush the edge of Talkie Walkie. She doesn't pick it up.

"You were scared," Mio says, finally.

It isn't a question.

Naya shrugs. "Yeah."

Mio watches her. "Every time you said something like that... you were worrying about it after?"

Naya glances at her. Then away. Her hand runs through her hair. It falls back over her forehead, messy.

"Yeah," she says, after a pause. "Kind of."

Mio tilts her head. "You were constantly worried I'd take it the wrong way?"

Naya exhales. There's something like a chuckle buried in it. But it's not amusement. "I didn't think about it in the moment. But afterward, I'd... overthink it. Wonder if I was being weird. If you'd notice," Naya adds. "If you'd think I was—"

She still won't finish that sentence.

"I just didn't want to lose what we have. You're—" Naya stops, then exhales. Her thumb taps a messy rhythm against the side of her leg. "You're the first person here who made me feel like I wasn't... just visiting. Like I could stay. Like I belong somewhere."

She shrugs after she says it, like it isn't a big deal. But her voice catches a little on belong.

And Mio feels that word settle somewhere deep, like a bass note that hums long after it's played.

Naya smiles, faint and tired. "I meant it. When I said you're my best friend here."

Mio swallows.

"I really like being with you, Mio," Naya says. "Not just because of the music. Because of everything else." She looks down. Then up again. "At first, yeah, it was because you helped me. You didn't make me feel stupid. Even when I was struggling. You just helped."

Mio says nothing.

"I got fond of you for that," Naya continues. "But it wasn't just that." Her hand curls at her side. Tightens. "The first time I saw you play bass, I admired you. But it wasn't just that, either." She breathes. "I have a lot of fun with you. I like talking to you. Listening to you. The bands you send me. The way you think about music. When we experiment with pedals, or when you teach me bass tricks, or when we just fool around with the sound. When you start rambling about music or basses or books or anything you like. But I'd still want to sit next to you even if we didn't talk. Even if you were just reading in a corner or rambling about—about—I don't know, calculators or the properties of lightbulbs or something."

Mio's heart stumbles.

"Because you make everything easier," Naya says. "Better." Her smile flickers. "And I love when you get all scandalized by Spain, by my antics. But you ask real questions."

Mio's throat works.

"You don't ask, 'Do you eat paella every day?' You ask, 'What do you usually have for breakfast in Spain?' You don't ask, 'Do you know how to dance flamenco?' You ask, 'What kind of music do you like?' You don't ask, 'Why don't you play piano instead of bass, if you're better at it?' You ask, 'Why did you quit?' You don't ask, 'Why do you use so many pedals for a bass, if that's not normal?' You ask, 'How did you figure out your sound?'" Naya smiles, fond. "You don't turn me into some foreign curiosity. You don't build a story about me. You let me tell my own story," she finishes, voice soft. "And that matters to me. You can't even imagine how much."

Mio breathes in. Out.

And then she says:

"I'm not uncomfortable with you."

Naya looks up. Quick. Sharp. Like she wasn't expecting that.

Mio draws in a slow breath. Lets it out. "You've been respectful," she says, steady but soft.

Naya's mouth parts, but she listens.

"The things you say sometimes catch me off guard, yeah," Mio continues. "But that's just because I'm not used to it—how direct you are. How honest." She hesitates, picking her next words carefully. "But I understand. That's how you communicate. That's who you are. And I wouldn't ask you to change that. I won't."

Her voice steadies, quieter now, but sure.

"You're already doing so much," Mio says. "You told me you miss being... closer. Hugging people. That you're used to touch. But you don't do that with me. Even when... even when I can tell you want to." She swallows. "Because you respect my culture. You respect me. You respect my space. And I notice that. I appreciate it."

Another pause. Softer. Like she's settling into the truth of it.

"So the least I can do is meet you halfway," she says. "You've made room for who I am. I can do the same for you."

A breath. Careful.

"Because I care about you."

It's quiet after that.

And then—slowly—Naya smiles.

Not wide. Not easy. But real.

"Okay," Naya says.

Mio's fingers twitch. They stand there a little longer. And then Naya nudges her shoulder again.

"Come on," she says. "Let's find something ridiculous."

Mio smiles back. And they move.

---

They stay in the record store longer than either of them planned.

Not that there was a plan.

They drift. Quiet. But not in that brittle, precarious way of earlier.

This silence is different. This one breathes.

They move through the aisles again, hushed now. But not heavy. Something else. Something softer.

The vinyl sleeves feel smoother under Mio's fingertips, the edges less sharp. The air smells the same—dust and paper and faint ozone from the ancient ceiling fan—but it feels different. As if the place itself has shifted its weight. As if the floorboards creak more gently beneath their feet.

Mio doesn't know when they slip into the old rock section. She isn't paying attention. She's somewhere else—still tangled up in the words Naya said and the ones she didn't—but her body moves on instinct, following paths worn smooth by years of habit.

Her fingers stop, suddenly, without warning.

Four figures crossing a street. One of them, barefoot. Suits. No title, no band name. No need.

She freezes for half a second. Then, without thinking, she pulls the record out and holds it up by the edges, carefully, reverently. As if it's more than cardboard and vinyl.

"Abbey Road," she says, softly.

Naya glances over. Her smile is small, but it's there. "Classic."

Mio doesn't answer right away. She stares at the cover. Her thumb moves, unthinking, over the laminated edge. Then, without looking up, she says—

"I was here."

Naya's head tilts. "What?"

Mio turns, the record still in her hands. "Abbey Road. I was here. I—" She pauses, corrects herself. "We went to London. Last year. We crossed this street."

Naya blinks at her, and then something glows behind her eyes. "No way."

Mio nods. "We did."

"You did the walk?"

"Of course," Mio says. "We were obnoxious about it."

"You walked barefoot, too, like Paul McCartney?"

Mio's mouth twitches. "No."

And just like that, Mio is talking.

The words tumble out with a kind of momentum she can't stop once it's started. She tells Naya about London. About the trip they took at the end of their last year of high school—except it wasn't really an ending. It was a new beginning, in its own way. It was the start of all this. But they didn't know that.

She tells her about how they had this turtle mascot in the club, Ton-chan, and how he picked the destination by touching a certain tea cup. About how she almost cried when he touched Mio's cup first and they said they were going to London, because it was her dream and it wasn't supposed to come true so easily.

And maybe it didn't come true easily. Maybe it was earned. She isn't sure anymore.

"We got the wrong hotel when we arrived," Mio says, shaking her head at the memory. "I thought we were going to have to sleep in the street."

"Did you?"

"No," Mio says. "We got there eventually." She pauses. "Oh, and I almost lost my suitcase at the airport."

Naya raises an eyebrow. "You?"

Mio nods, dead serious. "We also played a gig in London," she says after a beat, like it's an afterthought. Like she didn't just drop something ridiculous into the conversation.

Naya blinks. "You what—?"

Mio keeps going like she didn't notice. "At a sushi bar. Kind of by accident."

"You what?!" Naya stares at her, eyes wide. "Back up. Back up."

Mio's mouth twitches. "Ritsu wanted to try London sushi. We ended up in this place with a stage, and... it just sort of happened."

"It just sort of—" Naya makes a noise of disbelief, half laugh, half splutter. "You walked into a restaurant and—what? They handed you instruments and said 'play'?"

"Something like that."

Naya squints at her like she's trying to see through an elaborate lie. "Explain."

Mio exhales, half a laugh under her breath. "Yui bumped into the manager. He asked if we were 'the girls from Japan,' and Yui said yes, because that's all she understood. Next thing we know, we're being handed happi coats and led onto the stage."

Naya's face is priceless. "No."

"Yes."

"No."

Mio nods.

"Oh my god."

"Ritsu tried to talk to the manager herself, but her English was..." Mio pauses delicately. "Ritsu's English."

Naya winces in sympathy. "Oof."

"Yeah."

"So, you played."

"We did."

"What did you play?"

"Yui picked Curry Nochi Rice. She saw someone who looked like they might enjoy curry and went with it."

Naya covers her face with one hand. "Unreal."

"We were starving," Mio adds, as if that explains everything. "We thought we had to perform before we could eat. Like... some twisted entrance fee."

Naya lets out an incredulous laugh. "That's criminal."

"It was."

"Rock and roll life, I guess."

"More like rice and roll," Mio says, deadpan.

"No. No, that's a Yui joke."

"I'm versatile."

Naya laughs, bright and unguarded. The sound curls warm in Mio's ribs before she can think too hard about it.

"So," Naya says after a moment, "in one day, I find out you were Romeo in a play, you worked at a maid café, you had a fan club back in high school, and you played a guerrilla gig in London. What else are you hiding?"

Mio flushes, scowling half-heartedly. "Nothing."

"Lies."

Mio sighs. "We never even got to eat."

"What? You didn't?" Naya's mouth falls open in scandal. "After all that?!"

"We were too embarrassed to go back in," Mio admits, a little sheepish. "Turns out the manager thought we were another band. Love Crysis. Ritsu's friend's band. They were also in London."

Naya blinks. "That's... that's not real."

"It is."

"You can't make this stuff up."

"I wish we had."

Naya laughs again, and it's easier this time.

And the London Eye. She tells Naya about the London Eye.

"I almost didn't get on," Mio admits.

"But you did?"

"I did," Mio says. "And the moment I got up there, I didn't regret it. The view is absolutely stunning."

Naya smiles at that. It's a soft thing.

Mio lets herself watch her for a moment longer than she should.

She can't tell if it's pride she feels. Or longing. Or something stranger. But it's warm. And it's there.

Mio also tells her about the Japanese Pop Culture Fair. The last-minute setlist. Sawako-sensei showing up out of nowhere and insisting on costumes. "We didn't wear them," Mio says. "We performed in our high school uniforms."

Naya nods, solemn. "Cute."

Mio keeps talking. How they rushed to the airport afterward, still laughing, still singing. How Mio thought, even as they ran, I want to remember this.

And she does.

She remembers.

She's telling Naya now.

---

Later, they're sitting on the worn bench near the listening station, records piled between them. Naya's leaning back against the wall. Mio's holding the Abbey Road sleeve like it's a talisman.

"You travel a lot?" Naya asks, after a while.

Mio shakes her head. "Not really. London was the first time I took a plane."

Naya hums. "London's a good start."

Mio nods.

There's a pause. A different kind of silence. Lighter.

And then Naya says, "I'm going to Reading next month."

Mio blinks. "Reading?"

Naya glances at her. "Reading Festival. August 26th to the 28th."

Mio processes that. "That's... big."

Naya shrugs, but there's something pleased in the tilt of her mouth. "Muse is playing the full Origin of Symmetry set. Whole thing. Front to back. Ten-year anniversary." Naya bites her lip to keep her smile from getting too big, but fails. "Digitalism, Miles Kane and The Horrors are playing, too. On the 26th. Muse is on the 28th."

A summer music festival. With so many bands Naya likes. Mio envies her.

"And you're going?" she asks.

"Of course."

Mio's quiet for a moment. Then: "That's expensive."

Naya shrugs again. But it's different this time. Looser at the shoulders, but tighter at the edges. "I got them to split it. My parents. Half them, half me."

"How'd you convince them?"

Naya's grin is faint. "Told them it's educational."

Mio snorts. "Is it?"

"Absolutely," Naya says. "It's history. And a once-in-a-lifetime thing."

Mio hums. She thinks about the way Naya hesitated. The way she glossed over the details.

She doesn't push.

"So you're spending your tuition on Muse. You're such a nerd about them."

Naya doesn't deny it. But then her eyes drift, thoughtful. "You know what's next weekend?"

Mio blinks. "Next weekend?"

"Fuji Rock." Naya sighs, dramatically. "Fuji Rock, Mio. I completely forgot it was so soon."

Mio's brow lifts. "Oh, true."

"Arctic Monkeys, Chemical Brothers, Digitalism!" Naya groans. "Manu Chao with La Ventura, can you imagine? My people!"

"So Digitalism is in the same country as you are and you're gonna miss them, then travel from your country to a third one to see them?" Mio asks, smirking.

"Apparently." Naya leans back against the wall, eyes closed for half a second. "And Four Tet is doing a set. And The Vaccines. And 80kidz. I looked them up, by the way. You were right. I'm ashamed I didn't know them."

Mio huffs a laugh. "I still can't believe you didn't know 80kidz before I told you about them, if you like electronic music so much," she says. "They're, like, the perfect band for you."

"That's why you're my music buddy. To enlighten me with amazing recs." Naya sighs. "Their first album is insane. I was obsessed with Flying Buttress for days. And Fait La Danse is like reggaeton, but without the secondhand embarrassment. And I'm gonna stop talking because I'm becoming such a Yellow Rambler."

Mio chuckles. Her voice goes softer. "Shugo Tokumaru is playing, too."

"Don't do that to me," Naya mutters. "Don't say his name when I already can't go."

"You'd go if you could?"

Naya opens one eye, like she's peeking out from a dramatic faint. "I'd sell three of my pedals to go. But. Money." She makes a little pfft noise. "Besides, I already begged for Reading."

Mio hums.

"You're not going either?" Naya asks.

Mio shakes her head. "I'll be in Hakone that weekend. With Kenji."

It comes out like a confession.

Naya nods. "Ah. True. Fancy."

Mio doesn't answer.

The word fancy hovers for a moment, clumsy and distant, like a paper plane that never quite lands.

Then, quieter: "Did you ask him about Fuji Rock?"

Mio sighs. "Didn't even try."

Naya tilts her head.

"He wouldn't enjoy it," Mio says. "Not his thing."

She runs her finger along the edge of a nearby vinyl sleeve, not really seeing it.

"I thought about it, though," she admits. "I remembered our last summer in high school. When Sawako-sensei somehow got those Natsu Rock tickets, and dragged us all along like it was a class trip."

Naya watches her.

"It was me, Yui, Mugi, Ritsu, Azusa... We all stayed in this awful little tent. Yui kept kicking me in her sleep. And the food was terrible. And the port-a-potties were even worse." She huffs, almost smiling. "But I was so excited. I wanted to see every band. I even made a whole timetable with colors and arrows and overlapping stages—because of course I did."

Naya smiles softly.

"I remember Ritsu and I ran off to catch this band called KAMAKIRI. They had a left-handed guitarist. We bought t-shirts. I think I still have mine. The logo's all cracked and faded now, but..." She trails off.

"You wanted to do that again," Naya says.

Mio nods. Just once. "Yeah. I did. Not necessarily that exact thing, but... something like it. A summer festival with friends. Music. Sweat. Noise. Stupid snacks and bad sunblock and staying up way too late talking in sleeping bags. But I have a boyfriend now." She swallows. "And I have to think about... us. He said Hakone would be nice. A way to unwind. Be together. So I didn't ask anyone. I didn't plan anything. Just said okay."

She shifts her weight, fingers tracing the edge of her sleeve.

"... I wouldn't mind going to a festival with someone I'm dating. With a boyfriend. Or, you know, someone I'm with." Her voice flattens, careful. "Not just friends. I mean, I love my friends—of course I do. I'd go again in a second if it were with them. But if it were with... someone who really gets it? The music, I mean. The noise, the layers, the mess of it. Someone who's not just going for me, but because they love it too." Her voice flattens, careful. "Because I love music. And I love sharing it. And it's not just about the event. It's about having someone who gets it. Not just tagging along for my sake like a... like a favor."

She sighs. Shrugs it off like it doesn't matter.

Naya tosses a record sleeve from one hand to the other. Then, in that dry, casual way she says things that maybe aren't casual at all:

"If I could, I'd probably drag you to Fuji Rock."

A pause.

"Sweaty, loud, and muddy as hell. We'd be soaked in mud and regret by nightfall." Naya grins crookedly like she's already backing away from it.

Mio's fingers tighten on the Abbey Road sleeve.

The silence stretches, just a little too long.

She should laugh. Say something. Roll her eyes. But she doesn't.

Because for a moment—just a flicker, just a breath—she sees it.

The press of bodies. The throb of bass. The haze of light and sweat and sound. Naya in a band shirt, hair damp with sweat and rain, shouting accented lyrics beside her in a sea of strangers. Naya's hand in hers, soft and steady. A night that ends in a zipped tent under the stars, and a shared pair of earbuds, and music pulsing through the dark.

Something stutters low in her chest. A tiny, traitorous ache. Like she's missed a train she didn't know she was waiting for.

She wants that.

And she shouldn't.

Then Naya shifts the records in her lap. "Anyway, if I were going, I'd be the girl losing her mind during Hey Boy Hey Girl. You'd be watching Wilco like you were trying to reverse engineer the chords."

"I don't even like Wilco that much," Mio protests.

"Yet."

"And the summer camp?" Mio changes the topic. "You're coming?"

Naya nods. "Yeah. After that, I'm going back to Spain. Right after camp." Naya glances at her. "Until the semester starts."

Mio does the math. Camp ends on the 15th of August. Second semester starts in October. Naya will be gone for a month and a half.

That's... sad, somehow.

"You got your parents to pay for camp, too?"

Naya huffs. "I told them I wanted the camp fee covered for my birthday."

"Your birthday?"

Naya nods. "Thursday."

Mio stares at her. "That's in four days."

Naya shrugs. "Yeah."

Mio processes that. Thursday. July 28th. Her mind works, quick and erratic.

"You didn't tell anyone."

Naya shrugs again. "It's okay."

It's not.

Mio knows the shape of deflection. She's seen it in the mirror.

Mio breathes in. Then out.

She doesn't say anything. But she thinks:

She'll be alone.

And Mio feels it. The weight of that. The quiet acceptance. Like Naya's decided it's not worth the effort. Not worth the attention.

She's far from home. From family. From friends. And she's going to spend her birthday alone.

She watches Naya's profile, the easy line of her lips, the faint gleam of sweat at her temple. It's hot in here. The fan does nothing.

Naya's fingers tap a rhythm on her knee. Unthinking.

Mio files it away.

I want to do something for her.

Something has shifted inside her. Like gravity. Like the pull of orbit.

She's already planning.

Naya looks at her. "You okay?"

Mio nods. "Yeah."

Naya watches her for a moment. Then lets it go.

They sit there a while longer. Between now and later. Between what they said and what they didn't.

She listens to Naya's hum. Off-key. But steady.

---

They leave the record store.

It's quieter than Mio expects. She's not sure what she thought would happen when the door clicked shut behind them. That something inside her would shift back into alignment. That the shape of things—herself, this, them—would rearrange into something comprehensible, something easier to carry. But it doesn't. The world is the same as it was an hour ago, except not really. The street is still there, stained asphalt and the faint dust of summer pollen blowing in low circles along the curb. The sky is still that peculiar shade of washed-out blue that makes everything look a little overexposed. And Naya is still walking beside her.

But now Mio knows things. Small things. Large things. Terrifying things.

The knowledge sits under her skin like static. Barely there. Always there.

They take the long way back to the station without agreeing to it. Mio's not sure who veered first. Maybe both of them, at the same time, too polite to point it out. Or too careful. She can't tell. All she knows is that they're walking parallel to the train tracks now, not toward them. Shoes scuffing faintly in rhythm with each other. Naya's strides are always a little longer, but she matches Mio unconsciously, the same way she always matches her tempo when they play together. It makes her think, stupidly, of metronomes. Of pendulums. Of things that swing back and forth, steady, deliberate, inevitable.

And of the hands that hold them still.

Naya's hands are in her pockets.

This isn't strange. It's one of those things Mio stopped registering after the first month of knowing her. Naya moves with her hands buried in pockets the way some people fidget or fold their arms. It's casual. Easy. Like gravity pulls differently on her and that's where they're meant to be. Mio has never thought twice about it.

But she does now.

She notices. The angle of her wrists. The set of her shoulders. The way her elbows bend in that loose-limbed, slouching sort of posture that makes her look entirely unconcerned with the world. And for the first time, Mio wonders—is she doing that on purpose?

The thought takes root. Quiet. Persistent.

Is she holding herself back?

They cross a side street, narrow and residential, the kind of road where children chalk hopscotch outlines in pastel arcs directly onto the pavement. There's no car in sight. Not even the faint hum of an engine somewhere in the distance. Still, when they come to the crosswalk, both of them stop at the line, patient, automatic.

Mio doesn't think about it. It's a reflex. You wait until the light turns green. That's just how it works. Rules are rules. Even when the road is empty.

But beside her, Naya huffs a faint sound. A kind of quiet laugh, low and amused. Mio glances sideways, unsure if it's directed at her.

Naya keeps her gaze on the crossing signal, watching the red man blink steadily in place.

"I still think it's wild," she says after a moment, tone light, "how everyone here waits for the light. Even if there's no car for miles."

Mio blinks. "You mean—"

"In Spain?" Naya's grin widens. "We'd already be halfway down the street by now. Or halfway across a highway. Doesn't matter." She shifts her weight to one hip, still keeping her hands stuffed deep in her pockets. "You grow up with this thing, you know? If there's no car, you go. If there is a car, you still go—you just run."

Mio stares at the intersection. At the wide, empty road. At the red man, still glowing with silent authority.

She's never thought about it. Never considered that the rules were rules only because she believed they were. That the space between herself and the other side of the street wasn't a physical barrier, but a conceptual one. A quiet obedience so ingrained, it doesn't register as a choice.

Naya watches the light shift to green and steps forward as if it was always going to happen that way. But she mutters, mostly to herself, "Japan is rewiring my brain."

Mio doesn't know how to respond to that. Not in the way Naya probably means. But the words lodge somewhere deep.

Rewiring.

They keep walking, the neighborhood shifting around them in slow gradients. Convenience stores give way to quiet rows of houses. Narrow alleys ribbon off between them, stacked with bicycles and laundry lines strung like low-hanging clouds. Tokyo is always like this. No clear demarcation between one thing and the next. Just gradients. Things sliding into each other until you forget where they started.

Mio doesn't know where they're going. She doesn't ask.

At some point, Naya slows. Her gaze flickers sideways, toward a narrow break in the buildings. Mio follows her line of sight and sees it—a shrine. Small. Tucked between two apartment complexes that block it from view unless you're directly in front of it. The stone steps are worn down in the center, smooth with years of unnoticed passage. The torii is faded, vermilion paint peeling in strips that reveal pale, weathered wood beneath. Two komainu stand guard at either side, their mouths softened by time, eyes hollowed into dark sockets that seem to watch without judgment.

It's not unusual.

Mio has passed shrines like this since she was a child. Some are grand, some are smaller than her desk, but they're always there. Folded into the architecture of the city like roots, woven into the city's skin. Like punctuation marks anchoring the long sentence of concrete and glass.

But Naya slows. Something in her body language shifts—not abrupt, but gradual. As if she's catching herself before she can stop.

There's a cat on the stone step. Pale ginger, one ear notched from an old fight or accident. He blinks at them with the slow indifference of something that knows it belongs there more than they do.

Naya steps closer. Not all the way up the stairs, but enough to get level with the cat without looming. She crouches, elbows balanced on her knees, hands still tucked away. She doesn't call to him. Doesn't reach out. Just sits there, letting the distance exist on the cat's terms.

Mio watches her. The loose fall of her shirt sleeves, the curl of hair at the nape of her neck, a bit damp from the heat. Watches the way her mouth softens when the cat blinks back at her, slow and lazy. The way she tips her head slightly, as if listening to something Mio can't hear.

And before she's fully aware of the choice, Mio slips her camera from her bag.

The Lomo LC-A is heavier than she remembers. She hasn't carried it in weeks. Maybe longer. She can't remember why she brought it today. Some half-formed impulse when she left the dorms.

Her thumb slides over the worn metal, the grip familiar. She lifts it, frames the shot—Naya crouched in front of the shrine, the cat blinking in lazy indifference, the torii gate framing them both in soft, peeling red.

She presses the shutter. The click is muted, soft.

Naya glances back and sees the camera. Her expression shifts, but not into anything readable. She stands, brushing dust off her knees with the flat of her palms, and steps back toward Mio.

"You carry that around?" Naya asks, tilting her head toward the camera.

Mio looks down at the camera. "Sometimes."

"I haven't seen you with it."

"I used to take it everywhere," Mio says, adjusting the strap over her shoulder. "I stopped for a while. Thought I should bring it today."

And maybe she should leave it there. Maybe she should let the moment move on, as it always does, as it should—linear, clean.

But she doesn't.

Instead, she hesitates. Just long enough to recognize the friction, the sense that she's standing too close to a fault line. Something shifting underfoot.

Naya isn't looking at her anymore. Her attention has drifted, outward, toward the street, toward the faint chorus of cicadas reverberating from the trees lining the narrow road. The light catches in the curve of her profile, transfiguring the line of her cheeks. There is a geometry to it—soft angles and implied symmetry—that Mio's fingers recognize before her thoughts catch up.

Her eyes are green in this light.

(They've always been green.)

But now they're something else, too.

Softer. Warmer. Like moss lit from within.

Before Mio can think better of it, her hands are moving. Her fingers close around the camera's body with a surety that surprises her, as if her body remembers what her mind wants to forget. She raises it to her eye.

The frame is tight. Closer than she meant it to be. But not close enough.

Never close enough.

She adjusts the focus by instinct—muscle memory, fine-tuned precision. Her thumb flicks over the worn metal of the lens barrel, aligning the glass with the distance, though there's no distance left. She exhales. And presses the shutter.

Click.

The muted click sounds small in the widening quiet. But Mio hears it like a rupture.

Naya's head turns slightly. Slow. Measured. She catches Mio's eye just as Mio lowers the camera, the strap brushing the inside of her wrist like a tether. Her expression is unreadable—composed, but not empty.

As if she knows.

(You don't. You can't.)

Mio clears her throat. The motion of it feels mechanical.

And Naya smiles.

"Lomography, right?" Naya's grin is faint. "You're one of those."

Mio raises an eyebrow. "One of what?"

"Local with a camera," Naya says, hands back in her pockets. "Meanwhile, the tourist has nothing."

Mio huffs, a soft sound that's not quite laughter. "It's always like that, isn't it?" she says. "You never visit the places in your own city. You think, 'I can always go there whenever.' And then you never do. I've lived in Tokyo my whole life, and I barely know it. Tourists probably know it better than I do."

"Tell me about it," Naya says. Her gaze tracks back to the shrine for a moment, thoughtful. "My university in Spain is famous. Big tourist spot. Everyone takes pictures of it. Some days I would stay in bed just to avoid the chaos."

Mio tilts her head slightly, curious. Realizing just now. "Wait... where are you actually from?"

Naya looks back at her, face carefully blank. "Oh, come on. You've really not been paying attention? I'm obviously Italian."

Mio blinks, then breaks into a quiet laugh. Naya's humor is sharp, dry, and Mio's starting to get it now. "Right, I must've missed that."

Naya chuckles. "Salamanca," she says, more genuine now.

She says it like a melody: Sah-lah-mahn-ka.

Mio repeats it quietly. Tries the shape of it in her mouth. "Sa-ra-man-ka."

"Not bad. That's actually pretty close." Naya grins. "It's in the west. Near Portugal."

Mio searches her memory. She can't pinpoint a time in her life where a map of Spain was unrolled at class. "I don't know it."

"It's old," Naya says. She kicks a loose stone off the sidewalk, watches it skitter into the gutter. "The university is one of the oldest in Europe. Third oldest in the world that's still running. People come from everywhere to see it. They think it's beautiful."

"Do you?"

Naya snorts. "Yeah, but it's just... the university. And Salamanca... I mean, yeah, it's beautiful. Big sandstone buildings. They call it La Ciudad Dorada—the Golden City—because everything looks golden in the right light. But the university—it's where I go to class. Where I run between buildings because I'm late. Where I have exams. You stop seeing it the way other people do."

Mio lets that settle. The way people stop noticing things that are always there. Background noise. The weight of familiarity dulling the edges of wonder.

She doesn't think about the fact that you're waiting for a green light. She doesn't think about shrines tucked between buildings. She doesn't think about the shape of someone's hands in their pockets until she does.

"What made you choose East Asian Studies?" Mio asks.

"You mean, apart from the crush thing?" Naya jokes, sheepish.

Mio remembers that—Naya explaining she started studying Japanese because she had a crush on someone in high school who was an otaku.

At the time, she hadn't thought much of it. She tried not to. People started hobbies for worse reasons. But now—

Now it sits differently.

Sharp. Irrational. Like something lodged under her ribs, where it doesn't belong.

Because now Mio knows.

Now she knows it was a girl.

She tries not to think about it too hard. It's none of her business. It's years ago. It's irrelevant.

(It's not.)

She focuses on Naya instead. Present tense. Walking half a step ahead, hands still in her pockets.

Naya glances at her, faintly amused. "Because I'm good at it. Japanese, I mean."

Mio smirks. "You're good at Japanese?"

"Okay, rude." Naya shrugs, like it's nothing. "Nah, but good enough to get here," she says.

There's something in her tone that Mio can't quite parse. Half self-deprecation, half pride. Like she's not sure which one wins.

"And I love languages," Naya adds, more casually. "I've always liked how they work. The puzzle of it. Languages open up a whole new piece of the world that was previously off limits."

Mio files that away, too. A new piece. A quiet one.

They walk a few more paces before Mio finds herself asking, without really meaning to, "Why didn't you go into music?"

It's not the question she planned. She hears herself say it anyway.

Naya doesn't stop. Not quite. But Mio feels her pause. A hitch in rhythm.

"I thought about it," Naya says at last. Her voice is even, but there's something careful underneath it. "For a long time."

Her hands stay in her pockets. They always do. But now Mio notices the tightness in her shoulders, the small tension she carries like weight in the way she walks.

"I played piano since I was six," Naya continues. "Classical. Competitions. Recitals. Conservatory track."

Mio knows this, too. In pieces.

"My parents thought I would," Naya says. "They wanted me to."

"And?" Mio prompts.

"And I didn't want to turn music into something I had to do," Naya answers. "I wanted it to stay something I chose. Something I know I come back to because I want to, not because I must."

Her voice is neutral, but Mio can hear the thread under it.

She thinks about that. About choice. About the difference between have to and want to. How thin that line is. How it blurs.

"Do you regret it?" she asks.

Naya glances sideways at her. There's something sharp in her eyes, but soft, too. "No," she says. "Do you?"

Mio thinks about it.

Music Education.

She thinks of the way she explains it to people. Of the story she tells about why she's here.

"I—" Mio starts. Stops. Feels the words form in her mouth before they settle.

She thinks in her language, the one hidden behind the semiquavers, the arpeggios, the pizzicatos and the counterpoints.

She thinks about that younger Mio who hadn't yet touched a bass.

She thinks of Azusa.

"No," she says after a beat. "I want to teach music."

Naya watches her for a long moment. Just enough to make Mio aware of her own pulse. Then, Naya smiles.

"The world needs music teachers like you, Mio," she says, simply.

Mio thinks about that, too. About Naya's piano teacher, and how she almost made her abandon the thing she loves the most.

Mio also thinks about cities she's never been to. About sandstone buildings that glow gold in the right light. About the quiet places between buildings where shrines wait with komainu standing guard, stone mouths soft with time. About hands in pockets and the careful control that takes.

About the green light that tells her when it's safe to cross.

And what it means when you learn to wait for it.

Then, Naya breaks the silence.

"I wasn't sure, you know," she says, slow. "Before coming here."

Mio glances sideways at her. "About what?"

Naya exhales through her nose, not quite a laugh. More like a release of breath she's been holding for a while. "About... if I'd fit." Her hands are still deep in her pockets, but there's something tighter in the line of her shoulders now. "I knew I'd stand out. Foreigner. Accent. I knew that part. But I didn't think it'd be... easy. To be out here."

Mio thinks about that. The careful way Naya says it. The way her tone threads through the spaces between words, light and casual but not careless.

"You mean being—" Mio starts. Then stops. Rethinks the phrasing. "You mean, what you told me in the cat café?"

Naya doesn't look at her. She's watching the sidewalk again, where the cracks form small, irregular patterns, worn smooth by time. "I don't want to sound like I'm judging," she says, quietly. "I'm not. It's just different from Spain."

Mio lets that settle for a beat.

Different. She thinks about what different means. She's lived here her whole life. She's never left, except once.

"I get it," Mio says, softer. "You're not wrong."

Naya glances at her then. Something careful behind her eyes. Like she's waiting to be corrected. Or forgiven.

Mio keeps walking. "But you don't have to worry about that with me," she adds.

It's true.

It's also terrifying.

Naya huffs again. This time it's more of a laugh. Then, after a moment, with a wry grin, "You know, I already stick out enough. I don't need another reason for people to stare at me."

Mio smiles. "I think people stare because you bow too much when you're nervous."

Naya blinks. "I do not."

"You do," Mio says, almost prim. "You bowed to the vending machine the other day."

"That was once," Naya protests. "And I was distracted."

Mio hums, not buying it. "And you roll your 'r' too much."

"That's on purpose. It's my accent."

"It's terrible," Mio says. But her mouth twitches at the edges. "Ritsu loves it."

Naya chuckles. "Ritsu says her name sounds weird in my mouth."

Mio glances at her. "Weird?"

"She says I stretch it out too much," Naya says, drawing out the 'r' when she says it herself. "Like Rrritsu. I can't help it. The rolled 'r' in Spanish is automatic."

Mio thinks about Naya's tongue when she talks about accents and rolling letters. She doesn't know why her stomach flips at the thought.

(It's just linguistic curiosity. Probably.)

"What about Azusa?" Mio asks. "The 'z.'"

Naya nods. "Same. I have to think about it every time I say her name. If I don't, it comes out A-thu-sa." She grimaces. "And then she looks at me like I've failed her."

"You have," Mio says. "With your linguistic crime."

"It's not my fault," Naya protests, mock wounded. "The 'z' and the 'c' are 'th' in Spain. Blame medieval Spanish."

"My name isn't that different when you say it, though," Mio notes. "Just... subtle."

"Yeah?"

Mio nods. "But Akiyama..." She hesitates, rolling the name around in her head, thinking about the way it sounds when Naya says it. "It's stronger. Sharper. Maybe because of the 'k.'"

Naya huffs a quiet laugh. "Figures. That's the easy part."

Mio hums, considering. "So, Akira?"

"Same. The 'k' is easy. It's the 'l' that gets me," Naya says. "Japanese doesn't really have one. It's all soft 'r' sounds, but I keep wanting to pronounce it like Spanish." She tilts her head, half-grinning. "Liz laughs at me for that."

Mio knew this—Liz's name caught between two languages in Naya's mouth. Somewhere between Rizu and Lis. It makes her smile.

They walk for a while. Neither of them seems in a rush to end it. There's a weight to the afternoon now, not heavy, but settled. Like the kind of silence that comes after a long conversation where everything that needed to be said has been said. And yet they stay. Still walking, still in orbit. The quiet between them isn't brittle anymore.

It just is.

It's not uncomfortable.

It should be uncomfortable. Mio's mind spins quietly around the idea that it should be. That after everything that has been said—and unsaid—silence should stretch between them, taut and tense and waiting to snap. But it doesn't. It's just there. Companionable. Like background noise she's gotten used to, the faint hum of electric lines overhead or the distant hiss of cicadas tucked into trees.

And Naya is beside her, matching her pace like she always does. Hands still in her pockets.

Mio catches herself looking at them again.

It's stupid. She knows it's stupid. They're hands in pockets. That's all. But she can't stop thinking about it. The deliberateness of it. The potential deliberateness of it. The possibility that those long fingers—so sure on bass strings, so certain when they glide across the keys of a piano—are being kept there for a reason.

Is it because of me?

She doesn't let herself answer that.

Instead, they walk until the streets shift again. Neighborhood to side streets to... something quieter. Somewhere older. There's always another layer in this city. Like sediment, compacted and pressed down until the past and the present coexist in the same breath.

They pass a rusted vending machine. A shuttered fruit stand. A narrow street where an old woman waters potted plants that crowd the sidewalk, leaves glossy under a film of mist. A cat stretches on a windowsill, sun-warm and unconcerned. Somewhere farther off, a train rumbles by, its presence felt more than heard, the ground vibrating faintly through the soles of Mio's sandals.

And then Naya speaks, as if she's been thinking about it for a while.

"So, why analog?" she asks, hands still in her pockets, though her shoulder tips a little closer, like the question itself has weight. "I mean, you have to develop the photos and everything, right? I didn't think many people did that anymore."

Mio glances down at the LC-A hanging from her neck. The strap presses warm against her collarbone. She runs her thumb over the scuffed edge of the body.

"I don't know," she says at first. "I guess digital's too... perfect. Too immediate. But there's something about film. The unpredictability. The flaws."

Naya glances over. One eyebrow raised, but not skeptical. Interested.

"You don't always know what you're going to get with film," Mio continues. "Light leaks. Dust on the lens. The color shifts. You can't control it. You just... get what you get. Imperfections. Little surprises. Sometimes it doesn't come out at all. Sometimes it's better than you thought. You can't check. You just... take the shot and hope."

She pauses. Her fingers trace along the edge of the lens barrel.

"It feels more real to me," she adds, quieter.

Naya makes a quiet sound, like she's turning that over in her head.

Mio shifts the weight of the camera in her hand, thumb now ghosting over the film advance.

"And I like developing them myself," she admits. "It feels... I don't know. Like bringing something back to life. The moment's already gone. But you pull it out again, you know?"

Naya smiles at that. 

"You do this a lot?" she asks.

"Not lately."

"Why?"

Mio hesitates. "I don't know."

(You do. It's because things stopped feeling like they weren't worth remembering.)

She doesn't say that.

She watches Naya for a moment longer. Then, quietly, Mio unhooks the strap from around her neck and holds the camera out.

"Here," she says.

Naya glances at her. "What?"

"Take it." Mio nudges it forward. "You can capture whatever catches your eye. I'll develop the film and give them to you later."

For a second, Naya just stares. Then she shakes her head. "I can't. I don't want to—"

"You won't break it," Mio says, softly insistent. "It's not as delicate as it looks. And I trust you."

She says it like it's obvious.

And maybe it is.

There's a long beat. Then Naya's hands come out of her pockets then. Slowly. Carefully. She takes the camera from Mio's hands like it's something fragile. Valuable. More than it is.

"You sure?" she asks. "I don't want to bother you with that."

Mio nods. "It's not a bother. Just... point and shoot. There's no right or wrong way."

Naya holds it in both hands. She turns it over in her hands, testing the weight. She's holding it like she's held a hundred things: a bass, a pedal, a stubborn piece of electronic equipment. Confident, but with attention. Her fingers adjust around the grip, thumb brushing over the winding dial.

"I have no idea what I'm doing."

Mio laughs, a soft exhale. "I'll show you."

She steps a little closer. Explains the basics. How to focus, how to frame a shot through the small, dark viewfinder. The film advance lever. The light metering quirks—how it favors certain angles, how the lens sometimes catches a flare at dusk. Naya listens, eyes tracking Mio's hands as she gestures. She asks a few questions. Not many. Mostly, she observes.

She's aware of their closeness, how their hands brush as Naya mimics her movements.

And then, without warning, Naya lifts the camera, turns, and points it straight at Mio.

Click.

The shutter sound breaks the air between them. It's soft, but Mio hears it like it's louder than it should be.

Mio blinks. "What was that for?"

Naya lowers the camera, meeting her gaze. "You said to capture whatever catches my eye."

Mio stares. Her heart does something messy and complicated.

"Well. Just don't waste all the film on me," she says, too fast.

Naya's grin is quick, but not careless. "I don't think any of it would be wasted," she says. Then she turns again, raising the camera toward the skyline, where the sun is dipping lower, and the edges of the clouds glow faintly orange.

Mio lingers on her for a moment. Something tugs in her chest. She looks away.

They keep walking. Naya stops often now. To photograph tiny things. She takes pictures like she plays music.

Instinctual.

She doesn't overthink it, or if she does, she doesn't let it show.

A back alley with laundry lines and faded futons draped over railings. A crack in the pavement where weeds push through. A vending machine with faded buttons and peeling stickers. The slow bend of a cat arching in the sun on top of a cinder block wall. A miniature row of torii gates leading to a single altar, fox statues flanking it like guardians, under the elevated tracks of the Yamanote Line, where the ground shudders under passing trains and the air smells faintly of iron and ozone. Someone's left an offering of cheap sake and a half-eaten taiyaki in front of the stone.

Mio wouldn't have noticed half of them.

They're just there. Part of the background noise. Part of the structure of things she's stopped seeing.

But Naya notices.

And she photographs them like they matter. Mio watches her do it and feels...

Something.

Something restless. Something not entirely comfortable.

She wants to ask why. But she doesn't.

Naya snaps a picture. Then another. And another.

Mio watches. She's always watched. But now, there's something else under it.

She wonders what Naya sees when she looks at these things.

What does it feel like? To see this place and not have it as background noise? To move through it and still be noticing?

(It's different when you're not from here.)

But maybe that's a lie.

Maybe it's not about where you're from.

Maybe it's just about how you see.

They find a shoutengai—quiet, off the main road. Shops closed for the day. One place still open, an old-fashioned ice cream shop with faded signs and plastic replicas in the window. Naya slows, glances over, then back at Mio.

"Want to get something?" she asks.

Mio thinks about it. She isn't particularly hungry. But she nods anyway.

They order. Naya orders a melon cup. Mio stuck to a chocolate cone. They find a bench. Not one of those municipal things—this is older. Wood slats worn down smooth by time. In the shadow of a gnarled tree whose roots have buckled the concrete around it.

Their bass cases are propped against the bench legs. Their shoulders don't quite touch, but they could. It would take nothing.

They sit. The ice cream melts too fast in the heat, but the cone is cold in Mio's hands. The condensation beads along her fingers, slick and melting. She follows the drips slide down the cone, catching them with quick licks before they reach her fingers.

Mio glances at Naya, and can read in her face how she expected melon to taste like Spain's cantaloupe but finds it neon-green, candy-sweet, and confusing. Mio gives her that amused I-warned-you look—the one she wears every time Naya tries something bizarre. Naya just grins, shrugs, and keeps going.

They eat in silence for a while.

Naya's sitting with one leg pulled up, ankle hooked on the bench, her cup balanced on her knee.

Mio doesn't know why she notices that. Or why it makes something twist low in her stomach.

It's just... how Naya sits.

And then Naya says it.

"I'm sorry I took up most of your day." Her tone is light, but there's something underneath it. She's still looking at her ice cream. Not at Mio. "I know you're... you know. You need space. Battery recharge time. Probably running on low battery by now."

Mio is quiet for a second. Then she shakes her head. 

"I'm introverted, yeah," she agrees. "But I like being with you."

Naya glances at her. Surprised.

"I usually stuck with the Ho-Kago girls because we've known each other for years, and they get my pace, but with other people I get tired faster." Mio says. "But with you it's not... that draining," she admits. "I have fun with you. And it's comfortable. It's easy with you."

It's true.

Naya's expression shifts. Something careful smoothing out into something easier.

She looks away again. But Mio sees it. The faint pull of a smile at the corner of her mouth. Real. Unpracticed.

They finish their ice cream and sit there for a while longer. The shade shifts as the sun angles lower. It feels cooler now. Mio breathes into it. And then she says, "We should take a picture together."

Naya raises an eyebrow.

"With the camera," Mio clarifies.

Naya grins. "You're not worried it'll waste film?"

Mio huffs. "We've already established it's not wasted."

Mio takes her camera again. Adjusts it. Sets the timer. Finds a place to prop it against.

They sit close. Shoulders pressed together. Heads tilt together, closer than Mio expects. Closer than she's ready for. But she doesn't move. If anything, she gets closer.

The beep of the timer feels loud in the quiet.

Click.

It's not much. Just a picture. But it feels like something more. Like evidence. Like a memory she will retrieve later and keep forever, printed, physical. A memory she can touch.

When they stand, when they walk again, Mio thinks about the photo. About the frame of it. About where it will live.

Maybe on her desk. Maybe in her notebook.

Maybe in the back pocket of a memory she hasn't figured out how to hold yet.

(It's fine. It's just a picture.)

But she thinks about rewiring.

About crossing streets.

About knowing when it's safe and when it's not.

And what it means when you choose to go anyway.

---

They make it back to the dorms by late afternoon. The sun has lowered enough that the shadows slant sharper, deeper, pooling along the edges of the walkway like ink bleeding through old paper. The cicadas are louder now, their endless song threading the spaces between buildings, between breaths, between songs. Everything smells faintly of asphalt warmed by the sun, and the green bite of cut grass.

The dorms appear gradually. First, the low murmur of air conditioning units clinging to windows. Then the narrow lanes, familiar enough that Mio can walk them half-blind. Concrete steps, worn smooth by the shuffle of shoes and years. They don't speak much after the station. There's a comfort to the quiet now, a kind of symmetry Mio hadn't realized she was waiting for.

They reach her room first.

Naya slows as they reach the entrance, that same casual drag to her gait that Mio has learned to read as hesitation. Her hands are back in her pockets, and Mio can read the restlessness in the way her shoulders tip forward. As if she wants to say something, but isn't sure where to start. Or whether to start at all.

"Well." Naya's voice is lighter than it should be. Practiced ease. "Thanks. For... y'know. Today. It was fun."

Mio nods, adjusting the weight of her bass case on her back. "It was."

"And for being chill about..." Naya doesn't finish the sentence. She gestures with one hand, vague. "You know."

Mio knows. Too well.

The words hover between them like vapor.

I like girls.
I care about you.
I don't say that often.
I didn't mean to say it at all.

Mio sees the words in the shape of Naya's silence.

It doesn't change anything.

(It changes everything.)

And for a moment, she wonders whether she should leave it there—mutual understanding tied neatly between them, like a shoelace tucked in before it can trip you up. But her body decides before her brain does.

She reaches out.

Her fingers find Naya's wrist, warm skin where the pulse beats steady. Not holding. Just touching. It's the smallest reassurance Mio can offer, but it's real. Solid.

"I'm still me," she says. "And you're still you."

Naya's gaze flicks up. Something unreadable there, caught behind the green of her eyes, behind the practiced calm of her expression. But she smiles.

"Okay," she says, and for a moment, it's enough.

Mio lets go, hand falling back to her side like nothing happened.

(Something happened.)

Naya shifts her weight again, shoulders loosening by degrees. "You can bond with your compressor now," she says, like it's a normal thing to say. "I expect a full report on cool settings next rehearsal."

Mio exhales, not quite a laugh. "I'll see what I can do." She adjusts her grip on the camera instead. "I'll develop these this week. I'll give you copies. You can pick the ones you like."

"Thanks."

For a moment, they both stand there, as if neither one wants to be the one to end it. But then Naya glances toward her side of the building, already half-turning away.

"I'll leave you to recharge, then."

"Will I see you at dinner at the cafeteria?" Mio asks before she can stop herself. Too fast. Too easy.

Her pulse kicks up.

(You don't need to ask. She doesn't need you to ask.)

Naya pauses, eyebrows raising with that familiar glint. "Not tired of me yet?"

Mio thinks about it. About basses. About slurping ramen. About cats in laps. About hours wandering through the city, taking pictures, talking about things that matter and things that don't.

"No," she says simply.

And it's the truth.

Naya gives her a look she can't quite decipher. She nods once and turns. And then she's moving, easy strides carrying her toward her room. She looks back once, smiles, then marches. Mio watches her go.

The door clicks softly behind her when she steps into her own room. And then it's just her.

The quiet feels bigger after being with Naya all day.

Mio sets her bass case down with careful precision. Places the camera on her desk, the strap folding over itself in a neat coil. She stands there for a long moment, palms flat against the wood grain, just breathing. Letting the quiet fill in around her. Letting her thoughts arrange themselves.

They don't. Not really. They shift, layer, overlap. Like harmonics that don't quite resolve.

She's used to that.

But today, it feels different.

She stares at the compressor pedal still sitting in its box on her chair. Unopened. The promise of possibility packed neatly in foam and cardboard. She could plug it in now. Test it. See what it does to her sound. See if it evens her out. Smooths the edges she can't control. But not yet.

Later.

She needs to read the manual twice before she plugs anything in.

It's not that she's afraid to get it wrong.

It's that she wants to get it right.

Her gaze drifts. To the strap. The blue and silver one. She picks it up, the material softer than she remembers, pliant between her fingers.

She reaches her bass case. Her hand lingers at the zipper.

She opens it. Pulls the strap out. Takes the new strap.

Blue and silver. The same colors as the sky today, washed pale and bright where the light caught at odd angles. She runs her fingers along the material, smooth under her touch. She threads it through the pins on her bass, adjusting it to a familiar length. Lets it hang there for a moment.

There's a shift in weight, subtle but perceptible, when she lifts the bass by the new strap. Balanced. Different, but not bad.

She holds it longer than necessary. Just feeling the weight.

And then she sets it back down.

It feels different. It looks different. New. It makes her bass feel...

Like it belongs to someone braver than she is.

But she'll wear it anyway. Maybe at the next rehearsal. Maybe when she's sure her hands won't shake.

She should feel clearer, maybe. Should feel resolved. But all she feels is motion.

Like something delicate has tilted in her. Shifted without permission. The kind of movement you don't notice until the light catches it different. Until it's too late to pretend you imagined it.

It's not just the pedal. Not just the strap.

Not even the way Naya said "thanks for being chill about..." and didn't finish.

Mio finished it for her. Quietly. Internally.

About liking girls.

About liking...?

And she didn't say anything back.

She never does. Because she doesn't know what she'd say. Because she isn't allowed to know, not yet. Because there's still someone else in the picture, even if that picture is fading, even if the colors are already wrong.

But still, something about today felt...

Whole. Shared.

They talked about everything and nothing. The kind of talk you can only have with someone you live beside, even if it's not the same country, not the same rhythm. Different languages. Different habits. Naya waits to eat. Naya stands on the wrong side of the escalator. Naya crosses streets like rules are a suggestion and talks about crossing streets on red lights like it's not a gamble but a birthright, like it's not rebellion but instinct. Naya hesitates where Mio moves without thinking. Mio stops where Naya doesn't even glance.

Mio once thought compatibility was sameness. But today felt like a song with no melody—just rhythm, just tone. Just two people pacing each other until they accidentally harmonize.

Maybe not knowing is the point.

Maybe Naya didn't mean to say what she said. Or maybe she meant exactly what she said, and only didn't finish because she wasn't sure if Mio could hear it yet.

(But you heard it. You did.)

She turns the thought over like a pick in her hand, sharp enough to draw blood if you hold it wrong.

A cicada screeches outside. She doesn't move.

She thinks about music stores. About cats she pet. About the photo she hasn't seen yet. Naya standing close enough to touch, close enough that Mio's smile is real.

She thinks about culture, about time zones, about how even escalators obey different rules depending on where you're born. About how maybe people do, too.

But not always. Not forever.

You're still you.
I'm still me.

And yet.

She sits down at her desk. Her laptop is still on standby. She wakes it up with a tap. The glow of the screen makes her squint for a second.

She opens the browser. But her hands hesitate on the trackpad.

What do you even search for, when you want to make sure someone isn't alone on their birthday?

(Make it simple. Make it something she can't refuse. Make it something she doesn't have to ask for.)

She searches her memory. In conversations with Naya. In how her eyes sparkle with certain albums. Types. Scrolls. Pause.

Naya doesn't like loud surprises. Naya doesn't want attention. But she needs something. Mio knows this.

She thinks about the way Naya said "It's okay" like it was supposed to close the subject.

It didn't.

She scrolls again.

She thinks about Reading Festival. About Muse playing Origin of Symmetry in full. About the way Naya's eyes lit up when she talked about it, like a sound wave catching resonance at just the right frequency.

But she doesn't stop thinking.

About Salamanca. A place she hadn't known existed six hours ago. Now she pictures it—golden light on sandstone. History folding into itself.

She thinks about the record store. About Circles. About 2 Hearts. About Abbey Road. About Naya's hands on bass strings and camera bodies and vending machines she bows to on accident. About ice cream that tastes too green. About a bass strap she didn't think she wanted until now. About cats on shrine steps. About photo negatives she will have to develop, watching images swim up through chemicals like memories trying to surface.

Evidence. Proof. Tangible memories.

Her search window flickers. She types again. Something smaller. More specific. She finds an idea. Then another. She bookmarks them.

She glances at the calendar pinned to her wall. Four days. July 28. Naya's twentieth birthday.

She clicks the laptop closed. Not because she's tired, but because she's thinking too much. Or maybe not enough.

The room is quiet again. The camera sits where she left it. Her bass leans against the wall, strap in place, ready.

Mio sits on the edge of her bed. She stares at the strap hanging from her bass. Blue and silver. A choice she made this morning.

And she thinks about choices. How they add up. How they ripple. How sometimes you wait for the green light because you've always waited for it. And sometimes you just step forward anyway.

She lies back on her bed. Stares at the ceiling. Her heart is quiet, but not still.

It feels like something rewiring itself.

Notes:

And that's the end of the Pedal Outing Arc™. The acid test to see if these two sapphic disasters have chemistry. I hope I passed, sensei.

In this chapter, we had some callbacks to the K-ON! Movie because why not. We had some music talking. We had some photos. And we had some Naya totally not flirting with Mio about festival bonding, casually throwing shit about being muddy and sweaty at night in a tent.

We started with a compressor pedal and somehow ended up in emotional purgatory with a shared ice cream and unresolved feelings. As one does.

Mio, of course, is now planning something for Naya's birthday. Not because she has feelings. Not because she was emotionally moved by anything that happened today. No. Purely out of kindness. Completely platonic. Utterly heterosexual behavior. Please do not question her logic.

Coming soon: some birthday preparations, Naya's birthday in which absolutely nothing significant will happen between these two disasters, and then... Hakone! The trip Mio agreed to for "couple bonding time." Which will definitely go well and not emotionally unravel her in any way.

Also, shoutout to Salamanca for finally giving Naya a hometown and freeing her from her long reign as "that paella student with a rolled 'r' problem." Progress. (Also, beautiful place. I visited Salamanca once and it's a charming place, honestly.)

Thanks for reading and for walking this long, quiet, aching road with Mio and her pedal-shaped feelings. See you next chapter.

Chapter 27: Dig On

Summary:

Mio doesn't know Naya's shirt size.

Notes:

Hey hey, hope you didn't miss me or our disaster lesbians too much.

This chapter is a cadenza because, and I quote, a cadenza is "an improvised or written-out ornamental passage played or sung by a soloist(s), usually in a "free" rhythmic style, and often allowing virtuosic display." The virtuosic beat tho—yeah, no, I'm just deranged, but having fun. Anyway. Here we are: a standalone chapter that lives in the space between arcs, where the story exhales. Just some light recon missions, accidental bra incidents, and emotional spiral chords. You know. Normal club activities. I tried for fun here, hope the result shows.

As always, thanks a ton Jules (tsuki_anne) for the amazing beta and support <3

Dig On, by She Keeps Bees, was released on July 19, 2011.

July 25, 2011

Mio tries not to think much of it at first. It's just a passing comment, another small piece of Naya tucked away in her growing collection of details about her. Naya had mentioned it casually—"My birthday. Thursday." No emphasis, no expectation, like it was just another date on the calendar, unremarkable, ordinary.

But now, one day later, it sits in Mio's chest like a stone.

She can't shake the thought of it.

Twenty. It's twenty. A big deal in Japan. Seijin-shiki is next January, and though they won't be wearing furisode and standing in government halls just yet, there's still something about turning twenty that marks a shift, a quiet but undeniable step into adulthood. Mio remembers how Ritsu had once said, half-joking, that turning twenty meant "you're officially allowed to be an idiot in slightly more expensive places." Even if Naya doesn't see it as significant, she'll be spending it alone in a foreign country, far from her family, her childhood friends, from home.

That thought feels wrong.

And it's probably why, as they settle into their usual cafeteria spot—Yui already trading bites with Azusa—Mio clears her throat, taking advantage of Naya's absence, and says, "I was thinking..."

Ritsu, mid-chew, barely glances up. "Uh-oh."

Mugi smiles, resting her chin on her hand. "About what?"

Mio hesitates. The moment she says it, it's real. But then Yui makes an encouraging noise, humming under her breath, and Mio exhales.

"Naya's birthday is on Thursday."

She keeps her voice neutral, like she isn't sure if this is supposed to be a big revelation.

The response is immediate.

"EHHH?!" Yui practically jumps, sloshing her drink. "She didn't say anything!"

"Wait, seriously?" Ritsu leans in, halfway through stealing a piece of tempura from Mugi's tray. "How do you know?"

Mio feels suddenly self-conscious. "She told me yesterday."

Azusa frowns. "She didn't say anything at the club. Usually, people at least mention it's coming up."

"She probably doesn't think it's important," Mio says, thinking back to the way Naya had brushed it off, like it was nothing.

"So, what, does she not care about birthdays?" Ritsu tilts her head.

Mio hesitates. She doesn't think it's that Naya doesn't care—more that she doesn't expect anything.

"I don't know. She said it like, not like it was a big deal, but... well, twenty is a big deal here. And she's far from home."

Yui gasps. "She'll be all alone?!"

Silence. Then Azusa exhales through her nose, thoughtful. "That is kind of sad, huh?"

Mugi sighs wistfully. "Oh, that must be so lonely..."

Mio nods. A birthday. A twentieth birthday. It's when you get to celebrate growing up, usually with family and childhood friends. But Naya is here, in Japan, an ocean away from home, treating her twentieth birthday like an afterthought.

And Mio hates that.

Yui frowns, gripping Azusa's arm dramatically. "We can't let her have a lonely birthday!"

"Well, she's not alone alone," Ritsu points out. "She's got us. Right?"

"Exactly," Mio agrees. "She has us. But—"

"But!" Yui leans forward dramatically. "She won't have, like, her childhood friends or her mom's birthday cake or—" She gasps again. "What if her family has a special birthday tradition? Like, like... a giant paella of love?"

"... A what," Azusa mutters, rubbing her temple.

Mio shakes her head. "That's not the point." She glances at the others, thoughtful. "I just thought... maybe we could do something for her."

Yui beams at the idea. "Yes! We must make sure Naya-chan has the best birthday ever!"

Azusa tilts her head. "Would she even want that? She doesn't seem like the type to enjoy big celebrations."

"She isn't," Mio admits, recalling the way Naya brushed it off, like she expected nothing from anyone. It was so matter-of-fact, so resigned, that it made Mio's chest ache. "That's why I think something small would be better. Just... something."

Mugi straightens. "Like a little surprise at the club?"

Mio shifts slightly. "That's what I thought... nothing huge, just, I don't know. Something to let her know we care."

Mugi beams. "I think that's a lovely idea."

"Something small," Mio reiterates, eyeing Yui warily.

"Mio-chan! It's like you don't trust me at all!"

"I don't."

Ritsu cackles. "A little birthday ambush. I like it."

Mio nods, gathering her friends' reactions. Then, she glances at Mugi.

"You didn't know either?" she asks. It's casual on the surface, but Mio hears the undertone in her own voice. Curious. A little sharp.

Mugi blinks, then tilts her head, a faint smile playing at the corner of her mouth. "No," she says lightly. "She didn't mention it."

Mio hums. That's all. But the thought lingers longer than it should.

Ritsu grins. "I'm in."

Azusa nods. "Me too."

"Me three!" Yui beams. She bounces in her seat. "We should get her a gift, too! Something she can keep, so when she looks at it, she remembers her first birthday in Japan was with us."

Azusa hums, considering. "But what does she like?"

There's a pause.

Then, slowly, they all turn to Mio.

Mio blinks back at them. "... Why are you looking at me?"

"You spend the most time with her," Ritsu smirks.

Mugi nods, smiling. "You two are good friends, Mio-chan."

"You like Naya-chan the most!" Yui adds innocently.

Mio chokes on air, face burning. "That's—not—! I don't—I mean—!"

Azusa sighs. "She likes music. Bass pedals. Indie rock. Things like that."

Mio clears her throat, trying to recover. "Yes. That."

Azusa drums her fingers against her knee. "If it's something simple, maybe we could just surprise her on Thursday at the club."

Yui jumps. "Ohhh! We should get a cake!"

"You just want cake," Azusa says, dry.

"No, I want a birthday cake! For Naya-chan!" Yui insists. "And also for me."

Mugi claps her hands together. "I can get the cake! Does she like anything in particular?"

Mio pauses, thinking. "She likes chocolate."

Mugi nods, taking mental notes.

Ritsu grins. "Alright. Cake, check. We just need to figure out a gift."

"Something music-related?" Azusa suggests.

"Something funny," Ritsu adds. "She's got that lowkey deadpan sense of humor."

Mio sighs, glancing at Mugi again. "You're good at gifts. Any ideas?"

Mugi hums, tapping her finger against her chin. "I'd love to get her something meaningful. Maybe something that reminds her of home, but not in a way that makes her too homesick. Or something musical, since that's how she connects with all of us..."

Yui's face lights up. "What if we write her a song?"

Azusa hums. "That would be nice, but... are we going to have time for that?"

"... Probably not," Mio winces.

"Definitely not," Ritsu says flatly.

Yui pouts but recovers quickly. "Okay, okay, something else, then!"

For a moment, no one says anything.

The lull settles over them, as if they've all collectively reached the same edge of thought and are waiting for someone else to make the leap. Even Ritsu, usually quick with some reckless suggestion or half-formed joke, stays quiet. Azusa glances down at her hands, methodically peeling the label off her drink. Mugi taps her fingertips lightly against her cup, rhythmic and thoughtful.

Mio exhales slowly, her chopsticks poised over her tray, forgotten.

She's thinking.

(Overthinking.)

About what it should be. What it should mean. How this—whatever this is—has started to feel like something important. Something delicate and precise, like tuning a string just tight enough to hold its note, but not so much that it breaks under the tension.

She tells herself it's because Naya's alone here.

(It's because you want to get it right.)

She tells herself it's because birthdays matter.

(It's because it's her birthday.)

Mio presses her fingers into her thigh. She's not sure why it matters this much. Why it sits under her ribs like a chord that won't resolve. Just that it does. And that she wants to be the one who gets it right.

Not just right. Perfect.

But nothing's ever perfect.

(You still want it anyway.)

Yui suddenly gasps for a third time, grabbing Azusa's hands with a comical urgency. "Wait! Wait, I have it!"

Azusa, wary, gives her a look. "What now?"

"The shirts!" Yui says. "The Ho-Kago Tea Time shirts! Remember? From our last high school festival. Sawa-chan made way too many. We can give one to Naya-chan! She's always wearing band tees, right? It's perfect!"

Ritsu blinks once, twice, impressed. "Yui actually had a good idea for once."

"Oi."

Mio can't help smiling. "It's a good idea," she agrees. "She'd probably wear it, too."

Yui beams again, clearly pleased with herself.

Mio glances at the clock in the cafeteria, thoughtful. "We should coordinate with the others. Maybe get everyone to meet up later and plan it properly."

Ritsu leans back in her seat. "I can text Ayame."

Mio nods. "I can talk with Sachi."

Yui salutes, far too dramatically. "I'll get Akira-chan!"

Mio turns to Azusa. "You can talk to Momo, right? Ask her to come by."

"Sure."

Then, finally, Mio looks at Mugi. "Liz?"

Mugi's smile deepens. "I'll ask her."

Mio studies her. There's something about the way Mugi says it. Casual. Warm. And something else Mio tries not to dwell on.

(You're probably imagining things.)

"Let's meet outside the student union after class," Mio says, and the others nod.

It's settled.

---

By late afternoon, they find the rest of the club gathered outside the student union, lounging under the shade. The Onna Gumi girls lean against the benches, while Liz and Momo sit nearby, Momo focused intently on Liz's explanation of something, probably music-related.

The second Mio and the others approach, Akira seems already skeptical.

"Why do you all look like you're about to pitch something ridiculous?"

Ritsu grins. "Because we are."

"So, uh," Mio starts. "We wanted to talk to you all about something."

Akira raises an eyebrow. "Uh-oh."

"That's the second time someone's said that today," Mio mutters.

Mugi claps her hands together, beaming. "We want to do something small for Naya-chan's birthday on Thursday!"

There's a brief silence.

Sachi's eyebrow quirks. "Wait... Naya-chan's birthday is on Thursday?"

Ayame frowns. "Damn, she didn't even mention it."

Liz lets out a short laugh. "Yeah, that sounds about right."

Mio's eyes widen. "You didn't know either?"

Liz shakes her head, casual but not careless. "Nah. She's not exactly the type to bring it up. You're the only person she told?"

Mio blinks. "I... guess so."

Liz's mouth quirks, faint. "Huh."

Before Mio can unpack that—or the strange weight of it in her chest—Akira snorts. "Classic Naya. Acts like she's got zero attachments, but you blink at her the wrong way and she gets flustered."

Ayame chuckles. "Speaking of attachments, how many picks do you think she's dropped since joining the club?"

"Too many," Sachi murmurs. "It's like a magic trick. One second she's holding it, the next... gone."

"Maybe we should get her a new pack," Ayame says. "Put a GPS tracker on them."

Momo shifts forward, a little hesitant but determined. "Um... I have an idea, too. For Ruby Riot."

Everyone looks at her.

"I thought maybe we could... have matching bracelets?" Momo glances at Liz, a little nervous. "But I might need your help picking the right ones."

Liz tilts her head. "Red and black, right?"

"Yes! Something simple but... you know. Us."

Liz grins, flashing teeth. "Yeah. I'm in."

Mio clears her throat." Also, we just... thought we should do something. A little surprise. Since she's away from home," Mio says.

"Did she ask for one?" Akira asks.

"No," Mio says, determined. "Which is exactly why we should do it."

Ayame snorts. "That logic."

Liz leans back on her hands, smirking. "Oh, this I want to see."

Sachi shifts, thoughtful. "That's a good idea."

"Hell yeah," Akira nods, smirking. "Would love to see her reaction. She acts all cool, but I bet she gets flustered over stuff like this."

Momo, wide-eyed, fidgets. "So... what are we doing?"

"Cake," Yui says immediately.

"And the gifts," Azusa adds.

"And maybe we all just... tell her we're happy she's here," Mio finishes. It feels a little silly saying it out loud, but she means it.

Akira nudges Sachi with her elbow. "Aww, little foreigner's turning twenty in Japan. Kinda sad, huh?"

"She's not sad," Mio huffs. "We just thought... it'd be nice."

Liz smirks. "It's cute that you brought it up."

Mio blushes. "Do you want to help or not?"

"Chill, Akiyama," Liz chuckles. "I'm in."

"Me too," Momo says, nodding quickly.

"And maybe decorate the clubroom a little?" Azusa proposes.

Momo brightens at that. "Oh! Can we make a banner?"

"Yes!" Yui gasps, now on her fourth dramatic inhale of the day.

Liz looks at Mugi. "Guess I'll contribute to the cake fund."

Momo, shy but excited, raises a hand. "And I can... help with decorations?"

Mugi lights up. "Oh, that's perfect! It'll be simple but heartfelt."

"We can make her a card, too!" Yui beams. "One with all our messages!"

Liz hums. "I'll think of something funny to write."

Ritsu claps a hand on Mio's shoulder, grinning. "Look at you, coming up with sweet ideas."

Mio scowls, brushing her off. "It's not a big deal."

But as she glances around, at the group now buzzing with quiet excitement over this tiny, impulsive plan, she wonders if it kind of is.

Just a little.

---

Later, the room is loud in the way only five girls who've known each other too long can be.

Laughter lingers in the corners like dust. The air smells of orange oolong Mugi brewed in that delicate porcelain teapot she always insists on using even in college dorms, as if the fragility of the china might civilize them.

It doesn't.

There are socks on the floor, someone's hair clip on the kettle lid, and Yui is trying to balance a potato stick on her upper lip while Azusa is visibly praying for divine intervention.

It's hot today. Almost 30ºC and 67% humidity. Unbearable. Mugi passes around tiny matcha cakes on an actual plate, like they're not just squatting in someone's shared dorm. The fan hums a low, steady rhythm, stirring the thick summer air as they sit in a loose circle—cross-legged or sprawling, half-listening, half-daydreaming. The windows are cracked open. Cicadas drone like a memory someone forgot to forget.

Then—

"So," Ritsu says, "she said yes."

Mio perks up. "Who?"

"Sawa-chan, duh. I texted her. You know, as your Light Music Club president. Legendary drummer. Local hero. She said we can totally have one of the HTT shirts from the old closet. There's a whole box still in the clubroom, apparently. She's happy we remember her."

Mugi claps politely. "That's wonderful news, Ricchan!"

Yui beams, mouth half-full of konpeitō. She swallows. "But she needs to know the size, right?"

Azusa looks up. "It's unisex, so we need to pick carefully. If it's too small, Naya-senpai might feel uncomfortable. Too big, and it might look like pajamas."

Four heads turn in unison.

Mio sips her tea slowly.

"... What?"

"You're her closest friend here," Ritsu says, fingers laced behind her head like she's the conductor of a very stupid orchestra. "What do you think?"

Closest? Since when did this become hierarchical?

Yui looks at her, wide-eyed, hopeful. Azusa looks mildly apologetic, but firm. Ritsu is grinning, of course. Mugi pours more tea like this is a formal tea ceremony.

Mio flounders. "I—what do I think about what?"

"Naya-chan's shirt size, of course!" Yui supplies, delighted. "You hang out all the time! You're always talking about pedals and music and stuff. If anyone knows her size, it's you."

That is not a thing people just know—shirt sizes—those are private—bodily—

"I've never measured her," Mio says, voice cracking. "I don't—how would I—she wears loose shirts."

"Naya-chan doesn't wear tight things," Mugi adds thoughtfully, voice gentle, eyes half-lidded in that unnervingly observant way of hers. "She seems like someone who dresses for comfort, but with intention. The shirts she chooses all hang the same way—loose, but not baggy. There's something curated about it."

Ritsu sips her tea and nods. "Like... 'I didn't try, but actually I did.'"

Mio's fingers tighten around her cup. Ceramic against palm. Too warm.

"She probably wears guy shirts," Azusa says, leaning back on her hands. "I've noticed the sleeves fall low on her arms. I think it's a men's cut."

Mugi, meanwhile, has already slipped into logistics mode. "Unisex shirts can be tricky," she murmurs, mostly to herself. "You remember when we got ours? It depended not just on chest circumference, but shoulder width. Even sleeve drop made a difference."

Mio goes very still. Her body knows the danger before her brain does.

"We all picked ours based on fit," Mugi continues, too gently. "Ricchan and Azusa-chan were okay with small. I took a medium. Yui-chan, too. And Mio-chan..."

"Don't."

"Mio-chan took a large."

"I said don't."

Silence. Then Ritsu, grinning: "Yeah, because of your—"

"Don't."

"I was gonna say because of your personality, Mio," Ritsu lies, but poorly.

Mugi continues. "So the question is: what would Naya-chan choose? Does she usually wear Japanese L? Or overseas M? Something looser, like a men's size L, or would that be too baggy on her frame? We don't want the shirt to feel constricting."

Then Yui, innocent and destructive as always, tilts her head. "But she has sort of a nice shape, right?"

Mio's brain stops. Then starts again. She nearly drops her tea.

Yui is still talking. "I mean, she's thin, but not like... scrawny. Kind of sporty?"

"She's got a nice vibe," Ritsu agrees.

"Androginous energy," Mugi says with a smile. "But the softness is there, too."

"Would you say she's more... straight-cut? Or... more tailored?" Azusa asks, entirely serious.

Mio stares down into her cup like it might contain a portal out of this conversation.

Ritsu flops down beside her, all elbows and mischief. "C'mon, you've seen her in enough outfits. What would you say? Small? Medium?"

(Just say a size. A letter. S. M. L. It's arbitrary. It's cotton.)

"She's a bit taller than me," Mio says, a little too fast. "But I think... I don't know. It depends."

"On what?"

Mugi folds her hands. "On the bustline."

The word falls like a cymbal crash in an empty concert hall.

Mio's brain fries. Inward collapse. A dying modem sound. The neurons responsible for parsing the word bustline in relation to Naya spontaneously combust.

"We must factor in her personal comfort," Mugi continues, serene, entirely unaware that Mio's soul is attempting to escape through her tear ducts. "Her shoulders seem average. Her chest..." She glances at the ceiling, thoughtful. "Perhaps small-to-medium?"

Mio feels her jaw trying to bury itself in her collarbone.

Azusa, trying to salvage: "I mean... she seems kind of average? Maybe? Or slim? I don't know if she's the kind of person who'd wear something tight around the chest, anyway..."

Yui, with the air of someone solving a mystery no one asked for: "So if we think Naya-chan might be a medium, but she wears them loose, do we get her a large?"

"No," Mugi says, now with the precision of a costumer fitting a doll. "Too large and it might hang poorly. The sleeves would look odd. If it's unisex, we should err on the side of structure. Something that falls naturally around her shoulders, but doesn't cling to her shape. She strikes me as someone who's particular about comfort but not sloppiness."

Ritsu: "Cool. So we still don't know."

Mugi laughs softly. "If we guess wrong, she might be uncomfortable. And she'd be too polite to say anything. Which is why we should observe her."

"Okay. So we need a stealth operation. Recon."

"What, like... spy on her?" Azusa looks alarmed.

"Noooo," Ritsu says, and then pauses. "Yes. But like, kindly."

Yui gasps. "We can measure her!"

"Nope," Mio says instantly. "Absolutely not."

"Not measure her," Mugi says quickly. "Just... observe. Casually. Subtly."

"Subtly," Yui repeats, eyes sparkling. "Like... ninja subtle?"

"Right," Ritsu nods. "We can't just walk up to her and go 'hey, how big are your tits?'"

Mio chokes on air. "RITSU."

"What? We're not gonna do that. I said we can't."

Yui giggles into her tea. "We could just look at the tags in one of her shirts?"

Mugi tilts her head, considering. "That might work, actually."

Azusa frowns in that older-than-her-years way. "There's no way to get a peek without making it weird. And this is a surprise gift, so we can't ask her. That would ruin everything."

"Unless we ask indirectly," Yui says. "Like... 'Hey Naya-chan, if you were buying a men's shirt for a band you liked but didn't want it to be too tight, what size would you get?'"

"That's not subtle," Mio deadpans.

Ritsu leans back against her legs. "You got a better plan, Miss Not-So-Closest-Friend?"

Mio sighs. She wants to lie down and let the ceiling fall on her. Not metaphorically. Literally.

Mugi lifts her cup again. "We'll be discreet."

Azusa crosses her arms. "So discreet."

Yui: "So ninja."

The fan buzzes. Yui is still talking. Or maybe it's Azusa. Or someone else entirely. Mio stares at the rim of her teacup like it might offer a way out. Why is this so hard? It's just a birthday present. A shirt. She doesn't need to know anything else. She just needs the shirt to fit, somehow. Just fit. Like everything else between them refuses to do.

The rim glows gold. Ceramic halo. She could live there, maybe. Inside the cup. Away from all this.

Ritsu grins up at her. "We can always measure one of your shirts and scale down the boo—"

Mio smacks her. Hard.

---

July 26, 2011

There's something about the way the air changes inside the store. Cooler, maybe. Thicker with dust and old vinyl sleeves.

Mio steps inside and exhales like she's surfaced from something. Or submerged. She's not sure which.

The small record shop is wedged between a narrow café and an aging bookstore whose name she's never quite learned to pronounce. She comes here when she doesn't want to be found. When the conversations have gone thin and bright, and her mind feels louder than it should be.

It smells like paper and plastic. The floor creaks under her shoes as she moves toward the racks, fingers trailing over worn spines of albums that sit alphabetized but not orderly. The clerk barely glances up from his tiny stool in the corner, hunched over a sudoku, pencil moving in measured strokes. He knows her by now. Knows she won't need help. Won't speak unless she has to.

She finds it without trying. Origin of Symmetry. Muse. The Japanese edition. Still wrapped in cellophane, gleaming faintly under the shop's flickering fluorescent lights.

She slides it free from the shelf with deliberate care, flips it in her hands. The bonus track sticker catches the light. It's the right one. It had to be.

(But why this one, exactly?)

She tries not to think about what it means. About why it matters that it's the Japanese release, with a track Naya may or may not have already heard. She tells herself it's because it's special. Because it's rare, and Naya likes rare things, limited editions.

That's not all of it. She knows that, even if she can't say why.

The purchase is silent. She barely speaks when she hands over her money, watching the clerk tuck the CD into a thin paper bag, folded twice, like it's precious. It's not until she steps outside again that her pulse slows, thumb running absently over the folded paper edge, as if there's something left there to smooth away.

---

The sky has turned that pale, washed-out color it gets in late afternoon—light bleached thin, as if the sun's been stretched too far. Mio's feet take her to the lab without thinking.

The same way her fingers find the notes of familiar songs without her asking them to.

It's tucked in another quiet street. Half the signs in the window are hand-written, curling at the edges. She's come here before. A place that develops film by hand, with machines that look like they belong in a museum. The kind of place that leaves fingerprints only where they're meant to be.

She explains what she wants quietly. Color prints. Doubles. Glossy finish, but not too glossy. The clerk nods. He's older, with fingers stained faintly brown from developer, and he handles the film like he's holding a thread of something alive.

"It'll be ready by seven," he tells her.

Mio nods, bows and pays, fingers brushing the counter as she leaves.

She tries not to think about what's on the negatives.

She tries harder not to think about who.

---

By the time she returns to the cafeteria, the others are already scattered across two tables pushed together. Mugi waves her over, Yui calls out something incomprehensible, and Ritsu tries to balance three drinks in one hand while elbowing Azusa in the ribs.

And Naya is there, beside Momo. Leaning back in her seat, legs stretched under the table as she listens to Akira argue with Liz about something Mio can't hear.

Their eyes meet, briefly. Naya lifts a brow. Mio looks away.

But not before noticing the faint curve at the corner of Naya's mouth. Half amusement. Half something else.

The cafeteria fluorescents buzz with the clumsy rhythm of mid-summer. Someone's chopsticks click against ceramic. Condensation slides down the side of a tea bottle, dripping onto Mio's arm near the elbow. Her tray holds miso soup, white rice, hijiki salad, and something fried.

She eats automatically, jaw moving without interest. Yui is talking again. Across the table, Naya is chewing calmly now, as if sound doesn't apply to her. The light behind her head makes her hair look warmer than usual. It shouldn't matter. Mio notices anyway.

She also notices how Yui keeps shooting glances toward Ritsu and whispering in a way that is only legally whispering, not spiritually. Because there is the unmistakable atmosphere of a plan being born.

And Mio is old enough to know when she's sitting inside a trap.

Ritsu leans back, arms stretched behind her head like the world exists to frame her casualness.

"Sooo," she says, drawing out the vowel like a prelude. "Summer's hot, huh?"

Everyone looks at her.

Ayame tilts her head. "Yes?"

"I mean—heat. It does things to people," Ritsu continues, now gesturing vaguely in Naya's direction. "Like... shrinkage."

"Shrinkage?" Naya echoes.

"Y'know! Like, uh, cotton. Or organs." Ritsu grins. "Shirts. Things get smaller in the wash sometimes. You ever have that happen?"

Mugi covers her mouth politely with a napkin. Yui vibrates beside her.

"I don't... think so?" Naya says slowly. She looks down at her shirt as if it might be doing something suspicious while she eats. "I don't usually dry stuff hot."

Ritsu nods gravely. "Smart. Very smart. So your clothes usually fit, huh?"

Mio's chopsticks stop mid-air.

No.

No no no no no.

Yui makes a noise like a kettle about to blow. "Ricchan means, like, how do you know your shirt won't shrink if you don't know what size it is? Like, do you have a system? Are you a small? A medium? A—"

"I usually just wear whatever fits?" Naya offers, clearly trying to be helpful but looking increasingly confused. "I think European sizes are a bit different."

Sachi makes a soft, thoughtful "hm." It sounds somehow both innocent and incriminating.

Ritsu's voice drops into what she clearly believes is a conspiratorial whisper: "Okay but... would you say you like your shirts, like, tight? Or loose? Like, y'know, fitted-fitted, or like..." She waves her hand vaguely across her chest, then recoils. "I mean! Not like that—I just meant—uh—"

There is a silence.

A long, terrible silence.

Mio chews a single bite of rice for what feels like an entire lunar cycle.

Naya is blushing now. "I wear what's comfortable."

"Comfortable is good!" Yui chirps, rescuing absolutely nothing. "I like comfort too. Especially when you're trying to play guitar and your shirt's all tight and then you're like, 'oh no, my sleeve!' And then you die. Right, Akira-chan?"

Akira, bemused: "... No?"

Azusa, who has spent the last two minutes frozen in pure secondhand embarrassment, mutters, "This is painful."

Mugi, saint of social maintenance, delicately reaches for her drink. "I remember when we got our high school club shirts, there was a lot of discussion about fit. The unisex sizes were a little big, if I recall."

"Right! Right! Because it wasn't only about comfort, but about vibes," says Ritsu, far too loudly. "Like, what size shirt do you think best expresses your soul?"

Mio chokes on her soup.

"Good one!" Yui beams. "That's, like, so deep."

There's a silence. Not a real silence, no—the cafeteria is still humming with trays, chairs and ambient sleepiness—but a localized black hole of logic opens briefly around Ritsu's face.

Liz frowns. "What does that even mean?"

Ritsu waves a hand. "Like, you know. You've got your inner size and your outer size. Some people are small, but their soul wears XL. Some people are medium all the way through."

Mugi takes a sip of her drink, unbothered. "I suppose it depends on the cut."

"Right!" says Yui. "And fabric. You can't express your soul in polyester."

Naya looks utterly lost. "Are we... still talking about shirts?"

"Yes," Ritsu says, almost insulted. "And the emotional metaphysics of shirt-sizing. Obviously."

Mio looks down at her rice bowl like it might provide an escape hatch. The grains stick together like thought fragments she can't quite separate.

She steals a glance at Naya, whose expression hovers somewhere between amused and politely confused. Momo is blinking slowly beside her, chewing like this is television. Mio wants to grab Ritsu by the collar and whisper: shut up shut up shut up. But Ritsu is already leaning forward, resting her chin on her hand with the air of someone who believes they're being unbearably casual.

"So like," Ritsu says, "what's your go-to shirt vibe? Not style—vibe. You a snug fit kind of person? Or more like... loose and mysterious?"

"Loose and mysterious," repeats Naya slowly, like she's translating the phrase in her head and still unsure whether it's a euphemism or a threat.

Ayame looks pained. "You're being weird."

"No, no, I get it," Yui says. "Like, Naya-chan always wears those cool baggy shirts, but, like, not too baggy. Like, cool baggy. Not sloppy baggy."

Mugi tilts her head. "She balances structure with flow. It's actually quite fashionable."

Naya's brows knit together. "I'm just... comfortable?"

"Exactly," says Ritsu. "So. Hypothetically. If someone were to gift you a shirt. Like a... surprise... friend-shirt. Hypothetically. Not for any reason. Just a normal, casual shirt that's not a uniform or anything. What size would that be? Hypothetically."

Mio wants to smack her forehead on the table. They're doing this. They're actually doing this in front of her.

Why is this happening. Why am I present. Why does my body continue to occupy this moment in time.

Naya considers. "Depends on the shirt."

Yui leans forward. "But, like, a unisex shirt."

Ritsu: "With a straight cut."

Azusa sinks into her chair like a dying organism. Mio thinks she might rupture something from how tightly she's holding her breath. Her lungs. Or her soul.

The aircon flickers. The fluorescent light above them flicks twice, then steadies.

Naya finally shrugs. "I mean, I wear what I want." Then she picks up her drink. "Why are we talking about shirts so much?"

"NO REASON!" Yui and Ritsu shout in unison.

A tray clatters two tables over. The clink of chopsticks. The scent of orange peel. Naya looks at Mio. Mio pretends to be deeply fascinated by the edge of her tray. Naya goes back to eating like none of this happened.

Mio doesn't know if Naya is amused, annoyed, or just curious. She doesn't want to find out. She just stares down at her soup like she might drown herself in it if she concentrates hard enough.

---

The music drifts through the clubroom in layers.

Onna Gumi runs scales with military precision, Akira's guitar cutting sharp through the din.

Ruby Riot follows. Liz's vocals, low and languid, twisting around Momo's steady percussion and Naya's bass—bass that doesn't follow, but leads, heavy and calculated.

And then Ho-Kago Tea Time. Yui, bright and breathless; Ritsu loose and wild; Mugi's keys steady under it all. Azusa keeps the rhythm, watching her senpais like a cat watching birds.

Mio plays. She plays, because it's what she does.

But today, it feels like she's watching herself from the corner of the room.

She's not sure where she's supposed to stand anymore.

The strap digs into her shoulder, just slightly. Softer than the old one. Different.

She adjusts it out of habit. Doesn't think much of it—until Ritsu leans over between songs, tapping the blue length of fabric with her drumstick.

"New strap?"

Azusa perks up.

Mio nods. Tries for casual. "Yeah."

Ritsu grins. "Looks good on you."

Mio hums. Looks down at her bass, where blue and silver glint under fluorescent light.

Ritsu counts them in for another song. They start. The riff falls apart halfway through when Yui stops strumming to launch herself across the clubroom, like the first intrusive thought of her life had just kicked down the door.

"Yui-senpai—!" Azusa starts, too late.

"NAYA-CHAN!!"

Naya looks up. "Hm?"

Without warning, Yui throws her arms around her from behind with the force of a misguided koala. It's not subtle. It's not gentle. It's a full-bodied Yui™ hug, the kind she gives when she's had too much sugar and not enough impulse control.

And it would be totally normal for someone like Yui if it weren't for the fact that she's wrapped her arms around Naya's chest with zero plausible deniability.

Naya, to her credit, just grunts slightly, shifting her balance. "... Okay?"

"Don't mind me! Just collecting data!"

Mio drops her pick. Or maybe her soul. Possibly both.

"YUI!" she hisses, voice cracking like a bad amp.

"... What?" Naya asks.

"Nothing!" Yui chirps. "I just think it's important to have tactile references, you know? Like, experiential learning!"

Naya exhales. She's either too tired to care or has accepted this as her life now. She pats Yui's head once. Yui melts.

Mio stares at the floor, cheeks pink. Her brain is stuck somewhere between Yui's hugging Naya's chest, experiential learning, and oh god oh god oh god.

Naya glances at Mio, but says nothing. Just pats Yui's head again, eyes unreadable. Mio can feel her pulse in her ears. 

Ritsu notices. "You okay there, Mio?"

"I'm fine," Mio lies. "Just... dropped something."

Mugi hands her the pick. She's smiling like she's seen this all coming.

---

Later, guitar cases lean half-open along the wall like exhausted dancers. A pack of Pocky is slowly melting on the amp near the window.

Ritsu is lying on the rug. Yui is lying on Ritsu. Ayame and Liz are playing that thumb-war-turned-wrist-deathmatch game. Akira is attempting to restring her guitar with Momo's help, although help may be too generous a word. Sachi has claimed the table and is methodically cutting tiny squares of chocolate with the seriousness of a surgeon.

Summer hasn't officially started, but it feels like it has. That post-finals slackening. That looseness of time. That sense that nothing urgent will ever happen again.

Which is, of course, when the stupidest things always do.

Mio is curled up on the couch, her notebook open, lyrics unfinished. The ink has smudged where her wrist leaned into a line too long. She isn't writing. She's watching.

Not anyone in particular. Just the shape of the afternoon.

The clubroom is soft with noise. Breezes from the oscillating fan. The static-laced murmur of an old speaker. Someone humming—Naya, maybe, sitting cross-legged on the floor with her back against the wall, her bass across her lap like a sleeping cat.

And Azusa. Standing. Too stiff. Too obvious.

Mio narrows her eyes.

Azusa is not subtle.

She's good at many things—music theory, soloing on command, remembering who borrowed which cable and when. But she's not built for covert operations.

Azusa approaches Naya with all the grace of a substitute teacher trying to join recess.

"Hi, Naya-senpai."

Naya looks up. "Hey, Azusa."

Beat.

Azusa crosses her arms, uncrosses them. "So. Uh. How do you feel about strap length?"

A full second of silence.

Naya squints. "... Sorry?"

"I mean. Your bass. The strap. Some people like it high? Like jazz-style? But you wear it kind of low, right? More rock?"

Naya looks down at the strap currently hugging her shoulder. "I guess? I don't really think about it."

"Well," Azusa says, "positioning matters."

Mio closes her notebook. She's not going to miss this.

Naya scratches her head. "Sure."

"Like," Azusa continues, floundering, "your, um, torso-to-bass ratio. It changes depending on... posture. Or body shape. You know."

Naya just stares at her.

"I'm just saying," Azusa tries again, "for technical accuracy. You must have preferences, right? Like when you buy shirts—wait, I mean straps—uh, you know, that fit your... frame."

Naya blinks once. Then twice. "... Are you asking about my shirt size?"

"No!"

Yes.

"I meant your bass posture!"

There is an audible thud as Yui slips off Ritsu's back from laughter.

Akira coughs into her fist. Ayame stares like she's watching a sitcom crash in real time. Liz doesn't even look up.

Mio facepalms.

Naya, to her credit, is still trying to follow-up this nonsense. "Okay... well. I guess I play with it mid-to-low? I don't like when it's too tight across my shoulders, or when the bass hits my ribs. Or when the wrist is too... bent. And I like to move. Also, I have to stomp the pedals constantly. So loose is better, I guess."

Azusa jumps on it. "Loose! Right. That's good. Loose fit is nice."

Naya nods slowly. "Are we... talking about straps? Or shirts? Or corsets?" She looks at Azusa with deadpan confusion. "Because I'm getting some seriously mixed signals here."

Mio finally cracks. A very soft, almost affectionate pfft escapes her. She wants to be kind. She wants to help. She also wants to bury herself in the couch and not witness the rest of this.

Azusa groans. "Forget it."

"No no," Naya insists, "I want to know where this is going. You know, with the torso-to-bass ratio."

Ritsu wheezes: "New album name."

Liz nods. "I would listen to it."

Akira, merciless: "I would bootleg it."

Azusa gives up and drops beside Mio like a broken wind-up toy.

Mio pats her on the back. "You tried," she says, gently.

"I suck."

"You're still the most responsible one here."

Azusa groans louder.

Mio glances over at Naya, who is now smiling—genuinely, not teasing—while Sachi hands her a piece of the carefully cut chocolate. Their hands brush. Something in Mio's chest shifts.

She looks down at her lap. Her hand is still resting lightly on Azusa's back. Azusa hasn't moved away.

"She might not even know her own size," Mio murmurs.

Azusa sighs. "Maybe medium. Ish."

"But that's not enough," Mugi murmurs as she gets closer, serene as ever. "Some people like it looser or tighter. We don't want her to feel uncomfortable. Remember when we ordered our high school shirts? Half of us had to swap."

"Yeah, 'cause Ricchan lied about her measurements," Yui says innocently.

"I WAS BEING OPTIMISTIC."

"About your chest?" Azusa deadpans.

"I thought I was gonna grow, okay?!"

Mio doesn't join in.

Because her mind, once again, is doing the thing. The dangerous, unhelpful, autonomic thing.

Medium-ish. Loose fit. Likes to move.

She tries not to remember the way Naya's shirt clung to her lower back that day at the clubroom, just briefly, when she reached up to grab some spare cables from the top shelf. Or how it hung lower near the hem, oversized just enough to swallow her hips, creating the illusion of shape hidden behind comfort.

She remembers it anyway.

(You're helping.ou're trying to get her a gift. It's not about seeing her in that shirt.)

Mio exhales, shakes her head, and reaches for her tea bottle.

The fan clicks. The strings on Akira's guitar hum as it's shifted. Outside, cicadas wail like they know something no one else will admit.

---

Seven o'clock comes like a chord change she doesn't quite expect. She finds herself back at the lab counter before she remembers deciding to leave.

The prints are warm from the machine. Glossy, but not too much. The clerk hands them over without ceremony, and Mio carries them back to her room with both hands, as if they might spill.

Her room is too quiet when she closes the door behind her. She doesn't turn on the light.

Instead, she sits on the bed by the window, cross-legged, the envelope in her lap. She slides the photos free and lays them out on her bed like tarot cards.

Past. Present. Possibility.

The one she took. The close-up. Naya's eyes are green in this light. Moss and gold.

Mio's breath hitches, shallow.

There's too much in it. In the way Naya looks. Like she's somewhere else entirely. Or maybe exactly where she's meant to be.

Mio's not sure which is worse.

But it's the one she took at the shrine that holds her longest.

Naya, crouched by the stone path, one hand extended toward the cat that blinks back at her in slow intervals. The line of her neck caught in profile, hair curled slightly damp at the edges. The faintest outline of the torii gate behind her—soft, peeling red against the muted greys of stone and sky.

Her eyes are green in the print. Not the green of grass, or leaves, but something deeper. Moss lit from within. Mio traces the edge of the photo with her thumb.

She wonders if Naya was aware of her in that moment. If she heard the sound of the shutter. If she knew she was being seen.

Mio's breath catches, tight behind her teeth. She's not sure what it is she's feeling.

Only that it's heavy. And it stays.

She moves to the next photo.

It takes her a second to recognize herself.

Her face is tilted slightly, caught mid-turn—like she wasn't ready, like she didn't know the camera was looking. There's a sliver of light brushing her jaw, and her expression isn't posed or practiced. Just open. Soft in a way she doesn't recognize. Or maybe doesn't want to.

Is that how Naya sees me?

The thought blooms too fast, too loud. She presses her thumb against the edge of the photo. The image lingers—her own gaze not quite meeting the lens, mouth parted slightly, as if caught mid-thought. It feels unguarded. Unfixed. Like being seen in motion, not just captured.

She wonders if this version of her exists only in Naya's eyes.

The photo they took together is simpler: two faces, close enough that their hair blends into shadow where it meets. Seated shoulder to shoulder, closer than Mio expected—closer than she's been to anyone in a long time without thinking about the space between.

Their heads tilt together, the curve of Naya's grin faint but present.

Mio's own expression is harder to parse. She looks at herself like she's a stranger.

Her smile looks... real.

She doesn't know when that happened. She doesn't remember smiling when they took it.

And yet, there it is.

Her phone buzzes once, twice. Then a third time, insistent. She blinks down at the screen. A light too bright in a dim room, like a museum spotlight breaking the gloom. The shape of the world tilting, slightly, toward the absurd.

HTT 🎸🍰

Mugi

Mugi: Just asked Licchan. She doesn't know either.

Of course she asked Liz.

Mio taps the side of her phone with one knuckle. Once, then again. Her thumb hovers, an unread reply hanging there in soft, ridiculous air.

Why do Mugi and Liz text so much?

It's not jealousy. Just curiosity, like noticing two satellites orbiting a different moon. Like realizing there are whole constellations she doesn't have access to, and never asked to map. Mugi knows things. Liz knows things. Maybe that's just what happens when two people aren't afraid of being looked at.

HTT 🎸🍰

Mugi

Mugi: Just asked Licchan. She doesn't know either.

Azusa

Azusa: I asked Momo. She said Naya-senpai usually wears the same shirts. She's not sure either.

Of course Momo wouldn't know. Momo is gentle, observant, but not the type to catalogue someone's bustline. Azusa probably tried to ask politely and then dissolved into a puddle of guilt and apology.

HTT 🎸🍰

Mugi

Mugi: Just asked Licchan. She doesn't know either.

Azusa

Azusa: I asked Momo. She said Naya-senpai usually wears the same shirts. She's not sure either.

Ritsu

Ritsu: Can't we just guess a size and pray to the gods of fabric stretchiness? (￣人￣)

Yui

Yui: WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT what if we all wear different shirts and ask Naya-chan which one she likes best and THEN we check the tag and THAT's her size indirectly (゜▽゜;)

Ritsu

Ritsu: Yui no (¬_¬メ)

Mio pinches the bridge of her nose.

Yui's logic has its own chaotic elegance. An indirect approach wrapped in nonsense. It almost makes a terrifying kind of sense—like walking backward into the truth.

HTT 🎸🍰

Mugi

Mugi: Just asked Licchan. She doesn't know either.

Azusa

Azusa: I asked Momo. She said Naya-senpai usually wears the same shirts. She's not sure either.

Ritsu

Ritsu: Can't we just guess a size and pray to the gods of fabric stretchiness? (￣人￣)

Yui

Yui: WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT what if we all wear different shirts and ask Naya-chan which one she likes best and THEN we check the tag and THAT's her size indirectly (゜▽゜;)

Ritsu

Ritsu: Yui no (¬_¬メ)

Mio: I'll figure it out tomorrow (ーー;)

She doesn't know how. Just that she will.

Another vibration.

This time, a name she recognizes differently.

Kenji.

Her body doesn't flinch, exactly. It's more of a pause, like a held chord before a modulation. The sensation of switching keys.

Kenji ❤️

Kenji: Hey, how's prep for Hakone going?

Hakone.

Right. That's happening. Soon.

Her eyes skim the message, then drift to the half-open suitcase on her floor. The quiet choreography of packing. Clothes she won't wear. A toothbrush. Her sleep-shirt. The printed itinerary for the ryokan Kenji booked weeks ago. She's been packing all afternoon, folding and refolding. Pretending it means something. The room feels unbalanced now, like a book with the last page torn out.

The photos are gone from her corkboard. She packed them in one of the side compartments. The bunny plush Kenji got her at the arcade is now stuffed beside her socks. The photo of the two of them at Nakameguro, with its cherry blossoms along the Meguro River, smiling in unison, not quite touching.

Still, the room doesn't feel emptier. Just different. Rewritten in a quieter tense.

Her eyes drift to the top drawer of her desk. Closed, but not locked.

Inside: the two-euro coin Naya gave her that day at the café. She kept it. Now she takes it. Turns it on her fingers. The Córdoba Mosque shines, crafted in worn out gold.

And the purikura from Mugi's birthday. The one where she and Naya were too close. Foreheads almost brushing. A family photo with a gigantic Doraemon. Their bodies aligned like accident or intention. She remembers the instant the flash went off, how it felt too easy, how it made her stomach flutter with something shapeless and bright.

They don't look like that in the picture with Kenji. In that photo, their bodies hover politely. Like they were posing for a memory instead of making one.

Kenji ❤️

Kenji: Hey, how's prep for Hakone going?

Kenji: Do you want to meet tomorrow or Thursday before the trip? I may get some spare time at work.

Her pulse doesn't spike. A strange, slow detach. She stares at the message as if someone else received it.

Tomorrow is Wednesday. I need to find out her size. And Thursday is her birthday.

And that's... important. Isn't it?

Not just because it's Naya. Not because it's her birthday. But because she's here. In Japan. Alone, far from her family. And they're her friends. They're trying to make her feel at home. It's not strange to prioritize that.

It's not strange to want to be there. It's not strange to want to see her smile. It's not strange—

Kenji ❤️

Kenji: Hey, how's prep for Hakone going?

Kenji: Do you want to meet tomorrow or Thursday before the trip? I may get some spare time at work.

Mio: I don't think I can. One of my club friends has her birthday Thursday and she's alone here, so we're planning something small (・・;)

There. Honest. Innocent. Nothing strange about that.

She watches the dots as Kenji types. Then stops. Then types again.

Then nothing.

She doesn't need a reply.

She places the phone face down on the desk.

Her eyes scan the room again, not searching, just measuring. The leftover silences between items. The residue of movement. Something about it feels almost... retrospective. Like she's watching a version of herself leave.

(Why haven't I been thinking about Hakone?)

It's not that she doesn't care about the trip. It's just that... it feels like it belongs to someone else. A girl she's trying to be. A script she can recite out of muscle memory.

She sits there, quiet in the dimness, listening to the hum of her charger, the sigh of summer through the cracked window. Her knees pulled to her chest. The faint metallic press of the coin still in her palm.

---

July 27, 2011

It's early enough that the floor tiles of the laundry room still hold the chill of night, and the dryers hum like tired bees. The smell hits hard: artificial soap, bleached polyester, the faint echo of old steam.

Mio balances the plastic basin on her hip, full of soft, folded compromise: underwear she doesn't particularly like, socks with no soulmates, the threadbare pastel pink pajamas she refuses to part with. She nudges the door open with one foot. Her arms ache. Her brain is somewhere between asleep and existential.

Her suitcase waits in her room, half-zipped, bloated with clothes she might not even wear. Her summer is already packed. This is just the final rinse of obligation. The last batch. The intimate residue of dorm life. 

Then—

Naya.

At the back left machine, a bright red basin at her feet, filled to the brim with a collapsed fabric mountain—shirts, mostly, all of them soft-looking and lived-in, the kind of cotton that clings just slightly when damp. She's lifting damp t-shirts with casual intimacy. Her hair is messier than usual but somehow still looks intentional. She's wearing loose sweatshorts and an old band tee in faded black. Something about the way it hangs off her shoulder makes Mio's breath catch like lint in a filter.

Oh.

Well.

This is the opposite of a problem.

Because there are shirts in that basin.

Shirts that could carry answers.

Mio adjusts her grip on her basin and breathes in through her nose. Carefully. Slowly. Like a researcher approaching a rare bird in the wild.

If she just... walks over. Casually. Says hi. Starts some kind of—ugh—small talk. She might catch a glimpse. A neckline. A folded collar. A care tag. A measurement, maybe, if the gods of laundry are feeling generous. No crimes committed. Just girlhood, plain and investigative.

She steps forward, steady, with the conviction of a girl armed only with the lie that she's just here to wash her socks. Her voice emerges on instinct.

"Good morning, Naya."

Naya turns, surprised. Then comes the smile—easy as always, soft like a private joke.

"Good morning, Mio. Laundry twins."

Her Japanese is sleep-thick, 'r' slurred into 'l', almost melodic. Mio nods, unsure if her stomach is fluttering from nerves or the shift in tone. She kneels beside the next machine, pretending to be absorbed in sorting socks.

"What time did you wake up?" she asks.

"Too early. I'm trying to do three loads before breakfast," Naya sighs. "And you? Laundry day?"

Mio nods. "Yeah. Last round before going home."

"Oh, right, you all go back for the summer," Naya says, lifting another t-shirt—black, soft, stretched—and tossing it into the machine. It slaps wetly against the metal drum. "Tío, I forgot how many clothes I wore this month. Thought I was more minimalist."

"You're not," Mio says before thinking. Then immediately regrets it. "I mean—you dress simple. But. You wear things. That's not—never mind."

Naya grins. "Profound."

Mio tilts her head, glancing—subtly—at Naya's basin.

White. Gray. Black. A soft navy with cracked lettering. And there—folded half-inside out—a faded orange tee. The neckline is stretched. The brand tag barely clings to the seam.

Naya's shirts. Actual shirts. Potential clues.

If she can just position herself a little closer—maybe angle her body right, casually stretch—maybe she can—

A soft thud.

She doesn't even register the moment the basin slips from her grip. Only the aftermath: fabric tumbling like a flood, her underwear scattering across the floor in quiet, traitorous plops.

No.

No.

No no no no no—

Naya looks down. "Oh—wait, I got it—" she says, already crouching, grabbing a pair of striped socks, one of Mio's tank tops, something cotton and pale and—

No. No. Not that. Not THAT—!

Naya's hand closes around it.

A navy bra.

Plain. Functional. Worn, but intact. Slightly padded. Not cute, not lacy, not anything remotely flirtatious. Just hers. A size hard to find. A size she doesn't even like saying aloud in stores. Always a little too obvious beneath shirts.

And now—

Oh god.

Oh god oh god oh god.

Naya has her bra in her hand.

She freezes. So does Mio.

They—stay there, in tableau. Two statues in a museum of escalating humiliation.

Naya blinks. Twice. And then she looks up, her face very suddenly—

Red.

Not a tease. Not a chuckle. Not a slow, sultry "Hmm, navy? Suits you."

No, no.

She's buffering. Fully frozen. Face flushed to the ears, eyes darting between the bra and Mio like she's been handed a live wire.

"... Uh," she manages. Barely.

Mio wants to fold herself into a thimble and roll into a sewer.

"I—I can take that," she whispers, barely audible. Her hand reaches forward, trembling.

"Oh. Right. Sorry." Naya gives it to her. Then: a step back. Palms half-raised. Brows knit. She's malfunctioning. The Naya Mio knows—the Naya who quips, who teases—is gone. In her place: a shy, red-faced girl who's trying very hard to look at anything that isn't Mio's chest.

Which is unfortunate, because Mio's chest is suddenly very aware of its own spatial volume.

"I—sorry—just—clumsy—" Her voice is a string of static. She's not even sure what language she's speaking anymore.

Naya clears her throat. Still pink. Still not meeting her eyes. "It's okay," she says, voice thinner than usual. "I mean—it's just a bra."

But it's not just a bra. It's her bra. 

And now Naya has held it. Knows the size, the weight, the feel of the fabric.

Mio tries to reset her heartbeat. It's not working. She glances at Naya again. Still red. Still silent. Staring at the socks now, very intently.

This is not what Mio expected. Where's the suave, teasing Naya who throws compliments like darts and never misses?

This is... someone else. Someone short-circuited by a bra. By her bra.

Is this because she likes girls? Is she uncomfortable? Is she embarrassed? Or just mortified? Or is this just what happens when you hand someone your metaphorical nakedness in textile form?

It's kind of comforting, actually. That Naya didn't make a joke.

Didn't smirk. Didn't say something careless about size or color or shape—nothing Mio's been teased about before. She's had enough of that. Enough hands gesturing. Enough comments that made her feel like she was somehow too much, too obvious.

That Naya didn't treat it like something to gawk at or joke about—clearly not handling it well either—meant more than Mio expected. Like maybe, for once, Mio wasn't the only one who didn't know where to look.

I'm not the only one feeling this.

Kind of awful, too.

Because now Mio's overthinking it. Wondering what Naya thinks, if it changed anything. If it mattered.

Because she still doesn't know what it means.

Mio clutches the basin against her knees, heart pounding so hard it vibrates her teeth.

Naya clears her throat. Rubs the back of her neck. "I didn't mean to. I just—I was trying to—sorry."

Mio nods quickly. "Yeah. Yeah. It's fine." She throws a handful of socks into the washer like she's trying to absolve herself. "Can we never speak of this again?"

"Definitely," Naya agrees, already turning back to her own laundry like she's praying for the machine to open a portal and take her with it.

They both stand in silence, surrounded by underwear. Somewhere in the distance, a washing machine beeps.

Now she knows Naya does like girls. And maybe—maybe likes her? Or maybe not? Or maybe she's just broken now? Or maybe they both are?

Mio forces herself to glance at the basin again. Hoping, just in case, to spot a tag.

She doesn't see anything. Nothing useful. Nothing she could use to tell Azusa or Yui or anyone what to get.

Wonderful.

Naya knows her bra size now. Mio still has no clue about her goddamn shirt size.

No t-shirt tags seen. No sizes guessed. No mission accomplished. Just one more moment added to the growing, terrible, exquisite mess of being around this girl.

She loads the rest of her clothes, closes the washer, hits the cycle button. Steps back. Closes her eyes and lets her face burn clean through.

---

The story sounds funnier when she tells it out loud. Or maybe that's just self-defense. Mio doesn't know. She's trying not to dissolve into vapor.

"It fell," she says, trying to keep her voice neutral. "The bra. Directly in front of her. She picked it up."

Azusa tilts her head. "And?"

Mio frowns. "And she picked it up."

"Still just a bra," Yui chirps, rummaging through her backpack for snacks. "Naya-chan is a girl, too!"

"I know that. I'm just saying," she insists, voice already two octaves higher than her pride, "if someone suddenly has their bra flying out in front of another person—during laundry—it's not just a bra anymore. It's a breach in the social contract."

"She has bras too, you know." Ritsu rolls her eyes. "And it's not like she tried it on, Mio."

"She held it! With her hands!"

"Was it the white frilly one?"

"No."

"The lacy lavender?"

"No."

"Wait, was it the navy blue one that looks like a tactical sports bra but still has, like, soul-crushing implications?"

Mio deflates. "Yes."

"Ah."

"Anyway," she continues, pressing her knuckles to her thigh to stay centered, "she was very... polite about it."

"Why wouldn't she be?" says Mugi, ever the reasonable one.

Because it's not that it was just a bra. It's that it was hers. That it had existed as a private object and then, suddenly, it was in Naya's hands. Which, until now, had only held things like bass picks, soda cans, Mio's hair that time it got stuck in her old strap and Naya's fingertips traveled lightly on her nape and—

Oh my god what the hell is wrong with me this week.

It's also that Naya didn't laugh. Didn't tease. Just flushed pink and froze.

And that, somehow, was worse. Or better. She can't tell.

Azusa, bless her, tries to restore order. "But Mio-senpai, if she didn't say anything weird, then... it's not a big deal, right?"

It's not a big deal. Right. It's just cotton and elastic and shame molded into wearable form.

Mio crosses her arms, sighs. Just a bra. Just her bra. Just her bra in Naya's actual hands. Which are now registered in Mio's brain as Weapons of Mass Disruption.

She stares at the ceiling as if meaning will crystallize there.

"Whatever," she mutters. "No size data retrieved."

"So. Operation Underwear: fail," Ritsu says.

"Don't call it that."

Too late. Yui has started humming a spy theme.

In the far corner, Akira, Ayame, and Sachi are gathered around a clear ziplock bag filled with bass picks. There's a meticulousness to the way Sachi has organized them by color, and Ayame is drawing tiny doodles on some of them—stars, clefs, an attempt at Naya's messy hair. Akira offers quiet nods of approval.

Mission: completed. Stylish. Subtle. A little punk.

Meanwhile, Momo is holding up three braided bracelets with the ecstatic reverence of someone who's just forged an unbreakable bond of magic and friendship.

"We made one for each of us," she says, gesturing between herself and Liz.

Liz nods, lounging like she's too cool for crafts but clearly proud of their work. "Momo chose the color order. They're supposed to match our band aesthetic."

Mio's about to say something sincere, but then Momo clasps her own bracelet to her chest and closes her eyes in what can only be described as emotional bracelet communion.

Mugi leans in and whispers to Mio, "Is it weird that I think Momo-chan might be the most romantic of us all?"

Mio watches Momo tilt her head at Liz with a look that can only be described as celestial devotion.

"No. That tracks."

The door clicks.

Conversation glitches. Heads swivel.

Naya arrives, slinging her bag off one shoulder, unbothered, unhurried, rapping twice on the doorframe before stepping in. Her hair's still a mess. Today she's wearing a Them Crooked Vultures shirt with cracked lettering, oversized, thin gray cotton, the neckline slouched just a bit off one collarbone. She moves with the same low-frequency cool she always does—like the world can't quite touch her unless she lets it.

She's carrying a plastic folder and a small cloth bag. Probably snacks. Probably for Momo.

"Sorry I'm late," she says, smiling with her whole face. "I had to go all the way back for my cable. Thought I left it here."

"You didn't," Liz says. "Unless the cables developed invisibility this week."

"That'd be cool," Momo mutters.

She nods to Onna Gumi and HTT, then slides effortlessly into her band's orbit, dropping her things and exchanging a few low murmurs with her bandmates.

Mio tries not to stare. Fails. She turns back to the group, takes a long breath. Okay. No shirt size, but it's fine. I have a plan.

She approaches Naya with the kind of forced casualness only achievable by a gazelle who once made eye contact with a lion and now can't stop remembering it.

The lion, in this case, earlier held her bra in her bass-playing hand, and by extension, her dignity.

"Hey, Naya."

Naya turns. Smiles. "Hey there." Her voice is soft, aimed at Mio.

Mio clears her throat. "So, um. I've been trying out the Keeley compressor. Still going through the manual."

"Yeah? How are you finding it?"

Mio straightens. "It's... complicated. Not like yours."

"You'll get it," Naya says, too casually. "You're good at that kind of stuff. You break things down."

Something glints in her voice. Quiet belief wrapped in matter-of-fact warmth. It makes Mio's stomach lurch in an inconvenient direction.

"... Actually," she hears herself say, "I've been meaning to ask you about something. With the clipping knob. Yours doesn't have it and I don't really know how to get it right."

A lie. An absurd, calculated, pedal-based lie. Mio has practically memorized the manual by now. She could recite the Keeley's settings in her sleep. She could annotate it. She could teach a seminar. But here she is, weaponizing her own fake confusion for intel. For espionage. Like some deranged, compression-pilled Sherlock Holmes with social anxiety.

Naya perks up anyway, obliging, easy, clueless. "Want me to take a look?"

Yes. Yes, you oblivious Iberian disaster. Crouch. Kneel. Turn around. Let me see your stupid tag so I can get you a stupid shirt.

Mio gestures toward her bass pedalboard, which she's already arranged neatly on the floor like a shrine of plausible deniability with a total of one (1) compressor. Impressive.

And just like that, Naya is on the floor.

She drops to a crouch beside it, one knee down, her fingers already turning the knobs with casual precision. Her voice starts explaining. "So this one's your sustain, and—here, when you push this down—"

Mio is not listening.

Her eyes are fixed. Specifically, fixed on the slope of Naya's neck.

The shirt collar has shifted, just slightly. The back tag might be visible if Mio leans. Just a bit. Nothing creepy. Just enough.

She moves.

A tilt forward. Closer. Closer than etiquette demands. Closer than decency recommends. She can almost see it. The label. There's something there. A letter. Maybe a number?

Naya doesn't notice. Or if she does, she says nothing. She's explaining the clipping knob, hands gesturing midair.

Just—just a glance. That's all. One quick look at the—

"... You okay there?"

Mio freezes.

Naya has turned her head. Their faces are barely a foot apart.

Caught. Absolutely caught.

Mio's brain screams ABORT MISSION but her mouth, in a fit of self-preservation, fires first.

"You have a thing!"

Naya flickers. "A thing?"

"Yes! On your—on your hair. Collar. A particle. Hair. Dust. Lint. Something. Just—don't move."

And she reaches out. And touches.

Touches Naya's neck. Touches Naya's hair. She slides her fingers against the seam near the collar, brushes her knuckles against skin.

That was not the plan. That was absolutely not the plan.

She pretends to pluck something invisible. Flicks it away like it's real.

"There. Got it."

Naya smiles at her, bemused. "Thanks."

Mio jerks back like she licked a power socket labeled 'shame.' "No problem," she says. "Just didn't want you to look weird or something if it was something. Which it wasn't. But—just in case. Because visibility. Stage presence. Whatever."

Naya stares at her for a beat longer than necessary.

"AnywaythanksforexplainingtheknobIthinkIgetitnowsoIwillletyoudoyourtghingwithyourbandbye!"

Mio retreats like a soldier from a failed mission.

Naya huffs a laugh and rejoins Liz and Momo. Mio slinks back to HTT and collapses beside Ritsu on the couch, radiating defeat like an overturned Roomba.

"Mission failed?" Ritsu asks.

"She caught me."

"What were you even trying to do?"

"Check her tag."

"You mean the shirt tag?"

"Yes."

"And instead you stroked her neck?"

"It was a hair-related deception, thank you very much."

Ritsu cackles. "You're the worst spy ever."

"I'm not a spy," Mio mutters. "I'm just—"

—trying to get a t-shirt for a girl who keeps short-circuiting my dignity—

"—trying to be helpful."

"Mmhmm."

"She probably thinks I'm insane."

"She knows you're insane," Ritsu says.

Mio groans.

"Mio-senpai," Azusa says with the grave tone of someone proposing a ceasefire, "perhaps you could arrange a visit to her room under reasonable pretenses? Maybe... something music-related? Maybe she'll wear something with a visible tag."

Mio stares at her. "You want me to infiltrate her room and steal information from her wardrobe."

"For friendship," Mugi muses, delighted.

"And birthday cheer," Yui adds brightly.

"For the record," Mio mutters, "this is absolutely unhinged."

Ritsu grins. "So you'll do it?"

Mio presses her face into her hands. "Fine," she says into her palms. "I'll... try."

Mugi smiles serenely. "Operation: Shirt Reconnaissance will succeed today."

"To Naya's birthday!" Ritsu declares.

"To friendship!" Yui chimes.

"To subtlety," Azusa sighs.

Mio swallows her shame and nods.

To whatever this is. To whatever it's becoming. To the entropy of shirts, and birthdays, and longing disguised as errands.

---

It's later than she thought it would be. The dorm hall hums with muffled sounds—air conditioning, a distant faucet, someone's TV two doors down playing an anime with a laugh track that repeats like a nervous tick. She walks slowly, as if hoping the floor tiles might offer answers, as if the fluorescent ceiling light might burn this impulse out of her if she walks beneath it long enough.

She doesn't know what she's doing.

Mio nervously combs her fringe and knocks before her mind can articulate a pretense. Something about the compressor? Music? That thing Naya said about signal chains? Maybe she could lend her a CD? She didn't bring one. A pedal? No, she wouldn't. That's deranged. Maybe she'll just say she forgot. Maybe she'll pretend she got the room wrong and—

The door opens.

And then—Naya.

She opens the door with one hand on the frame, her body angled slightly like she hadn't expected visitors but doesn't mind. Her hair is a bit messy, tousled from a nap or a shower or lying down or just existence. She's wearing a threadbare tee with something faded and cracked across the chest and soft gray sweatshorts that stop just above the knee. Comfortable. Barefoot. Light-years removed from the curated cool of her usual outfits.

Mio's mouth goes dry.

Naya blinks once, then brightens. "Hey again." Her voice lifts, that familiar tilt of warmth. She smiles in that lopsided, gentle way that makes it difficult to remember language. "What's up? Need something?"

Yes.

No.

Maybe some common sense.

Mio reboots. "I—um." She shifts on her feet. "Just thought I'd—check in. Say hi. Sunday was... fun."

"Oh." Naya perks up. She smiles with her whole body. "Yeah. It was."

Mio nods. Silence stretches between them, soft and awkward. She's about to abort the mission and make some excuse about leaving—about confusing the days or needing to check the amp wiring or literally anything that would let her walk away with a shred of dignity—when her eyes flick over Naya's shoulder.

There.

Slung carelessly over the chair back like some kind of divine clue left by the gods of poor impulse control, hangs a shirt. It hangs there like evidence in a trial only Mio is attending.

A shirt with a tag. A readable tag. An answer.

And so Mio's brain, in its infinite capacity for survival and idiocy, blanks. And then her possessed mouth blurts:

"Do you... want to hang out?"

Naya blinks. "Hang out? This late?"

Mio's ears are burning. "Yeah. I mean. If you're not busy, or... tired." Abort. Abort. Abort. "Only if you want to. I mean—no pressure. You were probably in the middle of something. I just—was passing by. And thought—um—maybe. We could do something. Or nothing. Whatever you want."

Naya looks stunned, caught off-guard in a way that feels more flattering than inconvenient. Eyes wide. Thoughts catching up to words.

Then she smiles again, different this time. Smaller. Almost sheepish.

"Sure. I just need a sec to change and I can meet you downstairs, or wherever you want to—"

"No!" Mio says, louder than intended. She winces. "I mean—you don't have to. Change. We don't have to go anywhere. I just thought—if you're okay with it—maybe here. Just. Talk. Or music. Or something. We can hang here. In your room. If you want. If that's okay."

A pause.

Naya's body stills. There's a faint delay before she responds—like someone misreading a time signature. Her smile falters, reforms. A little cracked now. A little... shy?

Then:

"Uh."

And then:

"Yeah. Yeah. Sure." Her voice dips. "Of course. Of course, I—come in."

She steps aside, and Mio steps inside. Like she's trespassing. Like the room might object on moral grounds. The door clicks behind her.

It's warm. Personal. The kind of room that feels lived-in. There's a low table with Naya's headphones. A crossword book on the bed beside a MP3 player. A shelf half-stuffed with snack packaging and books with Spanish labels. A desk with a laptop, and taped-up photos in a diagonal line above it, some printed on plain paper, some glossy, one that looks like it was cut from a flyer—

The shirt is gone.

Because Naya, in a moment of social instinct and tragic precision, has scooped it off the chair and flung it into her closet with the apologetic chaos of someone used to hosting guests in rooms not meant for guests.

"Sorry—it's kind of a mess, I didn't think—" She trails off as she lifts a stray sock from the floor and tosses it in a laundry bag, already moving toward the shelf like she might tidy that too.

Mio stands in the middle of the room like a war widow, mourning a shirt.

You traitor, she thinks. You charming, oblivious saboteur.

She came for a tag. Now she's surrounded by the girl, the warmth, the place. And none of it will tell her what she wants to know.

She inhales slowly. Deep. Through the nose. Count to four. Hold. Release. Doesn't scream. Doesn't cry. Doesn't tackle her and demand the tag like some unhinged census worker for closet demographics.

Doesn't speak either. Doesn't sit. Doesn't even breathe anymore, maybe.

She watches Naya collect a loose USB cable from the desk, straighten a crooked stack of papers, and say over her shoulder, "You sure you don't want to go somewhere?"

Mio clears her throat. "Here is good."

Here is fine. Here is awful. Here is everything I didn't plan for.

Naya nods again and wipes her palms on her shorts. "Cool. Make yourself at home."

Mio nods, smiling. It's fine. It's fine. It's completely, absolutely, objectively—

"Want tea?" Naya asks, still tidying like a well-behaved dog that can't sit still. "Or snacks? Or something?"

Mio, still recovering from emotional textile loss, nods weakly. "Oh. Uh, sure. Thanks."

Behind her eyes, her brain is rebooting. This wasn't the plan. This wasn't anything. She just wanted a shirt size. Now she's inside Naya's room, her heart trying to wring itself dry, watching the girl in sweatshorts apologize for clutter while looking annoyingly charming in low light.

Fantastic. Just fantastic.

Naya stills mid-step, glancing at the corner of her low shelf like she's just remembered something catastrophic.

"Mierda. I don't have anything."

Mio startles. "What?"

"Snacks," Naya says, already grabbing her keys from the hook by the door. "I thought I had something left, but I ate the last senbei last night during that documentary about competitive ironing."

Mio watches her panic, half-amused, half-falling apart. "That's... okay. You really don't have to—"

"No, no, it's the bare minimum." Naya waves a hand like this is sacred social doctrine. "You invite someone in, you offer snacks. Or tea. Or something. I'm not a barbarian."

"You didn't even invite me," Mio says, which she regrets the moment it leaves her mouth.

But Naya just grins. "Even worse. You ambushed me and I let you in. It's my moral duty to feed you."

Before Mio can object again, Naya sweeps toward the bed. She grabs two throw pillows—mismatched, one striped and one depicting a cat playing bass—and fluffs them like she's been preparing for this hangout her whole life. She wedges them into the corner where the wall meets the bed frame, then smooths the sheet all the way up to the pillows. She tugs it tight like a hotel maid.

"Here," she says. "Sit. Or lean. Or just... don't stand like you're about to testify in court. You can lean back. Be comfortable." Naya steps toward the door. "I'll be right back."

And then she's gone.

And then Mio is alone.

In Naya's room.

There is a full second—maybe two—where Mio simply stands there in silence, spine locked, hands useless at her sides, as if Naya will come back instantly and this was all a fever dream. But no. She hears footsteps retreating down the hallway. She hears the soft thunk of the dorm building's snack machine area opening. She hears the sound of the gods laughing somewhere in the sky.

Mio sits.

She doesn't lean back. Too soon.

The corner of the bed is still warm.

The pillows smell faintly like shampoo and whatever detergent Naya uses. Slightly citrusy. The cat on the pillow stares at her smugly. Like it knows something she doesn't. Or maybe just agrees with her panic.

For one irrational moment, she considers opening the closet.

Just to peek. Not to rummage. Just to take one quick, amoral glance at the tag of that cursed shirt, for the sake of art and justice and birthday present logistics.

She doesn't.

She thinks about it. Then she thinks about Naya's face if she got caught. About Naya's laugh, the tilt of it, how it falters when she's genuinely flustered. She scolds herself.

No. That's rude. That's horrifying.

Besides, she's already seen more of Naya's room than she thought she ever would.

She's been here before, technically. That one time, when Naya was sick. But back then she'd been all worry and logistics, concerned with medicine and fever and is she okay, does she need to go to the hospital. She hadn't looked.

Now, she does.

There's a soft controlled chaos to the space—controlled clutter, but not disorganized. It feels lived-in. Warm. The bass leans in its stand near the sliding closet, the same one Naya plays with that trance-like precision. Next to it, the pedal bag. She spots the JamMan loop pedal cable half-coiled like a sleeping animal.

On the desk: a black laptop with some stickers. A cracked CD-R in a plastic sleeve. Naya's phone, screen facing down. Another half-finished crossword book lies open beside it, the corner of the page folded into a triangle.

Above the desk, a row of taped-up photos cuts diagonally across the wall. Some are on glossy photo paper. Some just printed in low-res from a campus printer. Some faded. Most joyful. She sees a few that must be family—an older woman on a balcony with a fan in hand, a little boy with a gap-toothed smile, someone who looks like Naya if she had shorter hair.

Then she sees it.

The purikura.

There's one of Naya with Liz and Momo, all grins and sharpie doodles. One with Mugi and Liz that looks like a failed idol promo. Another with a bunch of the clubroom girls, crammed together with sparkles and peace signs.

And then—four others.

The ones she took with Mio.

All four. Every pose. Even the one where they're too close. Too easy.

That one is near the middle.

Mio's heart makes a quiet noise in her chest, like a rubber band pulled too far and let go.

She isn't sure what to do with that. With the way it lingers. With the fact that Naya kept them. Arranged them there—not hidden in a notebook, not jammed into a drawer, not discarded like something disposable. But out in the open. With all the others.

With her friends. With her people.

I'm one of them, Mio thinks.

(No. You're not. You don't know what you are.)

The door opens.

Naya returns, juggling a bottle of green tea, a box of chocolate Pocky, another of strawberry, and a glossy snack bag that looks like it was designed by an overexcited art student on a sugar high. She holds it up proudly.

"I got this one because of the mascot."

It's a bean with arms and eyes and a tiny hat.

Mio stares. "That's... a bean."

"His name is Gomi-chan." Naya says. "He's a trash bean who teaches kids to recycle."

Mio gives her a blank look. "Sure."

Naya grins. "You have no idea how good Japanese packaging is. I've got a whole drawer of these. And bottles. And cans." She kicks it lightly with her heel. "One day, I'm making a collage."

Mio nods slowly, watching her kneel to arrange the snacks on the bed between them.

There she goes again, she thinks. Being utterly ridiculous. And thoughtful. And soft. And impossible.

Mio sits back slightly. Leans into the pillows. Tries not to think about the fact that Naya kept all their purikura and put it in her desk. Tries not to think about what that means.

Silence.

Naya sits beside her. Mio glances at the space between them in the bed, then realizes the crossword book is still there.

"You like crosswords?"

Naya glances where the book is still half-open. "Yeah, they're good for unwinding and learning new words," she says. "Spanish ones. I brought a lot from home. It's easier to unwind from Japanese when I'm not thinking in it."

Mio chuckles. "That makes sense."

Another silence.

Naya shifts beside her, reaching casually for the Pocky boxes. She opens both and places them neatly between them like it's a taste-test. Mio watches as she cracks open the green tea and nudges the bottle gently against Mio's hand.

"Here," Naya says.

Mio accepts it with a murmur of thanks, the plastic cold against her palm, condensation already forming. She doesn't drink. She stares.

Naya plucks a chocolate stick from the box and puts it between her lips without ceremony. Just like that. A casual, unconscious motion—chew, chew, pause. And then, mid-bite, she tilts the box toward Mio.

"Want one?"

Mio's soul evacuates her body.

Because it's just a snack. Just a shared snack. Just a girl offering another girl a biscuit stick in a room lit by the tender glow of an overhead bulb and the strange weight of something starting to take shape. Normal.

But Naya—dear, infuriating Naya—is holding the box in one hand while biting into her own Pocky with the other, and suddenly that is the image: her lips at the tip of the chocolate stick, the faintest crunch, a soft sound of teeth on candy, and Mio's brain, idiot that it is, leaps seventeen steps ahead into absolute emotional anaphylaxis.

Oh no.

Oh no no no no no.

This is the game. The stupid, horrifying, privacy-invading-coded game.

The Pocky Game.

The one where you both bite opposite ends until one of you pulls away or you kiss and the world ends.

High school. Second year. Rainy day. Everyone in the classroom giggling and screaming as someone tries to kiss another girl through a matcha stick. A third one yelling "go go go!" like it's a sports anime. Mio hiding in a corner trying to die quietly.

And now—

Now.

Is this that?

Is this a setup? Does Naya know? Is this a cultural blindspot or some kind of elaborate sapphic performance art?

(She's Spanish. Surely they don't play dumb candy games there.)

Maybe they do something worse. Maybe flan with whipped cream is involved.

Naya chews, glances at her. Still holding the box out. Still with that face. "You good? Want me to go grab something else or...?"

"No, no. This is fine." Mio takes one. Slowly. Mechanically. She clears her throat. "It's just. Um. There's this game in Japan..."

"Game?"

Mio immediately regrets everything. "You know what—no—nevermind—it's dumb—it's not even a game really—just something people do in high school sometimes—"

Naya looks intrigued. "What kind of game?"

"No, um, it's—" ABORTABORTABORTSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP. "It's nothing. Nothing important. I just—I—so—snacks! You like mascots, right?"

Flawless recovery.

Naya snorts a little through her nose, amused, as if gently acknowledging the conversational derailment but letting her have it. "Yeah. I really do."

"You just like them because they're cute?"

"That," Naya says, "and the fact that everything here has one. Trash cans. Toothpaste. Government buildings. Neighborhoods. It's like someone looked at infrastructure and said: what this needs is a frog with mittens."

Mio laughs. "You're not wrong."

"They're way better than what I grew up with. You know Naranjito? From the World Cup?"

"The orange with legs?"

"And wearing the kit of the Spanish team," Naya says grimly. "Don't forget that."

Mio grimaces. "I saw him in a museum once. Horrifying."

"You want horrifying?" Naya says. "Conguitos."

"What is that?"

"A Spanish snack mascot that proves you can be racist with just a peanut," Naya mutters, scratching the back of her neck. "We don't talk about Conguitos. Or the Cola-Cao song."

Mio chuckles.

There's another pause.

A shared, culturally complicated pause.

Then they both bite into their Pocky sticks at the same time. Naya, beside her, gently grinning with crumbs on her shirt and Gomi-chan smiling from a snack bag like the world's dumbest chaperone.

"Hey," Naya says suddenly, brushing her hands against her thighs. "Did you know M83 released a new track? I think the album's out in October."

Mio turns her head. "Really?"

"Yeah. It's called Midnight City." Naya reaches toward the desk, grabs her laptop, and flips it open with a practiced flick. The screen glows pale blue against her face. "Here. I'll pull it up."

She types quickly—shoulders hunched slightly, fingers moving in quick bursts across the keyboard like it's second nature. She goes to Bandcamp. Clicks. The opening synths start to hum through the tinny laptop speakers, distorted but somehow expansive, cosmic.

They sit side by side, eyes unfocused, heads angled in slightly different directions but sharing the same orbit. The song blooms outward—glittering synths, that pulsing rhythm like streetlights flickering into motion.

"Oh," Mio murmurs. "That sounds... really good."

"Right?"

The sound is cinematic. Nostalgic. A kind of glittery ache Mio can't quite name. She lets it fill the space between them. Lets it touch the edges of the moment. Lets herself not speak for a while.

When the track ends, the silence is soft. Still humming. Like something unfinished.

"I've been obsessed with this one track lately. The Reason Why." Mio says. "From this album called Kimi Tsunagi Five M by ASIAN KUNG-FU GENERATION. It's old, but it's still—" She hesitates, then laughs softly. "It just won't leave me alone."

Naya perks up. "Show me?"

Mio nods and leans forward toward the laptop. She hesitates.

A beat. Two.

Then, flatly: "How do I type on this."

Naya's brows pinch, then laughs. "Oh, right. Spanish layout. Sorry."

"There's a key where my quote mark should be."

"There's a key where everything should be," Naya mutters, and gently nudges Mio aside so she can take over. "It's okay. I got it."

She opens a tab and searches for the song. Her fingers move so fast Mio can barely follow the logic. Accents. Slashes. Random punctuations. An 'ñ' where the semicolon should be, judging Mio for being a Japanese bilingual in English—the global equivalent of default settings.

All in the wrong places. Absolute keyboard anarchy.

"How do you even use this?" Mio asks, leaning in, eyes scanning the keyboard like it's some postmodern sculpture.

"IME," Naya says. "Input Method Editor."

Mio tilts her head.

"Basically," Naya continues, "I keep a Spanish physical layout, but I use a Japanese IME on top. So I type in romaji, and it converts it to kana. But then I have to switch back to Spanish when I'm writing to my friends or texting people at home."

Mio makes a noise somewhere between understanding and horror.

Naya shrugs, mouth twitching. "Yeah. It's a mess. Sometimes I switch and forget. End up texting my friends in katakana when I meant to write in Spanish. Or writing 'jajaja' to people here by accident. Or worse—writing 'vale, profe' to my senpai like an idiot."

Mio snorts. "That... actually sounds hard."

"It is," Naya admits. She's smiling, but it's quieter now. "Sometimes I just don't bother. If I'm tired, I'll leave one message half-written for two hours just because I don't want to switch keyboards."

"That's..."

"Lazy?" Naya offers.

"Don't say lazy," Mio chuckles. "I was gonna say... exhausting."

Naya snorts softly. "It's not that bad. Just weird. You don't realize how many times you have to choose a language until every little thing—your keyboard, your settings, your autocorrect—fights you on it."

She clicks play. The ASIAN KUNG-FU GENERATION track starts, rhythmic and bright.

They listen together, looking at the band playing in a brown studio. All right-handed, of course. Mio wouldn't hope otherwise. She feels the song reverberate in her chest the way it always does—like a memory she hasn't lived. But somehow it sounds different tonight. Or maybe not different, but just more. Shared.

Naya nods along, her head tilted slightly toward the speakers, hair falling against her cheek. Mio watches her. Watches the way she moves in rhythm, one knee bouncing in time.

And suddenly it hits her—

All the languages Naya holds inside her.

All the spaces she has to navigate.

How much she must choose, and change, and calibrate, just to exist in the same hallway.

Mio looks down at the tea bottle in her hands.

It's not just a keyboard.

It's her. And the way she's always trying to find the right way to speak.

She tilts her ear slightly closer to the speaker. Pretends she's only here for the music. Lets the chords and words climb through her, gentle as scaffolding for something not yet built.

Instead of spilling out, overflow
The torch that lights up the heart.
Instead of understanding each other, think of each other
So it reaches you unfaded, for eternity.

The song fades, slow into silence. Just air now, and the low hum of Naya's laptop fan. Mio shifts slightly, hugging her knees, now thinking about navigating a world that is not made for you.

"I know it's not the same, but I've always felt kind of weird," she says quietly, "being left-handed."

Naya glances over. "Weird?"

"I don't know. A bit isolated, maybe. Like, even in music, it's a right-handed world. There's fewer models. People ask if I play backwards. I don't." She sighs. "It's just... you notice it. Being the mirror in the room."

Her eyes skim across the desk—cables, pedal manuals, a USB drive in the shape of a cassette.

"Sometimes I wish I wasn't the only lefty," she says, voice low, almost casual.

"You're not."

Mio scoffs. "In the club I am. Sometimes I feel like there are so many bands in the world, yet none of them have lefties."

Naya considers this for a moment. Then her eyes light up.

"Muse," she says.

Mio looks up. "What?"

"Dom. Dominic Howard. He's a lefty."

"The drummer?"

"Yep." Naya's already typing again, clicking through pages, YouTube windows, tabs flashing like strobe lights. "Here."

A few clicks later, a grainy video fills the screen—some badly recorded jam. Chris Wolstenholme slamming a line while Dom plays a fully mirrored kit. Everything reversed—hi-hats on the right, toms reversed, crash cymbals tilted the wrong way. Or the right way, depending on how you look at it.

Mio leans in. Her eyes widen.

"Oh."

Naya grins. "Right?"

"He's—he's really good."

"Yeah."

Mio leans forward. Watches Dom kick into an off-center beat, the kit reversed like someone mirrored reality and nobody flinched.

Her heart stirs.

They watch the full thing. No commentary. Just the unfiltered reverence of two musicians watching other musicians lose themselves. When the jam ends, the laptop screen freezes on Dominic's blurred hands mid-roll.

Mio hums. "So that's where you get it from."

Naya looks at her. "What?"

"Ruby Riot's thing. The backbone. This. This kind of jam."

Naya blinks, then smiles slowly. "You think so?"

"I know so." Mio turns her face slightly, still watching. "It's like... watching your band's DNA."

Naya shrugs, like it's not a compliment, but she's clearly pleased. "I'm flattered, honestly."

Mio turns her head now. "It's not just flattery. It makes sense."

Naya cocks an eyebrow.

"It's exactly the right kind of noise." Mio leans forward, rewinds a few seconds. "Heavy rhythm, aggressive drums, fuzzy bass that doesn't try to be melodic, just moves like a second percussion." She glances at Naya. "That's what you do, too."

Naya's mouth lifts, almost bashfully. "Muse was my first band obsession. I learned half their basslines before I could even play properly." She doesn't quite hide the pride in her eyes. "Used to bootleg and loop their jams on the CD player till the batteries died."

Mio smiles. "That tracks."

Naya nods, a little wistful. "Muse's jams were the reason I got interested in rhythm sections, actually." She leans over the laptop, fingers already typing. "Hang on. There's one I want to show you."

Click-clack. Scroll. Click. She knows exactly what to look for, like she's done this before. Many times before. The search bar autofills. "Osaka Jam," she mutters, clicking on a grainy live video. "Okay, so this one's famous. Dom's going insane, and Chris is just... there, anchoring the whole thing like a damn metronome in hell."

They watch it together—Dom hammering fills with absurd precision, Chris's bassline thick and fuzzed out. Naya is fully leaning forward now, legs crossed, eyes lit.

"Wait, wait—watch this fill—here." She jabs her finger at the screen just as the camera catches Dom's arms in a blur, sweat flying.

Mio jumps slightly. "You've memorized this, haven't you?"

"I have no shame," Naya says proudly.

The video ends. Another search. "Now MK Jam. This one's new. Came out with the Resistance tour. It's my favorite."

Mio watches her navigate like a ritual. Not just watching videos—summoning ghosts.

"Okay, listen to this," Naya says, practically vibrating. "The bass is in 3/4. Drums are still 4/4. Then they both slide into 6/8—here—and the ending is also in 5/8 alternating with 3/4 to give 11/8 feel—and I swear to God, the chord structure underneath is lifted from Bach. Or maybe Scarlatti? Something Baroque. You can hear the counterpoint."

Mio tilts her head. Listens.

Then she hums, softly. "No, not Scarlatti. Those diminished runs feel more like late Bach. Probably something from the WTC."

Naya turns, eyebrows raised.

"I mean," Mio continues, thoughtful now, "Scarlatti wouldn't build a jam on modulation like that. Not with that kind of symmetry."

Naya stares at her like she's grown a second head. "You just heard that?"

"I took Baroque Analysis. It sticks."

"Okay, teacher."

"You're the one who brought up counterpoint!"

"Yeah, but I say it to sound smart. You actually meant it. You actually are smart."

Mio hides a smile. "It's a nice texture, though. Bassline does the voice-leading, drums keep the pulse, and they're not even trying to stay together until they hit that 6/8. And that's when the form finally clicks."

Naya lets out a stunned little laugh. "God. Say that again. Slower."

Mio rolls her eyes, blushing.

They fall silent again, watching. The jam unfolds like a negotiation—bass and drums arguing, reconciling, spinning into something messier and better than resolution. Mio feels it, low in her chest. The unspoken language of people who know how to listen.

When it ends, the pause is long. Naya lets the laptop screen freeze again on Dominic's blurred hands, a cymbal half-struck.

"Everyone was obsessed with Matt," she says softly. "I just wanted to be the engine. I used to rewind those badly recorded jams a hundred times. Not because I wanted to be a drummer, but because—" She gestures vaguely toward the screen, "—there's this madness. This balance between chaos and control. I wanted that."

"And you got it," Mio murmurs. "It's your sound now."

Naya considers. Then tugs at a loose thread on her sleeve, suddenly shy. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm just copying things I love. Pretending it's original. Filling with noise what I can't do with talent."

"You're not," Mio says. "You're translating it. You took something that doesn't belong to you and made it fit your hands. That's not copying. That's composition. You're an amazing composer and musician, Naya. You understand music really well." A pause. Then: "Also, you add synth sounds. That's how you make it yours. It's a love letter to the band you love, with your signature in it."

Naya shifts slightly. Her smile twitches, like it's trying to decide whether to stay. Like she's not used to being seen like this—so clearly, so gently.

Then, being Naya, she deflects—not smoothly:

"That reminds me," she says slowly, "I was trying to remember that song you liked before. From the rec game. The one with that dreamy intro and the—" Naya hums something. It sounds vaguely like three melodies overlapping, none of them quite in key. "It went like—uh—dah na naaaa—uh—something synthy?"

Mio squints. "That could be anything."

"You know. The one with the weird chord changes in the chorus."

"Still doesn't help."

Naya frowns. Hums again, louder this time, a melodic war crime.

Mio bursts out laughing. "Okay, that's criminal."

"But close enough."

"Not remotely."

"Oh please," Naya says, mock offended. "Like you can do better."

Mio smirks. Takes a breath. Then hums the actual riff—clear, precise, perfectly in tune.

Naya scoffs. "Okay. So the singer can sing. Show-off."

"I can't help it if you're tone-deaf."

"That's slander," Naya says. "Try this one."

She hums another riff—something rhythmic, syncopated, vaguely familiar.

Mio tilts her head. "Chatmonchy?"

Naya nods. "Points for you."

They go back and forth like that. A half-remembered Alice Nine chorus. A poorly rendered Vampire Weekend riff. Naya's accidental humming of Brianstorm that turns into a full ten seconds of dramatic air-drumming before she breaks into laughter and Mio nearly snorts tea through her nose.

Then Naya hums something entirely different—soft, wistful, laced with melodic melancholy.

Mio frowns. "Wait. That one I don't know."

Naya smirks. "Ha. I win."

"What was that?"

"A Spanish band."

"Hey, no fair. You're cheating."

"I call it cross-cultural sabotage. You know, expanding your horizons."

Mio mock-glowers. "Do tell."

"It's a song by La Oreja de Van Gogh. I listened to them a lot when I was little." She pops a Pocky in her mouth. "I didn't send it before. Wanted to see if I could trip you up."

"And you did."

"Felt good."

"Evil."

"Strategic."

Mio folds her arms, trying not to smile. "What's the song?"

Naya types again, quietly this time, with less performance. The song that plays is older—early 2000s production, full of soft strings and gentle, melodic vocals. It's romantic. Unapologetically so. And the lyrics—though Mio doesn't catch all of them—hit with a kind of directness she's not used to. Like someone saying what they mean without flinching.

Mio glances at Naya, who's watching her.

"This one's called Rosas. 'Roses,'" Naya says. "It has amazing lyrics like, 'I swear to you, I've never told another soul we set the world record for loving each other,'' or 'One night, slipping away from the sun's lazy yawn, you asked me for a kiss; they cost so little, my love—why not silence me with one of those?'"

Mio watches her, caught off guard—not just by the lyrics, but by how gently Naya says them. Like love could be a record you set together, without even trying.

"That's beautiful," Mio muses.

Naya nods. "The song is about this girl waiting every Friday at the same place because she still thinks the person she loved might come back with a thousand roses for her. And she doesn't even know if she wants it to happen."

Mio is silent for a long time.

Then, softly: "That's kind of devastating."

"Yeah." Naya smiles, almost sheepishly. "I think you'd like their lyrics. They feel like... I don't know. Something you'd write. If you wrote in Spanish. Or got hit in the chest with a sack of metaphors."

Mio raises a brow. "That's your sales pitch?"

Naya smirks. "I mean it as a compliment. Their lyrics are pure melancholy, obsessed with time. Romantic without knowing it's romantic."

That's unfair, Mio thinks. That's mean. You can't just describe a song like it's describing me.

Mio doesn't respond. She can't. Not in any way that makes sense. She presses her lips together and hums another tune instead, wordless, offering a new round in their game.

Naya recognizes it instantly. Smirks. And hums the next one wrong on purpose.

They play like that until the laptop battery dies and the silence after is full of lyrics they haven't written yet—mid-hum, mid-laugh, mid-Naya trying to sing in a falsetto that absolutely doesn't suit her. The screen cuts to black. The speakers fall silent.

And yet the silence isn't empty.

It's full of music still echoing in the walls, of laughter caught in the folds of the bedspread, of Spanish consonants drifting like ghosts over Pocky wrappers and empty tea bottles.

It's full of everything they didn't say.

The pauses between teasing. The gaps in translation. Music and not-music. Notes and not-notes.

The soft, private spaces between songs.

Where something still lives, even after the sound is gone.

That measured, intentional rest. The weight of a fermata stretched too long that doesn't resolve but lingers, waiting. A breath the music takes, not a break from meaning but the shape of it. Musicians know this: music isn't made only of sound. It's made of the gaps, the pauses, the endings that still echo.

It's where you feel the truth of something. When the lights are down and the reverb fades, and all that's left is what it meant.

That's where they are now. In that quiet. In that charged stillness between one song and whatever comes next.

Mio checks her phone. Two hours. Maybe three. She hadn't meant to stay this long. Yet, she doesn't want to move. Doesn't want to ruin it. But time, relentless as ever, reasserts itself.

"I should head back," she murmurs, half-hoping Naya will ask her not to.

But Naya nods, stretches and smiles, gentle as ever. "Yeah. It's late. Want help getting up?"

Together, they move without choreography, rearranging the bed like they hadn't spent the evening suspending time on it. Naya picks up the pillows, tucks them against the headboard. Mio smooths the sheet down over the mattress.

And there it is.

Folded near the head of the bed, like some forgotten relic from a side quest Mio never quite completed—

A shirt.

Plain. Faded. Pajamas. The size tag turned upward like divine comedy.

M.

Mio stares at it like it's a punchline. Then lets out a small, breathy laugh. It escapes before she can cage it.

Naya turns. "What?"

"Nothing," Mio says quickly, biting her lip. "Just—nothing."

Naya tilts her head but lets it go.

At the door, they hover. Mio hesitates. The hall behind her is quieter than before.

"That was fun," Naya says. Her voice is soft again. Almost shy.

"It was," Mio echoes.

Naya rubs her wrist, glancing down. "Thanks for hanging out with me. I, um." She runs a hand through her hair. Her bangs fall over her green eyes again, stubborn."I don't usually... have people over. You know I tend to isolate. And with tomorrow being my birthday and all, I guess I was feeling kind of off. Not that I mind being alone, I just—" She trails off. Shrugs a little. "It's not a big deal," she says quickly, as if trying to preempt any pity. "Or I tell myself it's not a big deal. But today I guess I was kind of... sad. Even if I didn't want to be. Even if I say it's fine, sometimes it's... not," she finishes.

Mio's heart drops. She feels a twinge in her chest. But she meets Naya's eyes.

"Well... if you're up for it," she says softly, "you won't be alone tomorrow."

Naya looks up.

"Really?"

"Really. I'll be with you tomorrow. If you want."

We all will be. You won't be alone. Not if I can do anything about it.

Naya stills. Then softens. A breath escapes her.

"You will?"

Mio nods. "If you're up to it."

"Yeah, I... I'd like that."

She says it like she means it. Like she needs it. Then, quieter:

"This morning, at the laundry room... It made me think. I was kind of scared you were weirded out. After Sunday. After what I said. Even when you said we were okay, I thought... maybe you were just being nice."

Mio shakes her head. "I'm not," she says. "I told you. We're okay."

"You sure?"

Mio nods again. "We're friends."

And more. And not. And something else entirely.

But she doesn't say that.

"I'm okay," she adds. "With everything. I promise. And... we'll be together tomorrow."

Naya looks at her for a moment too long. Like she wants to believe it. Like she does. Then she nods once, her face unreadable except for the eyes—those impossibly green eyes that seem to soften and sharpen at the same time.

"Okay. Thanks, Mio," Naya says. Then she smiles, like someone surprised by kindness. And it's that lopsided one again. The one that kills her. "Sleep well."

"You too, Naya. Good night."

Naya closes the door, reluctant. Mio walks back down the hallway, quiet now, except for the gentle static in her chest, the tag burned behind her eyelids, the sound of Naya's voice in her spine, and the echo of something unspoken trailing in the air between them.

The gift had been a plan. The night was an accident.

A beautiful, stupid, heart-shattering accident.

---

Back in her room, the silence feels different. Less like an absence. More like an echo.

She sets her phone on the desk, then picks it up again. Types into the group chat:

HTT 🎸🍰

Mio: Got the size.

Mio: It's M.

Mio: So Japanese L.

It's late for group messages—too late, probably—but she can't help it. She needs to mark it. The mission is complete. The impossible has been done.

A few seconds pass before her phone lights up.

HTT 🎸🍰

Mio: Got the size.

Mio: It's M.

Mio: So Japanese L.

Ritsu

Ritsu: yattaaa u r a legend! (๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵)و

Ritsu: I'll go grab it first thing tomorrow morning

Ritsu: also why r u awake (¬‿¬)

Mio: Thanks (〃▽〃)

Mugi

Mugi: That's wonderful, Mio-chan! ₍ᐢ⑅•ᴗ•⑅ᐢ₎♡

Mugi: But yes, why are you up? You usually go to bed early. Is everything okay?

Mio hesitates. Then types:

HTT 🎸🍰

Mio: Got the size.

Mio: It's M.

Mio: So Japanese L.

Ritsu

Ritsu: yattaaa u r a legend! (๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵)و

Ritsu: I'll go grab it first thing tomorrow morning

Ritsu: also why r u awake (¬‿¬)

Mio: Thanks (〃▽〃)

Mugi

Mugi: That's wonderful, Mio-chan! ₍ᐢ⑅•ᴗ•⑅ᐢ₎♡

Mugi: But yes, why are you up? You usually go to bed early. Is everything okay?

Mio: Was hanging out with Naya.

Mio: Lost track of time (´･ᴗ･`;)

She stares at it after sending. Not the phrasing she intended. But not untrue.

There's no more movement in the chat after that. Ritsu's probably distracted by something shiny. Mugi's probably smiling at her screen with that strange clairvoyance of hers. Mio sets the phone down again.

And just like that, she's alone with the quiet again.

Midnight.

The soft click of her clock marking the arrival of another day.

July 28, 2011

She should sleep.

Instead, she lifts her phone one more time.

There's a traitorous thought in her chest—small, glowing, disobedient.

She taps Naya's name. Her fingers move before she can talk herself out of it.

Naya

Mio: (´｡• ᵕ •｡`)

Mio: Happy birthday, Naya!

The reply is immediate.

Naya

Mio: (´｡• ᵕ •｡`)

Mio: Happy birthday, Naya!

Naya: :O

Naya: u r the first one here!

Mio: (⁄ ⁄•⁄ω⁄•⁄ ⁄)

Naya: but that's easy when you do it like 2 minutes past midnight xD

Naya: gracias Mio <3

Mio smiles, thumb hovering. Then types:

Naya

Mio: Don't mix languages in your gratitude please.

Mio: This phone doesn't come with a multilingual firewall (¬_¬)

Naya: bilingual problems

Naya: typing in 2 langs all day every day is an extreme sport

Naya: tbh I think I've texted "vale w" and "da ne tía jajaja" like ten times this week

Naya: my brain is a blender -_-

Mio: Maybe that's why you're good at music.

Mio: Your thoughts are layered (￣▽￣)

Naya: layered and overcompressed

Naya: maybe you should adjust my threshold setting sometime :3

Mio covers her face. Laughs, silent and small, in the privacy of her lamp-lit room.

They talk for a few more minutes. About nothing, about everything. Mio uses kaomoji. Naya sticks to cursed emoticons from the MSN graveyard. She sends a voice note of her yawning exaggeratedly. Mio sends a kaomoji of a cat bowing deeply.

Eventually, they say goodnight again.

Naya

Naya: ttyl

Naya: thanks again Mio, u r the best

Mio: Sleep well Naya (ᴗ˳ᴗ) See you tomorrow ₍ᐢ.ˬ.ᐢ₎♡

Mio: Happy birthday again (＾▽＾)

Naya: <3

Mio sets the phone down for real this time. The room is still. Only the lamplight flickers gently against her wall.

She walks to her desk. Opens the drawer. Takes the photo. The one from Sunday.

She flips the print over. The pen feels heavy in her hand. She thinks about what to write. Then she thinks too hard about it.

She always does.

For a long time, nothing comes. She doesn't write easily lately. Not when it's for herself. Not when it's like this.

But then she thinks about that day. The quiet. The space they made. The fact that Naya didn't rush her. Didn't fill the silences with anything but what needed to be there.

And in the end, it's simple. A line of neat, careful hiragana. A message that reads less like something given and more like something confessed.

Her pen moves. Simple strokes. Careful.

"For the spaces between songs.
I'm happy you're here.
But you'll always stay with me, wherever you are."

She stares at it. It doesn't feel like enough.

It never will.

But it's true.

And sometimes, truth is the closest she gets to perfect.

She sets the duplicate of their portrait on top of the CD.

Tomorrow, she'll give them to her.

Tomorrow, she'll look Naya in the eye and say Happy Birthday and mean it more than she's meant anything in a long time.

For now, she closes the window. Turns off the lamp. And waits for sleep she knows won't come.

The room smells faintly of summer rain. Somewhere outside, a train passes. She counts the seconds between its approach and its fade.

Notes:

This chapter wasn't supposed to exist.

It started as a handful of connective scenes—some soft, some absurd—that didn't quite belong to the Pedal Outing Arc or the birthday chapter, but that I didn't want to cut. So I accidentally wrote almost 20k words about shirt sizes. Because yep. That's me. It was fun to write, tho. I hope it was also fun to read.

Thank you for reading. I know this one was a lot length-wise and I'm grateful every time someone makes it to the end. (Especially since I seem physically incapable of writing anything under 20k anymore. Sorry. No I'm not.)

Next time: our favorite OC's birthday, yay. Where maybe something finally happens. Maybe. Just maybe. But probably...?

See you there!

Chapter 28: Here I Am

Summary:

Mio throws Naya a surprise birthday party.

Notes:

THIS IS NOT A DRILL. THERE'S A NEW CHAPTER LESS THAN A WEEK AFTER THE LAST ONE. I'VE GIVEN YOU OVER 20K OF PURE GAY SLOW BURN PANIC IN FOUR DAYS.

I know, I know. I posted a few days ago. BUT.

Chapter 28. Posted on July 28. About Naya's birthday, on July 28.

The stars aligned. The Google Calendar wept. There was simply no other option.

Special thanks to my amazing beta Jules (tsuki_anne) for the idea and for keeping me calm while I clutched my face over our favorite OC's birthday party. We all deserve to be celebrated like this. But especially Naya.

Happy birthday to the girl who made Mio gay 🎂

Here I Am, by Kelly Rowland, was released on July 22, 2011.

July 28, 2011

They arrive early, which is ridiculous—it's just the clubroom, and they always arrive early when there's something to prepare. But somehow today it feels different. The air carries a sort of anticipatory weight, like the tension of a string pulled taut and waiting for the downbeat.

Mio is trying not to look at the clock. She's trying not to look at the door.

She's failing at both.

The decorations are simple. Minimalist. At least, they were supposed to be. Mugi brought a banner—tasteful calligraphy, cream paper with soft gold ink, reading Happy Birthday in both Japanese and Spanish, because of course she did. Azusa arranged little paper stars on the windowsills, carefully spaced and aligned with near military precision. Momo and Sachi managed to make a string of red and black origami bass clefs and quavers that now hang unevenly above the amps. It's slightly lopsided, but somehow it works.

And then there's the chalkboard.

Yui's handwriting is an ecstatic explosion of hearts, stars, and a deeply questionable drawing of what is either a bass guitar or a slightly deformed anteater. She's scrawled ¡Feliz Cumpleaños, Naya-chan! in pink chalk across the top, complete with two smiley faces that seem to be vibrating with chaotic energy. Liz made a half-hearted attempt to erase some of the more egregious doodles, but Yui caught her and chased her around the room with a piece of chalk held like a dagger. In the end, they compromised—Liz drew a surprisingly elegant caricature of Naya in sunglasses, deadpan expression and all, holding a birthday cake with twenty candles.

Mio stares at it, arms crossed loosely over her chest. It's fine, she tells herself. It's low-key.

It's not low-key.

But there's no stopping it now.

Liz is lounging on the couch, long legs stretched out. "So, who's taking bets?" she drawls, not looking up. "What's the ETA on Naya's meltdown?"

"Five minutes," Ritsu says.

"Generous," Liz replies.

Mio sighs. She presses her fingers against her temple, as if she can physically massage away the impending headache of chaos. "Can we not bet on Naya's emotional stability?"

Liz pouts. "You're no fun."

Yui bounces in place beside her. "She's going to love it, Mio-chan!"

"She's going to implode," Mio mutters. "And then we'll have to scrape her off the floor."

Azusa adjusts a paper star for the sixth time and frowns at them both. "She'll be fine. Just... maybe we shouldn't overwhelm her."

Mugi smooths an imaginary wrinkle from her skirt. "It's all done with love. She'll feel that."

Mio hopes she's right. She watches Yui, who is practically vibrating with unsupervised enthusiasm, and feels the first flicker of real panic. "Yui," she starts, carefully, "remember—when Naya gets here, we're keeping it low-key. Quiet. She doesn't like over-the-top surprises."

"Low-key," Yui nods solemnly.

"Low-key," Mio repeats, more to herself than to Yui.

"Low-key," Ritsu echoes, clearly lying through her teeth.

"Low-key," Mio insists.

"Low-key," Yui says again, brightly.

Mio stares. "Yui. I mean it."

Yui salutes. "Understood, captain!"

"Relax, Mio-san," Ritsu drawls. "What's the worst that could happen?"

Mio glares. "You just jinxed it."

On cue, Ayame tilts her head from across the room. "You think she's gonna cry?"

"No," Mio says immediately.

"Yes," Ritsu says at the same time.

"She won't cry," Mio insists, heart giving a traitorous little skip. "She doesn't... cry."

Mugi smiles serenely. "I think she'll be touched."

"She'll be suspicious," Liz counters. "Then she'll be flustered."

"Five yen says she drops something," Akira adds from her corner, arms crossed.

"Her bag," Sachi murmurs.

"Or her composure," Akira grins.

Mio sighs. This is fine. She's fine.

The door slides open.

It's not dramatic. It's not anything at all. Just a quiet, unassuming sound as Naya steps into the room like she always does, a bag in one hand, bass case slung over the other shoulder, expression unreadable behind her usual faintly sleepy gaze. There's a scuff on one sneaker where the canvas has started to fray. She's wearing a plain black band tee Mio doesn't recognize. Probably something obscure. Probably something with lyrics that mean something in a language Mio doesn't speak.

For a split second, the room holds its breath. Mio finds herself caught between two contradictory instincts: to wave like it's any other day, or to hide under the table and pretend none of this is happening.

Then—

"NAYA-CHAN!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!"

Yui launches herself across the room with the energy of a small but determined missile. Naya's eyes widen about half a millimeter—the first sign of imminent disaster—just before Yui collides with her, arms flung wide in the sort of hug that threatens spinal injury.

Naya staggers, off-balance, fumbling to keep the bag from slipping out, one hand still caught around the strap as Yui wraps herself around her midsection like an oversized scarf. She makes a low, startled sound—half grunt, half laugh, and Mio's not entirely sure if it's voluntary. Naya stands there, arms sort of hovering for an awkward beat, before she relents and pats Yui's back with careful precision.

"Uh," she says. Her voice drops slightly. "Hey."

Yui beams up at her. "We're so happy you're here!"

"I... am here," Naya agrees. She looks over Yui's head and scans the room.

Mio can see the exact moment when Naya's brain catches up. Her gaze skims the room, slow and methodical. The banner. The decorations. The chalkboard. Her eyes linger on the caricature Liz drew and Mio watches the faintest twitch of her mouth that might be a smile or might be a grimace. And then she looks at everyone else—Mugi, smiling serenely; Azusa giving her a polite nod; Liz raising two fingers in lazy salute; Ritsu with a grin like she's holding back something explosive.

Mio watches the slow, subtle shift of her body language. The way her weight shifts to one foot. How she tucks her chin in slightly, like the act of being seen is heavier than it should be.

Naya is shrinking.

Not visibly. Not obviously. But Mio sees it. She always sees it.

"What's going on?" Naya asks, voice still quiet. Controlled. Less control now than usual.

"We prepared a surprise!" Yui practically shouts in her ear. "So you wouldn't spend your birthday alone!"

"Did you?" Naya says, deadpan. "Because it looks like a cult meeting."

Ritsu snorts. "Welcome to the club."

Naya's brows knit together, but it's faint. More confusion than anything. Her fingers shift on the strap of her bag. Tighten. Loosen.

"But I didn't..." Her gaze flickers across the group, then catches on Mio's like it always does, and stays there.

It makes Mio feel... found. And then seen. And then slightly stupid.

She takes a breath she doesn't need. Lets it out slow.

"Sorry," she says, because she's not sure what else to say. "I just thought... you should have a good birthday. Here. And we should be with you. Because we are your... friends."

Naya stares at her for a long moment. There's something in her eyes Mio can't quite translate. Not soft, exactly, but not distant, either. Somewhere between you didn't have to do this and thank you for doing this, but in a language Mio is still learning to read.

For one terrible second, Mio thinks she's pushed too far. That Naya will let her bass case slide off her shoulder and say something polite, the kind of nothing that means everything is over.

Instead, Naya exhales through her nose. A huff. Almost a laugh.

"You're something else, Mio," she says quietly.

Mio blinks. "You're welcome," she says, because nothing else comes to mind.

Naya dips her head. "Thanks," she says. Soft. Real. The kind of thanks that lands deep, somewhere it wasn't expected to go. "You didn't have to."

"We know," Ritsu grins.

"That's why we did," Mugi adds, like it's obvious.

Yui beams. "You're welcome!"

Naya shakes her head, but it's more like she's trying to reset something inside herself. Like this wasn't the plan and she's adjusting in real time.

And then they approach. One by one.

Akira strides up first, casual. "Happy birthday," she says, flicking Naya's shoulder with two fingers.

Naya nods. "Thanks."

Ayame is next. She claps Naya on the back—twice, like she's trying to burp a baby. "Congrats, foreigner," she says. "You're old now."

"I already was back home," Naya says flatly.

Sachi steps up after that. Lightly places her hand on Naya's arm, fingers brief but warm. "Happy birthday," she says, her voice soft, like it's made of something heavier.

Naya nods back. "Thanks, Sachi." Her tone shifts, lower, matching the weight of it.

Ritsu throws an arm around Naya's shoulders, grinning wide. "Welcome to adulthood. No take-backs."

"I was tricked."

Azusa steps forward and bows, precise as always. "Happy birthday, Naya-senpai."

"Thanks, Azusa," Naya smiles.

Mugi gives her a side-hug. Gentle. Warm. "I hope this is a good one," she says.

Naya murmurs, "Unexpected so far." But there's a tug at the corner of her mouth.

Yui barrels in again, nearly knocking them both over. "Naya-chan! We're so happy you're here! Let's eat cake!"

Naya braces herself, but doesn't move away. "I should've known there was cake."

"Of course there is! What's a birthday without a cake?"

Naya gives her a long look. "But I'm lactose intolerant."

Yui gasps in horror.

"Kidding."

Yui almost falls over in relief. "Naya-chan!"

And Naya smiles—real. Easy.

Then Liz slips in behind them and loops both arms around Naya's shoulders in a mock chokehold. "We did good, huh?" Liz murmurs near her ear. "Bet you didn't see this coming."

Naya huffs a laugh. "No," Naya admits. "I didn't."

And then Momo.

Momo hovers, hands twisted in the hem of her shirt, eyes wide like she's seriously reconsidering all her life choices. She steps forward, hesitates, and then, before anyone can say anything, she darts in for a hug. It's quick, clumsy, almost like she's afraid of startling a deer.

Naya pauses. Then, without fanfare, wraps her arms around Momo's shoulders. Gentle. Careful. Like it matters. And it does. Mio can feel it from where she stands.

And then it's her turn.

Mio is the last.

She doesn't move at first. She watches them, watches Naya, and thinks about distance. About space. About all the ways they've navigated each other up until now. And about how this is different. How there's no excuse not to cross it, even if the thought makes her pulse stutter.

She takes a step forward. Slow. Like she's remembering something she forgot. Then, she steps into the gravity of Naya's orbit. Closer than polite. But not close enough.

Naya turns, expectant, maybe curious, but not pushing. Waiting.

And then, because anything more would be too much and anything less wouldn't be enough, she reaches out and lets her hand rest on Naya's shoulder.

"Happy birthday," she says, smiling.

Naya looks at her. And Mio forgets where she's standing. Forgets who's watching. Forgets to breathe.

"Thanks, Mio," Naya says. And it's simple. And it's everything.

Mio nods and lets her hand travel down Naya's arm. Caressing. She gives a small squeeze when she reaches skin and steps back, giving them both breathing room. But she keeps the gravity of it. Right there, lodged in her chest.

It's fine. It's all fine.

But she knows her hand will tingle for the rest of the afternoon.

Ritsu squints at Naya's hand. "Oi, Naya," she says. "What's with the bag?"

Naya blinks. She glances down like she's only just remembered she's holding it. "Ah." There's a pause, as if she's debating whether to elaborate. "I brought something."

"Something?" Yui's eyes sparkle with curiosity.

"For you all," Naya adds, with an offhand shrug, as if it's obvious. She kneels to set the bag down on the low table, carefully pulling out a long, rectangular pastry box. It's the kind that looks deceptively simple—plain cardboard, no brand—but Mio already knows, by the practiced way Naya's handling it, that it probably contains something dangerous.

Dangerous, in Yui terms, means delicious.

There's a collective pause. A beat that lengthens into confusion. Azusa frowns. Yui tilts her head so far to the side she looks in danger of tipping over. Liz looks amused, and Ritsu just says what everyone else is probably thinking.

"Wait. You brought pastries? Why?"

Naya's expression doesn't change much. "Because it's my birthday."

The silence stretches longer this time. Mio watches it unfurl like smoke. She watches Ritsu's brain stutter behind her eyes.

"But it's your birthday," Ritsu repeats, and somehow makes it sound like a protest.

There's a general murmur of agreement around the room, an unspoken consensus forming like a cloud of polite confusion.

"Yeah," Naya agrees.

"And you brought... stuff?"

"Yeah."

Ritsu stares. "... Why?"

Naya shrugs, one shoulder rising and falling in that understated way she does when she's trying to pretend she doesn't care about something. "It's normal. In Spain."

Yui makes a strangled sound. "Whaaaat?!"

"It's not a big deal," Naya adds quickly. "You bring something to share. That's what people do."

Momo blinks, interested. "What do you mean?"

Naya's shoulders lift in another mild shrug. "On your birthday, you bring something to share. For your friends, your classmates, whoever. You treat them."

Ayame snorts. "You mean—you have to bring the cake?"

"Well, you don't have to. But it's... expected."

Sachi looks scandalized. "Even on your birthday?"

"Especially on your birthday," Naya replies, and gestures lazily. "It's polite."

Azusa's brow furrows, clearly cycling through her extensive internal catalog of rules and etiquette. "But it's your birthday," she echoes. "We are supposed to give you things."

Naya gives a faint huff of laughter. "I didn't make the rules."

It's a cultural difference. That's all it is. Just a different framework, Mio tells herself. But her brain is already pulling apart the threads, the ones Naya left trailing. She didn't tell anyone except Mio. She didn't expect anything. And still, she was thinking about everyone else.

Mugi claps her hands together, eyes wide and delighted. "Oh, how thoughtful! So you brought something for all of us?"

Naya nods. "I figured. It's... the least I could do."

The least. As if that were obvious. As if it wasn't something most people wouldn't even consider.

Mio processes this slowly.

Even on her birthday, she thinks about everyone else. Even when no one knew but me.

"You didn't have to do that," Mio says, and her voice comes out softer than she means. She clears her throat. "I mean—you didn't have to feel obligated."

Naya glances at her, one brow arched. "I didn't," she says. Simple. Direct. "I wanted to."

Mio tightens her grip on her own wrist. It's cultural, she reminds herself. It's just cultural.

Naya opens the plain white box. Inside, there's an array of pastries, each carefully placed in its own little compartment. Mio realizes they're not store-bought. There's something too deliberate about them. A box from a small bakery, maybe. The kind of place you only know if you ask around. If you're paying attention.

Mugi leans in. "They're beautiful," she breathes.

Naya straightens, almost imperceptibly. Her calm steadies like a held note. "One for each of you," she says. "The one you like."

Mugi's eyes widen. "You remembered?"

Naya shrugs again. "You've all mentioned them."

There's a brief silence as this sinks in. Mio watches as the others process it. Watches as Sachi frowns, clearly trying to remember if she ever said what she liked out loud. Watches as Mugi's hands flutter briefly at her chest, expression somewhere between pleased and impressed. Watches as Yui blinks rapidly, obviously overwhelmed by the sheer prospect of options.

Mio's gaze flickers to the box. She listens. Of course she does.

Yui, halfway into the box already, points excitedly at a glossy, dark chocolate slice with a strawberry on top. "That one! I'll take that one!"

"No, Yui," Naya says, her mouth twitching at the corner. "You can take the last one."

"Ehhh?" Yui wails. "Why?"

"Because," Naya replies, matter-of-fact, "you like everything."

"But I want the chocolate one!" Yui pouts.

"No," Naya repeats, chuckling. She moves the box a fraction away from Yui's grasping hands. "That's Gâteau au Chocolat."

Mio perks up at that.

"And I love chocolate!" Yui insists.

"You love all sweets," Naya replies. "This one's Mio's favorite, so it's for Mio."

The world does something strange then. Not visibly. But Mio feels it. A pivot point. The axis of something shifting underfoot.

"Oh," Mio says. It's all she can manage. She doesn't move. She watches Naya's hand, steady and precise, as she lifts the Gâteau au Chocolat out of the box and sets it on a napkin. For her. Specifically.

(It's just Gâteau au Chocolat. You like it. She knows that.) 

But Mio knows it's not just that. Naya had to remember. Had to choose. Had to decide it mattered.

"You didn't have to," Mio says in a small voice.

Naya tilts her head. "I know. I wanted to."

And that's worse. Or better. She's not sure.

Yui is still pouting but taking her consolation pastry with enthusiasm. Ritsu bites into hers with a grin that spreads sugar across her cheek. Azusa's is cut into perfect slices, and Momo's bun looks almost too neatly folded to eat.

Mio, meanwhile, is trying to remember how breathing works.

Mugi beams. "Thank you so much, Naya-chan! But we brought cake, too!"

"It's okay. I can handle it."

Ritsu smirks. "You and Yui both."

Mio snorts before she can stop herself. "It's true," she says, and the words come easily. "Naya's always eating."

"Hey," Naya protests faintly.

"Always," Mio insists. "You told me you snack your way through the afternoon between lunch and dinner in your country."

"Don't underestimate the power of merienda."

Mio rolls her eyes. "Yeah, yeah. And you eat late lunches and even later dinners. And then you invented an extra meal in the middle. Just because."

"In Spain, we eat lunch late. Dinner later. You need merienda," Naya says, unbothered. "Otherwise, you starve."

Yui makes a small, despairing noise. "Wait, an entire extra meal? Between lunch and dinner? Why wasn't I born in Spain?!"

"Because you'd never stop eating," Ritsu says, dry.

Azusa sighs. "And we'd never get anything done."

"But think of all the sweets!" Yui cries.

Mugi hums thoughtfully. "Maybe we should adopt... meh-ree-ehn-dah?"

"You already do. You call it 'tea time,'" Liz points out.

Mugi tilts her head. "But that's different. We don't usually have pastries and sandwiches and cakes."

"We do, actually," Azusa says, a little defeated.

Mio, meanwhile, looks down at the Gateâu au Chocolat in her hands.

(It's just chocolate.)

But it's not.

---

There's a lull, like the silence between the strike and the reverberation of a note. For a few precious seconds, it's just the sound of Yui making increasingly distressed noises over the injustice of geography and Azusa reminding her—patient, inexorable—that she was in fact born where she was supposed to be, thank you very much.

And then Mugi, gentle as always but with that disarming precision of hers, tilts her head and says, "Should we give Naya-chan her presents now?"

It's not so much a suggestion as it is an invocation.

Mio watches Naya blink, a slow gesture, as if the words need time to filter through the ambient noise of the clubroom and settle somewhere she can properly look at them. She glances down at the pastry box—what's left of it, anyway—and then back up, bemused.

"Presents?"

"Presents!" Yui echoes.

Naya scratches her cheek. "You didn't have to."

Ritsu waves a hand, dismissive. "Yeah, yeah, and yet here we are."

"We know," Azusa points out, smiling. "That's why we did."

Mio watches the faint lift of Naya's brows, the twitch at the corner of her mouth that isn't quite a smile but isn't not one, either. Naya shrugs in that slow, resigned way she does—half-charmed, half-defeated by the chaos her life has become.

And there she is. Standing awkwardly in the middle of the clubroom, under the weight of all their eyes, all their different kinds of affection.

The gifts appear. One, two, three. Different sizes, different weights. Three distinct expressions of affection, materialized and handed over in various states of wrapping competency.

Naya stands there for a moment, staring down at her hands like she's not entirely sure how they ended up full. Like she's been holding them for a while and only just realized the weight.

"Do I... open them?"

"It's okay," Mio says. "You can open them now. If you want."

Ayame nods. "We don't mind."

A pause. Mugi exchanges a glance with Liz, who looks faintly amused.

"It's okay if you don't want to," Mugi says gently.

Naya frowns, like she's recalibrating something. "It's just—I thought—Sachi, didn't you say that it's not common etiquette? To open gifts in front of people?"

There's another pause. Mio catches it. The flicker of doubt behind the lazy blink. It's not common etiquette in Japan to open gifts in front of the person who gave them. That's  something you usually do later. In private. Alone, maybe.

And isn't there something to that? The privacy of gratitude. The control over one's own reactions. The soft protection of solitude.

But Naya's from Spain. And surely, there, so direct, so warm, they open gifts as soon as they receive them and merge into endless hugs and shouts of enthusiasm.

Sachi smiles. "Ah, yes, traditionally. But between friends, it's not that uncommon. Depends on the one receiving the presents."

"We wanna see your face," Yui says, cheerful, straightforward. "It's fun!"

Mio watches the hesitation. It's subtle, but it's there, under the careful arrangement of Naya's features. Under the practiced neutrality. Under the armor. And then, with the faintest roll of her shoulders—as if to shake something off—Naya shifts her weight and kneels by the low table.

"Okay," she says. Simple. No fanfare.

And that's how it starts.

"Onna Gumi first." Akira smirks from where she's propped against the windowsill. "Because we're the coolest."

"And the fastest," Ayame adds.

Sachi just gives Naya a nod that's almost solemn.

The bag is nondescript—just black canvas with white string handles. Naya pulls out the box inside—rigid cardboard, matte finish, tucked together with the kind of care Mio suspects was all Sachi.

She pops the lid open and stares.

Inside: bass picks. At least two dozen of them, neatly arranged in rows across black foam.

Not store-bought cheap ones. Mio can see that immediately. The texture is matte, not plastic-glossy. The edges are beveled. Different thicknesses, probably. Different materials. Some have grip pads, others textured edges.

Naya stares for a moment longer than she needs to. Mio watches the moment of recognition settle into her face like a slow sunrise.

"Picks?"

"Yeah," Akira says, casual. "You drop them all the time."

"And not just picks," Ayame grins. She gestures like she's unveiling a magic trick. "Custom."

Sachi nods. "Nylon, Delrin, Ultem. Different grips. Textures. Coatings. Thicknesses from 0.73 to 1.5 millimeters."

Ayame leans in. "I drew on some of them," she adds brightly. "You know. For style."

Naya slides one pick out between her fingers. On one side, the clean logo from the company. On the other, a sharpie drawing of what is either a sketch so exaggerated of Naya's head that looks like a sea urchin on caffeine, or an exploded mop. Possibly both.

Naya snorts. "Is this supposed to be me?"

Ayame snickers. "Obviously."

Liz cackles. "Looks accurate."

"Thanks, guys," Naya says quietly.

"It's practical," Akira says. "But don't lose these, yeah?"

"I'll try not to," Naya replies.

"Use the ugly ones last," Ayame offers. "For luck."

Naya hums. "The cool ones will be backup."

Akira smirks. "Smart."

Ritsu nudges Yui. "Okay, our turn."

Next comes Ho-Kago Tea Time's gift. The mood shifts subtly—Yui's bouncing on the balls of her feet like an excitable retriever, and Ritsu's wearing a grin that makes Mio want to sigh in advance.

"It's our legacy," Ritsu says, solemn in a way that's obviously fake.

"Our precious treasure!" Yui adds, equally fake but with enough sincerity to wrap around and become genuine again.

Naya raises an eyebrow as she peels away the wrapping.

Inside: a plain white T-shirt, the kind that hangs easy and loose. Japanese L. The design sits square in the center of the chest—bold, blocky letters: HTT, in thick red font. Behind the letters, a pair of stars—one larger, one smaller—layered over each other. The outer star is a bright yellow, sharp-edged but softened by its color. The inner one is a gentle lavender, almost cool against the white fabric, like a quiet counterpoint. Together, they look... earnest. Like someone's idea of a logo from a time when things didn't have to be perfect to be loved.

It's dated in the way only sentimental things can be. The kind of thing you find years later at the bottom of a drawer and can't bring yourself to throw away. Nostalgic. Personal.

And now it's for Naya. Not because it's new, or because it's polished—but because it's theirs.

Naya runs her thumb over the fabric. It's soft. Worn just enough to be comfortable, not enough to be threadbare.

She chuckles. "So. The hypothetical shirt."

Yui leans in. "It's from our last high school concert! Sawa-chan made a ton of them and we still had extras."

"She made way too many," Azusa mutters.

Ritsu points at the sleeve. "But we customized it! Look!"

Naya lifts the sleeve. There's a tiny doodle there—Ton-chan, the pig-nosed turtle that served as the club's mascot back in high school. Yui's attempt at him, anyway.

"It's Ton-chan," Yui says proudly. "I drew him myself!"

Naya's mouth twitches. "He looks... enthusiastic."

"He is!" Yui beams. "He's blessing your bass playing!"

Azusa leans in, showing Naya her phone. On the screen is a photo of Ton-chan, floating placidly in a carefully cleaned tank. "Here. The real Ton-chan."

"Aw, he's so cute," Naya says. She looks back at the shirt. Back at the doodle.

"He lives at my house now," Azusa adds. "But he's still the club mascot."

"And now you're part of it!" Yui cheers.

It's that easy for Yui. Just say it, and it's true.

For Mio, it's never that easy.

"Thanks," Naya says, smiling. "I'll wear it."

Ritsu grins. "We'll get a photo. All of us in the shirts."

"We have to coordinate," Mugi adds. "For aesthetic purposes."

Mio just watches.

You're part of this now, she wants to say. We're telling you.

Finally, Ruby Riot's gift.

Liz glances at Momo, who's already fidgeting with the hem of her shirt like she wants to vanish while Naya opens it.

Inside: bracelets. Simple ones. Maroon and black threads braided together, each with a single bead the color of deep red glass.

Mio recognizes Momo's handiwork. The knots are tight but not uniform, which makes them feel more personal. Like they're meant to be worn, not displayed.

Momo leans in, barely audible. "Ruby Riot. We all have one. We match."

Liz holds up her wrist. The bracelet is already there, tied snug. "It's for luck," she says, even though she's already insisted earlier that it was lame. "Momo's idea. We went with it."

Momo presses on. "We... thought it'd be nice. For the band. Like... so we're always together. Even when we're not."

Naya's fingers brush over the bead. It glints faintly in the afternoon light.

"These are good knots," she says, and it's the kind of praise that feels like a benediction.

Momo flushes. "We... we can all wear them. All the time."

Naya looks at her for a long moment. Then at Liz. Then back at Momo. Then she slides the bracelet over her left wrist. Adjusts it. Tightens the knot.

"I will," she says. Her voice is a bit broken. She clears her throat and tries again. "Thanks. I love it."

Mio watches the way Naya's fingers hover over the thread.

And then Naya looks up. Looks at everyone.

"Thank you," she says again. This time to all of them. Her gaze doesn't flinch.

Liz reaches for something tucked behind an amp. "Wait. One more thing."

It's a card. Larger than normal, made of thick paper folded clean, the front scrawled with "Happy 20th, Naya!" in messy bubble letters that could only be Yui's. There's a doodle of a bass in the corner.

Naya blinks as Liz hands it over.

"It's from everyone," Liz says. "Yui's idea."

"And Licchan picked the card," Mugi adds, with a knowing smile. "After vetoing Yui-chan's unicorn design."

"It was tasteful," Yui protests.

Naya runs her fingers over the front for a second before opening it.

The first message is Ayame's—written in slanted, half-print, half-cursive handwriting:

"Happy birthday, Naya-chan! You're way cooler than I thought, and that's saying something. Let's jam soon!"

A doodle of drumsticks follows, with motion lines that make them look like they're vibrating.

Next is Akira's—block letters, neat and precise:

"Happy birthday. Thanks for taking this seriously. We need more bass players like you. Don't forget to rest sometimes."

Underneath, she's added a tiny drawing of a guitar.

Sachi's writing is round and careful, the lines faint:

"I'm glad we met. You make me want to play better. I hope we can talk more sometime. Happy birthday!"

There's a simple sketch of a music note beside her name.

Then Liz's message, angled sideways like she ran out of space:

"Happy birthday, flamenca. You're insufferable, but we'd be screwed without you. Don't tell anyone I said that."

A smiley face wearing sunglasses trails after it.

Naya huffs a quiet laugh, but flips to the next.

Momo's handwriting is tiny but precise:

"Happy birthday, Naya-senpai. Thank you for playing with me and helping me not feel so scared. I hope we can keep playing together. You're really cool!"

There's a small heart next to her name, and a little drawing of Liz, Naya and Momo.

Then Yui's, unmistakable by its giant letters and uneven lines:

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, NAYA-CHAN!! I hope you have the best year ever! Let's eat tons of cake! And you play bass sooooooo well!!! Yay bass!!!"

A doodle of a smiling Naya with stars around her head sprawls across the bottom.

Ritsu's is next—quick, scribbled, but legible:

"Happy birthday, Naya! You're part of the old people club now. You're officially ancient. (Also, thanks for not quitting. You make the club cooler than I thought was possible.)"

She's drawn a drum kit, complete with sound effect words: boom, crash, wham!

Azusa's message follows, neat and formal but with a faint curve to the letters:

"Happy birthday, Naya-senpai. Thank you for encouraging us all to be better musicians. I look forward to playing more with you."

There's a very detailed drawing of a bass headstock in the margin, precise as her scales.

Mugi's writing is elegant and warm:

"Dear Naya-chan, I'm so grateful you're part of our group. Your music, and your presence, make us stronger. I hope this birthday marks the start of a wonderful year. With love, Mugi."

She's added a little flower in the corner, delicate lines.

And at the very bottom—Mio's.

Her handwriting is smaller than usual, like she was trying not to take up too much space:

"Happy birthday, Naya. I'm happy you're here. Thank you for sharing music, for listening, and for reminding me why I love playing. I hope today felt a little like home."

Just that. And a small doodle in the corner—a simple bunny, round and soft, with a tiny heart beside it. Her name is written beneath, in slightly darker ink, where she's gone over the letters twice.

Naya is quiet for a moment, thumb running lightly over the page. She reads the card again. And again.

Then she exhales, low and steady.

"Thanks," she says, closing the card carefully. She looks at all of them. But her gaze rests—just a second longer—on Mio.

The group beams. Mio watches Naya's hand move to rest lightly over the bracelet. Watches the way her thumb rubs over the bead, absent, like a habit already forming.

She thinks about the thread on Naya's wrist. About how things tie together. How things stay knotted. How sometimes they hold.

The spaces between songs.

Mugi's hands come together with a gentle clap. "Shall we bring out the cake?"

She says it in that gentle, composed way of hers—like it's a suggestion, not a proposal of escalating chaos. A calm before. An offer.

But Yui hears "cake" the same way some people hear "FIRE!"

"CAKE!" she shouts, leaping up as if propelled by divine sugar intervention. It's not a word so much as a war cry, an invocation of ancient forces. "YES! CAKE! NOW!"

Ritsu winces. "Somebody hold her down!"

"No one can hold her down," Azusa mutters.

Yui's already halfway across the room, vaulting over a chair in a movement that defies both common sense and basic physics, where Mugi has carefully hidden the cake box under a decorative cloth (with zero camouflage properties). Mugi stands unperturbed, following in Yui's wake with the serenity of a woman leading a very excitable dog on a gossamer leash. Which is to say: control is an illusion, but she maintains it, somehow.

Mio watches this unfold with a faint, familiar sense of dread. This was supposed to be low-key. She glances at Naya, who is watching Yui's enthusiastic sprint with the faintest glimmer of curiosity.

"She's gonna fall," Naya observes mildly.

"She's always going to fall," Mio murmurs. "That's just how she moves through the world."

Naya hums, noncommittal. "It works for her."

Mugi sets the cake down on the low table with a kind of reverence. Yui bounces beside her, practically glowing with anticipation.

"There should be candles," Yui says.

"There shouldn't," Mio says, quick. "There really shouldn't."

"Why not?" Yui pouts.

"Because Ritsu will light them," Mio says.

Ritsu grins. She already has a lighter in her hand. "Too late."

Liz, from across the room: "Do it."

Ayame echoes, "Do it."

"You're all children," Akira sighs.

"I am a child," Momo whispers.

"We are all children," Ritsu intones solemnly, flicking the lighter.

Mio pinches the bridge of her nose. "This is how the club burns down."

But they don't light the candles. Mugi gives them The Look—the one that says she'll be disappointed, but in a way that will haunt their dreams. So the candles stay in their little paper box. Safe. Unlit. For now.

The cake is unveiled. Mugi has, of course, chosen something tasteful: dark chocolate sponge layered with light cream, decorated with fresh strawberries, pressed into its top like gems—strawberries that look too symmetrical to be real and probably cost more than Mio's entire month of cafeteria lunches. The writing across the top is simple—¡Feliz cumpleaños, Naya-chan!—neat gold script that glints faintly under the fluorescents.

It looks like something you'd find in a magazine. Something designed to be eaten in silent, elegant bites by women who never slouch.

Mugi is already cutting slices with a practiced hand. "I'll make them small, so we can all try a piece."

Yui hovers. "But I want a big small piece."

"A moderately small big piece it is."

Mugi, ever efficient, pulls out plates with the same energy she brings to tea ceremonies and wartime logistics. She slices the cake with graceful precision, handing out generous portions as if rationing wasn't a concept that had ever occurred to her.

Yui's first bite disappears with the speed of something unrecordable by the human eye. Momo follows more cautiously, cradling her plate like it might escape if she's not careful. Akira pretends she's not interested until Ayame shoves a piece at her. Azusa eats with precise, delicate motions, pretending too hard that she isn't enjoying the cake too much. Ritsu shovels hers in with the efficiency of a drummer who understands rhythm and the brief windows between distractions.

"Mio-chan?" Mugi offers a plate with one of the middle slices. More chocolate. More cream. More strawberry.

Mio stares at the neat triangle of chocolate and cream, the perfect strawberry perched on top.

Naya bites into her own piece of cake without ceremony. There's chocolate smudged at the corner of her mouth, and she doesn't bother wiping it away. She chews like it's just food, like it's not loaded with anything complicated. Like hunger is a simple thing to answer.

"Good cake," Naya says. "Mugi picked well."

Mio picks up her fork. Cuts a corner from the slice. It's not neat. The cream smears. It doesn't matter.

She takes a bite.

The chocolate is dark and rich, the cream light enough. The strawberry is fresh, cold against her tongue. Sweet, but not cloying.

She finishes the piece. Not all at once. Small bites. She keeps her fingers steady on the plate's edge. She doesn't think about what happens next.

Naya glances over, once, and there's something there in her eyes. And then she looks away again, as if that was all that needed to happen.

"So," Ayame says, flopping backwards until she's hanging upside down from the couch, "you talk to your family yet?"

Naya hums. "Some messages. I'll video call them later."

Yui pops her head up like a prairie dog. "What are they like?"

Naya pauses, fork halfway to her mouth. "What are they like?"

"Yeah!" Yui beams. "Your family!"

"You never talk about them much," Sachi points out, not unkindly.

"You're a mystery," Liz says. "Like a stray cat that moved in and refuses to explain itself."

Mio's heartbeat does something complicated.

It's a fact that Naya doesn't talk about her family much. There's a way she closes up, like shutters sliding into place, when the topic comes up. Sometimes, when it's just the two of them, Naya mentions her brothers. Or a story about her mother, told sideways, as if it belongs to someone else.

It's always felt like Naya could disappear. Appear, then evaporate. Like smoke, or light.

But now Naya blinks. Pauses. And then, she pulls out her phone. She looks at it like it's a math problem she doesn't really want to solve, but she unlocks it anyway. Scrolls. Finds a photo. Stops.

She holds the screen up.

The photo isn't new. Mio can tell by the color grading alone—it's older, sunwashed. A family, standing along the wide, pale beach. The sea in the background, sand that looks blindingly hot.

"Granada," Naya says. "Bad idea in August."

"It looks pretty," Mugi offers.

"It was more than forty degrees," Naya replies flatly. "I nearly died. But yeah, la Alhambra is stunning."

Naya's squinting a little in the photo, but smiling.

Her mother stands beside her—short, round, brimming with some kind of unstoppable energy even in stillness. Her smile so wide it seems ready to breach containment. She's waving wildly at the camera. The other hand is holding Naya's shoulder like she plans to drag her somewhere.

Her father is taller. Broad shoulders. Sturdy. His smile is smaller. Awkward, like someone unsure where his limbs are supposed to go. His hand hovers near his wife's back like he's not sure if he's allowed to touch her in public.

Mio recognizes shyness when she sees it.

"My dad's shy," Naya confirms. "But if he likes you, he'll never shut up."

"Sounds familiar," Akira mutters.

Naya ignores her.

"And them?" Ritsu points at the two boys on either side.

"Hugo," Naya says, tilting the screen. "My brother. Older. Marcos—my little brother."

Hugo looks... a lot like Naya. A mirror, but different. Same features, same angles, but sharper. His eyes are brown. His grin is also easy, and his hair's cut shorter, beard trimmed neat but a little scruffy. He stands taller than Naya, but there's something familiar in the way he holds himself. Like he'd be impossible to fluster but easy to make laugh.

There's a collective reaction.

Akira makes a low sound. "Huh."

Ayame whistles. "Okay."

Azusa clears her throat sharply. "He looks... polite."

Naya's brow lifts. "He's not."

"Well," Sachi says. "Hello, Hugo."

Naya sighs. "Don't."

"He's hot," Liz says, unapologetic.

"Definitely," Ayame agrees.

Momo turns a fascinating shade of pink.

Naya deadpans, "He's a goof."

"Still hot," Akira agrees with Liz.

"Didn't you have a boyfriend?" Naya glares.

"I have eyes, too," Akira counters.

"And the little one?" Yui asks, leaning over Azusa to get a better look.

"Marcos." Naya taps the screen. "Mini-me."

Marcos has Naya's bone structure, but his features are gentler. His hair's lighter. A miniature version of Naya, except brown-eyed and rounder at the edges. He's clinging to Naya's side, his head tucked in near her shoulder. There's a clear sense of this is my person radiating off him.

Mugi sighs. "He's adorable."

"They all have brown eyes," Sachi notes. "You're the only one with green."

Naya nods. "Dad's eyes."

Mio watches her say it. Watches the flicker of something—pride, or distance, or loss. It's hard to tell. The edges of Naya are always soft—until they harden.

"You're lucky," Mugi says gently. "They're beautiful."

"Are you close?" Ayame asks.

Naya's thumb brushes the screen, slow. "Yeah, kinda." Naya closes the photo and shrugs again. "They're fine."

And that's it.

Mio takes another bite of cake. It's still sweet.

"What about your friends?" Yui asks now.

"My friends?" Naya echoes.

"Yeah! Like, who do you usually hang out with back home? You know, like us, but Spain version!"

Mugi nods, smiling. "I'd love to hear about them."

Azusa hums, as if filing away this request into her internal list of facts about Naya that she's constantly, discreetly updating.

Liz, for her part, smirks. "We're taking notes."

And Ritsu—Ritsu raises her brows, hands folded behind her head, as if to say, yeah, come on, spill it.

Mio can see it—the faint ripple behind Naya's eyes. A micro-hesitation. That half-second delay when someone asks for more of you than you were prepared to give.

But Naya is always prepared, isn't she?

She wonders if Naya knows she gives herself away in those infinitesimal pauses.

If she knows Mio is always watching.

If she minds.

"WhatsApp," Naya says finally, flipping her phone lazily in her hand. "I was messaging them earlier."

WhatsApp. Mio's heard of it. It's in the background of half the cultural noise she's been absorbing second-hand from Naya for months. She has never used it. She's fairly certain Ritsu once called it 'LINE for Westerners,' but that might have been a joke.

Ritsu blinks. "Oh, right, that's the thing over there, huh?"

"It's the thing everywhere. Except Japan," Naya replies, monotone. "Anyway, I'll show you," she adds, and Mio watches the internal debate resolve into reluctant generosity.

It's always reluctant. It's always generous.

She unlocks her phone again, scrolls. Her thumb moves with a kind of indifferent precision—an artist assembling a palette without thinking about color theory. But Mio sees the flicker in her gaze. The recalibration.

And then Naya turns the phone around.

One photo. Three people.

Mio leans forward. She doesn't mean to. It's instinct, or gravity.

"Julia and Samuel," Naya says. "My two best friends."

They are sitting on a stone wall. Naya in the middle—her hair messier, her tan deeper, her smile summer-bright as always. Julia is on one side, Samuel on the other, and between the three of them, there's a sense of equilibrium. An old equation balanced over time.

Julia is beautiful. But not in the way Mio expects. Not the brittle, sharp beauty of magazine covers or the weaponized polish of idols. She's... timeless. The kind of beauty that looks soft in every season. Her curls frame her face like they belong there, and her smile is warm enough to make something inside Mio's chest ache in a way that feels uncomfortably like homesickness for somewhere she has never been.

She looks like someone who knows how to hold a room without holding it hostage.

"She's half-Filipino," Naya says. "Her dad's from Manila."

Mugi leans in. "She's lovely."

"She looks nice," Azusa adds, and Mio hears the faint surprise in her tone.

"She is," Naya replies simply. "She's a dork."

"She looks so elegant," Ayame murmurs.

"She fakes it," Naya says. "If you leave her unsupervised, she makes up poetry about how much she misses the sun."

"She sounds poetic," Mugi beams.

"She once compared a ham sandwich to the tragedy of Eurydice," Naya says.

There is a beat of silence.

"I like her," Sachi says.

"She sounds weird," Akira mutters. "In a good way."

And Naya's other best friend.

Samuel.

Samuel is—there's no delicate way to think it—obnoxiously attractive. Not in the classical sense. Not in the catalog-model, cheekbones-for-days sense. But in the way that makes Mio realize how most of the girls' stomachs dropped a little. He's got a shaved undercut, a beard that's just short of hipster, and piercings that glint in the sunlight. His shirt is loud. His grin is louder.

There is an immediate collective reaction.

"Oh," Liz says.

"Huh," Ayame echoes.

Akira squints. "Well, hello there."

Mugi smiles. "He looks friendly."

Azusa clears her throat again, blushing. It sounds suspiciously like a cough. It's not.

And Yui, predictably, leans forward until she's practically nose-first against the screen. "He looks fun!"

Naya chuckles. "He's trouble."

Liz lifts an eyebrow. "The good kind?"

"Depends on your definition."

Momo makes a faint sound. It might be a squeak.

"Is he always dressed like that?" Ritsu gestures vaguely. "Like he raided an 80s fashion crime scene?"

"Yes," Naya says. "And he makes it work."

Mio can't look away from the photo. There's something about it. About them. About the way Samuel, Naya and Julia are leaning into each other, casual but close. About the way Naya, in the middle, looks grounded. Like she belongs there. Like she belongs somewhere.

Her pulse beats a strange rhythm under her skin.

"Are you close?" Mugi asks softly.

Naya's gaze flickers. "Yeah. They're my people. Julia lived down the street. We used to walk to school together. Her mom makes the best arroz caldoso."

"You live near each other?" Mugi asks, delighted.

"Yeah. Same neighborhood."

"And Samuel?" Azusa prompts.

"High school," Naya answers. "We met in art class."

Mio watches her face. Watches the way she says it. There's a softness there. A fondness. But it's muted. Like a volume knob turned down low. Like she's rationing it.

"He was a walking disaster," Naya adds. "We bonded over shared disdain for everything."

"I like him already," Akira says.

"You still talk to them a lot?" Mugi asks.

Naya nods. "Almost everyday."

"You miss them?" Azusa's tone is careful.

Naya pauses. "Yeah."

And there it is. Quiet. Heavy.

Mio takes a breath, steady but tight.

She misses them like one misses something that hurts. Like one misses home. Like one miss a version of themselves that existed somewhere else.

Ritsu claps her hands suddenly. "We should meet them!"

"Yeah!" Yui cheers. "Let's video call!"

Naya stares at them all like they're an unsolved equation. And the math isn't mathing.

"No," she says.

"But why?" Yui pouts.

"They don't speak Japanese."

"We can speak English," Mugi offers.

"Actually, most of us can't," Mio deadpans, looking at Yui and Ritsu. Ritsu puffs out her chest, proud of that. She shouldn't.

Ayame grins. "Or we can mime."

Akira shakes her head. "Bad idea."

Liz just smirks. "Do it."

Naya groans. "No."

Mio watches. She watches Naya hold her phone a little tighter. Watches the faint flush at the tips of her ears. Watches the push and pull.

She doesn't want to share.

She already has.

"We won't be weird," Yui promises.

"You'll be weird," Naya says.

"You like weird," Liz counters.

"Not that kind of weird," Naya mutters.

Mio smiles. And Naya sees it. And looks away.

For a moment, Mio wonders. About roots. About belonging. About people who know you from the beginning. About people who are still here anyway.

About who you show your photos to.

About who you call home.

---

It takes longer than it should to convince her.

Naya is immovable on most things—quietly, stubbornly, infuriatingly so. She draws her boundaries with the practiced precision of someone who's had to redraw them too many times, and she does it with that same deadpan calm that makes it difficult to tell when you're trespassing and when you're being invited in.

But not impossible.

And somehow, between Yui's wheedling, Ayame's gleeful heckling, and Ritsu's complete disregard for social mores—"Just do it! We're gonna see your friends eventually, may as well control the conditions!"—Naya caves. Not with a dramatic sigh or theatrical eye-roll, but with a subtle shift of her weight and a muted, "Fine."

It's the kind of fine that Mio has come to recognize as resignation laced with reluctant amusement. But not surrender. Never surrender.

Mio watches the small movements of Naya's fingers over her phone. The grace in them, the slight hesitations that give away more than they should. It's like watching the fine mechanics of an old watch—something designed to measure time with precision and yet, if you know what to look for, you can see where the metal thins under pressure.

"She's texting," Akira observes, sounding both deeply unimpressed and secretly interested.

"She's stalling," Liz mutters.

"She's choosing her words carefully," Mugi counters, gently.

Mio tries not to sigh aloud. Instead, she watches.

Naya taps once more, then sets the phone facedown on her thigh and stares at it like it's just said something rude.

"Well?" Yui leans forward so far that Azusa has to grab the back of her shirt to keep her from toppling over.

Naya looks at them. "They're not home yet."

There's a beat of confusion.

"What time is it over there?" Ritsu asks.

"Nine. Morning," Naya says.

"Yet?" Azusa frowns. "They were... out?"

"It's July," Naya says. Like this is an explanation.

"It's a weekday," Momo whispers.

"They went out last night," Naya continues, tone flat.

Yui gasps, scandalized but admiring. "And they're still awake?"

"They haven't gone to bed," Naya clarifies.

Ayame cackles. "Legends."

Mio folds her hands in her lap and tries not to think about what's about to happen.

Naya's phone buzzes, silent but insistent. She stares at it like it's a bomb. Then looks up, eyes narrowing just slightly.

"They're calling." Naya grimaces. "You all have about thirty seconds to behave."

Yui gives her a thumbs up. "Totally!"

Ritsu finger-guns at her. "We're professionals."

Azusa closes her eyes. "I'm apologizing in advance."

Mugi clasps her hands. "This will be lovely."

Ayame wiggles her fingers like she's conducting an orchestra.

"Here we go," Liz murmurs.

Naya swipes to accept. There's a certain resigned inevitability in the way she angles the phone toward herself, like someone cracking open a door they aren't sure they want to look through.

And then—

"NAY!!!"

Two voices. Loud. Joyful. Discordant in their harmonies, but harmonies nonetheless.

Mio winces. The sound quality is terrible, the volume worse. But there's no mistaking the exuberance.

Julia and Samuel belt out "¡Cumpleaños feliz!" in chaotic harmony. If it can be called that. It's less melody and more ecstatic shouting, the rhythm dangerously off-beat. The camera shakes wildly, like they're on a boat in a storm. Or a trampoline. On a boat. In a storm.

Naya winces. Visibly. Her entire spine tries to leave her body. There's a tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth that Mio almost thinks might be a smile. Or a grimace.

"Por Dios," Naya mutters.

"They're singing," Ritsu says, delighted.

"They're yelling," Sachi corrects.

"They're so loud," Azusa says, astonished.

"They're drunk," Naya corrects. "And probably in the Plaza Mayor."

"¡Nay!" Julia beams, eyes bright. "¡Hola, guapa!"

Samuel grins, all teeth. "¡Felicidades, golfa!"

Naya chuckles despite herself. "Gracias, pero no hace falta gritar."

Samuel sighs. "Japón te está volviendo una siesa."

Julia tilts the phone. "¿Dónde estás?"

Naya answers in Spanish, something Mio catches only pieces of—"clubroom," "amigas," "cumpleaños sorpresa." She gets the gist. Barely.

And then Julia's eyes widen. "¡Están todas allí!"

Samuel squints. "¿Qué? ¿Quién?"

"¡Hola, Japón!" Julia shouts.

It's a visual assault. The phone swings wildly. Mio flinches.

Ayame waves both hands, grinning. "O-ra!"

Ritsu throws up a peace sign. "Hey."

Azusa bows, reflexively, despite the medium.

Mugi smiles serenely. "Hello."

Liz raises an eyebrow, says nothing, but lifts her chin like she's already judging them all.

Samuel blinks. Then he grins wider. "¡Madre mía! ¡Todo un comité!"

"JOO-ree-ah! SAH-myoo-eh-roo!" Yui hollers. "Hello!"

"WHO ARE YOU?!" Julia demands, in English that is almost perfect except for the musical lilt of accent and the slight slur that betrays her condition.

"I'm Yui!" Yui beams. "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"

"It's my birthday," Naya says, deadpan.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, NAY!" Julia yells again, then grins wider. "We know!"

Samuel nods vigorously. "Very birthday. Much feliz."

"Oh no," Naya mutters.

Samuel applauds. Julia makes jazz hands.

Mugi, composed as ever, says in accented English, "It's lovely to meet you both."

Julia clasps her hand to her chest. "So polite!" she declares. "Nay, they're so polite!"

Naya looks like she wants to die. Slowly.

Mio stares.

It's chaos. Pure, distilled, transcendent chaos. It's like watching a storm roll in. No—it's like standing in the middle of it. English and Spanish and broken sentences tumble into each other. Ayame, inexplicably, tries to introduce herself in French. Ritsu's English devolves quickly into exaggerated hand gestures and mime.

Yui barrels through introductions, tripping over her own excitement. "This is Ricchan! Azu-nyan! Mugi-chan! Licchan! Ayame-chan! Akira-chan! Sachi-chan! Momo-chan! And Mio-chan!" She points at Mio last, with a grand flourish, as if unveiling a prize on a game show. "Bassistu!" she adds, with such enthusiasm that Mio has to close her eyes for a moment and breathe through her nose.

She wants to disappear. Immediately.

Samuel peers. "Ooooh," he says. "Julia, this is Mio!"

Julia squints at the screen, then gasps and lights up. "Mio? The Mio?!"

Naya freezes. She looks like she's calculating the physics of spontaneous combustion.

Mio isn't sure what to do with her hands. She gives a tiny, hesitant wave. "Um. Hi."

"Oh my god, you're so cute!" Julia says, beaming. "You're very beautiful!"

Mio's face explodes in red.

"We're so happy to meet you!" Julia continues.

"Delighted," Samuel adds, mock-formal, with a sweeping bow.

Mio wants to hide under the table.

Maybe if I stop breathing, I'll disappear.

That's not how it works.

"Nay talks about you!" Julia screams, unrepentant. "A lot!"

Mio chokes. Liz laughs, sharp and pleased. Naya makes a sound like she's been shot. She sinks lower in her seat, like gravity has increased specifically for her.

"Por favor, callaos la boca."

Liz, in suspiciously smooth English, says, "Mio is Naya's official guide to Japan."

"We know!" Samuel grins. "Nay won't stop talking about her!"

"We hope to meet you someday!" Julia says. "In person!"

Mio's cheeks have reached critical mass. She's going to perish. Blush-first. Death by cardiac meltdown. A medical first.

The thing is, Naya is blushing harder. Red in a way Mio's never seen before. Redder than a sunburn and twice as fatal.

The conversation descends from there. Into nonsense. Into a strange, joyful sort of absurdity. But they talk for a while longer. Or yell. It's hard to tell.

Ritsu tries to teach them Kansai-ben. Samuel attempts to repeat it and butchers it completely. Ayame dares him to say something worse, and he obliges. Yui tries to teach Julia a song, and Julia counters with a song in Spanish that Yui attempts to mimic, flailing her arms like a confused windmill while Naya mutters something about how the song was not a sevillana, but Yui is attempting flamenco anyway.

Mugi suggests they do a cultural exchange. Akira offers to show them how to cook okonomiyaki, and Julia offers to teach them flamenco footwork. "I'm drunk, but I'm better drunk," she claims. Naya mentions something about stereotypes. "I'm trying to dismantle them slowly," she mutters. "Months of work. Gone. In one heel stomp."

Mio isn't sure how long this lasts. Time stops functioning properly. Space bends.

She sits there, watching. Listening. Thinking.

How strange, she muses, how small the world can become. How, with one tap on a glass screen, the borders of nations and languages and histories fold in on themselves like paper, and suddenly there are two people in Spain singing badly into a phone in a university clubroom in Tokyo. How strange, that she—Mio, whose life has always been ordered, predictable, familiar—should find herself laughing at the jokes of people on the other side of the world. People she was never meant to meet. People she would never have met, if not for this.

For Naya.

She glances at her. Naya, sitting there, trying very hard to pretend she's not enjoying any of this. Trying very hard to look inconvenienced. Trying very hard not to smile.

She's failing.

Mio smiles. This is a line she's crossed without realizing. A place she didn't think she'd reach.

This is a new orbit. A different gravity.

And she's learning how to move inside it.

Eventually, the party winds down.

The call ends. Julia and Samuel blow kisses. Julia promises to visit. Samuel threatens to teach them all Spanish swear words. Yui promises to call them again. Ritsu swears she'll drink them under the table. Naya hangs up before further damage can occur.

The cake is eaten. The candles remain unlit, thanks to Mugi's quiet but absolute authority.

And when it's all over, when the clubroom is quieter and the sun is beginning to set, Mio sits beside Naya on the couch. Close. Closer than polite. But not close enough.

Naya says nothing. She rests her head back on the couch and closes her eyes.

Mio watches her. Thinks about threads. About knots. About how things stay tied together, even when they stretch across oceans.

She leans in. Her shoulder brushes Naya's. Brief. Light. But enough.

Happy birthday, she thinks.

And Naya, without opening her eyes, smiles.

---

After dinner, after the obligatory tea, after the endless procession of the clubroom plates Mugi insists on clearing by hand and the others' resistance to letting her do it alone—resistance that collapses, inevitably, under the gravity of her gentle authority—after all that, Mio showers.

And when she dries her hair, slowly, methodically, working her way from root to tip as if precision can make the evening less uncertain, she stares at herself in the mirror for a long time. The steam has faded from the glass by the time she works up the nerve to pick up the gifts.

There are three. Two in their respective paper bags. One—lighter, less physical, though no less weighted—tucked inside the cover of a slim photo envelope.

She hesitates before stepping into the hall. Listens. The quiet is the kind that feels intentional. Like something waiting.

Naya's room is at the far end of the dorm hall. Twenty-eight steps farther than hers. She stands outside it, balancing the gifts in her hands like offerings. It's not lost on her that this feels ceremonial.

(It's fine. You're fine. You're just giving her a gift.)

Except it's not just a gift. Not when her pulse is doing strange things in her throat and the door in front of her looks like a threshold.

She exhales, long and slow, and knocks. Two knuckles. Light. Not too formal.

The door opens before she finishes withdrawing her hand.

Naya looks like she always does at this hour—hair still damp from the shower, brown strands curling slightly at the ends where they brush the neckline of her shirt. She's changed into an old shirt that looks like it's done at least five tours of duty, sleeves loose, hem worn thin at the edges, and shorts to the knee. There's a faint red line across her cheek like she's been lying on something uneven.

She offers Mio a lazy, lopsided smile. "Hey, Mio." Her voice is soft, casual. Like she'd been expecting her.

Mio swallows. "Hey." Mio gestures vaguely to the room. "May I come in?"

"Of course," Naya says, already stepping aside to let Mio in.

Mio steps further into the room as Naya lets the door drift shut behind them with a hush, as if it's sealing something in.

The room is dimmer than the hallway. Warm, though. Cooler, too. Paradoxical things. Like Naya herself. Mio isn't sure how that works, but it does.

"So," Mio starts, because someone has to. "Did you... did you talk to your family already?"

Naya nods, shifting her weight back onto one leg. She looks loose in her skin. Easier. "Yeah." She gestures vaguely behind her, toward the bed, where her crossword puzzle book and her MP3 player with some earphones rest. "I was lying down now. We talked before dinner."

Mio breathes in, slow and quiet. "That's good," she says. "I'm glad you saw them. Even if it's just..."

"A screen," Naya finishes, resigned.

Mio doesn't know how to follow the conversation. She clears her throat. "It was fun. Meeting Julia and Samuel."

Naya snorts at that, but the sound is low, almost thoughtful. "They're a lot."

"They're... loud," Mio allows, smiling.

Naya exhales a faint laugh through her nose. "You should see them in person. It's like a band practice where everyone's the drummer."

Mio winces at the image. "That sounds exhausting."

"Yeah," Naya says, smirking. "You get used to it. Or you lose your hearing."

Mio hesitates, then tips her head, watching Naya. "So... they... know me?"

It's a light question. Almost teasing. But something in her voice catches at the edges.

Naya blinks. For a second, she looks surprised—then thoughtful. Her hand lifts, raking briefly through her damp hair, and when she meets Mio's gaze again, there's something softer in it. Something almost shy.

"Yeah," Naya says. "I've mentioned you."

Mio's stomach does something strange. "What did you tell them?"

Naya shrugs. Casual, but too practiced to be effortless. "The pedal sessions. Your music lists. How you keep recommending bands that I don't know, and they are really good." Her mouth quirks. "When I snapped at you that time. Told them I regretted it. A lot."

"You... told them that?"

Naya nods. "Julia scolded me for it. I deserved that." Her gaze drifts for a second, toward the window, then back. "And I told them how you took care of me when I got sick. With the fever. Julia thought that was very—" Naya stops, then huffs a faint breath. "She thought it was very you."

"What does that mean? She doesn't know me."

Naya's smile is faint, but it holds. "She said you seemed like someone who overthinks everything, but you're really clear when it counts."

Mio blinks. "Oh."

"They like you," Naya says. "Julia and Samuel. A lot." She exhales, as if this isn't something she says often. "They know I tend to... isolate. When things get complicated. When I feel like I'm on the outside of things." She taps her temple lightly, wry. "I'm good at that."

Mio doesn't know what to say to that.

"They're happy you're here," Naya says. "Happy we're friends."

Something shifts in Mio's chest. A pull, deep and quiet.

There's another pause. It isn't uncomfortable. It's just long enough to suggest a choice. Stay or go. Speak or leave silence intact.

Mio chooses.

"I wanted to say—" She cuts herself off, then starts again. "I hope you liked the surprise."

Naya blinks. Then smiles. "I did. A lot."

"I wasn't sure." Mio's thumb presses against the corner of the paper bag in her hands. She adjusts her grip. "You didn't tell anyone. And I thought—maybe it wasn't my place. To tell them. To arrange something."

"You thought wrong," Naya says, calm. Factual. "I liked it."

"I didn't want to assume."

"You didn't."

"I didn't want to bother you."

"You didn't."

"I didn't—" Mio stops. She's saying too much. She always says too much when she's nervous. When she's tired.

When it's Naya.

"You didn't," Naya repeats. Her tone is softer now. "I had a great time, Mio. Really."

"Are you sure you didn't mind?" Mio asks.

Naya shakes her head. "I promise, Mio. I loved it." She tilts her head, considering. "If it weren't for you, I would have spent my twentieth birthday lying in bed feeling sorry for myself, even though I said I didn't care." Naya chuckles. "I'm telling you this because I know you know. And if you don't, I want you to know." She hesitates, then adds, softer, "You said I wouldn't be alone today. That we'd be together. And we were. You kept your promise." She pauses. A little more serious now. "You told me you'd be with me. And you were. The whole day. You really were."

She smiles again, smaller this time. Less for show.

Mio looks down. She doesn't know what to say to that, so she just says, "I... um." She clears her throat. "I brought you something."

Her voice doesn't shake. But it wants to.

It isn't an elegant transition, but Naya lets it stand. She gestures toward the bed, easy, casual. "Come on."

Mio sets the gifts down there. But they stay standing, Naya regarding the parcels like they're puzzles she intends to solve.

"You've been holding that bag like it's about to explode," Naya murmurs. "I was half-expecting a jack-in-the-box."

Mio flushes. "It's... the duplicates," she says. "From Sunday. The photos we took. And a couple of things that are just for you."

Naya looks at her. Not skeptically. But like she's making sure. "You want me to open them now?"

Mio hesitates. She shouldn't. It would be better to leave. To avoid the weight of it. To maintain distance.

But the truth is, she wants to see. She wants to know.

"If you want," she says. And then, quietly, because it feels like something she has to admit: "I'd like it if you did."

Naya smiles. "Okay."

She opens the envelope first.

The photos slide free into her hands with the soft, familiar sound of glossy paper against skin. She shuffles through them slowly. Each one is a freeze-frame Mio remembers twice—once as it happened, once when she picked it up from the shop and looked at it too long.

"You made me look good," Naya says. Dry. But there's warmth under it.

"You already looked good," Mio blurts, then immediately wants to take it back.

Naya glances at her, smile quirking wider. A bit pink on the ears. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that if you want."

Mio groans softly, face heating. "Please."

Naya huffs a laugh.

She lingers a little longer on one of them.

Mio knows which it is even before she sees the angle of Naya's thumb—her own close-up, the one Naya took without warning, shutter clicking between heartbeats. Naya's expression shifts slightly, brows softening, like she's trying to memorize something she doesn't realize she already knows, or understand something only she can see. Her fingers trace the edge. Not grazing, but holding. Careful. Like it matters.

Then, the presents.

The first package is light. A standard jewel case wrapped in pale grey paper. Naya tears it open with deliberate slowness, peeling the tape without tearing it. She slides the disc out and turns it over in her hands.

Origin of Symmetry. Japanese edition.

Mio watches as Naya's thumb runs over the cover once, then twice. Over the spine. Over the tracklist that lists Futurism as the bonus track.

And before Naya can say anything, Mio is already moving. Already speaking too fast.

"You probably have it already," Mio starts. "I mean—obviously. It's your favorite. But you mentioned you liked Futurism, and I figured maybe you didn't have the Japanese edition? So I thought it'd be—well." Her pulse stumbles. "And since you're going to Reading—well. It seemed... appropriate."

Naya glances at her. Still listening.

"And I know it's an old album. But I thought—" Mio exhales sharply. "You know what? Never mind. It's probably stupid. I just thought—"

"I like it," Naya says. Calm. Certain.

Mio blinks.

Naya lifts the CD slightly, angling it toward the light. "I don't have this version." She taps the back cover, where Futurism is listed. "I have the standard physical copy, without the bonus track." Her smile, when it comes, is a sunrise. "This is better."

Mio's breath leaves her in a quiet rush. "Oh."

Naya doesn't say anything for a moment. Then: "Thank you."

Mio nods. Tries not to fidget. Fails.

(You're ridiculous.) 

She knows. She keeps going anyway.

The second package is thinner. Naya opens it more quickly this time. Slides the photo out from behind its protective plastic sleeve.

It's the one from Sunday. Sitting in the shade. Both close. Both smiling. Both together.

"Why is this one separate?"

Mio clears her throat. "Turn it over."

Naya does.

She reads the words once. Then again. Slower.

"For the spaces between songs.
I'm happy you're here.
But you'll always stay with me, wherever you are."

There's a long pause.

"Oh," Naya says. Just that. Then: "You wrote that for me?"

Mio nods. "Yeah."

Naya looks at her. Then back to the photo. Her voice drops.

"Oh."

Mio's throat is tight. She keeps her hands still by sheer force of will.

(You shouldn't have written that.)

Mio counts heartbeats. She gets to twelve before Naya speaks again.

"Thank you," she says. It's the kind of thank you that sounds like something else. Like a question. Like an answer.

Mio nods. Her pulse is too loud in her ears. She can't tell if she's breathing. She hopes she is.

Naya sets the photo down carefully. Places her hand over it. Just for a second. Like she's testing its weight. Its reality. And when she looks at Mio again, there's something in her expression that Mio can't classify. Something unarmored.

"I'm happy I'm here, too," she says. "And I'm happy I met you."

Mio swallows hard. Her chest feels too full. Her thoughts tangle like counterpoint.

(She's just being polite.)

She's telling me something important.

(She's going to leave someday.)

She's here now.

Mio looks at Naya's hand. At the way it rests on the photo. At the bracelet still around her wrist, maroon and black, the bead catching faint light.

"Thank you, Mio. For today," Naya says. And her voice is softer now. With more weight. "Really."

Mio nods. She doesn't trust her voice to stay steady.

She can feel something shifting. The gravity of the room is different.

She's not sure what to call it.

But she knows she's crossed another line.

And she's not sure she wants to go back.

So why not cross another one.

Actually, that's a lie.

She's already crossed.

Her fingers curl in on themselves, palms damp. She lets them. She lets the fear exist, lets it thread itself through her without unraveling her completely.

I can be afraid and still want.

She doesn't know how long she stands there, watching the room rearrange itself around them. After everything that's happened, after everything said and unsaid, the silence hums in her ears, rich and resonant, like the tail end of a bass note. Low. Steady. Lingering.

Naya doesn't move. Doesn't look away. Doesn't press.

That's the thing about her—she doesn't press. She doesn't demand. She simply is. And Mio doesn't know what to do with that. She never has. The absence of expectation is not a relief. It's a vacuum. It pulls things from her—words, gestures, silences.

This, now, is another silence. But not an empty one. As if language has quietly evacuated the room, leaving behind only the small, weightless particles of things unsaid. The distance between them is nothing. A few paces. A breath. An inhale, a pause, an exhale.

Mio can feel the shape of it in her chest, rising, cresting, like the first breath before the downbeat.

She watches Naya as if through water. Things refract here. Angles shift in ways she can't quantify. Naya is still. Waiting. Hands in the pockets of her worn shorts, head tilted as if she's listening for something. For her. Maybe.

Mio breathes in. And it's almost funny, because her breath tastes like citrus—Naya's—and lavender—hers—and it makes her dizzy, as if her own self is foreign, an unknown geography she's only now tracing with hesitant fingertips. As if the body she stands in is something she's inherited, rather than something she was born to.

(You don't have to do this.)

But she does.

Because this space has been shrinking, day by day, breath by breath, word by word. She has been watching it narrow. She has been complicit in its erosion.

And now there's almost nothing left.

Almost.

Mio feels the pull. A kind of magnetic inevitability. Like gravity is shifting, and she is simply following the incline of the world, tilting toward something she can't—doesn't want to—resist anymore.

She takes a step forward.

And another.

It's not graceful. It's not precise. Her body doesn't know how to do this. Not willingly. Not without calculation. Her movements are unpracticed, hesitant, the choreography of someone who has only ever learned how to retreat.

She feels the tension in her legs, the blood rush in her ears. There are no instructions for this. There's no map. No blueprint. No predetermined choreography for how to cross this kind of distance. Every second feels improvised, and Mio has never liked improvisation.

But there's no conscious decision in it. No internal debate. No weighing of outcomes, or risks, or propriety. The part of her brain that usually runs that meticulous calculus has gone quiet. Or maybe it's simply been overridden by something older. More instinctual.

Naya doesn't move. She watches.

If I say anything, I'll ruin it.

(If you say anything, it'll mean something.)

So she doesn't speak. She just breathes in. Slowly.

She's always hated proximity. The weight of it. The expectation. The invisible obligations that pressed too close to her skin and made her chest tight. The way it always felt like someone else's hands were too much, and her own body wasn't enough.

But this isn't that.

It's Naya. It's the faint trace of her shampoo in the air. It's the hum of warmth radiating from her skin, and the careful looseness of her posture, like she has no designs on Mio's body, no assumptions about its use.

It's safe.

(Or it's a trick.)

No. She knows it's not.

The space between them, once an entire universe of restraint and caution, collapses to nothing in three measured strides. Like a line being erased. Like the distance was never there to begin with.

Because the distance isn't a distance anymore. It's an idea. A memory of space where space no longer exists. Something conceptual, theoretical, as if she's still following old maps long after the borders have changed.

Then, she steps into the gravity of Naya's orbit. Closer than polite. But not close enough.

She stands in front of Naya now. Close enough to see where the damp strands of her hair cling to her skin, where the line of her collarbone fades beneath the soft cotton of her shirt. Close enough to see the faint scatter of freckles on her nose, the ones Mio had never noticed before. Or maybe she has, and she's only now allowing herself to look.

Her arms move, mechanical at first, foreign in their weight and angle. They lift. Slowly. She feels the hesitation in her shoulders, the tremor in her elbows, like her mind is arguing against her body. But she pushes through it.

Then, they wrap.

Around Naya.

Mio steps into her. Into all of it. Into the spaces they've always left between themselves, into the silences, the waiting, the quiet negotiations that never needed words.

She touches fabric first. Old, softened cotton. It's soft in the way cotton becomes after too many washes, the seams worn smooth. And then the shape beneath it. The unfamiliarity of another body, not resisted, not forced, not unwanted. She slides her arms around Naya's back, and the contact is electric. Her fingers curl, just slightly. The fabric yields. The heat underneath does not.

Her cheek finds the line where neck meets collarbone. She leans in. No, into. That's the difference. She presses her forehead to the crook of Naya's neck, lets her body fold into the space there.

And there it is.

Contact.

The contact is strange. Not unpleasant. Not unpleasant.

That's the revelation.

It isn't sharp. It isn't sour. It doesn't burn at her skin like too much sun. It doesn't make her want to shrink away, to curl her fingers inwards and withdraw. Instead, it steadies her.

The years of confusion—Why does this feel wrong? Why can't I want this? Why can't I be normal?—begin to unravel. Not in a violent tear. In threads. Softly. Quietly.

But what surprises her most isn't the absence of revulsion. The absence of shame. Of fear. That tight coil of anxiety that usually makes her want to recoil from closeness, to protect herself by distance and denial, simply isn't there. Or maybe it is, but muted now.

Instead, there's this.

The warmth.

And all at once, the room smells of lavender and citrus, a blend so precise it's almost surgical. Like balance. Like chemistry perfected. Lavender from her own shampoo, citrus from the way Naya's skin holds the faintest trace of bergamot, of lemon peel, as if sunlight left a residue there. A scent that has always hovered near her when they sit close on the couch, or when Naya hands her a pick from her pocket, or when they stand too near each other during pedal practice. Mio lets it fill her lungs now.

(What are you doing.)

She doesn't answer herself. She can't. If she answers, it will break. Something will die here.

(It's too much. Too close.)

But also not wrong.

(It's going to break you.)

But it doesn't. It doesn't break anything.

Naya doesn't move. She doesn't react. She stands there, rigid, as if caught between fight and flight, and Mio thinks—this was a mistake. Her heart stutters violently in her chest, a percussion too fast, too frantic. Her fingers twitch against the back of Naya's shirt, unsure if they should loosen or tighten. Her skin burns with the certainty that she has trespassed. Crossed something she was never meant to.

(Let go. You're not meant for this.)

For a terrifying second, Mio thinks she's misunderstood everything—the smiles, the silences, the slow unfolding of trust like hands opening palm-up in the dark. She's waiting for Naya to step back. To laugh. To tense, and withdraw, and leave Mio holding onto nothing at all.

But Naya exhales.

A slow, quiet thing. Not a sigh, but something adjacent. Like letting go.

And then, Naya's arms come up. Slow. Careful. Like she's navigating a delicate mechanism. One slides around Mio's waist. Gentle. Hesitant. The other raises, fingers threading softly into Mio's hair where it falls over her back, the slow, tentative curl of touch that is both unfamiliar and inevitable.

The contact isn't tight. It isn't desperate. It's... easy. Like it was always meant to be there, like they're not constructing anything new but returning to something old and known.

Mio thinks she might break.

And then Naya leans forward. Her forehead finds the side of Mio's head, her cheek settling in the hollow where strands have slipped free behind Mio's ear, and her nose brushes lightly against the fine wisps that have escaped Mio's careful drying. Then, she buries her face in that dark veil. Her breath moves through it, faint and warm.

Mio feels the shape of her. The slow, steady weight of her presence. The impossibility of it. She can feel the slow cycle of Naya's breathing under her palms, can map the rise and fall of her ribs against Mio's own. And her own heart—that frantic, unreliable thing—has steadied into something less like panic and more like rhythm.

And then they are both holding, both held.

A suspension. A gravity well.

And Mio is not afraid.

This is the most terrifying thing.

She waits for it. The rising tide of shame. Of wrongness. Of that cold, sick feeling in her gut, the one that tells her this is not who you are. That tells her she can't do this. Can't be this.

But it doesn't come.

What comes instead is quiet. A stillness so profound it echoes.

She's not thinking about her heartbeat. She's not thinking about the way her body used to freeze at contact, about the way touch was always wrong, always too much, always something she had to survive. She's not thinking about the way she flinched, the way she moved away, the way she told herself it was just how she was.

She's thinking about the warmth. About how Naya's hand is steady against her back. About how this closeness doesn't feel like exposure. Doesn't feel like danger.

The weight in her chest shifts. The pressure doesn't crush her.

(It should.)

But it doesn't.

It's quiet.

Everything is quiet.

Not the silence of absence. The silence of belonging. Of a room without clocks. Of time without hours.

The silence between them is a shared language now. A vocabulary of breath and pulse and weight.

Naya shifts, just slightly. Her fingers move—just a little, threading more through Mio's hair, slow and careful, as if learning the shape of it for the first time. As if memorizing it. She strokes once. Then again.

Mio's breath shakes on the way out now. She counts the beat of Naya's heart where her palm rests near her neck. It's slow. Steady. It's not racing.

Her hand tightens at Naya's back. Her nose presses against Naya's throat. She feels the response: Naya's arm firming around her waist, breath hitching quietly against her ear before smoothing out again.

A loop. A feedback. One of those infinite circuits they talked about in physics once, where input and output collapse into the same thing.

And Mio holds on like it means something. Because it does.

Because there is no space between them.

There has always been space. The deliberate kind. The protective kind. The necessary kind. And there has always been the idea that it had to stay that way.

But now, there isn't.

Naya's thumb moves. Just once. A slow, absent stroke against the line of Mio's spine, where her hand rests between Mio's shoulder blades. It's not insistent. It's not possessive. It's not anything, really, except there.

Mio's lungs loosen. The weight in her chest eases, fractionally. As if something old, something tired, is being set down. She isn't sure when she started shaking. But she knows when it stops.

(You shouldn't want this.)

But she does.

And the wanting doesn't hurt. It doesn't feel wrong.

It feels...

Like bathing in sunlight. Like hearing a note that resonates so perfectly with the tuning of her own strings that it hums through her bones.

Mio closes her eyes. She lets herself stay.

So this is what it feels like.

Not shame. Not fear. Not that bone-deep tension, the bracing of muscles against impact. Not the calculation of escape routes. Not the exhaustion of performing.

Peace.

It's peace.

It rolls through her in waves. She feels her muscles uncoil, her hands unclench from where they've dug into Naya's shirt. She doesn't realize she's gripping the fabric until her fingers go slack, and then tighten again. Not because she needs to hold on, but because she wants to. As if something inside her wants to memorize this. Wants to press the shape of Naya's back, the line of her shoulder, into the muscle memory of her hands.

It's strange, to feel this and not feel broken.

(You're not supposed to like this.)

She does.

And for once, there is no argument.

She presses closer. Shifts her weight, tilts her head slightly and then—without thinking, without fearing—buries her face deeper in Naya's neck. Her nose brushes skin. Her cheek settles against Naya's shoulder, and the warmth there seeps into her skin like something medicinal. It should be too much. Too close. It should make her skin crawl. It should make her teeth clench. But it doesn't.

It doesn't.

Her hands move. One stays tangled in Naya's shirt at her back, fisted tightly as if Mio could anchor herself there forever. The other lifts, slowly, and rests at Naya's nape, fingers sliding into the soft hair there. Just resting. Not gripping. Not pulling away.

Mio doesn't know who she is like this.

She doesn't care right now.

Naya leans into Mio again, not much, just enough to press them together more fully, to remove even the illusion of space. Naya's hand smooths up her back, then strikes her hair again. Slow. Gentle. No rhythm, no purpose beyond this: to stay. To be. And Mio lets her. Lets her. And something in her chest uncoils. Quietly. Completely.

This. This is the thing I didn't know how to want.

The thing she didn't know how to let herself have.

It's not wrong to hold.
It's not wrong to be held.
It's not wrong to be close.
It's not wrong to want it.
It's not wrong to have it.

Mio tightens her arms around Naya. A small adjustment. A choice. As if she's holding on to something fragile. As if she's afraid that letting go would mean forgetting how this feels. As if she never wants to forget.

Her chest doesn't ache. Her skin doesn't crawl. She isn't repulsed.

Mio lets herself sink into it. Into the quiet thrum of skin against skin, into the low frequency of Naya's exhale brushing against her ear. Into the fact that there is no urgency. No demand. That the space between them has, for once, become something she doesn't need to measure or guard.

For once, she doesn't need to be careful. She doesn't need to brace for withdrawal. She doesn't need to perform stillness to survive the weight of touch.

For once, she is not waiting for something to go wrong.

And in that realization is an almost unbearable grace. A relief so sudden and total it makes her dizzy.

(You don't want this.)

But she does.

(You shouldn't be here.)

But she is.

(You hate touch.)

She doesn't.

(You are broken.)

No.

I'm not broken.

I was never broken.

This isn't something to fight. This isn't something to rationalize.

This is just... being here.

Naya's thumb strokes once again through the strands of her hair. Barely there. Like brushing across a page. Her hand, still resting at Mio's waist, curls in. Firmer. And Mio sighs—she sighs—because there is nothing else to do.

They stay like that. For how long, Mio doesn't know. She has no sense of time here. Time becomes something fluid, a stretched interval between heartbeats. Music without bars or notation. A sustained note that never resolves, and never needs to.

There is only the closeness. There is only the quiet. There is only the point where they connect. And Mio stays there. Long enough for the moment to stop being a decision. Long enough for it to just be.

Her cheek presses deeper into Naya's neck. The skin is warm. Solid. Familiar in a way that rewrites the story she's always told herself. That closeness meant danger. That contact was a test she would always fail. That intimacy was an equation she would never balance.

But this—this isn't a test. It isn't an equation.

It's an answer.

(This is the most dangerous thing you've ever done.)

This is the safest I've ever been.

(There's no space left between you.)

There's no space left between us.

And she doesn't want there to be.

She thinks about all the times she's said no. All the times she's wanted to be touched but couldn't bear the weight of it. All the times she told herself she was wrong. That something inside her was broken. That wanting was for other people.

And now—this.

This is something else.

She listens to Naya's breathing, eyes closed. To her heartbeat. To the quiet. And her own pulse answers, slow and steady. She breathes in lavender and citrus. She breathes in the place where Naya's shoulder curves against her forehead. She breathes in the way this feels.

And she doesn't want to leave.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

And there they stay. And time stretches. And passes quickly. And doesn't pass at all.

She's weightless. She's anchored. She doesn't want to let go. She doesn't have to.

So they stay like that. For a minute. For an hour. For however long it takes to memorize the feeling of something that, finally, doesn't hurt.

This is how things start.

Or maybe this is how they continue.

Mio doesn't know.

She just knows she's here.

Naya's hand strokes her hair again. And the world keeps turning.

And Mio keeps holding on.

Like this is the moment she's been waiting for without ever knowing it.

Like letting go would mean unraveling something she's only just figured out how to hold.

And Naya—Naya doesn't let go either.

Her arms stay steady, warm, patient. Not demanding. Never demanding. She's not pulling Mio closer, but she isn't stepping away. She's just there. Present in a way that Mio hadn't understood was possible. That presence—quiet, grounding, real—sinks into Mio's skin like warmth after a long, cold day. So ordinary. So extraordinary.

It's not that Mio stops being afraid. It's that the fear shifts into something she can carry. It stops being a wall and becomes something else—a string tugging her forward instead of holding her back. A gravity she chooses to orbit.

Mio tightens her arms. One last time. As if to mark this moment. As if to tell the universe:

This.

Naya moves first. Not away, but subtly. She leans back just enough to see Mio's face, and Mio has to make herself look up, has to make herself stay in the moment instead of floating out of it.

Their arms are still around each other. Still braced in a suspended shape they haven't thought to undo yet like a sentence that hasn't found its ending. Mio breathes in, and Naya's presence fills the space inside her chest in a way that shouldn't be possible.

One of Naya's hands rests light at the curve of Mio's waist, fingers lax but undeniably there, a steady weight that Mio can feel through every layer of fabric like a pulse. Her own hands—she's aware of them now—have settled at the angles of Naya's shoulders, not tight, not loose, but existing in a kind of suspension. A pause.

And yet.

The distance between their faces is not distance at all. It's measured in breaths, in the faintest shift of air, in the heat that moves between skin and skin without ever quite touching. Naya's gaze feels too close, like a mirror turned inward, like Mio might see something she isn't ready to face. They are close enough that the next movement could be anything. Could be nothing.

It should be too close. It is too close, if she follows the logic she's been raised on, the internal architecture she's spent years building to make sense of herself.

She could let go. She should let go. She should step back. She knows that. She should put space between them, establish the boundaries that used to make her feel safe. She's known it for minutes now—or maybe hours, maybe her whole life—but she can't seem to make her body—treacherous and wanting in a language she hasn't yet agreed to speak—listen. Her hands stay at the line of Naya's shoulders, fingers curved loosely, as if they belong there. As if they always have.

But she doesn't.

She doesn't want to.

Or maybe she does, but the wanting is layered, recursive. It loops back on itself, unsolvable, a paradox she can't untangle.

Because the closeness is too much, and it's not enough. Because it unmoors her, and it steadies her. Because she minds, and doesn't. At the same time. It's a discomfort she's willing to inhabit, maybe even something she's learning to want. The nearness. The possibility of it. Of her. It hums between them, an unresolved chord, delicate and dissonant.

Waiting.

For what, Mio doesn't know. Or won't let herself know. But something holds there, balanced on a breath. A sliver of space that could close, or stretch, or dissolve entirely if either of them moved the wrong way—or the right one. She isn't sure which is which.

But she doesn't move. And Naya doesn't either.

The space holds. And so does she.

Mio exhales slowly, as if that might explain her to herself. It doesn't. But Naya's hand stays where it is, and Mio's hands stay where they are, and that, for now, is enough.

Naya's green eyes are darker in the low light, unreadable the way deep water is unreadable. But there's something in them. Something that makes Mio's throat close for a second, like her body is still catching up to where she is.

"You okay?" Naya asks. Quiet. Careful. As if she knows the answer but wants Mio to say it anyway.

And Mio does.

"Yeah," she says. And it's true. She breathes, and it's still true. "I'm okay."

Naya searches her face a little longer, then nods. Just once. And Mio feels the knot inside her loosen a fraction more.

They stand there for another moment. Two people who don't have to say anything else right now. Not because there's nothing left to say, but because they've said enough for today. Maybe for a while.

Mio draws back first, slow. Naya lets her, gives her that space, but doesn't move far. There's still a thread between them, something unbroken. And Mio realizes she wants to keep it that way.

"I should probably... go back," she says. It's not an excuse. Just a fact.

Naya doesn't argue. She just nods again. "Okay."

But she walks Mio to the door. Quiet steps, no rush. She opens it with one hand, and the hallway light spills in soft and pale.

Mio steps out into it but lingers. She hesitates with her hand still on the doorframe, like she's waiting for something. She doesn't know what.

Naya gives it to her anyway.

"Thank you," she says again. And this time it's not just for the gifts or the card or the party. Mio can hear it. It's for something bigger. Deeper. The kind of thanks you can't give if you don't trust someone with the weight of it.

Mio nods. She takes a breath, feels it fill her chest all the way to the edges, and lets it go.

"Goodnight," she says. And then—because it feels right, because it feels true—she adds, "I'm happy you're here."

Naya's smile is small but real. "Me too."

Mio walks back to her room with that in her chest. Heart still pounding, but in a different rhythm now.

---

Later, after the door clicks shut behind her, she lies awake for a long time. Hands folded neatly over her stomach. Breathing slow. Measured. As if stillness might be enough to keep her from coming undone.

The ceiling is faint with shadows. Her room hums faintly with the sound of the building settling, or maybe that's just her pulse, lodged somewhere higher than it should be.

She can still feel the weight of it.

Of Naya's hands on her back.

Of her own arms wrapping around someone else for once, without flinching.

Without thinking too hard.

Her fingers twitch. She lifts them slowly from where they rest, bringing them into her line of sight. Long fingers. Calloused at the tips from years of bass strings. A faint line along her left middle knuckle where she presses her pen too tightly.

She's always thought her hands were too big. "Unfeminine," she once said to Ritsu in second year, before a club meeting. "Strong," Ritsu had replied, without missing a beat.

But the thought remains.

She spreads her fingers wider. Splays them open like something she's trying to decipher. Like sheet music in a key she's only now learning how to read.

She thinks about hands.

How they hold.

How they let go.

How they tremble sometimes in the spaces between songs.

Notes:

Okay, people. We good? We breathing? We alive and well?

How do I say this calmly.

Mio and Naya hugged.

MIO AND NAYA HUGGED.

MIO. AND. NAYA. HUGGED.

So... the hug.

The Hug™.

Big moment. Huge moment. (ba dum tss.)

This scene has been living rent-free in my head for months. I was terrified to write it. Terrified I wouldn't do it justice. Because this isn't a kiss. It's not a confession. It's not fireworks. It's something softer than all that. I'm used to see big, romantic moments in fics about dramatic confessions and passionate kisses, not... this. This subtle, sweet intimacy. This is a good, good hug—the kind that transforms you without asking for anything in return. So yeah, writing it was like prepping for a boss battle I'd been dreading and romanticizing for a year. Because for Mio, this moment is bigger.

Because a really good hug—a whole-body, no-flinching, no-fear, silent-understanding, stay-for-as-long-as-you-need hug—is a kind of intimacy that's louder than kisses and words and even sex, fight me. And gentler than anything Mio's ever been allowed to feel. And I was scared. I wanted to get it right. I wanted it to feel earned.

I still remember when this hug wasn't even written. It was just a bullet point. A someday. An I'm scared because I'm gonna screw this up. And now it's out there. It exists outside my drafts. Posted. Real.

Our girls are growing up T_T

Next up: a new arc. Hakone. Yes, that Hakone. (Booooo Kenji boooooo anyone remember him? Anyone? No? Okay.)

Thanks for reading. And thank you for all the sweet birthday wishes for Naya. She felt every single one <3

See you in Hakone!

Chapter 29: The Distance Between Zero And One

Summary:

Mio arrives in Hakone.

Notes:

Sorry if this chapter is weird in any sense. I don't know how to write guys. I don't like to write guys. That's why I'm doing a K-ON! fic, people.

But first of all: thanks for your patience! I've been on vacay in Brussels, which means I'm now an expert in waffles, overpriced coffee, and public WiFi that moves slower than the medieval canal boats in Bruges. We went to the "best Italian restaurant in the area" where the waiter proudly explained their authentic carbonara recipe and well. No.

The Atomium? Ugly, useless, but very photogenic. Out of a thousand waffle shops, the best one was in a van. I also travelled 1,500 km by plane only to meet a man in Bruges who turned out to be related to my in-laws, because apparently the world is just one big tiny village. Ghent was full of tourists, Antwerp was cramped, Bruges was pretty charming actually, and Brussels charged me for existing.

Anyway. The Hakone Arc begins. Which means: no girls, no Naya, just Mio and Kenji together 24/7—exactly what everyone came here for. (No. No one came here for this. I don't want to write it. You don't want to read it. And it's FOUR chapters. Why am I doing this to myself? Why am I doing this to US? Did anyone even remember that Kenji—aka Plot Device—existed? Boo.)

Also, Jules (tsuki_anne) had to step down as beta. Temporarily. Nothing happened, everything's fine, our schedules just don't match, and this is all volunteer work done for the love of art. She's still supporting me from the stands, and I still love her with all my soul. But now I have to beta myself, with my poor English, and I hope I don't make Oxford cry too hard. Or you guys.

Anyway, enjoy the beginning of this romantic getaway where Mio will be very, very happy. (Poor girl. Don't worry, she'll eventually be orgasm-level-happy with a certain Spaniard. In... quite a few chapters.)

The Distance Between Zero and One, by Nerve, was released on July 11, 2011.

July 29, 2011

The landscape is an endless smear of green and gray, blurred by speed and by distance. Fields flatten against glass. Roads cross rivers like veins over pale skin. Everything moves. And Mio sits still.

She presses her forehead to the cool pane of the train window, her breath fogging faint clouds on the glass that vanish almost as soon as they appear. Ephemeral things. Brief, like goodbyes. She thinks about that, absently. How goodbyes always happen at windows. Hands pressed flat. Faces behind glass. Words they can't hear but still mouth anyway.

Goodbyes, she thinks, always happen at train windows.

It's something about the motion. The way people diminish as the train moves on, their outlines distorting before they vanish altogether. It makes everything feel permanent. Irrevocable.

This is different, though. This is not a goodbye. This is a beginning. She has told herself that three times already since they left Sakuragaoka.

But beginnings and endings look the same from a distance.

Mio exhales through her nose, long and slow, watching the fog bloom and dissolve. She shifts in her seat, knees tucked in toward the window, her book open in her lap, spine balanced in the hollow between her thighs. She hasn't turned a page in fifteen minutes.

Her fingers are curled loosely around the edge of a paper she's read twice but remembers nothing of. The letters blur if she stares too long. Not because of movement, but because she keeps forgetting she's supposed to be seeing them. Her eyes track the lines, yes, but they don't hold. Meaning drifts. Like steam from a teacup left too long untended, the words dissolve before they can leave residue.

The music hums in her left ear. Just one earbud, like a tether to two places at once. I Love You, Dude, by Digitalism. The album has grown on her. Some songs are not her cup of tea. Others make her like it more than the first album. All of them remind Mio of her.

Kenji is sitting beside her, scrolling through his phone with a furrow of concentration between his brows. Checking something about the ryokan, or the ropeway timetable. He's meticulous like that, and she should find it comforting.

She does. She tells herself she does.

(It's normal. It's how he is. How things are.)

Kenji adjusts himself in the seat, glancing at her briefly. "Did your mom pack anything this time? She usually sends snacks."

Mio smiles faintly. "Just a few onigiri. They're in my bag."

He chuckles under his breath. "She really thinks we're going to starve on a two-hour ride."

"It's her job," Mio says, in a low voice. "She can't help herself."

"Did she do the salmon ones?"

"Your favorite," she confirms, smiling again. "Of course."

Kenji chuckles, pleased. Mio shifts again. Her thigh presses against the metal edge of the seat, sharp enough to mark. She listens to the low murmur of the carriage, to the rhythmic click of the train on its rails, to the quiet shuffle of passengers standing, adjusting bags, shifting weight from foot to foot as they wait for their station.

She watches them line up at the next stop, neat and orderly along the painted guides on the platform. Their movements are practiced, unconscious. A choreography no one teaches, but everyone learns.

She thinks of Naya then. Naya, who never queued on the subways in Spain, who said this country is obsessed with order as if it were something funny. Naya, who fell into step anyway. Naya, who noticed things. Things Mio never thought of.

Because you don't think about gravity until you trip. Until you're falling.

Until you've already fallen.

Mio blinks. Clears her throat.

A hand on her shoulder.

"You okay?" Kenji's voice breaks the space between them.

She jumps, barely. Then smooths it away before it can show.

"Yeah," she says, and closes her book carefully on one finger. Like she might open it again. Like this was only an interruption. "What is it?"

Kenji leans in a little, his shoulder brushing hers. He holds his phone at an angle so she can see it. The screen glows soft in the dim light of the carriage.

"I was thinking," Kenji says, tapping the itinerary they'd pieced together a few weeks earlier in the café, "after we check in, we could head straight to the Open-Air Museum. Spend a few hours there before taking the ropeway up. If we time it right, we'll catch the sunset."

Mio stares at the list for a moment. Watches the characters swim into legibility. Open-Air Museum—ropeway—sunset—Lake Ashi—boat tour—kaiseki dinner.

Simple. Predictable. A series of places to be, things to do. It should comfort her.

"It makes sense," she says, nodding. "We should go early. The weather's supposed to be clear tomorrow too... better for the lake."

"Exactly. If we take the boat in the morning, we'll avoid the crowds. And we'll still have time to visit the shrine before we come back to the ryokan." His finger taps twice on the paper.

Mio clicks her pen once. She glances down again.

Day one: Art. Heights. A sunset.
Day two: Water. Prayer. A traditional meal. A private bath waiting.

A script. One she helped write.

She takes her pen out of her bag and clicks it, adding nothing. But she draws a small checkmark anyway. Like that will make it real.

Kenji smiles at her, pleased. "I'm glad you're excited."

Am I?

(You're trying. That's the same.)

Kenji turns back to his phone, satisfied. She angles herself back toward the window, lets her gaze blur again. Lets the glass take her temperature back through her skin.

She thinks of goodbyes.

She's never been good at goodbyes. Not in the way Ritsu is, waving without looking back. Not in the way Yui is, who forgets they're supposed to be sad. Mio holds them like paper in the rain—delicate things, turning soft in her grip. She tells herself she lets go before they disintegrate. She doesn't know if that's true.

Yui smiled wide, hugging her too tight—and Mio smiling through it, despite herself—telling her to have fun. Azusa handed her a box of cookies for the trip—homemade, a little burnt—and told her to take pictures. Mugi clasped her hands between both of Mio's and beamed like she knew something Mio didn't.

"Enjoy yourself, Mio-chan. Really."

That's what Mugi said.

And Ritsu.

Ritsu didn't tease her.

She thought she would. She thought Ritsu would say something about hot springs and couples and—well, something.

But she didn't.

She just clapped her on the shoulder, and said, "Don't overthink it," and walked away without teasing.

That had thrown Mio more than anything.

Her father had said, "Be responsible." Her mother had said, "Enjoy yourself." They had stood in the doorway as Mio slipped her shoes on, bags neatly arranged at her side. Her mother had smiled in that careful way of hers, as if watching something delicate walk away.

(You're a good girl. They trust you.)

And Naya.

Naya, leaning in her doorway, one hand braced above her head, the other tucked into the pocket of her jeans. The Ruby Riot bracelet still on her left wrist.

"I'll stay here," she said, casual. "No place to go until camp."

Mio frowned. She had thought about asking if she'd be lonely. If she wanted company. But the words stuck.

Instead, she managed, "You'll be alone?"

Naya's mouth had quirked. "Liz is staying too. She'll go back to Osaka after the camp." A shrug. "We'll be fine."

Mio had looked past her, just for a second. Saw the photo on Naya's shelf. The one Mio had given her. Both of them in it.

Naya had caught her looking. Didn't say anything.

And then, with a fond smile: "Have fun, Mio."

Mio had nodded. She wasn't supposed to feel... anything about that. She told herself it was fine. That it was normal. That there was nothing significant about a photograph framed by someone else's space.

As if it were that simple.

Now, on the train, Kenji is looking through his bag for something, mumbling under his breath about itinerary notes. She can hear the faint scratch of pen on paper. See him checking his phone again. Responsible. Efficient.

She's trying to read.

She's not reading.

She watches their reflections in the glass instead. Hers pale, slightly blurred. His more solid.

(Which one of you is moving? Which one of you is standing still?)

Mio breathes in through her nose, lets it out slow. Watches the clouds on the window fog and fade. Kenji's hand finds her shoulder again. He points to something on his phone. A map this time. Directions to the ryokan. She nods. Smiles.

"When we check in, we should ask about the kaiseki," Kenji says. "It'd be better to book it tonight."

Mio blinks, then nods again. She closes her book—quiet, no sound at all—and glances at him. His expression is open. Comfortable.

"Yeah," she says. "Good idea."

It's automatic, how she shifts into this version of herself. The girlfriend who plans things, who keeps track of details, who cares about getting it right.

She doesn't know when it started feeling like a role.

She doesn't know why it still feels safer to stay in it.

They talk a little. About where to eat lunch when they arrive. About check-in times. About the ropeway. Her voice works. It's easy enough.

(You can do this. You're doing this.)

The train slows at the next station. She watches the lines of passengers waiting without fuss in precise order. Watches them step forward as the doors slide open with a pneumatic hiss.

Mio watches them, head tilted just slightly.

"We always do that," she murmurs.

Kenji glances up. "Do what?"

"Line up," she says. "To get on the train. Even if there's no one telling them to."

Kenji looks at her, questioning.

She gestures, vaguely, toward the line of people boarding. "We do that. Line up like that. Everywhere. It's... something."

Kenji follows her gaze. "It's expected."

She glances at him.

"But don't you think it's... interesting? The unspoken rules by which we abide?" she asks, without really thinking.

"And this sudden obsession with lining up?" he asks, amused.

Mio frowns, but tries to hide it with a pout. "I just find it curious that we take for granted something that may not be normal in other places."

"I don't." He says it like a fact. "It's how it should be."

Mio wraps the earbud into a tight loop. She watches the passengers step inside, one by one, smooth as clockwork. No rushing. No chaos.

Expected.

Supposed to be.

She turns back to her seat. Puts the left earbud in, the music returning in mid-phrase, catching up to where she left it. The station slides away behind them.

A dreamy haze of sound. Just Gazin'.

That's what she's doing. Just gazing.

I am here, watch the sky turn brighter.
Yes, yes, you mean.

It thrums under her skin. Like something breathing beneath the surface. She closes her eyes for a moment. Lets the words seep in. The rhythm pulses at the back of her throat.

She shifts in her seat. Opens her eyes again. The window blurs again. They're moving fast now. Trees whip by like brushstrokes, like everything outside is part of a painting someone is smudging too quickly.

Kenji is watching the map. The train moves forward.

Mio thinks about hands. Naya's, warm at her back. Kenji's, warm at her shoulder. Her own, closing around nothing.

She thinks about holding back. About the places on her skin where she still feels distance, even when someone's touch lands. About thresholds she crosses without meaning to, and the ones she never quite reaches.

She exhales slow and watches the reflection of her breath cloud the glass. Her reflection fades.

She thinks about hands.

About holding backs.

About holding back.

Take it easy, easy on me.

---

Hakone-Yumoto.

The letters announce themselves in clean, sans-serif certainty, but Mio doesn't register them until they've already stopped. Until the shift in motion—first subtle, then absolute—reminds her that they're here. That she's meant to move now.

She stands because Kenji does, closing her book one-handed. The earphones wind themselves around her fingers as if by instinct. Left ear first. Then right. Around and around. Neat. Then he lifts both their bags without waiting for her to offer, the straps sliding over his shoulder with a weighted thunk. By habit.

She should offer to carry something.

(He doesn't mind. He likes doing this.)

His hand rests briefly at the small of her back as they file toward the exit, a gesture so familiar it barely ripples through her. Barely.

The platform is bright, sober steel arching overhead in quiet geometry. Sunlight angles down hard, sharper here than it was in Tokyo, as if they've crossed into another dimension rather than just another prefecture.

They walk in silence toward the station exit, their footsteps small, careful echoes against concrete. There are signs for tourists. English. Chinese. Arrows pointing the way toward buses and taxis, and Kenji doesn't hesitate. He's checked this already. Of course he has.

She follows. There is comfort in knowing where to go.

Hakone smells different. She notices that almost immediately, stepping out into the open. The air has a weight to it. Heavy with wet greenery, soil turned dark and soft from the last rain. The scent of moss climbing low stone walls. There's a mineral tang beneath it all, faint but constant, something that pulls at the back of her throat. Steam, she realizes distantly. From the hot springs.

She breathes in.

The difference settles over her skin like another layer of clothing.

The crowds thin quickly. Tourists, mostly. Young couples with weekend bags and woven hats, old men with cameras slung across their chests, children dragging cheap plastic suitcases shaped like animals. The color and noise blur in her periphery.

But Hakone is not Tokyo. There is space here between bodies.

The street is clean in that way that feels deliberate. The storefronts are quaint, but curated. Like something from a catalog. Not artificial, exactly. But aware of itself. Mio feels aware of herself, too. Too aware. Her blouse cling to her shoulder blades, damp where her bag's strap dragged over skin for too long earlier. The heat is thick enough to taste.

Kenji doesn't seem to notice.

He angles toward the taxi stand, and she trails after, watching the neat line of vehicles, the drivers waiting with the quiet patience she's been told is professionalism. She doesn't speak much. Kenji does, leaning in with polite formality, confirming the ryokan name. They've practiced this kind of conversation before. They don't have to now. It makes everything smooth.

They slide into the back seat. The doors close automatically. Mio flinches—quietly, inwardly—when the latch clicks shut.

The taxi ride is short. Twenty minutes, maybe less, winding through narrow streets bordered by tall trees, their trunks dark and straight. Every so often, the canopy breaks, revealing the sudden bright geometry of a rooftop, a sliver of sky, the pale thread of a distant cable car. Mio watches all of it through the window. The glass smells of old vinyl and something sharper beneath, like a cleaner that doesn't quite mask time.

Kenji is talking to the driver. His voice steady, polite. She listens without listening.

She watches trees blur again. Different trees this time. Not flat brushstrokes, but tall trunks, curved and reaching. Something more alive. She wonders if it's an old forest. If these roots are older than the road that winds through them.

She wonders what it feels like to belong to a place for that long. If it gets heavy.

The ryokan appears around a bend, discreet and pale against the green. It doesn't announce itself. It waits to be seen. Kenji leans forward, says something to the driver. They stop beneath the wooden eaves, where a woman in a soft gray yukata waits to greet them.

Mio takes her bag and steps out first this time. Her feet land lightly on the stone.

The entrance smells like cedar and old rice-paper. There's a hush here that isn't silence. Like holding one's breath before something sacred. Yet she doesn't feel reverent. She feels like she's mimicking reverence. But her shoes come off at the threshold. Her steps soften on the tatami mats. She bows at the right angle.

Kenji speaks again, checking the reservation. His voice is lower here, as if to match the room. He arranges it neatly with the staff, confirming their room, nodding as they review the reservation. The staff smiles, bows, gestures toward a place for their bags. Mio stands nearby, hands folded carefully in front of her, feeling oddly like luggage herself—placed, expected, silent until needed.

They can leave them for now. Check-in isn't until three. Kenji already knew that, of course. He planned around it.

It's too easy. It feels like slipping into water that's too clear—you can't tell if you're drowning.

"Would you like to reserve the kaiseki dinner now?" the woman asks in clear, measured tones.

Kenji glances at Mio, like an afterthought or an offering. His shoes are lined up too neatly by the entrance. She's not sure if he did that or the staff.

Mio nods. "For tomorrow night," she says. "Please."

The woman smiles. Bows again. Notes something on her clipboard. Says their bags will be waiting when they return. The conversation is brief. Polite. Professional. Everything about this place is like that—pared down to essentials, but still beautiful.

When it's done, Kenji thanks them. Mio does too, instinctively, bowing at the proper angle. They are led back to the entrance, shoes returned, and they step back into the heat. The sun angles lower now, gold through the trees.

"It's still early," Kenji says. His tone is lighter now. There's satisfaction there, somewhere beneath the surface. "We can head to the museum before it gets too crowded."

Mio nods. This was always the plan.

They walk back to the road. There is a shuttle bus to the museum, but Kenji suggests they walk—it's not far, and the weather is good.

(You should enjoy this.)

Mio agrees.

The path is narrow, but well-maintained. Paved in clean stones, with low fences of split bamboo and rough rope cordoning off the mossy embankments on either side. The air is quieter here. Birdsong threads through it in intervals, bright as struck bells.

Kenji walks beside her. Their arms don't touch. Their shadows stretch long behind them. Two silhouettes. A series of shapes to fill space.

They talk, but only in pieces. About the exhibits they'll see. About the view from the gondola later. About the kaiseki menu. He asks her if she prefers seafood or beef, if she wants to request anything specific.

She answers. She's polite. Thoughtful. She's practiced in this. But the words feel like prewritten dialogue. She wonders if he notices.

She wonders if she cares if he notices.

The slope evens out after ten minutes. A wide sign announces the Open-Air Museum ahead. There's a small line at the entrance, but Kenji already booked the tickets last week, like everything else.

Mio glances up at the wide, sky-framed archway. The path curves beyond it, disappearing into green.

They step through the gate without pause. No lines. No waiting. The path opens ahead of them. Art, waiting.

Mio lets herself breathe a little deeper.

This part she can do.

She thinks.

---

The Open-Air Museum exhales around them—wide and quiet and green. There's no imposing facade, no grand entrance. Just a widening of the path, a gate made of quiet geometry, and then—space.

They step into it like slipping into water. Clear, cool, deceptively shallow.

The path slopes in slow, considerate degrees, its concrete softened by age and moss. They walk side by side, shoes muted against the gravel—his strides measured, hers smaller. The breeze threads through the cedar canopy in thin, insistent lines, tugging at Mio's sleeves as if to direct her attention. She ignores it. Or follows. She isn't sure.

Sculptures punctuate the landscape like parentheses, some heavy with declarative weight, others light as questions she doesn't quite understand yet. The mountains stand at their backs, indifferent and distant.

Kenji consults a folded map he collected from the front counter. It's laminated, the corners worn soft by thousands of fingers. He holds it like an itinerary, like something that can be mastered.

Mio adjusts the strap of her Lomo LC-A across her chest. Its weight is slight but grounding. A gravity point. She lifts it briefly, checks the lens with her thumb, clicks the cap free. It whirs in her grip, eager. She clicks the Lomo's shutter without raising it to her eye. Her thumb flicks the wheel, winds it forward. The mechanism catches with a sound no one else seems to notice.

Or maybe she's projecting.

(You're here. You're holding this. You can stay here.)

Kenji says something about the map—about starting from the left path, circling clockwise. She nods. It doesn't matter where they start. The path will still take them somewhere.

So they start along the left path. Gravel shifts beneath their shoes, the air already warming into something heavier than the morning promised. She focuses on that first—the sensation of it. How it slows things down. How it makes her notice her breathing.

The first sculptures rise out of the green like they've grown there. Bronze limbs stretch into sky. Iron plates curve into hollowed-out spirals. Some are smooth, others sharp. Forms that suggest bodies, but bodies simplified—abstracted down to the feeling beneath the shape. Smooth metal curves. Jagged concrete forms. Bronze castings that seem either impossibly solid or hollow, depending on where she stands. Some are half-sunk into the slope, as if they've grown here, as if they belong to the earth in a way she never quite has.

She lingers at each one longer than Kenji expects. She can feel it. The way he slows first out of consideration, then out of obligation, and finally with a restless impatience he tries to hide.

It isn't his fault. He's trying.

She's trying.

The camera fits into her palm as she brings it up. Frame. Focus. Click.

The sound is small, but it punctures the quiet like a pebble dropped into a still pool. The statue in her frame is titled Reclining Figure: Arch Leg. Henry Moore. She knows that already—she's read about this piece. Seen it reproduced on websites, grainy photos in digital textbooks. But here it breathes. Not literally.

The green rolls behind it like surf. Clouds drift behind its smooth arch. It makes her feel like she's looking at something that isn't waiting to be understood.

She likes that.

Mio observes the piece. Its body abstracted, its limbs arcing with the casual defiance of something that doesn't need to explain itself.

She tilts her head and tries to find the spine. She wonders if there is one.

Kenji waits ahead at a crossroads, shifting his weight once, then twice.

"You really like this kind of thing," he says.

She lifts her camera. Frame. Click.

The sound of the shutter is small but definite.

"Sometimes," she answers.

(Sometimes, you like anything that doesn't ask you to be beautiful. Or understandable.)

"It's like it's being held up by something," she says. "But there's nothing there."

Kenji makes a sound of polite interest. "That's the point, right? Balance." He consults the pamphlet, thumb tracing the description.

Mio tilts her head. The curve of the figure's spine is a hollow. Negative space. She wonders if it was meant to represent absence. Or if that's just where her mind lands. The Lomo hangs heavy at her sternum on its thin strap, lens glassy and blank.

He shifts his weight from foot to foot again, glancing toward the next installation.

"I thought you wanted to see the Picasso Pavilion," he says when she catches up.

"I do," she says.

He gestures toward the path. "We can go now."

"After," she says. "Let's take this way first."

He taps the map's edge once. "Sure."

But she knows the tempo's shifting. She's slowing down. He's speeding up. They move together. And not.

They walk on. Kenji points things out occasionally. Names on plaques. Years of creation. Facts he's read from the pamphlet, now recited aloud, as if explaining will make it mean more. She listens.

The Weeping Woman catches her from a distance. It rises from the water, half-hidden behind its own hair of green—ivy and creeping vines curling into a dense tangle. Vines that have grown up around it, embracing or consuming—Mio can't decide which.

The face is placid. Not mournful. Not joyful. Something in between.

Something in suspension.

Mio stops. Raises her Lomo again. Click.

Kenji waits a step ahead.

"You really like that one?" Kenji asks.

She lowers the camera. "Yeah, it's... deep."

"It's kind of eerie," he says. "The face. It's so... blank."

She glances at him. "Maybe that's the point."

He chuckles. "Trust you to like the sad one."

Mio thumbs the Lomo's strap where it bites her collarbone.

"I don't think it's blank, though," she murmurs.

"Then what?"

Mio considers, but doesn't answer. Not everything needs translation.

She circles the sculpture once. Takes another photo, closer this time, where the vines creep over the eyelids. They almost look like lashes.

Kenji takes a few photos with his phone, expression neutral. His shadow falls sharp across the edge of the pool.

Mio kneels. Watches how the surface tension breaks where leaves have drifted in from the treetops, how they stain the water brown around their edges. She raises the Lomo again. Frames the jawline and the glint of wet stone. Presses the shutter.

Kenji glances at her. "Want me to take one of you?"

She shakes her head. Not unkindly. "No. It's fine. But thanks."

He pockets his phone. "It's interesting. How it's lying down like that. Almost playful."

"Or abandoned," she says.

Kenji blinks. His mouth quirks. "I guess."

They move on.

---

The paths split and curve and rejoin. There's a logic to it. An internal map, folded carefully, even if you can't see it from above. The sculptures rise and fall like a tide. Some in metal, some in stone. Some that catch light as if they're holding onto it. Others that seem to absorb it.

Mio finds herself cataloging these things in her head. Which ones reach for the sky. Which ones anchor to the ground. Which ones invite touch, and which ones don't.

They pass by the Woods of Net. Children scream and laugh from inside, their bright voices punctuating the otherwise quiet air. The nets twist and dip, spider-silk-colored threads holding their weight, a lattice of possibility suspended between beams.

"Looks fun," Kenji says, smiling at the noise.

Mio nods. She doesn't say she wishes she could climb it. That she's too old. That she knows the rules. She's always known the rules.

That adults aren't allowed, even if no one's there to stop them.

But she can see it—Ritsu would already be halfway up, shoes kicked off without a second thought, calling back over her shoulder with a grin that dares everyone else to follow. Yui would climb after her, arms flailing, laughing too hard to get a good grip. Azusa would have her cheeks flushed red, then go after them anyway just to make sure they don't fall. Mugi would stand at the edge, fingers laced behind her back, smiling with that secret amusement of hers before stepping out onto the ropes herself, surprising everyone with her balance.

And Mio—

Mio would tell them to stop. She would fold her arms and scold them, too, because someone has to. Because someone always has to. But five minutes later, she'd be up there anyway. Breath caught in her throat. Fingers curling tight around the nets. Laughing, probably. Or trying not to. Because that's how it is with them. Because they never let her stay behind.

And deep down, she wants that. Wants to be the version of herself who doesn't think twice about climbing. Wants to be that free.

The mountain holds them in place. That's what it feels like. The paths curve and switch back on themselves, gentle spirals that close in before they open again. Every sculpture is an intervention. A disturbance smoothed into elegance. Mio wonders if the landscape was carved to fit them, or if the art was made to obey the land. She suspects both are true.

Time dilates. Compresses.

They stop at a maze. It's not much of one. Triangular beds of greenery, their concrete walls thick with moss. Kenji smiles. "Want to try it?" He's already stepping inside.

Mio hesitates.

(It's supposed to be fun. You can do this.)

She follows, slower.

The pathways fork at odd angles. Dead ends bloom into small gardens. From above, she imagines it looks like a circuit board, or a schema for something organic. Roots spreading in hexagonal logic. But inside, it feels smaller. Kenji's head disappears for a moment around one corner, then reappears. She hears his laugh, surprised.

There's nowhere to get lost. But she still takes a wrong turn.

Is it wrong if it goes somewhere?

She reaches for her camera again. Takes a picture of the walls, the seams where moss pushes between the stones. The walls seem taller from inside. She thinks of Naya. How she said mazes are pointless unless there's something at the center worth getting to.

Kenji meets her at the exit. "Easy," he says.

Mio smiles. She doesn't tell him she turned around three times. That she did it on purpose.

They sit on a bench afterward, sharing a bottle of water.

"Do you still want to go to that photography exhibit next month?" Kenji asks, eyes following a couple passing by with cameras similar to Mio's.

She glances at him, momentarily startled out of her thoughts. "Oh. Yeah, definitely."

He nods, relieved. "Good. I'll mark it down so I don't forget."

"You never forget," she says, almost teasing.

"I could," he insists lightly. "One day, I might surprise you."

Mio hums. "That would be a surprise."

He squeezes her hand once.

It's supposed to feel good.

It doesn't feel bad.

---

The path rises, curls. They're higher now. The mountains shoulder into view, their edges softened by distance and light haze. Kenji takes a photo with his phone. Mio with her Lomo.

They reach the Picasso Pavilion just after eleven. The entrance is cool in a way that feels calculated. Air conditioning, but also something else. A hush. The staff bow slightly as they enter. Kenji steps inside first. Mio follows.

The building is all clean lines and quiet walls. White space devours sound. Her feet make no noise on the floor.

Kenji reads every plaque. Tells her that Picasso made over 600 pieces of pottery in his later years.

She knows this already. She read it last week. She memorized it before he did.

She nods anyway.

"You can't take pictures here," Kenji reminds her in a low voice, even though she hasn't lifted her camera.

There's no need to remind her. But she thanks him anyway.

There's a display of sketches—portraits of Picasso's wife. Dozens of them. A woman's face, drawn again and again. Each slightly different. Nose thinner here. Mouth more curved there. Eyes tilted, or not. Each slightly different, as if he couldn't decide which was right. Or maybe every version was true. She wonders if he was trying to get it right—or if he was trying to draw all the ways she changed.

Endless versions, endless years, but no clear sense of self.

Mio stares at one for too long. Then the next. Then the next.

They walk through it at different speeds. Kenji lingers over the pottery. The colors. The symmetry. Mio reads the plaques slowly. She thinks about Spain.

About Naya.

The sketches are what stay with her. The repeated faces. The sameness that isn't sameness. What does it mean to be known like that? What does it mean to be seen that many ways, and still remain yourself?

Kenji stands behind her shoulder. He points at one sketch. "That one looks younger."

She nods.

He points at another. "Older, maybe."

Mio hums. She isn't sure. She doesn't think age is what changed between them. But she doesn't say that.

She imagines Picasso drawing the same woman until the lines no longer resemble her. Until they became someone else entirely. She wonders if that was the point. Or if he was chasing something that slipped away while he worked.

She stands in front of the last sketch longer than she should. It is almost an outline. Barely anything at all.

Kenji shifts beside her. His patience is long, but not infinite. She can feel it thinning.

She steps back.

---

They sit on a bench overlooking a wide lawn scattered with sculptures. Children climb through brightly colored tunnels shaped like worms. Their shrieks and laughter echo in the clear air.

Kenji opens a bottle of tea, offers it to her first. She accepts. The bottle is warm from his hand. She drinks anyway. It's cold, but doesn't stay cold.

"It's peaceful here," he says, leaning back with a satisfied sigh.

She sets the bottle on her knee, watches the condensation ring.

It is.

Peaceful. Pleasant. Like a page already written.

The Lomo sits on her lap. She traces the smooth edge of the lens with one finger, feeling for imperfections she knows aren't there.

Kenji glances at his watch. "Do you want to eat, then go up on the ropewayr after this? Or stay longer?"

Mio looks out across the field. The sun angles through the trees now, turning the sculptures into silhouettes. Black against gold.

"We can go," she says.

Kenji stands. Stretches. Offers his hand.

Mio takes it. His palm is dry and warm and steady.

She tells herself it's enough.

They walk toward the exit. She turns once. Takes a photo without looking through the viewfinder.

It might catch the sky. It might catch nothing at all.

She lifts her camera one more time. Frames the path ahead. Click.

Proof.

---

Kenji adjusts the strap of the small bag he's carrying. "Did Nakano-san make cookies again this time?"

Mio nods, smiling. "Yeah. They're getting better."

"Less burnt?"

"Only slightly."

Kenji chuckles. "Good for her. Persistence pays off."

"She might get offended if they start coming out perfect," Mio says. "It wouldn't feel authentic."

"Well," Kenji says, "as long as they're edible, I won't complain."

They reach the restaurant. It's a quiet, curated sort of place. Wooden beams darkened with age cross the ceiling in deliberate symmetry. Shikishi with neat calligraphy hang along the walls—quotations about nature, seasons, simplicity. Mio doesn't read them. She looks at the brushstrokes instead. The ink bleeds into the paper at the ends, like veins into skin. Intentions that fray on contact.

They are seated by a window. The view is good. Or good enough. The mountains shoulder close on all sides, softened by haze and distance. The lake is out of sight. She knows it's there anyway. Like a fact you don't question.

Like the fact that Kenji orders for both of them before she can decide if she's hungry.

He didn't even have to look at the menu—he found the restaurant a week ago. He knows the ratings, the specialties, the seasonal dishes. He orders for them both.

Mio doesn't mind. She doesn't think she minds.

Kenji talks about the museum while they wait. How the Picasso Pavilion was bigger than he expected. How the pottery had a simplicity to it that was almost childish, but deliberate. He says the word primitive twice.

Mio listens. She makes the appropriate sounds. "Mm," and "I see," and sometimes, "That's true." She sips her water in careful intervals. Their conversation moves like a current over smooth stones—steady, unbroken, predictable in its rhythm. And shallow.

They are filling silences. But not sharing them. There's a difference. She feels it like the weight of her camera in her lap, the strap wound twice around her wrist, safer that way. A precaution against sudden loss.

Kenji smiles at her, the way he does when things are going well. When a plan is unfolding the way it was meant to.

"It's nice here," he says again, as if that's the shape he wants to press the day into.

Mio sets her chopsticks on the rest. "It is," she agrees.

Lunch arrives. Cold soba and tempura. Seasonal vegetables. Clear broth that smells of citrus rind. The waitress smiles as she sets their trays down, her steps silent on polished wood.

Mio folds her hands neatly in her lap before reaching for the chopsticks. She thanks the waitress, bows her head slightly. Kenji does the same.

They begin to eat.

The conversation, if it can be called that, is light.

"This is good," Kenji says. "They must use local produce."

She nods. "It's sweet."

He smiles. "Yeah. We should try the kabocha when it's in season. There's a farm stand near my aunt's place."

"That sounds nice."

He mentions the cable car next. How they're making good time. How they'll be able to catch sunset if they board around four. How the weather's holding. Mio nods when she's supposed to. She makes a sound of agreement. Her hands work by muscle memory, breaking the soba into manageable lengths, dipping them into the tsuyu. Her fingers are steady. Her wrist doesn't ache.

She swallows. It's cool. Refreshing.

It doesn't stay.

"Your exams went well?" Kenji asks, breaking the silence with a comfortable ease. His chopsticks pause, hovering just above his plate as he looks at her with genuine interest.

Mio nods. "Yeah. I got the results back already. Everything went fine."

He smiles slightly, an expression of unsurprised approval. "As expected. You're always so responsible."

Her lips lift into a reflexive smile. "It didn't feel easy at the time," she admits, spinning a strand of soba in the bowl. "But it's a relief."

Kenji chuckles, nodding. "Yeah, you're always stressed before tests, but you always end up fine. How about your piano class? You said something about a final recital?"

"Oh, that's for the end of the year," Mio replies, relieved to speak about something simpler. "I just took the exams this semester. It worked out."

"That's good." He picks up another piece of tempura. "Are you going to keep taking piano next semester?"

"Of course. It's basic for teaching music." Mio pauses. "How about you? Your exams?"

"They were okay. I struggled a bit with one of the accounting subjects, but I passed."

"And your job?"

He nods. "Busy, but rewarding. They're letting me pick music for the trailers now, so it's an improvement."

She smiles, briefly genuine. "No more generic piano soundtracks?"

"Exactly," he says, his laughter like a quiet punctuation. "Although, apparently, some of the team actually liked those."

They both share a soft laugh—easy, light. For a moment, the space between them feels simpler, clearer. Like something remembered rather than performed.

She looks at Kenji's hands. How they don't move when he speaks. Why would they? It's not that common to speak with your hands more than with your mouth, but maybe Mio is used to it now. Yet Kenji's fingers tap against the lacquered table. He's explaining something else now—about the altitude, or how long the ride takes. Twenty-four minutes, she thinks. Maybe less.

She already knows this. She looked it up weeks ago. But she nods anyway.

It's a good plan. It makes sense.

She eats slowly. Kenji finishes before she does, and waits. Not impatient, but ready.

The silence comes next. She can feel it approach. Can feel it gather in the spaces between their words, like condensation on glass. Slow, inevitable, invisible until it beads enough to run.

Kenji breaks it, as he always does. He asks if she's tired.

She is.

She says no.

He smiles like he believes her. She wants him to.

The tea is warm. She holds the cup with both hands, lets it seep into her skin. Outside, a couple walks past the window. He's carrying her bag. She's carrying nothing. Their shadows stretch long behind them on the stone path.

Mio wonders which one of them is heavier. She wonders which one of them notices.

They finish lunch. They settle the bill. He pays. She thanks him.

(You're supposed to.)

Kenji thanks the staff with a polite bow. Mio does, too. They leave quietly, shoes straight, door sliding closed behind them with a practiced hush. They step out into the brightness of the afternoon. The heat swells again. A different kind of weight.

Mio blinks against the glare.

---

They walk to the ropeway station in near silence. It's not far. The path curves through another stand of cedars. Dark trunks. Bright leaves at the top. The slope is gentle, but Mio feels it in her calves anyway. She grips the strap of her camera tighter.

(You're fine. You're not tired. You can do this.)

By 3:00 p.m., they are at the Hakone Ropeway station. Kenji checks the timetable one more time, though the departure is exact, always exact.

The line for the ropeway is short. Tourists stand in loose clusters, their conversations murmuring in and out of languages Mio doesn't understand. She finds it soothing. The quiet anonymity of it.

No one is looking at them. No one is listening.

The gondola arrives with a pneumatic sigh. They step into the cabin as instructed, feet precise on painted lines, as if the act of boarding is a ceremony. Kenji guides her lightly, his hand resting briefly at the small of her back, as if she needs direction. She lets him.

There are other couples. Families. A child in a red hat with his face pressed to the glass. Kenji stands by the window, holding the handrail. Mio lets herself drift to the other side, palm hovering near the rail but not touching.

The doors close. The gondola shudders once. Then it rises. The ropeway hums beneath their feet, a low vibration through metal and glass. The cable holds steady above, taut and sure. Mio stands near the window. Kenji beside her. The ground falls away slowly. Then faster.

And they lift.

Suspended.

That's what it feels like. Neither ground nor sky. The sky is not a ceiling, but an absence. And they are between.

The cable is taut above them, the shadow of its line falling across the valley like a vein, thin and black. The landscape unfurls below them. Trees shrink into moss. Paths into threads. The mountains spread out in the distance, their ridges soft and pale, like brushstrokes left half-finished on rice paper. The lake glimmers once through the break in the ridgeline, then vanishes again behind another slope. The sky is wide. Unapologetically empty.

"You okay?" Kenji asks.

She nods. He smiles. His hand finds her back again, palm flat against her shoulder blade, fingers splayed. She doesn't move.

(It's okay. You're doing fine.)

Her stomach shifts, slow and queasy.

It isn't the height.

The gondola swings slightly as they pass a pylon. The cables groan. Mio tightens her grip on the strap. Her knuckles pale. She forces her fingers to loosen.

"Romantic, right?" Kenji says. He gestures at the window, at the world outside. At the green that blurs into blue, into gray, into light.

She fogs a small oval on the glass with her breath. "It is."

But it's a distant kind of beauty. Abstract. Something to admire from behind glass. Something she's not sure she can touch.

Kenji points. "You can see the sulfur vents from here."

She follows his hand. The land is broken open below. A white smoke unfurling in slow ribbons from the mountain's cracked skin. Like something still alive beneath the crust.

"They call it the Hell Valley," he says, reading from the pamphlet again.

Mio hums. "Jigokudani."

He smiles at her. "You remembered."

She traces the pamphlet's fold with a fingernail

She does. She remembers everything.

That's the problem.

They are suspended now. Between ground and sky. Neither here nor there. The space between points. A liminal corridor strung between fixed things. Like a sentence without a subject. Like waiting for something that's already happened.

The gondola hums underfoot.

Mio wonders if this is what it feels like to hover. To be held up by forces you can't see, can't name. To move without moving.

Her ears pop. The pressure shifts.

She thinks about falling. Not in the catastrophic sense. Not the panic of failure or flight. But the slow surrender to gravity. The inevitability of descent. She wonders what it would feel like to let go. Of what, she's not sure.

Kenji points out the fumaroles below, the thin columns of steam rising from the earth like breath in winter.

"Owakudani," he says. "You can smell the sulfur from here."

She can't. But she nods. He smiles again, pleased.

The world here smells faintly of minerals. She wonders if it clings to her skin. If she will taste sulfur in her mouth long after they descend. The gondola shifts slightly, a mechanical correction, a shiver through the cable. Her knees don't buckle, but the muscles tense.

Kenji notices. "You okay, then? With the height?"

She smiles. Automatic. "I'm fine."

(You're always fine.)

They glide forward. The silence is heavy, even with the murmurs of other passengers. Kenji talks, low and smooth, about the engineering of the ropeway. How many years it's been running. How safe it is. He reassures her without being asked.

She thanks him anyway.

The sun angles behind them. Their reflections in the window are superimposed on the mountains, on the sky. Mio sees herself there—blurred. Transparent. Like she could step out of herself if she moved fast enough. Like she could become untethered. Like she could become something else.

Even if no one would stop her.

Mio closes her eyes for a moment. The gondola rocks gently. She feels it in her ribs. The echo of something deeper. A hollow, maybe. An absence.

Kenji shifts beside her. She hears the click of his phone camera. He takes a photo of the view. Then another.

"Want me to take one of us?" he asks.

She opens her eyes.

(This is not a big deal.)

"Sure."

She moves closer. Their shoulders press together. He holds the phone out. Angles it. Smiles into it. Mio smiles, too. She sees herself in the screen. Her face pale against his. Their heads close.

A portrait. Proof.

He takes the photo. Checks it. Shows it to her.

"It's good," he says.

Mio nods. It's good.

(You're doing this. You're here.)

Kenji taps the glass lightly. "We're almost at Owakudani."

He's excited about the eggs, she remembers. The black ones boiled in the sulfur springs. The ones that add seven years to your life. He made a joke about that before. How he'd buy one for each of them, and then they'd have seven more years together.

It had sounded sweet at the time. Now, it sounds like a contract. Like an extension of a lease she's not sure she signed.

She lets herself imagine it for a moment.

Seven more years. Seven more iterations of this.

Mio watches the gondola ahead of them pass the midpoint tower. Watches how small it looks against the sky.

She thinks of pendulums.
Of suspension bridges.
Of fault lines.
Of tension held in place by invisible math.

Kenji is still smiling. She mirrors it. She has practiced enough to get the angles right.

(You can do this. You are doing this. You wanted this.)

Her stomach flips again. Not from the height, but from the silence between them. From the weight of what isn't being said.

---

At Owakudani, they disembark.

Her legs feel light. Too light. Kenji offers his hand for the last step. She takes it. His grip is sure. Her palm fits into his without thought.

(It fits. It's expected. It's right. It's what it should be.)

They walk toward the stalls. Sulfur hangs thick in the air now, yellow crust blooming along the edges of the path like dried honeycomb, cracked and brittle. Steam rises in pale whispers, curling upward before dissolving into the heat.

They buy the eggs. Mio watches Kenji carefully peel his egg, fingers precise and unhurried. He's neat, methodical. He hands her the second egg, shell already fractured, the thin membrane beneath visible in patches.

"Be careful," he says. "It's still hot."

She nods and accepts it gingerly, her fingertips pressing lightly into the broken surface. The shell flakes away in small, irregular shapes, some sharp-edged, some curved. There's a rhythm to it, careful but practiced. Kenji watches her peel it, patient, attentive. Like there's something satisfying about watching her handle the egg. Something predictable. Something he expects from her.

(You're good at careful things. At delicate things.)

She lifts it slowly to her mouth, tasting first the faint warmth of steam, then the muted mineral tang that lingers on her tongue as she bites. It tastes exactly like an egg, ordinary yet burdened with significance she isn't sure she wants.

(You will live seven years longer.)

What for?

"Seven more years," Kenji says lightly, smiling at her. "Lucky us."

Mio turns the egg in her fingers once. Seven more years. The thought repeats itself in her head. Seven more iterations of something she still can't name, repeating until it fades into something that barely resembles meaning.

What does one do with seven more years when the first feels incomplete?

The concept unfurls quietly in her chest. Picasso drew his wife's face again and again, chasing something just beyond his fingertips, capturing endless variations—none of them definitive. What if he hadn't known her at all? What if the repetition was an admission of distance, of ignorance? Or worse: what if it was he who kept changing, altering his vision each time, losing the original in pursuit of something he thought he should see?

Seven more years. Seven more portraits, each different, each farther from the truth.

She takes another bite. It feels heavier now. Kenji is smiling still, content, unaware of the weight she carries in something so simple. Mio swallows carefully.

She thinks about the endless versions of herself. The versions Kenji sees. The versions her friends recognize. The version she performs, even now, her fingers careful around something that feels suddenly fragile, symbolic of lives she isn't sure she wishes to extend.

More time means more versions. More layers of pretending. But is more time what she wants?

Or is it clarity?

"It's good," she says quietly, finally, finishing the egg. "Thank you."

He smiles again. They dispose of the shells neatly in a bin nearby. The fragments vanish into darkness, indistinguishable from one another. Mio wonders if anything remains distinct in the end.

---

The gondola descends, gravity pulling them back toward the earth, toward something more certain. The sky deepens, gold darkening slowly into amber, spilling warmth onto the edges of clouds that blur at the horizon.

Mio stares past her reflection in the glass, through the sheen of evening sunlight diffused by the valley haze, wondering about permanence and impermanence. About which moments deserve memory, and which ones merely occupy space.

Kenji stands quietly at her side. His hand brushes hers briefly. Mio notices, but she doesn't move, feeling the touch settle onto her skin, small and weightless yet inexplicably heavy.

She watches the shapes below grow larger, trees emerging from shadow into form, the lake brightening as they draw closer. The view sharpens, gains detail—buildings, roads, tiny human figures walking, laughing, distant and silent.

Kenji lifts his phone, frames a photo of the scenery.

"It's beautiful," he says.

She watches the colors soften, the horizon holding the day's last warmth like a breath before release. Sunsets are supposed to be romantic. That's what she's read, written, imagined in songs. Sunsets mean holding hands, whispered promises, closeness framed by fading gold.

But Mio finds herself noticing something else: the quiet inevitability of endings. The way each sunset marks the conclusion of a day you'll never get back, how the sky darkens gracefully, unobtrusively. A gentle surrender to night.

Her fingers tighten again on her camera, but she still doesn't lift it. The sunset is beautiful. But it's also temporary. Maybe that's what makes it special, makes people cling tighter, afraid to let it slip into memory.

Yet Mio wonders quietly, somewhere deep within herself, if the sun ever gets tired of performing—if, just once, it might want to set unseen, unremarked, free from expectations of beauty or meaning.

The gondola sways lightly, cables creaking overhead. Her fingers tighten slightly on her camera, but she doesn't lift it. There's no need. She already knows she won't want to revisit this. Already, the moment feels like an echo, hollow, transparent.

What is she supposed to want from this?

Her reflection stares back, expression indistinct, edges blurred by tempered glass and distance. Another Mio. Another iteration. Another version shaped by expectations and polite acquiescence.

She breathes in slowly, listening to Kenji's measured breathing beside her. His steadiness should reassure her, should feel like a foundation rather than a weight. She waits for reassurance that doesn't come.

The cable creaks again.

What does it mean to want something different from what's beautiful, what's comfortable, what's expected?

The gondola eases into the station. The mechanism above clicks firmly, solidly, marking their arrival back on earth. Her feet plant firmly on the metal floor. Kenji touches her elbow, steadying her even though she isn't unbalanced.

The doors open with a hiss. Sunlight fills the cabin, dazzling her briefly. Mio lifts her hand to shade her eyes.

Kenji steps out first. He extends his hand toward her.

She takes it.

Her fingers close around his, careful. Compliant. Expected.

But she feels the cool breeze slipping past her, threading through her hair like a whisper she almost hears. She pauses, her heartbeat quickening with something she can't identify. She glances back over her shoulder, just once, looking at the mountains, the shrinking cables, the gondolas moving rhythmically along their appointed paths.

There are things worth remembering, she realizes. And then, there are moments like this—moments that exist only to be endured, evidence of a journey but never the destination.

She turns forward again, stepping away from the gondola, stepping into the shadow of the station. Kenji's hand stays on hers, firm and unquestioning.

She holds it. Because that's expected.

She tells herself it means something.

She doesn't ask what.

---

The ryokan is quiet when they return. Its walls seem to breathe, exhaling silence into the spaces between movements, filling pauses with soft creaks and whispers of old wood settling. Staff bow quietly as they pass, their footsteps weakened by tatami, as if the building itself is asking them to tread gently.

Kenji leads the way. Mio trails slightly behind, watching how easily he navigates the halls—how sure, how comfortable he seems. His shoulders relaxed, gait unhurried. The polite gestures he exchanges with the attendant flow from him effortlessly, as though scripted from birth. Mio finds herself mimicking it unconsciously, adjusting her posture, folding her hands precisely. Performing an expected elegance, like a well-trained understudy stepping into a familiar role.

Their room is at the end of a corridor, the shoji door sliding aside with a whisper. Inside, the room waits, bathed in fading sunlight filtering through rice-paper windows. The scent of cedar is faint but constant, mingling with a hint of fresh tatami. Clean. Traditional. Balanced. Expected.

"It's nice," Kenji says, setting their bags near the entrance, carefully slipping off his shoes and aligning them neatly on the rack provided. Mio does the same, carefully lining her sandals beside his—parallel, symmetrical.

She steps farther in, feeling the give of woven mats beneath her socks. There's something meditative in the simplicity of the space. Minimalist shelves, a low lacquered table, a scroll hung tastefully on the far wall. The aesthetic harmony should be comforting. Should be grounding.

Yet Mio feels untethered.

She moves quietly, cautiously sliding open one of the closets. The door glides smoothly, soundless, revealing neatly folded futons tucked precisely into the space. Two futons. Individual, separate—yet the space is small. Close enough that she can already imagine them side by side, separated only by inches. Her stomach is suddenly heavy, as if gravity had abruptly remembered her existence.

Her fingers tighten around the door handle.

(It's expected. It's normal.)

It's supposed to be normal. This closeness, this intimacy. It's the script for couples. Vacations, ryokan stays, hot springs—this is the scenario she's rehearsed, a narrative she's been taught to anticipate. She swallows, quietly slides the closet door closed, the futons vanishing behind rice-paper silence.

Kenji hasn't noticed. He's busy sliding open the shoji panel leading to the private bath. He pauses, glancing back at her over his shoulder, smiling.

"Mio, come look. The bath is nice."

She moves toward him, letting her feet carry her to his side. The bath opens in front of them, enclosed in cedar, steam ghosting gently over the surface of the water. It's beautiful—the scent of mineral water and wood clean and inviting. But her throat closes at the sight of it. At the implications. Her heart thumps unevenly beneath her ribs.

Tomorrow.

"We could use it tomorrow," Kenji says lowly, almost shyly. His voice is thoughtful. Considerate, even.

Together. He doesn't say the word, but it's there. Mio feels it pressing against her skin, an expectation she has rehearsed but never fully accepted. A discomfort she has learned to name anticipation.

"That sounds nice," she murmurs.

(It's supposed to sound nice. You're supposed to want it.)

Kenji nods, satisfied. He glances at the clock, his expression shifting into something decisive, organized. "Do you want to bathe first now? Dinner's soon."

Mio hesitates. Her pulse quickens at the thought—one of them bathing, one of them waiting, separated only by a thin panel. The vulnerability of it, of skin separated by nothing but polite decorum and carefully structured walls. Her breath catches, lodged tight in her chest.

"You go first," she says, keeping her voice even.

Kenji adjusts the shoji a thumb's width wider. He gathers his things quickly, efficiently, stepping toward the bath with practiced familiarity. Mio steps back into the main room, turning deliberately away as she hears the door close behind him. The silence afterward feels loud.

She sits at the low table, fingertips tracing abstract patterns over polished wood. She focuses on breathing. Slow. Steady. Each inhale precise, each exhale careful. Her gaze wanders toward the closet door again, thoughts returning to those neatly folded futons—how close, how inevitable. Her mind circles the concept like an anxious bird unable to land, wings beating nervously against thin air.

(This is expected. It's fine. It's normal.)

She repeats it, a silent mantra, whispered against the trembling edges of uncertainty. It's meant to soothe her nerves, to stabilize her pulse. It does neither.

When Kenji emerges, freshly bathed, his hair damp at the edges, Mio takes her turn. She slides the door closed behind her. Deliberate. Alone now, the bath waits, steam curling upward. She undresses slowly, putting her hair up in a jagged bun. Her fingers tremble slightly, brushing over skin that feels strangely unfamiliar. She slips into the bath, water enveloping her like a whisper, warm enough to make her shiver.

She closes her eyes, tries to clear her thoughts, to sink into the heat. But the silence amplifies the tension, every muted sound from outside the room a reminder of the fragile boundary between intimacy and discomfort. She imagines Kenji in the next room, calm, patient. Waiting.

Her heart thuds, heavier now, burdened by implication. Tomorrow feels like a storm cloud gathering slowly, distant but visible, inevitable in its approach.

She finishes quickly. The towel against her skin feels coarse, grounding her, reminding her where her edges are. She dresses leisurely, each motion steadying her, reassembling herself carefully.

When Mio slides open the door, Kenji is waiting near the low table, his posture careful, composed. His eyes lift immediately, meeting hers with a softness that feels gentle but expectant, hopeful yet cautious—like he's testing ground that should already be familiar. His gaze flickers briefly downward, a subtle shyness coloring the edges of his expression, before returning steadily to her face. He smiles, quiet, warm.

"Ready?" he asks, his voice carrying a quiet anticipation, a tenderness that brushes lightly against the space between them.

Mio nods, mirroring his smile, heart tightening faintly, though she doesn't let it show.

---

Dinner is quiet.

The ryokan dining room is dimly lit, tables arranged in careful symmetry, a low hum of conversation filling the room—intimate but anonymous. Mio forces herself to eat, each bite deliberate, thoughtful. She listens attentively as Kenji speaks, nodding at the right moments, smiling in the appropriate pauses. She focuses on the choreography of the moment, her role as partner, as companion, as girlfriend. She performs flawlessly.

"Today was really romantic," Kenji says, the words warm with contentment, unaware of their weight. "Tomorrow will be even better."

Mio feels her chest constrict. She swallows carefully, the food suddenly heavy. Tomorrow is a promise she isn't sure she wants to keep, a performance that no longer feels comfortable, that no longer fits.

Kenji's gaze lingers briefly, something soft and hopeful flickering there, something she knows she's meant to reciprocate. A subtle expectation of intimacy woven into his quiet words, the way his hand rests near hers on the table, fingers inches from touching.

Mio smiles. The shape feels wrong, but she holds it anyway.

(You can do this. You chose this.)

Yet even as she repeats the words, her heart rebels silently, like a quiet tremor in a place she thought was stable.

She tells herself it's nothing. That she'll settle. That this discomfort is temporary. Tomorrow will come, and it will be expected, predictable, rehearsed.

Kenji glances at his phone, checking the time. "We made good time today. Tomorrow's schedule should be easy."

Mio nods lightly. "Having a clear schedule helps. It's easier when we both know what's next."

He smiles warmly, visibly pleased. "Exactly. That's why I like planning ahead. Fewer surprises. It's why we fit—we're both planners. We like knowing what's coming next."

She glances at him, a small smile forming. "You really don't like surprises, do you?"

"Only the good ones. But most of the time, predictable is good." He pauses briefly, thoughtful, tapping a finger lightly against the table. "Too much chaos stresses me out. I mean, some people might find unpredictability exciting—exploring, improvising. But I prefer having things figured out in advance."

"That erases flexibility, though," Mio considers.

He offers her another gentle smile. "Maybe, but it's easier that way."

Mio nods quietly, thoughtfully. "I guess it depends."

"Depends on what?" Kenji chuckles. "You've always liked control."

Mio blinks.

She doesn't know.

It depends on who's leading you into that chaos. Who holds your hand when you step outside the script. Who makes unpredictability feel safe.

She doesn't say that.

Instead, she says lightly, almost carefully, "Maybe there's a middle ground. Something like... controlled chaos."

Kenji tilts his head slightly, amused. "Controlled chaos?"

She nods slowly, careful not to reveal too much. "Just enough planning to feel safe, but still leaving room for... surprises. Balance."

He smiles again, indulgent but unconvinced. "Sounds more like organized spontaneity."

"Maybe that's not so bad."

She doesn't elaborate.

But inside, she's thinking of handwritten notes hidden in notebooks and folded papers, of new music discovered by accident, of summer green and a smile that catches her off guard.

"So, controlled chaos is your oxymoron," Kenji teases.

She smiles, gaze drifting briefly downward. "Maybe. But it could work."

Kenji hums, considering. "If anyone could make it work, it'd probably be you."

Mio doesn't answer. Instead, she takes another bite, focusing on the rhythm of it, each motion careful.

Controlled.

---

After dinner, the room feels smaller.

They brush their teeth separately, a quiet choreography of politeness and habit. Kenji first, then Mio. The taste of mint lingers, sharp and medicinal, on her tongue, stinging slightly, like something antiseptic, sterilizing. It reminds her of doctors' offices—clinical spaces, tidy in their sterility, designed explicitly for the preservation of comfort by maintaining precise distances.

Comfort, Mio thinks, carefully rinsing her mouth, is inherently dependent on boundaries.

She returns to the room, sliding the panel shut behind her. Kenji stands by the closet, already dressed in his yukata. It's tied loosely, comfortably—revealing the shadowed slope of his collarbone, a glimpse of pale chest, legs visible to the knees. Mio's breath catches subtly at the acute awareness of exposure, of vulnerability so casually displayed. A freedom she envies, perhaps—but can't emulate.

"I'll wait outside," Kenji says, picking up his phone from the table and slipping quietly into the hall.

She nods gratefully, though something about the careful consideration makes her chest tighten. Gratitude feels inappropriate here—like being thankful for politeness in a situation where politeness itself underscores expectation.

She slips into her own yukata slowly, meticulously folding each layer over her body, tightening the sash until the cotton presses firmly against her ribs, her waist, almost restrictively snug. The slight constriction grounds her, delineating the shape of her form beneath fabric, reminding her precisely of where she ends. It reassures her somehow, the containment, the clear delineation between her body and the world beyond it.

The knock comes, twice. Mio's pulse jumps. "Come in," she murmurs in a hush. She tightens the sash a notch.

Kenji slides open the door, stepping quietly back into the room. His gaze softens when he sees her, gentle but appreciative, lingering a moment longer than it needs to. "You look pretty," he says, almost shyly, eyes dropping to the neat knot of her sash.

She flushes. "Thanks."

They unroll the futons carefully. The woven mats are soft beneath Mio's knees. She leaves a deliberate gap between them. It's small—barely enough to notice—but she knows it's there.

Kenji reaches out, almost absentmindedly, and nudges one futon closer. Just an inch. Just enough that the edges touch.

"So they don't shift apart during the night," he says easily, not looking at her.

Kenji smooths his futon with care, palms brushing over the fabric in long strokes, flattening every wrinkle as if it's a reflex. He pauses at the edge of hers, fingertips brushing briefly along the seam where their beds meet. He adjusts a corner of her blanket, tucking it in slightly before he sits back, satisfied.

"Neatness," he says with a faint smile. "It helps you sleep better."

Mio smooths the seam where the futons meet. Her pulse is a slow, careful drum beneath her skin. Kenji arranges them closer—two separate beds, yet the space between them is narrow, nearly negligible. A threshold of centimeters, a boundary easily crossed, easily blurred. Mio's pulse quickens, quietly frantic, as if sensing an imminent violation of carefully maintained perimeters.

Kenji settles first, lying back on the futon, adjusting the pillow with precise, meticulous care. Mio follows, movements deliberately slow, graceful in their hesitance, a practiced elegance that masks the discomfort roiling quietly beneath the surface. She lies down carefully, body composed, limbs folded neatly, precisely aligned beneath the cotton sheet.

They're now parallel, close but not touching. Kenji exhales slowly, folding his hands behind his head for a moment before lowering one to rest lightly on the tatami. His fingers stretch out briefly, as if testing the distance, then relax.

Mio watches his hand, how near it lies to her own. An inch of space. Maybe less.

It's quiet. Not the serene quiet of comfortable intimacy, but the thin, brittle silence that accompanies uncertainty. Mio's heart beats a careful rhythm—each beat a question, a hesitation, a withheld breath.

Kenji shifts beside her, turning onto his side to face her, eyes hopeful. She feels his gaze like a physical presence, a soft weight settling against her skin, pressing gently but insistently, asking something of her without words. She turns toward him carefully, mirroring his posture—a deliberate performance of openness.

He smiles, eyes warm but shy, as if aware of the delicacy of the moment, its fragility and significance. Mio holds her breath unconsciously as his fingers find hers, threading together with deliberate slowness, thumb brushing tenderly over her knuckles. His touch feels cautious, but it ignites something beneath her skin—a quiet dread that builds incrementally, like accumulating static.

She wonders which version of herself he's holding hands with tonight.

"You're beautiful," he whispers, leaning closer, lips brushing hers.

She returns the kiss carefully, practiced. Her heart thuds unevenly. She tries to match the rhythm of his mouth, to feel what she's meant to feel, to follow the contours of this script they've been writing for months. But each kiss feels slightly off-kilter—like steps learned in theory but never internalized, movements performed correctly yet lacking essential fluency.

Kenji shifts closer, breath hitching slightly as his fingers brush her cheek, trailing downward along the curve of her neck. Mio's breath catches—not with pleasure but with something dangerously close to panic. The touch isn't unpleasant—it's careful—but her body remains unresponsive, inert beneath the cautious exploration of his fingertips.

(It's okay. You should like this.)

His hand slides over her shoulder, tugging lightly at the fabric of her yukata. His mouth presses to the hollow of her collarbone, warm breath ghosting against her skin, leaving a trail of moisture that cools almost instantly.

Mio tries—genuinely, consciously—to let herself respond, to find pleasure, to reciprocate the affection she knows is expected, deserved even. But each touch draws her further inward, her consciousness pulling tightly into itself, distancing from sensation, from presence, receding into introspection.

She tells herself she wants this. Her body doesn't reply.

Kenji's hand settles at her waist, thumb brushing just beneath her ribs, careful yet expectant. Mio shivers subtly, her muscles tensing instinctively beneath his touch, her breathing tightening quietly in her chest.

(It's fine. You can do this. You've done this before. You can do it again.)

She thinks of Naya's arms around her. Naya's hand warm at her waist, the other stroking her hair. Solid in a way that didn't ask for anything more than what it was. How Mio had reached out first, without thinking, and it hadn't hurt. Hadn't made her pull away. She wanted it. She leaned into it. And it had felt safe. Good.

And for one long, unbroken moment, Mio had believed she was getting better. That she was fixing it. Herself. That she could handle touch. That she could cross this distance, if only she tried hard enough.

She clings to that memory now.

Kenji's hand slides higher, his fingers careful, patient. Her body holds still, but not in readiness—in resistance. Her breathing shallow, lungs half-full, waiting.

(This is fine. This is fine. This is—)

But it isn't the same.

"I—" she whispers, voice thin, barely audible.

Kenji pauses immediately, lifting his head slightly, gaze suddenly alert, concern flickering across his features. "Are you okay?"

Mio hesitates, heart pounding, words sticking painfully in her throat. "I'm... tired," she murmurs apologetically. "It's been a long day."

Kenji doesn't react for a moment, then exhales—a faint sigh, almost imperceptible, carrying subtle disappointment. But he smiles quickly, reassuring. "Right, of course," he mutters. "We've done a lot today."

His voice is warm, understanding—but the undercurrent of expectation remains, subtly suspended, temporarily deferred but not erased.

"I'm sorry," she says automatically. Because she feels she should. She should apologize for not giving him what he's clearly earned.

Kenji shakes his head. "It's okay," he says, also automatically. He leans forward briefly, pressing one last careful, chaste kiss to her forehead, whispering softly, "Tomorrow."

Tomorrow.

A promise, heavy with quiet inevitability. Mio nods, forcing a small, grateful smile.

Tomorrow hangs between them, suspended like the gondola above the valley, stretched taut between fixed points, tension held by invisible lines of expectation and obligation.

They settle quietly again, Kenji turning away slightly to sleep. Mio lies on her back, staring upward at the shadows cast by filtered moonlight against the rice-paper glow on the ceiling. Her heart pulses uncomfortably, unevenly, trapped somewhere between dread and resignation.

She can't remember when it stopped being a role she stepped into and started being something she lived inside. Something that wore to the shape of her. That she wore the shape of herself.

There wasn't a moment. No single decision she could point to. Just slow, small shifts. Quiet recalibrations. A little less space, a little less air, over and over until it felt normal. Until it became hers.

Boundaries are supposed to keep things safe, she thinks. To make room. But sometimes they only mark the places where you took yourself away, piece by piece, until you no longer notice what's missing.

Her breath slows gradually, heart calming into something numb rather than peaceful. She closes her eyes slowly, pressing fingertips lightly against the cotton fabric of her yukata, tracing faintly, through the layers, the contours of her own skin. She reminds herself of her own shape, her edges, her boundaries, and reassures herself they still exist—even here, even now.

Tomorrow awaits quietly, patiently, laden with expectation. She feels it like a weight resting lightly but insistently on her chest, familiar yet alien, comforting yet constricting.

Her breathing steadies finally, quiet resignation settling like sediment into still water, clouding clarity but offering quiet stability. She allows herself the illusion of acceptance, the comfort of passive surrender, of temporary abdication of control.

Tomorrow.

(It's expected. You can do this.)

She thinks again of Picasso's endless sketches—variations on a theme, infinite iterations that blurred rather than clarified identity.

What if the original is already gone?

What if she's only tracing shadows?

She closes her eyes, trying to pretend that question doesn't matter.

Tomorrow is waiting.

It always is.

---

What does she know about love, really?

Love was always a concept she could dissect with precision. At least she thought so.

Not tonight.

Tonight, it lodges in her sternum like something physical, intrusive. She can't shift without feeling its weight redistribute beneath her ribs.

She lies awake long after Kenji's breathing deepens into the rhythm of sleep. The room is dim. Only a gray wash of moonlight filters through the paper screens, rendering everything soft-edged and diffuse. A draft slips beneath the door, bringing with it the thin, cool scent of cypress wood, tatami mats, old smoke. She has always liked that smell. The austere comfort of it. But now it makes her feel... hollow.

(You're tired. That's all this is.)

Her hands rest atop the blanket, palms flat against the surface, as if pressing herself into place. Fixing herself there. She counts her own fingers like landmarks on a map she can't quite navigate. Five on each side. She flexes them slightly. The joints ache from gripping too hard for too long.

What is it she thought love would feel like? She tries to conjure the answer in language, but the words slip out of reach like threads too fine to be grasped.

She turns her head slightly, enough to see the outline of Kenji beside her. His face is peaceful, softened by sleep. He looks kind.

(Safe. He is safe.)

She knows this. She repeats it silently, a mantra meant to soothe. But it doesn't ease the knot in her chest.

I should sleep.

(You should be grateful. He has done nothing wrong. He is patient. He is careful.)

But why does it feel like I'm waiting for something to happen that I won't survive?

She closes her eyes and listens to his breathing again. Slow. Even.

(He's not asking anything of you right now.)

Not yet.

Her body curls slightly toward herself, instinctive, protective. She tries to loosen her shoulders, but they remain tight, bunched beneath the thin cotton of her yukata. The knot at her waist feels too tight. She contemplates loosening it. She doesn't move.

Kenji had said, "Tomorrow."

The word tastes clinical. Measured. It's an appointment now, an event to be scheduled, something logged and anticipated, an obligation formalized by expectation.

Tomorrow.

(You have time.)

But there's no such thing as time when you already know what's coming. There's only delay.

She had always believed love was a choice. That you made the decision, consciously, to give and to receive, to build something out of that mutual willingness. A construction project of the heart. A collaboration. She thought of it as work. Effort.

(You chose him.)

And yet. Here she is.

What does she know about love, really?

She thought it would feel warm. Bright, maybe. That it would taste like sweetness on her tongue, like honey melting slow and golden. That it would make her feel safe enough to become small again. To be the little girl she still keeps hidden, the one who writes songs about chocolate and the softness of things. The one who dreams about hands held in the dark, and heads resting together on pillows still warm from sleep.

Not this.

Not this brittle silence. Not this ache in her stomach that she tries to dismiss as tiredness. Not this pervasive sense of trespass every time his hand lingers too long at her waist, or his fingers slide across skin she can't make herself relinquish.

She wants to be held. She knows that. She knows herself well enough to recognize the longing for comfort, the deep, aching need to be cradled. But the shape of that desire is all wrong here. With him.

She tries to reshape it. Tries to fit herself into the mold she's crafted through years of idealizing the notion of partnership.

(He's kind. He's patient. He deserves your body because he has waited.)

But she's not a reward for his waiting. And love shouldn't be an endurance test.

(You can try harder.)

She's tired of trying.

The difference between tolerance and want is so thin sometimes it disappears entirely.

She turns on her side again, facing away from Kenji now. Her spine straightens slightly with the shift, her breath deepening for just a moment. A little relief in the reorientation.

(You're not being fair.)

Her pulse slows, heavy and rhythmic. The weight of her own body is suddenly all she can feel. Every inch of herself defined by the boundaries she holds in place through effort alone. She thinks of the lines she draws around herself like chalk outlines. Rules. Regulations.

She thought they kept her safe. Sometimes they're only the borders of the places she's abandoned.

Love, she once believed, was like energy. Neither created nor destroyed, but transferred.

But who am I transferring this to?

Who is it she's trying to give herself to? Kenji? The version of herself who chose him?

The idea of love as duty is so deeply embedded she can't untangle it from what she thinks she wants.

She thought she would find love in a kiss, in a room like this, in a shared futon in a romantic ryokan. This is where the stories happen, isn't it? This is where they fall together.

She closes her eyes. Kenji shifts behind her in his sleep, and the movement makes her stomach twist. A misaligned self.

She can't say that out loud. If she says that out loud, she's the bad one.

(If you leave, you're selfish. He loves you.)

But she doesn't know if that's enough.

She doesn't know what enough looks like.

She lets out a slow breath. Her fingers untangle themselves from the blanket. She lays her palm over her own chest, feeling the faint, reluctant beat beneath.

I'm here, she tells herself. And it's not much. But it's something.

Tomorrow waits for her. It always does. But tonight—just for tonight—she stays where she is. So she lies there, awake, tracing the outline of her own skin, remembering where she begins and ends.

Tomorrow, she tells herself.

Tomorrow.

Notes:

WHY. WHY DO I DO THIS. WHY DID I PASS FROM SOME MIO/NAYA CHAPTERS TO A CHAPTER WITH ALL THE GIRLS AND A MIO/NAYA HUG TO THIS.

I don't know if this chapter reads as lyrical or poetic as the others—maybe it feels different? That's on purpose. Here Mio is in full performative mode, roleplaying the "good girlfriend" part: romantic getaway, ryokan, museum, tourist activities, sunset, dinner, and ending with an "oh... almost." But tomorrow is always waiting.

I've put a lot into this one—research, writing, editing, rewriting, proofreading, beta-ing myself, re-editing. I hope it's worth it. Hakone taught me a lot of things, including that there's apparently a pirate ship there. (No, it's not in the fic, and no, it won't be. Sorry.)

Thanks for reading, thanks for sticking with Mio through this arc, and see you in the next chapter, where things will get even worse. Yay, angst. Joy is for cowards.

Chapter 30: It's Artificial

Summary:

Mio vanishes under glass.

Notes:

Hey! If this chapter's giving you déjà vu, you're not imagining it. Yes, it was already posted. No, I'm not gaslighting you. I accidentally uploaded it the other day while editing directly in AO3 (which I never do), and just... left it there.

After rereading it, though, I noticed it was kind of a mess—some lines didn't sound like me, some were overly edited and kind of hollow, a scene got duplicated from two different drafts, and overall it felt all over the place. So yeah—I panicked a little, and the previous note turned into a bit of a meltdown. Sorry about that.

Anyway. Hakone. Things are going fine.

... For like five seconds.

We've got: Lake Ashi, a shrine, a petting zoo, an aquarium, a luxury bath, and a multi-course dinner. Dream date vibes, right?

Not if you're Akiyama "What Even Is Intimacy" Mio.

This chapter includes: romantic rituals that feel like funerals, the classic yuri aquarium trope tragically wasted on a straight couple (shame), and a boy named Kenji who just wants things to go well but somehow ends up sounding like a Roomba.

Also: I learned what a kaiseki meal actually is and instantly wanted to put it in fiction. It's so aesthetic it hurts. Kind of like this chapter.

It's Artificial, by Andrew Bayer, was released on July 25, 2011.

July 30, 2011

Mio wakes to stillness.

Thin light filters through the shoji screens, pale and clean, cutting the room into neat, geometric fragments. Dust moves in the air in slow spirals. She blinks up at the ceiling, following their drift, weightless as ash suspended between breaths.

For a long moment, she stays still, unsure whether her body is heavy or hollow.

The space beside her is cold.

She shifts slowly onto her side, her fingers brushing the empty futon. It's neatly folded, as if no one had ever slept there. The blanket smoothed down, the pillow fluffed just so.

Kenji's absence is so tidy it makes her chest ache.

She pushes herself up on one elbow. The room is hushed, yet there's a faint rustle of fabric and the muted scrape of movement coming from the corner. Kenji stands near the low table, already dressed in his day clothes. A small travel bag rests beside him, zippered and ready.

He glances up as if sensing her gaze. Smiles. It's a nice smile. The kind she always thought mattered.

"Good morning, Mio," he says, voice bright. "I was about to wake you."

"Oh." Mio's throat is dry. She clears it. "Good morning."

She pushes herself upright, tucking her legs beneath her. She smooths the wrinkles out of her yukata with slow, automatic strokes.

Kenji straightens. He rolls his shoulder once, the fabric of his shirt shifting neatly into place.

"You looked cute sleeping," he says, as if it's a simple fact. "Didn't want to disturb you."

Her hands pause in her lap. She stares down at them for a breath. Then another.

"Why... weren't you here?" she asks, and her voice is softer than she intends. Small. Almost childish in its uncertainty.

Kenji blinks, surprised. "I woke up early," he says. "Figured I'd let you sleep a little longer, since you said you were tired yesterday. No point lying there doing nothing." His tone is light. Easy. Logical. "We've got to catch the boat if we want to beat the crowds," he adds, and checks the time. "You know how the lake gets." And then, after a small, thoughtful pause, "You'll have more fun if we leave early."

She nods automatically. Her hands smooth over the folds of her yukata again.

(Of course. Practical. Considerate.)

But she feels something small and tender fold in on itself. Something that had reached out instinctively before it remembered better.

"You okay?" Kenji asks.

Mio looks up. His gaze is gentle, questioning.

"Yes," she says. It isn't quite a lie.

She moves slowly as she goes to the bathroom to dress, her motions meticulous. She can hear Kenji murmuring under his breath as he checks their itinerary in his notebook.

It's not unkindness. It's not neglect. It's just...

Not the same.

Not the kind of presence she quietly hopes for in moments like these. The kind that stays close because it wants to. Not because there's an agenda, or a timetable, or something to be optimized.

Simply because.

Because the space between them isn't a problem to be solved, but something precious. Something meant to be filled with breath and warmth and waiting.

Mio draws in a slow breath.

(You shouldn't expect more. You agreed to this. You wanted this. This is what love is.)

She smooths the edges of her blouse and exits the bathroom.

"I'm ready," she says.

Kenji smiles at her again. The same smile.

"Perfect timing," he says. "We'll get good seats on the boat."

She follows him out into the corridor, the faint sound of his footsteps leading the way. The space between them doesn't feel wrong.

It just feels like nothing at all.

---

Lake Ashi unfurls beneath them like glass—smooth, flawless, almost absurd in its quietude. Wide and still, as though the surface has hardened into something more substantial than water. It reflects the mountains with an indifferent precision, their blue-gray silhouettes held perfectly intact on its mirror plane. Everything keeps its shape on the skin of the water.

When the ferry moves, it does so gently, its wake a slow dissolve rather than a rupture. A quiet interruption. A blemish that smooths itself away without protest. Mio watches the ripples flare out behind them and tries to feel as if they mean something.

The wind picks at the loose edges of her hair, strays that have slipped from their pins. They drift across her face in fine, weightless strands. She tucks them back with fingers that are too careful, deliberate in a way that feels rehearsed. Beside her, Kenji adjusts the strap of his bag, the nylon rasping against his jacket. He's standing, leaning one hip against the railing, his shoulders relaxed as he stares toward the horizon. She follows his gaze.

Mt. Fuji. Pale in the distance, veiled by thin clouds, its peak haloed in light. Even the sun, diffuse through morning haze, seems cautious not to disrupt the equilibrium. A thing so often rendered in postcards and ink paintings that it doesn't seem entirely real.

She frames it in the viewfinder of her Lomo, shifts the dial, clicks the shutter. The mechanical thunk is quiet but solid.

Proof.

Another piece of evidence that she was here. That she played the part. That she followed the itinerary.

She winds the film forward. Another frame. Another image of something she isn't sure she wants to remember.

(You'll be glad you took pictures later. That's what this is. What this trip is. A memory. Something good.)

She takes another photograph. This time, of the wake unfurling behind the boat—two symmetrical arcs, dissolving in white foam. Disappearing into ripples.

Kenji stands a few feet away, one hand braced casually against the railing, his other holding his phone at an angle that suggests he's taking photos, too. He glances up occasionally. Catches her eye. Smiles.

She smiles back. Automatically. Precisely. The kind of smile that feels shaped by the same gravity that keeps the lake level.

"Good angle?" Kenji asks. His voice is light, casual, the sort of companionable ease that should soothe her.

Mio nods slightly. "You got some good ones too?"

He smiles, unhurried. "Yeah, it's hard not to. Everything looks like a postcard here."

"True. Almost too perfect," Mio murmurs, watching the water briefly. She lets the camera rest in the cradle of her palms for a moment, feeling the warmth of sun-soaked plastic against her skin. "The light's good."

Kenji nods as if to say, "Of course it is."

Because they planned for this; the forecast promised clear skies, and the cruise was timed to catch Fuji unobscured, the air thin and bright enough to strip away the usual clouds. Because this is how things are supposed to be.

"You can see Fuji pretty clearly today," Kenji says, gesturing toward the outline in the distance. "We're lucky. Sometimes it's completely obscured."

Mio glances at it again. The clean balance of it. The perfect iconography of what it's supposed to represent.

"Yeah," she murmurs. "It's beautiful."

It is. Objectively. Like a photograph printed on glossy paper.

Kenji nudges her lightly. "You ever climbed it?"

Mio shakes her head. "No. I'm not sure I'd make it."

"I think you would. You're stubborn enough."

She smiles. "Maybe next time."

Her reflection shimmers in the water below—fragmented by movement, stretched and distorted by the curve of the boat's hull cutting through the lake. Sometimes her face vanishes altogether beneath the deeper currents. Sometimes it reappears, pale and distant.

(Smile. He's watching you. You're supposed to be enjoying this.)

She does. She tells herself she does. The breeze is cool. The lake is calm. Kenji's hand brushes hers as he leans closer to point something out—probably the birds gliding low over the surface. She keeps her hand still, fingers motionless, neutral. She doesn't pull away.

"See those cormorants?" he asks, voice low and smooth, as if offering something intimate. "They're fishing this early."

Mio nods, tracking the dark shapes as they cut into the water with the precision of arrows, disappearing beneath, leaving only ripples as evidence.

Mio watches silently for a moment, then asks, "Have you ever tried bird-watching?"

"Not seriously," Kenji admits, amused. "Have you?"

"No," Mio says, eyes on the birds. "But I like how patient it seems."

"You'd probably be good at it," Kenji replies easily. "You notice the small things."

She looks at the cormorants again and imagines herself like that. Diving below the surface. Vanishing.

She adjusts the lens again. Takes another photo. Fuji, now framed between two outstretched arms of pine. Kenji steps closer. His shoulder presses lightly against hers.

"It's nice, right?"

"It is," she answers.

It's too easy to answer like that. Too easy to become the person she's supposed to be. Girlfriend on a boat. In the morning light. Looking out over Lake Ashi. The entire image balanced in perfect symmetry.

And yet—she feels weightless. Unmoored rather than light.

Mio shifts her grip on the Lomo. The neck strap tugs faintly at her skin. She wonders if it will leave a mark later. A line to show where something held her.

The ferry rounds a bend. The torii gate of Hakone Shrine comes into view, rising from the water with geometric clarity. Vermilion against the pale sheen of the lake. A threshold. A boundary.

A doorway that opens only onto itself, a crossing that changes nothing you can point to.

It looks delicate from this distance, balanced precariously on narrow pillars that vanish into the depths. Mio knows they don't. Knows they're anchored deep in the lakebed, stable despite appearances. She knows because she looked it up. She knows because that's what she does.

"Perfect timing," Kenji says for the second time that day and lifts his phone. The shutter release is soft but insistent. Three quick shots. He checks the playback screen immediately after, adjusting his settings. He's meticulous. He's prepared. He's good at this.

(You should take one, too.)

She does. The shutter clicks again, obedient and precise.

Mio's fingers tighten on her camera. Her thumb rests against the shutter button without pressing it. She watches Kenji's reflection in the glass window nearby—his concentration, the tilt of his head, the way he checks his shot and adjusts. Focused. Predictable. He fits here. He looks the part.

And she—

(You fit, too.)

She tells herself that.

She's standing where she is supposed to. She's wearing the outfit she thought would look good on a day like this—pale blue cold-shoulder blouse, white shorts, the red clip in her hair that he said made her look "fresh." She's holding the camera like a good tourist. She's smiling. She knows she is because she feels the muscle tension in her cheeks.

"It's beautiful," she repeats, softer this time.

"What would you wish for?" Kenji asks, without looking at her. His focus is still on the torii, on the way the boat's movement shifts its reflection in delicate, concentric ripples.

Mio blinks.

What would I wish for?

(It's a game. You're supposed to say something sweet.)

She taps the lens cap against her palm. "For good weather," she says.

Kenji chuckles. "Practical as always."

She smiles. Tilts her head. Her hair slips over her shoulder, caught in the breeze. She doesn't fix it.

"But we're lucky," he adds. "It's already perfect."

Perfect.

Mio looks at the water again. Her reflection stares back—fragmented, like a ghost pinned between currents. The boat moves forward. The lake divides beneath them.

She thinks about how easy it is to drift. To let something else carry you along the surface.

(You wanted this. You agreed to this. This is what it looks like.)

The sun shifts. Fuji glows faintly, the snowcap luminous against the sky. Tourists gather at the other side of the boat, clustering at the railings for photographs, their voices rising in fragmented languages. Kenji finds her hand. His fingers are warm.

Mio lets him take it. Her palm fits into his without effort. It's a learned shape.

She closes her fingers around his, gently. She tells herself it's enough.

It's quiet without peace. The water glitters beneath them, light fracturing across the surface like broken glass. Kenji's thumb strokes over the back of her hand, slow and steady.

Mio breathes out. Watches the reflection of her breath vanish against the pane of glass nearby. She glances down at the water again. The ferry's reflection glides across the surface, a ghost image trailing them in duplicate. She catches her own reflection there—small, pale, distorted by the chop of the boat's wake. A shimmer of color that isn't quite human. Her features warp and fracture when the breeze scuffs the water's surface. She isn't sure which version of herself to look at.

The one on the water?

The one in the camera's viewfinder?

The one Kenji sees when he glances back at her and smiles—pleased, content, unaware of the velocity at which her thoughts are colliding just beneath the calm?

"You're quiet," he says after a moment, shifting his weight toward her. The ferry groans underfoot, steel on water. A slow engine heartbeat works through the rails.

Mio lets go of his hand slowly and tucks the camera's strap neatly over her wrist, winding it twice until the pressure leaves a faint indentation against her skin. "Just taking it in," she answers.

His eyes flicker briefly—maybe he's starting to wonder if it's him. Then, smoothing it over: "It's peaceful here."

It is. She tells herself it should be. She watches the water ripple out in concentric rings where the ferry cuts its slow passage, a smooth incision into something vast and old. But peacefulness feels foreign. Or perhaps it's that she is foreign to it.

She takes another photo. She frames the horizon to their left this time, where the mountains crowd close and the trees blur together into something dark and indistinct. She sets the focus deliberately wrong so that the shapes smear into abstraction. When she winds the film forward, the click is louder than she expects.

Kenji doesn't seem to notice. Instead, he glances at her. His smile is easy. "We can go to the shrine after this," he says. "It's a short walk from the dock. And the torii gate is famous. It's supposed to bring good luck if you pray there."

"Okay," Mio replies.

She's drifting. She's supposed to be floating.

(You're doing fine. You're here.)

She closes one eye and frames the torii gate again through the Lomo's viewfinder. The light shifts. The reflection in the water distorts the gate's shape—doubles it. The real and its echo. The thing and the idea of the thing. She isn't sure if what she sees is the structure or just its symbol.

Maybe that's the point. Maybe that's the trick.

For a moment, she wonders if she has the roles reversed.

Which version of her is standing on this boat? Which one is submerged?

The ferry's engine slows as they approach the dock. There's a hiss, a churn of water displaced by machinery. Kenji checks the time, his watch face flashing in the light. "Plenty of time," he says. "We'll make the shrine visit before the next cruise boards."

Mio nods. Her hand loosens around the camera's strap, but the red mark on her wrist remains.

It's there long after they disembark.

---

The path leading to Hakone Shrine winds upward through ancient cedars, their trunks rising impossibly tall, tapering into a canopy that filters the light into dappled fragments. Mio keeps her steps measured, matching Kenji's pace, their shoes crunching on the gravel. The sound is steady. Predictable. Rhythmic enough to be almost soothing.

(It should be soothing.)

The trees stand like sentinels. She imagines them older than memory. Older than stories. They have watched thousands of people climb these steps—pilgrims, lovers, tourists with cameras dangling from their necks. All of them with wishes heavy on their tongues.

Their steps find the same crunch on gravel; when she snags a stone, he tilts the map so she can read without stopping. He's speaking. Something about the shrine's history. He likes facts. She likes facts, too. But today, they fall flat in her ears, dry as recitation. 

When they reach the torii gate by the water, it's smaller than she thought it would be. More delicate. Less imposing. Its lacquered red pillars catch the light through breaks in the clouds, but its reflection in the lake is imperfect—rippled, trembling, as if the water can't quite hold the shape.

Kenji brings his phone up. Snaps another photo. Adjusts his footing. Frames the shot again.

Mio watches him, then lifts her Lomo almost by reflex. She clicks the shutter, hears the mechanical sigh. Fuji is still visible beyond the trees, ghostly and pale, but she frames the shot without it. Just water. Just sky. Just the threshold.

A gate that leads to nowhere but reflection.

She lowers the camera.

(You're supposed to make a wish.)

Kenji has already moved toward the honden, the main hall. He's reaching into his pocket for coins. His movements are easy. He's done this before. She has, too, but the mechanics of it feel foreign now.

The water laps quietly against the stones at the base of the torii. She watches it for a moment longer. Imagines walking through it. Stepping into the lake, disappearing into the gray-green depths beneath the reflection.

But that isn't today's story.

She turns away and follows Kenji up the stone steps.

At the offering hall, he shows no hesitation. Two bows. Two claps. He stands in silence for a moment, his eyes closed, head inclined. She wonders what he's thinking. Wonders what he's asking for.

(Success. Health. A stable future. All the right things.)

Mio fishes a five-yen coin from her bag. She doesn't remember putting it there. It's warm from her fingers. She moves through the ritual motions—the bow, the claps. Mechanical. A muscle memory she doesn't recall learning.

She stands there for a moment, palms pressed together. Her head bowed.

(You're supposed to wish for something sweet. Something hopeful.)

But her mind is empty. Blank, like the space between breaths. Silence stretches long enough to be noticed.

I hope this works out.

But it doesn't feel like a wish.

It feels like surrender.

---

They move to the racks where the ema plaques hang, fluttering slightly in the breeze like papery leaves. Kenji chooses one, his handwriting neat and efficient as he scrawls his prayer.

Mio watches him out of the corner of her eye. He signs his name. Dates it carefully.

(He knows what he wants.)

She picks up a plaque. The wood is light. Smooth. There's a faint grain in the surface, like a thumbprint pressed into it by time.

She takes the marker from the tray. Hovers it over the blank space.

(What do you wish for?)

Peace, maybe. But peace implies something at war.

Happiness. But happiness requires wanting something enough to reach for it.

The marker hovers. Ink ghosts the wood. When the pause starts to feel rude, she writes anyway with careful handwriting.

「May I become the lovely girl of my dreams.」

She stares at the characters. They look strange. Crooked.

(You're here. You're doing this. You wanted this.)

She adds the date. Signs it. Hangs the plaque on the wooden rack. Watches it swing in the wind, caught between all the others—some faded, some newly inked. All of them waiting.

---

The small shop near the shrine sells omamori in neat rows, each pouch a different color, embroidered with delicate kanji. Mio picks them up one by one, weighing their textures between her fingers. Silk. Cord. A soft weight inside that promises protection. Or the idea of protection.

Kenji moves with purpose. He picks an omamori for his mother—health. For his father—business prosperity. For his sister, something for academics.

(He's so good at this.)

He even chooses one for Taro. For friendship, maybe. Or luck. She doesn't ask.

Mio's fingers pause over a yellow omamori for energy. She thinks of Ritsu and smiles widely.

For Yui, she selects a package of brightly wrapped manju. The packaging has a smiling cartoon fox on it. Yui will laugh.

Azusa's omamori is for study success. Purple fabric, stiff under her thumb. Practical.

Mugi's takes longer. She finds a yosegi zaiku coaster in a small lacquer box. The inlay is delicate, geometric. Beautiful in a quiet, intricate way. Mugi will understand the craftsmanship.

For Naya—

She hesitates.

There's a travel safety charm. Bright green. It catches the light in an odd way, as if the threads are metallic. She turns it over in her hands. For journeys. For safe passage.

(She's a foreigner. She will leave. It's obvious.)

But it's more than that.

Safe travels. The hope of return. The idea of a destination she has yet to name.

She buys it. Slips it into her bag.

Kenji smiles as they finish paying. "That's everyone covered," he says. "Efficient as always."

She smiles back.

(You're doing fine. You're here.)

---

When they step back out into the light, the sun is higher now. The lake glitters in broad strokes. Tourists move around them in a steady tide—bright backpacks, cameras, hats. A slow migration.

"We could visit the aquarium and the animal park," Kenji says. His voice is light. Testing. "If you want."

Mio glances at the pamphlet in his hand. Colorful illustrations of seals, penguins, rabbits in soft-focus photography. "Have you been before?"

"Yeah, as a kid," he says, folding it neatly. "I mostly remember the penguins. I always wondered why they weren't bothered by the summer heat."

Mio tilts her head, thoughtful. "Maybe they learned to adjust."

Kenji chuckles quietly. "I guess we all do. So, wanna go?"

"Sure," she says.

(That's what couples do. That's what you wanted. You can do this.)

Kenji nods, satisfied.

---

The petting zoo is quieter than Mio expects. It smells of straw and damp fur, of something sweet rotting in the summer heat—leftover fruit, maybe, softening in the grass. A few families stand in small clusters, their children crouched low, hands outstretched toward rabbits the color of worn cotton. A goat tugs half-heartedly at the hem of someone's bag. There's a piglet somewhere, its short legs scuttling through the dust in lazy spirals.

Mio stands just inside the fence, watching. Her shadow falls short of the animals.

"They're docile," Kenji says beside her, his tone amused. "Must be used to people."

He's right. They move with the unstartled resignation of things that have surrendered to touch. Small bodies that have learned not to flinch when hands approach. Heads lowered to receive the gesture. Ears flattened in tolerance.

Mio thinks about Naya at the cat café, how she had crouched low to meet a ginger tabby on its level. How she hadn't reached for it but had waited, still as breath, until it came to her.

Naya would like it here.

She imagines Naya sitting cross-legged in the grass, sun in her hair, laughing when a goat nuzzles her side. The image makes her smile, unbidden. A lift of her mouth.

"You want to feed them?" Kenji asks. He holds out a paper cup filled with dried pellets. The cup is branded with a cartoon rabbit, the ink faded from too many hands.

Mio accepts the cup. "Have you ever had pets?"

Kenji shakes his head. "My mom said animals were too messy. She let me have fish once, but..." He gives a rueful smile. "They weren't exactly exciting."

Mio crouches beside the nearest rabbit, fur an improbable white, ears tipped in gray like ash that hasn't cooled. The rabbit blinks at her, red eyes glassy and bright, and sniffs the air before edging forward. The rabbit eats from her hand, teeth clicking against the pellets. The whiskers tickle her palm, but she stays still.

"What about you?" Kenji asks.

"No," Mio replies quietly. "But I've always thought pets might be comforting."

"What kind of pet would you like?"

Mio considers. "Maybe a cat. I've always liked cats," she says, her voice softening unconsciously. "They're independent but still affectionate, and clingy if they like you. It's like they choose their person. They make you feel lucky."

Kenji hums. "You seem like a cat person."

Mio smiles, her eyes distant for a moment. "I visited a cat café recently. One of the cats—a brown tabby—jumped right onto my lap out of nowhere. She curled up like she owned the place. My friend—Naya—was convinced it was some kind of honor." She pauses, fondness creeping into her voice. "Maybe it was."

"You must've made a good impression."

Mio's smile deepens, recalling the warmth of the cat's fur, the steady hum of its purr against her legs. "Maybe I was just in the right place at the right time," she says. "But it felt nice, being chosen like that." She pauses, the words coming more cautiously now, almost unintentionally. "There was also this black, sleek cat—shy, but curious. She only came over if you waited patiently."

Kenji smiles a little. "Sounds like you."

Mio's eyes lift to him briefly, uncertain how to respond. "Maybe," she says again, quieter. "Or maybe it's just nice sometimes to let things choose you."

"Well, maybe we can try someday," Kenji suggests. "And if we ever get a cat, I hope it chooses you, too."

Mio hesitates, her gaze flickering to him again before quickly returning to the rabbit nibbling pellets cautiously from her palm.

"Yeah," she murmurs, almost to herself. "Me too."

"How's your friend settling in, by the way? Must be tough, being so far from home."

Mio blinks, caught a little off guard. "Oh. She's... managing." A pause. "She's strong like that."

Kenji gives a small nod. "That's good."

Mio nods back.

(This is fine. This is nice. You're doing this.)

The rabbit eats because it is expected to. Because it has learned the shape of this exchange.

Mio thinks about that. The ease with which the rabbit performs this role. The stillness that comes after surrender.

Kenji crouches nearby, offering food to a goat. He smiles when the goat tugs at the cup with surprising strength. "Persistent little guy," he says.

Mio murmurs something in agreement. The words dissipate before they reach her own ears.

---

The aquarium is cold.

The kind of cold that lives beneath the skin, in the places where circulation slows and nerves go quiet. It smells of salt and disinfectant, the echo of tides sterilized and contained.

They walk the long corridor first, beneath arching tanks that turn the light blue-green. Kenji lifts his phone camera and takes a photo of Mio with the fish above her. She looks up automatically, her face awash in refracted light. The water shifts, bending her features on the glass curve.

"You look beautiful," Kenji says.

(You're supposed to smile when your boyfriend says that. You're supposed to feel something when your boyfriend says that.)

Mio smiles.

But her reflection—wavering on the glass—looks nothing like her. It looks like something submerged. Half-familiar, half-gone.

Kenji lowers his phone, glancing briefly at the photo he's taken. "Maybe I should've brought a better camera for this trip."

"Your photos always turn out fine."

A quiet laugh escapes him. "Fine, yeah—but I want to capture exactly how things look. You know, how they feel."

Mio nods slowly, her gaze returning to the shimmering fish overhead. Exactly how things feel, she thinks, wondering if that's even possible.

They pass a school of sardines moving in perfect synchronicity, a spiral of silvered bodies turning on an invisible axis. An instinct, Mio thinks. A choreography without a conductor.

"They always move like that," Kenji says, as if to fill the quiet. "Even in the wild."

It's meant to be impressive. She nods. Watches them curve and tighten, an endless figure eight.

In the deep-water tank, the larger predators drift slowly. Sharks, teeth dulled by routine. Rays gliding over the sand as if they've forgotten how to stop. Mio watches them pass, their undersides pale and expressionless.

She imagines lying beneath the weight of that water. The pressure of it. The quiet.

"It's calming," Kenji says, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back.

She nods.

They watch a slow-moving shark drift silently by. Kenji angles his chin. "Do you think they ever get bored?"

"Maybe they've forgotten what it's like not to move in circles. If they ever knew."

"But it seems a bit sad, doesn't it? Doing the same thing every day."

Mio hesitates, her voice quieter. "Maybe they're just used to it. Maybe it's easier to keep swimming than wonder why they started."

Kenji glances at her, his eyes searching before his expression softens again into gentle neutrality. "You're probably right."

The glass walls dull the sound of their movement. Energy without escape.

They stop beneath the arching glass where a large ray glides overhead, its wide body casting a shadow over their faces. Kenji looks up, slightly amused. "You know, it's strange. From below, they almost look like they're smiling."

Mio follows his gaze, watching the creature pass silently. "They do."

"Makes you wonder," he continues evenly, "if they're happier in here, without predators, or if they'd rather be out there, even with the risks."

Mio pauses, considering. Her voice is quiet when she speaks. "I wonder if they even know the difference."

Kenji glances at her curiously, then lets it drop.

"Maybe it's simpler not to."

Later, they stand before a cylinder filled with jellyfish. Their bodies pulse with slow inevitability, rising and falling like lungs. Their edges glow dimly violet, the kind of color Mio has only ever seen in dreams.

"They don't have brains," Kenji says. "Or hearts. Just nerves."

Peace by default, not design. Calm as an accident.

She stares at them. Their movements aren't really swimming. More like... giving in. Falling upward because the water pulls them that way. Descending because gravity never really leaves them alone.

She wonders what it's like, not knowing where you end. Not knowing where the current stops and you begin.

She wonders when she forgot how to tell the difference herself.

Kenji shifts beside her. His shoulder brushes hers.

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

He nods, but not immediately. His smile feels slower now. Like he's checking something off a list that's starting to feel too long. He leans closer to the glass. "It's weird, isn't it? They look so peaceful, but they don't even know what peace is."

Mio watches one jellyfish rise slowly, then drift back down. "Maybe that's why they're peaceful. They don't have anything else to compare it to. Or it only looks that way."

Kenji chuckles quietly, glancing sideways at her. "True. Must be easier that way."

"Probably," Mio murmurs. "But maybe it's also a bit lonely."

The word floats between them like a bubble, thin-skinned and reflective.

They walk through the tunnel where the water arches overhead. Children press their hands to the glass, following fish with outstretched fingers. A child's handprint fogs the glass. Mio sets her palm over it, same size, then lifts away. Kenji wipes a coin-sized circle clear on the fogged glass with his sleeve. She peeks through the little porthole and smiles but says nothing.

The fish swim above them in endless circles. There's no horizon in here. Just movement contained by glass and expectation.

Mio breathes slowly. Watches the fog of her breath disappear on the cold pane.

Watches herself disappear.

---

They leave through the gift shop.

Kenji picks up a magnet shaped like a jellyfish. He holds it out.

"For your fridge," he says.

Mio takes the magnet from him, turning it in her fingers. "Why a jellyfish?"

"It matches the mood, right? You seemed drawn to them earlier."

She hums under her breath, tracing the translucent purple design. "They're calming to watch, I guess."

"Besides, it's a good reminder of today."

"That's why we take pictures, isn't it?"

He chuckles. "True. But it's nice to have something tangible, too. Proof we were here."

Mio looks up at him. "You always think of everything."

Kenji tilts his head slightly, his smile easy. "So do you. It's why we get along."

She smiles a little, more reflex than feeling. "Yeah. I guess that's true."

Kenji steps toward a rack of postcards, already scanning for something else to keep as proof, as tangible evidence. Mio watches him, fingers tightening subtly around the magnet, the edges pressing against her palm.

"Want anything else?" he asks, without looking up.

She picks a postcard of the sardines. The spiral. A choreography of containment. When they step back outside, the sunlight is too bright. It glances off the pavement like something sharp. Mio blinks. For a moment, she imagines the glass is still there. Imagines the weight of water overhead. Imagines she'll see shadows swimming.

But it's only sky. Endless and open. And her feet on solid ground.

---

The room at the ryokan is filled with indistinct life—the murmur of other guests, quiet footsteps, the clinking of dishes carried down polished wooden hallways. A door slides distantly; wood breathes against wood. Mio sits beside the low lacquered table. Her stomach isn't unsettled, exactly, but there's a hollow beneath her ribs. A subtle vacancy.

She listens to the water running in the adjacent cleansing area. Kenji is already inside, washing before entering the private bath. This is normal. She's told herself this repeatedly today, a mantra looped like a string of prayer beads in her mind, each repetition an attempt at belief.

(It's okay. Couples do this.)

Mio rises slowly, unsteady even as her bare feet make contact with the woven tatami. Her yukata slides easily from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. Exposed, she pauses, fingertips trembling against the wooden doorframe. She steps forward into the cleansing area, steam already misting the mirror, blurring her reflection, softening the lines of her body into something less sharply defined.

Her gaze settles on herself, and she tries not to flinch. She's never been comfortable, never quite at peace with how others see her. Especially here, in this context—in a space laden with romantic expectation, where vulnerability is currency and intimacy implied. The curves of her figure seem exaggerated now, distorted in the wavering mirror. Her chest and hips are now lines drawn by someone else's hand. Someone else's eyes.

She breathes slowly, trying to calm the skittish, uncomfortable flutter beneath her skin.

(You planned this. You chose this.)

Kenji's voice filters low through the sliding door, gentle and careful.

"Mio? You can come in whenever you're ready."

Her heart jolts. "Yeah," she answers, hoping her voice carries a casual ease she doesn't feel. "Just... just a minute."

He clears his throat once. Water shifts. Mio hears a small splash as he moves.

She kneels, pours warm water from the wooden bucket, and washes herself with mechanical precisión. Her mind drifts despite her efforts. She scrubs rhythmically, hoping the repetition might ground her, anchor her somewhere tangible.

It doesn't.

Instead, her heartbeat accelerates. The steam thickens around her in a hot, suffocating cocoon. She straightens, towel pressed against her chest, palms clammy, knuckles white with tension. Her reflection watches her in silence.

(This is normal. You should want this.)

But desire isn't something she can conjure from expectation. Her body feels like a separate entity she can't fully inhabit. Her mind dictates commands she can't fulfill.

She stares at the sliding door. At the suggestion of steam curling beneath its edges. At the quiet, patient silence behind it. She imagines Kenji waiting, relaxed, calm, unaware of the silent conflict unfolding only a few feet away.

Her fingers settle on the handle, hesitate, retreat.

Maybe this will be the moment it finally feels right.

She tries again, breathing in sharply. The door slides open slightly—just enough to reveal Kenji's blurred figure through the steam. His back is turned toward her, shoulders broad, skin pale and glistening in the muted glow of the lanterns. A figure both familiar and unfamiliar. Safe, in theory. Threatening, in practice.

She exhales, controlled. She has prepared herself for this. All day she has told herself:

(You can do this. You're fine. This is normal. You're supposed to want this.)

The internal mantra comes again, as rigorous as the careful itinerary she helped plan for their trip, each reassuring phrase another checked box in the task list of becoming someone she believes she ought to be.

Yet, standing here, naked skin prickling under the warm humidity, she feels a sudden vertigo of vulnerability that hadn't existed in theory. The conceptual onsen—contained neatly in itinerary notes and mental rationalizations—is entirely different from the palpable, physical reality just beyond the translucent partition: Kenji, waiting, expectant but quiet, submerged in hot water, his bare skin indistinct but visible through steam like a muted promise. An implication.

It is that implication which tightens Mio's throat.

She tries to think about baths shared with friends—laughter and casual nudity stripped entirely of intimacy. Safe because it was codified, known, a comfortable social contract. With Ritsu, Mugi, Yui, Azusa—it was different. Uncomplicated. Platonic. There was no subtle subtext in the way her friends' eyes moved over her body, in the ease with which they slipped into water together, no measured quiet that thickened to uncomfortable silence.

This, she realizes suddenly, is not that.

She looks down at her body, curves rendered unfamiliar by the harsh bathroom lighting, chest rising and falling rapidly, revealing anxiety she can't hide from herself. Her own form feels strangely foreign—both heavy and insubstantial. This body, once so neutral among friends, now loaded with expectations she can't bear to face, can't parse, can't fulfill. She imagines Kenji's gaze landing upon her skin, the sudden shift in the way he might see her—not as Mio, but as his girlfriend, as a body he's entitled to view differently.

(That's normal. You wanted this.)

And yet it feels deeply, disquietingly wrong. It isn't about Kenji—he hasn't pressured her—it's about herself. Because she can't align the physical act, the vulnerability implied, with her internal reality.

She turns abruptly toward the mirror again, meets the hazy reflection of her own eyes, her face blurred in steam. Her dark hair clings damply to her shoulders, longer strands brushing against her skin in ways that amplify her discomfort. She curls her arms around her torso, shoulders hunched slightly inward.

(You have to do this.)

But her body rebels at the thought, recoils at the notion of exposure—of proximity to a role she can't inhabit.

She knows it's irrational.

(He won't hurt you. He's good. He's patient.)

He has always been patient. Yet the patience itself feels like something owed and not yet delivered. Like borrowed goodwill she now owes.

Her heart flutters anxiously in her chest. A frantic, discordant rhythm beneath the pulse of water running somewhere behind the wall. She inhales deeply, preparing again, trying to find steadiness in the borrowed ritual of routine.

It fails.

"Kenji?"

Her voice comes out thin, too apologetic, far less steady than she intended. She hears the ripple of water as he shifts, a vague, blurred silhouette behind the steam.

"Yeah?"

Mio swallows thickly, the words catching. "I—I think..." Her voice falters, weak. She tries again. "I'm sorry, Kenji. I... I think... I'm going to wait. Until you're finished." Her voice shakes subtly, betraying something deeper, quieter, something she wants desperately to mask.

The silence that follows feels impossibly heavy. She can almost feel Kenji's disappointment as a tangible presence—a quiet sigh, soft as the steam around him.

"That's okay, Mio," he says, just a beat too late to sound effortless. Then: "Whatever you're comfortable with."

Grief folds into guilt. Because she isn't comfortable. She isn't anything close to comfortable, and the shame that washes through her is almost dizzying.

She closes her eyes, guilt and relief intertwining painfully in her chest.

"I'm sorry," she whispers again, barely audible, mostly to herself.

He doesn't respond.

She closes the door, heart thudding painfully, her body rigid with resistance, and leans her forehead against the cool wood. Her breath leaves small halos of moisture on its lacquered surface.

(Why can't you just do this? It's just a bath.)

But it isn't just a bath. It's a barrier she can't yet cross, an intimacy she can't yet inhabit, a relationship she thought she understood but doesn't know how to navigate.

Her eyes drift downward, watching water droplets roll along her forearm, catching the glow of artificial light. In this moment, with silence stretching painfully between them, her body is something deeply separate from herself. An object of discomfort. An unfamiliar territory she can't reclaim.

She tries to rationalize it.

I'm shy. It's normal. Everyone feels nervous.

But this isn't just nerves. She knows nerves intimately—the fluttery anxiety before performing, the quiet jitters of meeting new people, the careful breath before stepping forward. This feels deeper, heavier, sharper—an ache of dissonance between what she thinks she wants, what she should want, and what she actually feels.

(You're his girlfriend. This is what girlfriends do.)

She shivers, the word "girlfriend" now feeling like clothes cut too tight, a garment fashioned to another's measurements.

She exhales again, carefully, mechanically, and reaches for her folded yukata, drawing it tightly around herself. The fabric settles over her skin, shielding, reassuringly solid. She retreats into the safety of the main room, shoulders hunched protectively inward. Alone, the distance between what she wants to feel and what she actually feels widens, a chasm she doesn't understand how to cross. The sound of Kenji in the bath echoes, water moving quietly, another reminder of her inadequacy.

Sitting at the small wooden table, Mio wraps the yukata even tighter around herself, the fabric offering little comfort against the chill settling deep within her bones. Her body hums with a quiet, restless energy, dissatisfaction and self-reproach coiling uncomfortably.

(Why can't you just be normal? Maybe you really are broken. Maybe you'll never be enough.)

She looks away, gaze fixed blankly on the woven patterns of the tatami, blurred by tears she refuses to shed. She breathes out. Steadying herself is a choice—her shoulders tremble with the weight of it.

This shouldn't be so difficult.

The silence in the room thickens uncomfortably around her, pressing down like humidity—suffocating, oppressive. She can't bear it. Mio reaches for her MP3 player instinctively, fingers trembling as she slips her earbuds in.

She selects an album without thought. I Love You, Dude, again. The opening synth notes of Forrest Gump sill into her ears—rich, electronic textures rising, insistent, like steam from the bath she just fled.

Direction swapped, compass is his.
Sometimes it's much, yes, sometimes it is.

Mio curls, her knees drawn protectively to her chest. The lyrics slip beneath her skin effortlessly, their ambiguity mirroring her own uncertainty. She closes her eyes, letting the music weave a cocoon of sound around her, trying to drown out her spiraling thoughts.

No time to touch, no time to kiss,
A total waste of capacity.
Could be a taste of what it means to me.

The ache intensifies. The lyrics slide sharply into the spaces she's tried desperately to hide from herself—the contradictions, the inadequacies, the quiet panic that she's profoundly wrong somehow.

She presses the earbuds tighter, as if physical pressure could block out the internal whispers. Yet the song feels cruelly apt, the rhythm echoing like a heartbeat she can't slow.

Some ways just don't end up here,
Dead-end, shake up, and go clear.

Is that what this is—a dead-end?

Stop it. It's just music.

She tries to believe that. But music has always told her truths she isn't ready to hear, truths she can't yet name. It slips into the gaps where rationalizations fail, where the careful facade fractures.

Her breath shudders.

And so you run.
And then you run.
And then you run.

Is she running?

(You are.)

Running from herself. From what she is or isn't capable of feeling. From Kenji. From expectations. From the possibility that she might be irrevocably broken, somehow out of sync with everyone else.

She trembles subtly, drawing her knees tighter against her chest, the music a tender yet insistent pressure, pressing on her bruises, articulating the feelings she doesn't have words for yet.

It's not for good, but I think you should.
You run.
Just start to count, you go underground.

Mio exhales again, eyes closed, lips pressed tight, her fingertips dig into the fabric of her yukata. The song fades, but her mind echoes still, trapped in rhythmic cycles of discomfort and revelation.

The silence after is heavier, fuller, even less forgiving.

(Maybe this is just who you are.)

Before she can stop the thought, the door slides open behind her, breaking the fragile cocoon of music and isolation she's built around herself. Kenji emerges, towel draped loosely around his waist. His expression is neutral, the disappointment carefully hidden beneath a layer of calm understanding. Mio glances away instinctively, cheeks warm with shame.

"All yours," he says, polite. "Take your time."

She nods, unable to speak. Yet she doesn't move immediately, frozen still as he retreats. A soft slide of a door closing somewhere farther away. Silence returns, deeper now, more honest in its emptiness.

Finally, she rises, steps past him without meeting his eyes, conscious of his careful distance, the way he deliberately avoids even the smallest brush of their bodies. It hurts more than she expects.

She opens the door to steam swirling, water waiting, quiet and patient, the air humid and thick with the scent of mineral heat. She steps forward, but doesn't feel lighter for it. Quietly, numbly, she lowers herself into the warm water, letting it envelop her like a quiet, reassuring embrace. But the comfort doesn't reach deep enough to dislodge the ache, the certainty that something is fundamentally wrong with her.

She stares at patterns of moisture on tile, at reflections fractured by ripples. Something like grief coils in her chest, heavy as stones submerged beneath clear water.

She wants desperately to cry, though she isn't certain why—only that something has broken within her, an unspoken wish she didn't fully know she was holding.

She breathes. In. Out. In. Out. The water laps at her skin, kind, forgiving, never asking for more than she is able to give. She watches steam rise, ghost-like above the surface, drifting without direction. She remembers the jellyfish, their passive bodies pulsing silently, carried by currents beyond their control.

(Maybe you're just like that. Just floating. Letting something else decide your direction.)

Mio's breath moves the water briefly—proof she's still here, even if it doesn't last. Her body feels as weightless and uncertain as the reflection that trembles across the surface.

---

The dining room holds a hush of polite restraint. A subdued harmony woven from murmured conversation, the whisper of fabric against tatami, and the slide of lacquered trays placed deliberately, precisely, on low tables. Lamplight spills from paper lanterns, warm in tone yet coolly detached, casting an aesthetic judgment on everything it touches. Each surface glistens, polished into immaculate reflection. Porcelain kisses porcelain; the notes die quickly.

Perfect, ritual precision.

This is kaiseki.

Mio sits, her seiza posture impeccable, back straight, eyes cast downward at the first dish placed before her. Sakizuke—an appetizer, a prelude. The ceramic bowl is delicate, almost translucent, glazed in pale celadon that captures and holds the light like a secret. Within, a simple arrangement of seasonal vegetables floats serenely in clear dashi. A tiny flower petal rests atop them, impossibly fragile, impossibly deliberate.

The precision of the arrangement is extraordinary—each piece placed with the kind of care that makes you feel like disturbing it would be impolite, each petal aligned to an unseen axis, each droplet of broth poised in silent equilibrium.

It's perfect.

Too perfect, Mio thinks absently, as she lifts her chopsticks, aware of Kenji watching. The moment the dish reaches her lips, however, the sensation of taste is oddly muted, as though filtered through layers of abstraction. She swallows mechanically.

"It's beautiful," Kenji remarks. He sounds genuinely appreciative, his chopsticks pausing reverently over the dish. "The chef clearly understands subtlety."

Mio nods, elegant and practiced. "Yes. The flavors are... delicate."

(You aren't tasting anything.)

She takes another measured bite, chewing, searching for flavor, for meaning—but finds nothing beyond the deliberate arrangement, the cool texture, the faint emptiness that settles on her tongue.

Kenji lifts his glass—a thin, delicate stem of pale glass filled precisely to a polite height with cold sake—and tilts it toward her.

"Kanpai," he says. "To us, and to new experiences."

She lifts her own glass automatically, the slight trembling of her fingers masked beneath her practiced calm. Their glasses meet, chiming in polite acknowledgment. Mio sips, tasting only a cold, clear nothingness.

"To new experiences," she echoes, voice fading beneath the murmur of conversation around them.

(You mean it. You have to.)

The second course, mukozuke, arrives with practiced efficiency, raw sashimi laid out artfully across lacquerware, delicate slices of translucent fish shimmering in the lamplight. Exposure. Vulnerability. She regards the gleaming slices quietly, noting their stark presentation, the gloss of fish oil reflecting muted colors.

Kenji eats appreciatively, humming in understated enjoyment. "Fresh," he murmurs. "Almost melts on your tongue."

Mio tries again. Lifts a single slice of salmon, the vivid orange almost shocking against the dark plate. The fish slips across her tongue like water—texture without taste, sensation without emotion. It slides down her throat easily, leaving no trace, no lasting impression.

(You should enjoy this. This is supposed to be beautiful.)

But rawness requires honesty—an openness she can't summon. The sashimi's vulnerability feels uncomfortable. She returns her gaze to the lacquer, studying the grain of polished wood, following its irregularities rather than meeting Kenji's quiet, searching gaze.

Yakimono arrives exactly when it should—perfect timing, exact choreography. A small grilled fish rests neatly, skin blistered to a rich golden-brown, the edges darkened with controlled flame. Fire and transformation. Mio contemplates it silently, dissecting symbolism even as her chopsticks dissect delicate flesh.

"Perfectly grilled," Kenji says. His smile is effortless. "You can taste the fire."

She nods politely, but she tastes no fire—only texture, only temperature, only the impression of something having passed through flame, emerging beautiful but unchanged beneath.

Like me, she thinks. A thought she folds into herself like a letter she won't send. Polished by expectation. Carefully browned to appearance, but raw inside. Unaltered.

Kenji's voice draws her back. "You know, I've always admired kaiseki. The effort behind simplicity—the restraint it requires."

"Yes," Mio answers. "It's a delicate illusion."

He studies her for a beat. "Illusion?"

She catches herself. "I mean... it's so composed, we forget how much work goes into making something seem effortless."

He nods, satisfied, smiling warmly at her. "Exactly. Elegance."

Form that eats the feeling it presents.

The final course arrives with measured ceremony—tome-wan, the soup that signals a meal's conclusion, a quiet settling. Mio watches steam rise, forming ephemeral shapes in the quiet air. Her spoon disturbs the clear broth gently, concentric ripples dissipating silently.

"Soothing," Kenji murmurs appreciatively. "Like an exhale after a long breath."

She tries to feel that—to let the warmth permeate her—but it remains superficial, a comfort that touches skin without penetrating beneath. She drinks slowly, deliberately, wondering when ritual became her only anchor.

The dishes are cleared with practiced silence, leaving only tea and a subtle dessert of sliced fruit—minimal, exact, aesthetically faultless.

Kenji lifts his tea, holding the cup between steady fingers. He regards Mio warmly, eyes hopeful, trying to draw her closer again, as if sensing how far she has drifted. His chopsticks pause slightly, not quite touching the next dish.

"Today was special," he says, and it sounds like a line meant for a different version of today. Like someone double-checking their lines before saying them aloud. "I'm glad we're here."

Mio swallows. Words falter in her throat, inadequate.

"Me too," she whispers finally.

But sincerity feels like a note she can no longer strike, a pitch she can't quite reach. The performance is seamless, yet she remains outside it, detached, observing herself through a distant lens.

The meal concludes, and as they leave the low-lit dining room, Mio glances once more over her shoulder at the immaculate table they leave behind—perfectly arranged, dishes gleaming emptily, polished wood reflecting softly.

Aesthetic. Precise. Empty.

Beautiful.

Outside, cool night air touches her skin, clearing her senses just slightly. Kenji's fingers trail against hers as they walk, side by side, steps aligned yet subtly mismatched.

She watches the stars silently, remote points of cold light, impossibly precise.

Her hand closes around his, deliberate, rehearsed, fingers interlacing. They walk in practiced rhythm, the pathway illuminated by glowing lanterns. 

But even this—the simplest intimacy—feels unreachable, like a dish arranged perfectly but devoid of flavor. A ritual performed faultlessly, emotion obscured beneath formality.

Mio breathes out, feeling emptiness linger like an aftertaste.

Maybe it'll click into place if I just keep going.

She tightens her fingers around Kenji's, holding onto the careful, fragile illusion.

Tonight, she thinks, desperately—tonight will fix this.

She hopes it will.

She has to believe it.

But belief is another role she's rehearsed, another course carefully presented.

Aesthetic. Precise. Empty.

But beautifully so.

Notes:

And that's that. A perfectly curated day—rituals, reflections, rabbit envy, jellyfish metaphors (so many jellyfish metaphors), and a kaiseki dinner so immaculate it could've been plated by a surgeon.

But sometimes a shrine doesn't feel sacred. Sometimes an aquarium doesn't feel romantic. And sometimes a boy and a girl sit on opposite ends of the same bed, trying to believe they're still part of the same story.

Mio tried. Kenji tried. But they're not walking the same path anymore. And Mt. Fuji's not even the scariest thing they're facing.

I wish I could say this was the worst of it, but we've still got a train to catch.

So, thank you. For sitting in the silence with me. If you felt a little empty after this one... good. That means it landed.

Now, about that repost: yeah, sorry. It's been a weird week. I've been betaing solo, spiraling about adverbs, wondering if I sound like an AI (ugh), which seems to be the only topic anyone talks about on Reddit and fic Discords lately, but I'm not a native English speaker and I'm afraid I'm not doing well with the syntax and grammar now and I may come as simple or robotic, so... Yeah. I've been generally forgetting how to have fun with my own story.

The truth is, I'm not in the best place outside of fic. There's some life stuff that's draining me, and it's affecting my writing too. Plus, this arc? Emotionally dense. Weirdly straight. Very Kenji. A lot. Who even cares about this man? Uuuuugh.

But I want to get back to why I started this in the first place: because I love these characters. Because I want to have fun. Because this silly behemoth of a fic still makes my heart beat a little faster. So I'm trying to post like I'm just a reader waiting for the next update of my favorite fic, not someone submitting chapters for a literary prize. This doesn't have to be perfect.

I'll be aiming for a weekly update every Saturday to keep momentum without burning out, and to keep structure without falling into a void. So yes, in theory, there's a new chapter coming in a couple of days. If you're still here to read it, I want to kiss your little face <3

(Heads up: the next chapter is pretty emotionally intense. If you need to skip it, that's totally valid.)

See you in a few.

Chapter 31: Broken Voice

Summary:

Mio breaks the choreography.

Notes:

⚠️ Content Warning: This chapter contains a detailed, emotionally intense scene of dissociation during a consensual—but deeply distressing—sexual encounter, driven by internalized pressure around physical intimacy. It also includes depictions of physical and emotional discomfort; themes of bodily autonomy and coercion (self-imposed and societal); and exploration of compulsory heterosexuality/heteronormative expectations and identity questioning around sexuality. Please take care while reading.

This is one of the most vulnerable chapters in the story so far. It explores identity, desire, and the disconnect between emotional consent and embodied experience—a chapter about performance, about the gap between wanting to want something and actually wanting it. About how silence can be loud. About how "yes" isn't always enough.

Read when you're ready, and skip if you need to.

Broken Voice, by My Epic, was released on July 5, 2011.

July 30, 2011

Steam rises from the faucet where Mio rinses her toothbrush, dissipating in delicate vortices against the cool air. She watches it for a moment—how it curls and vanishes, leaving no evidence of its existence beyond the memory of movement. She sets the toothbrush in its holder, wiping the ceramic edge of the sink with the towel's corner, smoothing away stray droplets—a moral imperative.

Control, she reminds herself, is a kind of grace. Precision can be peace.

Her reflection meets her gaze in the mirror, hair trailing dark lines over the paleness of her neck. Face bare save for the wash of color drawn into her skin by the hot water. She leans in a fraction closer, the faintest distortion warping the symmetry of her features as the glass fogs beneath her breath.

(You look fine. Enough. Normal.)

She tilts her head, angling herself toward another interpretation. Fingers lift to adjust the fall of her bangs, smoothing them into an orderly arrangement. She reaches for her brush—walnut wood, the one she always brings on trips—and draws it through her hair with a steady rhythm. The bristles glide from crown to tip, unhooking small snags with a satisfying tactile resistance. She repeats the motion. And again. And again.

Repetition is calming. It imposes order where there might otherwise be chaos. She has always understood this.

Her heart is steady, for now. Her breathing even. She lets herself pretend this counts for something.

When she finishes with her hair, she runs her fingers under the tap again, cool water slicking over her knuckles. She presses them to the hollow of her throat, feeling the pulse there—an arrhythmic flutter that betrays nothing of her thoughts.

(He's waiting for you.)

She reaches for the underwear folded on the counter. She picked them deliberately while packing. Matching. Neither lace nor silk—those never fit properly anyway—but something with intent. An ivory set: the bra simple, molded to her shape without excessive padding. The cups are smooth, with minimal decoration—just a small bow at the center that feels, now, like a concession to femininity rather than an honest expression. The panties plain, cut slightly higher on the leg than her usual style, because she had read somewhere it was more flattering. More mature.

She puts them on with clinical efficiency, slipping the bra straps over her shoulders, adjusting the band at her back before hooking the clasps. It isn't difficult. She's done this a thousand times. But there's a familiar tug of disappointment as she looks down at herself.

The bra fits, technically.

But it isn't what she had imagined wanting to wear in a moment like this. Those bras—the delicate, embroidered ones, with sheer cups and slender straps—never come in her size.

She has looked. She has tried. The cute ones stop somewhere around a C cup. She's not a C cup. Not even close. And so she buys what she can. The larger sizes are practical, supportive, always a little more utilitarian than beautiful. The colors limited—white, beige, pale gray, navy blue. Sometimes a blush pink, if she's lucky. Even then, it feels like a compromise.

She's learned not to mind; she tells herself it doesn't matter.

She hopes Kenji doesn't care, either.

He's never cared, she thinks. His gaze has always been appreciative. Not demanding. She should be grateful for that.

She runs her hands down her sides, smoothing invisible wrinkles from the panty line. She watches herself do it. Fingers sliding over ribs, over the flat of her stomach. The sensation faintly disconnected, as though the skin beneath her palms belonged to someone else.

A body viewed through glass.

She draws the yukata back around herself with precision that borders on compulsion. The cotton is soft beneath her hands, patterned with pale blue leaves. Summer colors. She ties the sash, feeling it cinch under her fingers. Not too tight. She readjusts it anyway. Her palm presses flat against the knot, willing it to hold.

She checks her reflection again. The high collar. The smooth fall of fabric over her shoulders. Her hair cascading neatly at the sides. She looks as she's supposed to look. She has followed the instructions. She has rehearsed this image.

(You want this.)

Her chest tightens at the thought. A pressure without origin, like the ache in her jaw after a night spent clenching her teeth.

(You love him.)

She does. She must. What else could this be?

She's grateful for him. For his patience. For his understanding. For his quiet, measured way of loving her, which asks so little and yet somehow demands so much.

This is what love is supposed to be. This is what people do. What couples do. Sharing a room. Sharing a bed. Sharing skin.

She writes the kanji for person on her right palm three times with her left index finger, as she always has. Careful strokes. One. Two. Three. Then lifts her hand to her lips and pretends to swallow it. A charm against nerves. Against panic. Against herself.

But when she looks down at her palm again, the inkless ghosts of the lines already fading into her skin, she doesn't feel any braver. Doesn't feel any more like a person.

Only a shape wearing a body.

She closes her eyes, centering herself in the steady rhythm of her breath.

(You can do this. You want to do this. There's nothing wrong with you.)

She repeats it. A mantra now, looping endlessly beneath her thoughts.

She smooths the front of her yukata one last time. Her hands steady. Her reflection holds. She steps back from the mirror.

Her feet make no sound on the floor as she crosses to the door. The handle warm beneath her fingers. She opens it slowly.

Beyond, the room is quiet. The futons already laid out, precisely aligned. The scent of tatami and cedar. Kenji's bag in one corner, half-zipped. His sandals arranged by the door.

Mio breathes in. Controlled.

(Smile. You're ready.)

Her hand lingers on the handle, fingers flexing once against the wood.

She steps forward, eyes closed. The door slides shut with a soft, final thunk. A stillness waits for her inside the room, precise as the futons aligned edge to edge on the tatami. Measured. Prepared. Like everything else today.

They both know why they're here.

This was the plan.

The trip, the ryokan room booked, the careful itinerary designed to keep them moving—sightseeing, meals, the private bath—all of it felt like prelude. A quiet procession leading to this.

And now there's nowhere else to go.

Mio feels it settle over her shoulders like the yukata she's cinched too tight. Inevitable.

This is the next logical step. The one she's supposed to take.

What else could they be here for? Why else would she be here?

(You knew this was going to happen.)

She knew it when Kenji suggested Hakone. She knew it two nights ago when she folded her underwear neatly in her bag. She knew it when she rehearsed how she'd untie the knot at her waist, slow enough not to look nervous.

And if she isn't ready after almost a year with him, will she ever be?

What is the point of being here—of being his girlfriend—if she isn't going to do the things a girlfriend is supposed to do?

There's no reason to hesitate. No reason to stall.

Her shyness. Her nerves. The way her stomach folds in on itself like paper pleats—all of it can be smoothed out. She just has to play her part.

She chose this.

She opens her eyes.

The room is dim now.

Dim, not dark. The low amber glow of the shoji lamp spreads thin over the tatami, delicate as watercolor. The edges of things soften in this light—objects blur into one another, their boundaries less certain, their definitions more forgiving. Even the lines of Kenji's body seem less distinct as he sits cross-legged at the edge of the futons, his back straight but not stiff, hands resting open on his knees in the deliberate ease of someone trying not to appear expectant.

Mio stands there a moment longer than necessary. Long enough that she becomes conscious of the weight between her feet. Long enough to feel the uneven rhythm of her breathing. The air feels thick here, though not with heat. Its density is another kind—hanging between words that want to mean something yet fail to cross the synaptic gap between speakers.

Kenji looks up at her. Smiles. A careful person's smile, from someone who has prepared for this moment. Not rehearsed—Kenji isn't like her in that way—but steadied himself. He has readied himself to wait. Or to move. Whichever is required. His patience is present, oppressive.

"It's okay," he says. His voice is the vocal equivalent of a hand extended palm-up. "You can sit."

Her eyes flick downward as she shifts. There, just beyond the edge of the folded kakefuton, rests a small square packet—discreet, almost respectful in its placement.

A fact.

It sits within reach, like he'd placed it there and then pretended he hadn't.

Her stomach tenses, a reflex more than a thought. It's not surprise; she knew this. And she's grateful for it. The preparation, the thoughtfulness, the logic. But it's also the physical registration of a future pressed into foil: what had been ambient—implied in gesture, tone, context—is now material.

She nods and moves. Her knees fold beneath her as she lowers herself onto the futons beside him, her motions exact, precise. She tucks her yukata around her legs, smoothing her hem once, twice, three times over her thighs before her hands come to rest in her lap. Her fingers twitch—micro-movements of muscle memory, playing an invisible bassline she no longer knows how to hear.

The silence hovers. It isn't uncomfortable yet, but there is a latent energy to it, waiting for them both to give it shape. Kenji breathes beside her. She can sense him watching her without watching her. His presence is calm, but she doesn't know how to inhabit it.

Kenji shifts. Not a big movement—just the twitch of a shoulder, a subtle lean forward like he might say something. But then he stops himself. His hands are on his knees, fingers tapping faint rhythms against his legs. Fidgeting.

She's never seen him fidget.

He clears his throat, then lets out a slow breath, trying to pass it off as confidence. She can tell it's not. There's tension behind his stillness—he's trying too hard to appear casual.

Her pulse is audible now, the thrum of blood moving with insistent force in her ears. She thinks, distantly, of Ritsu tapping out a rhythm on the back of her chair in middle school. The way it used to calm her, ironically. The way it made sense. She wishes for that now—an external beat to follow. Something simpler than this.

Kenji breathes again. Louder this time. His jaw tightens slightly before he softens it with a faint smile.

"You're quiet," Kenji says.

(You are supposed to smile.)

She manages a smile back.

"I'm always quiet," she replies. Her voice sounds different here. Thickened by the room's acoustics, softened by her own restraint.

"Yeah," he agrees. "But it's a little different tonight."

A pause.

Then: "Hey." His voice drops, gentler still. Almost conspiratorial, though there is no secret between them. That's what she tells herself. "I just want you to know..." He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. His hands remain open, but not reaching. "We'll take it slow. I—" He stops, swallows. Shifts again—too quick—like he's fixing his waistband, then stills. "Only what you want."

She breathes in. Her lungs fill carefully, oxygen rationed. She tilts her head, the movement controlled, and looks at him. His face is earnest. He means it.

"I know," she says, barely audible. "I..." She nods. "I trust you."

She does. She thinks she does. Trust is a concept she understands intellectually. Kenji has never given her reason not to trust him. Trust is an equation: time + consistency = safety.

He nods, too. Settles back a little, giving her space. His gaze doesn't press. She should be grateful for that. She is grateful for that.

She thinks.

They sit for another long moment, suspended between inertia and expectation. Mio's hands are still folded in her lap. She feels the yukata shift over her skin with every breath. The knot at her waist is tight. She can't remember if she tied it that way on purpose.

Kenji moves first.

His hand lifts from his knee, crossing the small expanse between them. He doesn't touch her. His fingertips hover a fraction of a breath away from hers, close enough that she can feel the heat radiating off his skin. It surprises her how warm he is. How alive.

The moment stretches.

He waits.

She lets her fingers uncurl from their careful arrangement. One by one, they reach across the gap and settle against his. He doesn't close the distance, doesn't lace their hands together or press his palm flat against hers. It's an invitation, not a capture.

Their fingers rest there. Parallel.

Mio breathes again. It's easier now. Or at least less difficult.

(This is fine. This is progress.)

"This is nice," Kenji murmurs. His thumb grazes over the side of her index finger. A question she already knows the answer to but doesn't yet know how to voice.

She nods, the motion small but visible. "It is."

(It should be.)

His hand shifts, turning hers palm-up, and his fingers trace the lines there with a reverence. Mio watches him. Watches her own hand—big, pale, long-fingered, unremarkable except that it's hers—cradle his touch like something fragile.

She tries to focus on the sensation:

Skin on skin.
The faint callus at the pad of his thumb.
The tough, perennial calluses on her bass-playing fingers.
The contrast between his warmth and her cool.
The symmetry of the gesture.

(You're here. You're doing this. You're being normal.)

He raises her hand slowly, bringing it to his lips. The kiss is chaste. Nothing intrusive. Like a knight's brief salute. She feels the breath of it before she feels the touch, and even then, it's delicate. But the heat lingers, blooming outward along her wrist.

Her heart skips, then settles into an uneven rhythm. Something ambiguous.

Kenji lowers their hands together onto her knee. He smiles. "You're beautiful," he says.

(You're supposed to smile when your boyfriend says that. You're supposed to feel something when your boyfriend says that.)

She manages it. A shy curve of her lips. "Thank you."

It sounds wrong—too formal, too distant. She tries to soften it with her eyes, but she isn't sure she succeeds. Kenji doesn't seem to notice.

He leans in. She watches his face draw closer to hers, his gaze dipping for a moment to her mouth before returning to her eyes.

She tilts her chin up.

That's all he needs.

His lips press to hers. There is no rush, no urgency. His mouth is warm, his breath tinged with the green tea they drank after dinner. His hand remains steady on her knee, and the other now rests against her jaw.

(You have kissed him before. This is not new.)

He draws back. Searches her face. Then leans in again.

The second kiss is longer. His lips part slightly, inviting hers to do the same. She follows mechanically. Her body responds the way it's supposed to. Her lips move. She mirrors him as best she can.

His hand slides from her jaw to the side of her neck. His thumb strokes lightly beneath her ear. She focuses on the sensation, tries to catalog it.

Warmth. Pressure. Movement.

There is no revulsion. But there is no spark, either. Only an abstract awareness that this is happening.

He deepens the kiss. His tongue flickers at the seam of her lips, and she lets him in. Because that's what you do. Because she wants to want this. She kisses him back, more earnestly now, or at least with a facsimile of earnestness. Her mouth opens. Her breathing shallows. She tips forward, closing the distance between them so there's less ambiguity. Just a little. Enough for their bodies to align more fully—knee against knee, thigh against thigh.

Kenji inhales sharply. He makes a low, appreciative sound.

His hand shifts again, cupping the back of her head now. His other moves to her waist.

Mio lets him guide her even closer. Their bodies align. His hand glides from her waist to her lower back, fingers splaying over her yukata. His palm is hot. His touch burns through the cotton.

She tells herself it's okay. This is good. This is what she said yes to.

(You said yes. Don't ever forget that.)

She moves her hand to his chest. She feels his heartbeat—steady, strong. He feels solid beneath her palm. His body is warm in a way hers isn't. She wonders if he notices the difference.

Kenji breaks the kiss first, leaning his forehead against hers. He's breathing a little harder now. His thumb traces circles against her back, soothing, steady. His other hand, still on the back of her neck, flexes almost unconsciously. Then stills. There's a half-beat of tension in him now—like his body is moving faster than his mind can allow. He pulls back just enough to recalibrate.

She feels him swallow. The pulse in his throat is visible. He laughs under his breath and murmurs, "Sorry. You're just... yeah."

Mio doesn't respond.

"You're doing great," he whispers. "This is good. We're good."

She nods, eyes closed. "Yeah." Her voice is measured.

They sit there, close but not close enough to hurt.

But it's coming. She can feel it.

Kenji kisses her again. A studied repetition of something they've done before, slower now. Less the light familiarity of routine, more the quiet escalation of intent. He tastes like green tea and patience. She wonders if she tastes like anything at all.

His hand slides along her waist, fingers splaying over her ribs. The heat of his palm diffuses through the thin cotton of her yukata, radiating like a space heater on low. It isn't uncomfortable. He's careful not to grip, not to clutch. It's just presence. Just contact.

And yet, she catalogs the pressure:

Approximate weight.
Duration.
The way his fingers flex, tracing a path rather than a person.
The anticipation of movement.

Her lips part beneath his again. She follows the motion without thinking. Reflex. Response. A mimicry of closeness. She thinks of the sardines they watched at the aquarium earlier, moving in perfect synchronicity, silver bodies gliding along an axis of instinct rather than thought.

He deepens the kiss again. His tongue brushes gently against hers, a suggestion rather than a demand. His hand at her waist draws aimless patterns. Circles, perhaps. Or spirals. Or something for which she has no name. His thumb grazes the underside of her ribs. She counts the seconds it takes before he moves again.

She adjusts, shifts her weight forward, and tilts her head at an angle that suggests welcome. Encouragement. He answers instantly—his breath catches before he kisses her again, even deeper this time. His other hand rises, fingers brushing against her jaw, tilting her face up toward his. She focuses on the texture of skin, on the simple mechanics of contact.

Kenji's fingers slide down from her jaw to her throat before settling at the hollow beneath it. His palm flattens there briefly. Mio's breath stutters, shallow and uneven, not from pleasure but from awareness: that his hand is there, that he could feel the pulse fluttering beneath her skin if he wanted to.

That he doesn't.

She lets him guide her down until they are lying beside one another, parallel in the delicate architecture of the futons he so carefully arranged earlier. She goes easily—too easily.

She's weightless. Like paper.

She lies there, staring up at the wall, at the clean lines of the wood beams. Her hands come to rest against his shoulders. She is acutely aware of their alignment. Hip to hip. Shoulder to shoulder. The symmetry of their bodies mirrored by their positioning, their proximity defined by an invisible axis. Two objects arranged by aesthetic intention.

His lips find hers again. Softer this time. Slower. As though he were savoring, restraining himself for her benefit, like gentleness could be enough to undo hesitation. She tries to appreciate that. To feel grateful. To want to reward his gentleness with reciprocation.

Her hand lifts and returns to his chest again. His heartbeat thrums beneath her palm, steady. The rhythm of someone entirely comfortable within his skin.

Not like her.

Kenji's hand moves again. Slower still, it drifts downward along her side, pausing at the knot of her yukata. There's a breath of hesitation. His thumb traces the knot. An unspoken question.

She nods. Or maybe she doesn't. Maybe she only thinks she does. Maybe he only imagines he feels her consent in the looseness of her posture, in the way her body yields fractionally toward his.

His fingers fumble for a moment. She expects delicacy, but there's a clumsy rush to it—like he's been thinking about this all day and now that it's happening, his hands won't listen.

He chuckles under his breath, low and sheepish. "Sorry."

Mio shakes her head. "D–don't be."

He finally unties the knot.

The sound is delicate, but in the quiet of the room, it seems amplified. The cotton whispers against itself. The small, dry whisper of separation. The tension at her waist releases. Her yukata loosens.

He doesn't push it off her shoulders. He's too careful for that. Instead, his hand traces upward again—over her ribs, then higher. A gentle mapping. His fingertips brush the lapel aside just enough to expose the line of her collarbone.

He kisses her there.

(It's tender. This is what you want.)

And for a second—a brief, flickering second—it almost works. The neutrality of the gesture, its innocence, lets her inhabit the moment without panic. Without shame. She watches herself from somewhere above, noting the ease in her breathing. She thinks: this feels nice. This is gentle.

But then he shifts.

His mouth moves to the juncture where her shoulder curves into her neck. His lips press there, different now. Less reverent. More purposeful.

And then he kisses her neck, just below her ear, and the sound he makes—half groan, half sigh—makes her cower.

The sensation is immediate.

Visceral.

An instinctive spike surges through her—primal, pre-thought. Her skin crawls where his mouth makes contact. The heat of his breath seems too wet, the scrape of his lower lip against her pulse point almost unbearable to her nerves.

The touch is exploratory now. Bolder. Not aggressive, but more sure of itself.

Like something inside him has decided the risk is past. That this is happening. That she wants it.

He isn't doing anything wrong; he's letting go.

And she's still holding on.

Her shoulders tense.

He doesn't notice. Or if he does, he interprets it as something else—arousal, anticipation, something affirming. His mouth lingers there. Presses again. Harder.

Her breath stutters. Not in pleasure. Not in anything close to pleasure. She inhales sharply through her nose.

(You're supposed to like this. Relax. Just relax.)

She tries. She wills herself to. She loosens her fingers where they've clenched into the fabric of his yukata. She exhales, slow and steady, hoping it will reset something.

His lips graze lower, toward the cord of muscle along her neck, gentle; it feels invasive. Her skin tightens around the sensation. Goosebumps rise along her arms.

And then he exhales against her skin.

The heat of it makes her flinch.

She pulls away slightly. An inch, no more. Enough that his mouth loses contact.

Kenji stills.

For a moment, neither of them breathes.

Then Mio forces herself back into place. She closes the gap again. Lets her shoulder settle back against the futons. Lets her body soften—or approximate softness. She hopes he can't tell the difference.

He kisses her collarbone again. Lighter this time. Testing.

It's easier to endure.

Her mind is loud now. A catalog of internal commands and counter-commands.

(This is what girlfriends do. This is what you said yes to. This is what you are supposed to feel.)

Kenji's hand slides over her waist again. Upward. He traces the lines of her body over familiar geography, and she realizes she has never felt more like a map. Something two-dimensional. Something to be charted.

His hand curves over her ribcage. Pauses at the underside of her breast.

She holds her breath.

He doesn't move right away. He waits a beat, two. Then his thumb sweeps upward, over the band of her bra.

And she feels everything in her tighten.

Not just her muscles, though those are rigid now. Not just her breath, though it freezes again in her throat. But something subdermal. Subcutaneous. Her entire nervous system bracing for impact.

He touches her over the cup. His palm covers the swell of her breast, tentative but certain.

Her breast. His hand.

His thumb brushes over her nipple, through the material.

She feels a sharp, electric awareness. The way one might feel a toothache—unwanted, impossible to ignore.

(This is supposed to be fine. This is supposed to feel good. You're supposed to—)

She doesn't know. She doesn't know what it's supposed to feel like anymore.

Her breathing is wrong now. Too shallow. Too fast. She knows because Kenji stills again, his thumb pausing mid-motion. His body, previously fluid against hers, shifts into something more rigid.

"Mio?" he asks.

She makes herself look at him. She makes herself smile. It's weak, but she hopes it's enough.

"I'm okay," she says. Her voice is tight. Brittle as sugar glass.

Kenji's brow furrows. "Are you sure?"

She nods. "Yeah. Keep going."

She says yes. Her body says no.

And he listens to the words, not the body.

Because he trusts her. Because he loves her. Because she's his girlfriend, and this is what girlfriends do.

They sit up. Kenji shifts beside her, the quiet rasp of robe parting as he slides his yukata from his shoulders, briefs still on. The motion is smooth. His skin catches the muted lamplight, pale against the dark weave of the futons beneath him. There is nothing self-conscious about it, no hesitation. He's comfortable like this. Bare. Open. Unarmored.

She envies him, in a distant, abstracted way.

Mio watches his hands. The careful precision with which he folds the yukata and sets it aside. This, too, is part of the choreography he has refined. His movements carry no weight of anticipation or dread: they are simply movements. Actions following intent.

Then he looks at her.

His eyes are reassuring. He reaches for her slowly—not to rush, not to startle. Just a hand sliding to the lapel of her yukata, fingers brushing the collar edge with the same reverence she imagines he might use to open a letter from someone he loves.

"You're beautiful," he says again. His gaze catches on the strap marks at her shoulders.

The words should land softly. They should glow. They should gather gently in the hollow of her chest and fill it with light. But they don't. They snag, catch, lodge somewhere in the narrowest part of her throat, blocking breath and words alike. A thin filament of panic winds itself tighter.

Her smile wavers, but she smooths it quickly. She nods—an approximation of shy gratitude—while her hands uncurl from where they have clenched in her lap.

(You should say something. You should thank him. You should say it back.)

But she doesn't trust her voice. Not right now. Not when her pulse is a metronome gone wild, beating an arrhythmic stutter beneath her skin.

Kenji moves again, slower still. His fingers find the fold of her already loosened yukata where it crosses over her chest, and she feels the faintest tug as he draws it open.

The air against her skin is not cold. It's hot in the room. But she shivers anyway.

He's still going, careful. But she feels it:

The shift.
The momentum.
The next.

Fingers at her chest. Breath at her shoulder. A quiet, practiced patience she suddenly can't stand. A rhythm that says: almost.

Almost bare.
Almost his.
Almost—

The yukata slips from her shoulders with a sigh, puddling at her waist. She doesn't help it down. Kenji does, slowly, until it gathers in loose folds around her hips. And then she's just—there. Sitting in her underwear. Ivory. Matched in color, not design. Simple. Chosen with intent. The best she could find that didn't look childish.

It took effort—she had to go to a specialty store in Omotesando, a quiet shame she'd talked herself out of on the train ride home. Even then, the choices were few. None of the delicate lace or embroidered prettiness she sometimes sees in magazine ads or in Mugi's shopping bags. Just clean lines. Smooth material. Functional design.

Kenji stares.

His eyes sweep over her, and this time she feels it.

Kenji's gaze, tracing her. Tracing her like fingers. Like fingers she's never given permission to.

They start at the straps—those clean, utilitarian bands stretched tight across her shoulders. Then lower. Slower. To where the fabric hugs the full weight of her breasts. Round, high, contained only barely by the molded cups she spent hours hunting for.

His gaze lingers there. Presses there. Not long, but long enough to feel it in her skin.

He follows the curve down—beneath the swell where the band cuts in, into soft flesh. Then the center. The visible line between them. Cleavage, shaped by compression. By compromise.

His eyes pause on the bow. A stupid, girlish detail she picked because it was the only thing in her size that wasn't beige or matronly. It sits right there, dead center. A target.

She's used to this. Eyes that touch before hands ever do.

She learned early how to hide them. Bind them, hunch her shoulders, shrink inside her own skin. It didn't matter. Eyes still found them.

But it's not just curiosity in his eyes. Not even admiration.

It's want.

That blunt, stunned look boys get when they think this is mine. When they think they're allowed to look.

His mouth parts slightly in pure disbelief. He drags his lower lip with his teeth; color climbs his throat before he remembers to breathe.

He smirks.

She can almost see the thought pass through him: I get to touch that.

Like this is the moment he's been promised.

(You owe him that.)

His jaw shifts. His breath catches. She sees his throat move when he swallows. Hears the faintest rustle of fabric as he shifts where he sits—posture changing like he doesn't want her to notice.

But she does.

His gaze lifts too quickly, like it surprised him. Like he forgot she was watching.

Or maybe he thought she wouldn't be.

Then he exhales, working up the courage to say something that suddenly feels too big.

She wonders if he's disappointed with the set. She wonders if he expected lace, or something different. Something easier to admire. Something easier to love.

But he doesn't look disappointed.

He looks lascivious.

"Damn," he says under his breath, then catches himself. "I mean. Sorry. That came out—"

He laughs once, dry and unsteady, and scrubs a hand across his face like he's trying to reset. His fingers graze his mouth. They linger.

"You're..."

He doesn't finish.

His voice is different now. Thicker. Tight in the back of his throat. He looks at her again and she sees it: the heat behind the patience, the part of him trying not to stare.

She doesn't move. Doesn't cross her arms. Doesn't cover herself, no matter how much her body is begging her to.

She should feel something about this, right? About his gaze. About her skin.

But there's nothing but a tightness behind her ribs. A version of herself watching it all happen.

He leans in again, breath warm near her collarbone, and murmurs something she doesn't quite catch. Not at first. Then—

"I've thought about this for so long."

The words fall between them with a weight he clearly hadn't meant to release. He stiffens, like he hears himself too late. She watches the way he winces, how his gaze skitters to the side before returning to her with something sheepish—half-laughing, half-horrified. "Sorry. That sounded—I just mean—"

Again, he doesn't finish.

She just nods. A small one. Not because it helps, but because it's easier than leaving silence there.

"You're beautiful," he repeats—rougher now, closer. Too close to convince her.

It's the third time tonight.

Each time, it feels less real.

Mio swallows. Her throat clicks dryly. She wonders if she should cross her arms. If she should cover herself. But the impulse never quite makes it from mind to muscle. She forces herself still. Breathes in. Out.

(You wanted this.)

She thinks of the mirror: adjust, smooth, arrange. This is another adjustment—arrange the moment before it arranges her.

He's still reading her, and she can't stand being legible. A kiss is a way to blur the map. Motion is easier than speech.

So she leans forward.

It isn't grace that carries her, but something desperate. An abrupt movement, almost aggressive in its intensity. She doesn't think, doesn't plan—she just moves, closing the space between them, capturing his mouth with hers in a kiss that is too hard, too fast, too clumsy to be called anything other than what it is: an act of sheer will.

Her lips press against his with a force that surprises them both. Kenji stiffens fractionally beneath the impact and makes a surprised noise—half relief, half heat—and his hips twitch, but he recovers, his hands steady at her hips as he returns the kiss with enthusiasm.

She kisses him like it's a task. Like it has a finish line. She deepens the kiss. Immediately. Without thought.

Her tongue finds his, awkward and hesitant at first, then firmer.

(This is what passion is.)

The intensity feels like cold heat. Her hands move to his shoulders, fingers digging in harder than necessary. She maps the curve of muscle, the line of tendon, memorizing topography she might need later. But her grip feels wrong. Clinging, rather than holding.

(You're doing this. You want this. This is how.)

She opens her mouth even wider. Presses harder. Tilts her head to hide the way her breath keeps catching.

Her hands grip too tight. Her jaw hurts. It feels like acting in a scene she didn't audition for.

And still, she keeps going.

Because what happens if she stops?

His hands slide up her back, fingers brushing the clasp of her bra, but he doesn't move to unhook it yet.

She pushes forward again, shifting her weight until he leans back on his elbows. Their mouths stay locked, but the kiss gets messier now, less controlled. She opens her mouth wider. She tries to lose herself in the motion, in the rhythm. But her body is not cooperating. Her mind is calculating everything at once: pressure, angle, duration. A thousand data points, none of them leading to feeling.

She's performing. She knows it.

But the performance is all she has.

He makes a sound against her mouth. Something pleased. Encouraged. He rolls with her, easing her onto her back. His hand hovers. Moves down. Pauses. Then back up, fingers brushing skin like a question he doesn't dare ask aloud. Then down again. Lower this time, but still careful.

The rhythm is strange. Hesitant yet repetitive, like he's caught between permission and impulse, testing how much he can do without doing too much.

She feels each pause like a blink—noticeable only because it doesn't last. The quiet hunger in his touch is almost worse than anything louder.

Her skin burns with scrutiny.

And still, she doesn't stop him.

His hand finally slides from her back to her waist, then lower, fingers skimming over the curve of her hip, her bottom, tracing the outer line of her thigh.

Don't touch that. Don't touch that. Don't touch that.

But she lets him.

Because she has to.
Because she said yes.
Because she said she'd be good.

So she lets him. And forces herself not to react.

(You're okay. You're fine.)

His hand curves inward, palm flattening against her inner thigh, aiming higher. She tenses, but slightly. Just enough to register. Not enough, she hopes, for him to notice.

He kisses her harder now, his own restraint beginning to erode. She follows his lead. Opens her mouth even wider. Tilts her head at a sharper angle. Her breath quickens, but not from arousal. From exertion. From effort.

And then she feels him, hard against her thigh, where their bodies have aligned.

He exhales sharply against her skin, like he wasn't expecting to get this far. Then stills. And for a second, she feels the weight of his body trying not to react.

But he does. Just slightly. His hips shift—so little it could be accidental. Could be.

She doesn't breathe.

His hand cups her butt again, and this time it isn't gentle.

She freezes.

Only for a second. Less than that. A breath held too long.

Then she forces herself to keep moving. She nods even though her whole body is retreating. Her hands press against his shoulders again, urging him closer, deepening the kiss with renewed urgency. She pretends she doesn't notice. She pretends it doesn't matter.

(Ignore it. You knew this would happen. This is what intimacy is.)

But her skin is tight. Pulled thin over muscle she can't will into softness. Her legs feel hollow, brittle as porcelain. Her hands shake, faintly, where they grip his shoulders. She wonders if he can tell.

He makes another pleased sound, sliding his hands more confidently now. Over her waist. Over her hips. Down to the curve of her backside. She tries not to react when he squeezes. It isn't rough. It isn't disrespectful. It's exactly what she expects.

His grip tightens a beat too long before he gentles it, like he's talking himself down.

His hand settles with weight, possessive. Her stomach knots.

(You can do this. You're normal.)

His lips leave hers. They trail downward. Across her jaw. Along the line of her neck. Lower.

She flinches. Not outwardly—but inside, it's seismic.

She's not here. She's somewhere above, watching. Her body has become a set of responses she can no longer control.

He murmurs something against her throat. Something affectionate. She doesn't hear it. She is focused on his mouth. On where it is. On where it might go next.

And she's bracing.

Because she knows what's coming.
Because she knows she's not ready.

But she also knows she will not stop it.

Because she's trying.
Because she owes him this.
Because maybe if she gets through this, she'll stop feeling like a stranger in her own body.

She leans in again, kissing him with renewed fervor. Her hands move to his hair, fingers threading through it, tugging gently. She imagines this looks like passion. She imagines this feels like love.

He smiles against her skin. His hands slide upward again.

It's not so different from playing music. That's what Mio tells herself, somewhere deep beneath the rising tide of sensation. She could almost believe it if she tried hard enough. The way fingers learn fret spacing by instinct. The way skin must memorize tension and release. Repetition until it's muscle memory. She's learning a new instrument, that's all.

(You can do this. You've practiced harder things.)

Kenji's hands are warmer now—in temperature and in certainty. Like he's finding his rhythm. Like there's a tempo here—one she's expected to follow. But this is better than hesitation. His confidence makes it easier for her: less to decide, less to initiate.

It should be easier.

But his touch isn't tentative anymore. It's exploratory. Mapping the skin stretched too tightly over her body, over muscles that refuse to yield. His fingers skim along the small of her back, gliding upward, vertebra by vertebra, tracing a line. She can't tell if it comforts or colonizes. Then they slip downward again. Slow. Over the gentle curve of her waist. Down her hip. Toward her thigh. A long, unbroken motion.

Mio breathes through it. In. Out. Her chest moves because it has to.

Kenji's hands have grown bolder. Not urgent—he's not that careless—but unhesitating now. Guided by some quiet confidence or certainty that Mio finds she can't share. He touches her like her body is already something known, conquered.

He's being gentle. She reminds herself of this fact as he traces the length of her spine with slow, open palms, fingertips following each vertebra, counting prayer beads. Her skin prickles in their wake. She keeps her breathing even.

His hands skim lower. He smooths her side with cool appraisal. The touch is cautious, not tender, and her body feels like something fragile on display.

He's careful, that's true—but his carefulness does nothing to slow the wild pulse hammering at the hollow of her throat.

(Relax. It would be worse if he were impatient.)

The thought curdles.

When his hand slides over the swell of her hip, thumb brushing the hollow just beneath her hip bone, she catalogs the shape of his fingers. The geography of it. Bone and skin and nerve. This is anatomy. Biology.

His hand slides lower. Fingertips graze the softness of her upper thigh, muscle already coiled tight beneath the skin there. Mio forces herself not to flinch. To remain pliable. She pictures the way cats go boneless when stroked in places they trust.

(This is trust. This is love.)

But her muscles betray her. They tighten reflexively, deep in the connective tissue, an instinctive recoil she can't override. Her breath stalls in her chest. She exhales slowly. He doesn't notice. Or maybe he does, and he's choosing to interpret it differently.

His fingers curve around the outer line of her thigh, smoothing over skin that Mio tries not to notice has gone cold.

(Just skin. Just contact.)

But her muscles tense beneath this contact—an involuntary clench, like a sudden chill. She tries to keep still, but something inside her pulls back.

A muscle in her jaw tightens. A breath shortens. A thread pulls tight in her spine.

Still, she tells herself she can manage this. She can manage anything. She's good at it. She's always been good at it.

He doesn't stop.

She doesn't stop him.

Because that would mean this is something worth stopping. That it's not just nerves. That it's not just her.

That maybe it's wrong.

But it's not wrong, right?

"Okay?" His voice is low. Gentle. Careful. Like he's handling something delicate. A piece of glass, maybe. Something brittle, not yet broken.

(Say it's not wrong.)

Mio swallows, the movement loud in her ears. She nods. "I'm okay," she says. Her voice sounds distant, but it's steady.

(It's steady. That counts.)

Kenji smiles faintly and finds her jaw; the next breath, the hollow of her throat. Two sure touches, no lingering. Then his mouth is already at the edge of her bra, testing the cup edge with warmth rather than pressure. Her skin answers before she can: a small prickle she smooths over.

(You should like this.)

She knows. She knows she should. It's tender. Erotic. This is what happens in those books she read, ashamed and disgusted, under the sheets. And there is no harshness in the way Kenji presses his mouth to her throat, lips parted just enough to let breath warm her skin.

But Mio can't parse the gesture as intimacy. Her body can't translate it into pleasure.

His lips reach the hollow at the base of her throat and pause there. She feels his breath against her skin, a slow exhale that should feel good or at least neutral. But it doesn't. It makes her feel exposed.

Like he's not kissing her—he's looking at her. At something secret and vulnerable and raw.

She fights the shudder that tries to move through her. It slips out anyway, disguised as a sigh. Kenji seems to take this as encouragement.

His hands are moving again. One glides along the curve of her lower back, smoothing upward until his fingers brush against the band of her bra.

He doesn't unhook it. He's waiting.

He's good at waiting.

(You owe him for that.)

His lips trace a path along the line where her jaw curves into her throat. He kisses there again. A little firmer. She feels the shape of his breath—humid—ghosting over her pulse. She wonders if he can feel how fast it's beating. If he notices the way her throat tightens when he presses there again.

Her shoulders tense involuntarily before she forces them down again.

(Just relax. It's fine.)

But his mouth keeps moving. Down. The hollow of her throat. Her collarbone. Pausing briefly, his lips pressing there like punctuation. Like a signature.

And then—lower.

Mio stops breathing for a second.

Because she knows where he's going.

Because there is no more safe territory left between this and what comes next.

His mouth grazes the upper curve of her breast. Just above the edge of her bra. It's so thin it might as well not be there. She feels the heat of him through it. His breath fans against skin that already prickles with unease. His lips press again, lingering this time. She feels the shift of muscle in his jaw, the faint scrape of stubble he usually shaves away, his mouth wet against her skin.

Her chest has always been a source of unease. A terrain she can't inhabit comfortably. Too much. Too visible. Too remarked upon. A thing that draws attention she doesn't want. That pulls gazes from people she doesn't understand how to refuse or invite.

Her bras are built for restraint, not decoration. They are functional. Utilitarian. Designed to hold her in, not present her. She doesn't think of her breasts as belonging to this narrative.

And yet, here they are: central.

And her body screams.

Deep inside, something tightens—violent, visceral.

This is wrong.

But she doesn't say it. She doesn't move.

Kenji hums low in his throat, encouraging. She hates the sound of it. Hates the implication that this is comfort. That this is intimacy. That this is love.

But she doesn't pull away. She can't. Her body has become something separate from her. A vessel for the experience of being touched. A surface upon which Kenji traces his affections, his desire, his approval.

Something to be labeled. Something to be approved of.

Just skin. Just heat. Just hands. Just—

Not her.

Her hands, still braced on his shoulders, begin to tremble.

(He loves you. You love him. This is what love is. This is what love feels like.)

His mouth moves again. Along the edge of her bra. Down toward the center. His hand lifts, sliding upward over her ribs, pausing just below the cup edge, waiting. Asking without asking.

Her breath shudders in her throat.

From fear.

Not of him. Not of what he'll do. That's what she expected.

Fear of herself. Of the blank, cold place inside her where warmth should be.

Of the bone-deep certainty that she doesn't want this, can't want this, and doesn't know why.

His fingers press against the underside of her breast, still clothed but heavy beneath his palm. He squeezes experimentally. Testing for something. Her skin crawls. Not because it hurts, but because it's a violation in a language she doesn't yet speak.

Her chest rises sharply; her breath stutters; she swallows it.

(You should want this. Why can't you just enjoy it?)

Her mind spins faster now. A whirl of rationalizations and excuses, spiraling into something unsustainable.

Kenji's mouth moves again. His lips find the soft curve where her breast meets her chest. His breath is hot. She feels him everywhere. Her skin feels overstrung. Every inch of her body pulses with warning, but she's still pretending it's a love song.

(Relax. This is how it starts. Desire is learned. This is practice.)

But her body won't listen.

Her fingers tighten on his shoulders in a desperate effort to keep herself grounded. To keep herself still.

Her legs are trembling now.

He murmurs her name against her skin. "Mio..."

And she wants to scream. Because it sounds like an endearment. Like worship. And it feels like erasure. Like she's being rewritten beneath his hands. Reshaped by his mouth.

Her pulse pounds in her ears. Her breath comes faster. Heat gathers behind her eyes.

And still, she stays.

Because this is what she owes him. Because this is what she thought love would be. Because if she endures this, maybe—maybe—it will change. Maybe she will change. Maybe she will be normal.

Then—his fingers pause mid-motion.

She feels him freeze, like he's suddenly not sure of his own hands.

His breath catches in a way that sounds different from before. A flicker of confusion. Doubt.

He draws back a centimeter—eyes scanning her face for something, anything. He doesn't ask, but she feels the question pressing against her skin.

He's not as composed as he looks.

Before Mio can process it, his mouth moves again. His lips part slightly, kissing her more open. His hand comes up to cup her breast, thumb tracing the line of the bra's edge. There's no pain, no roughness, but Mio feels something like vertigo.

Her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth. Her lungs flutter shallowly against the cage of her ribs.

(It's just a kiss. Just his hand. You love him. This is how love feels.)

But it doesn't. It doesn't feel like anything she recognizes.

Only warmth. Pressure. Movement.

Her throat is tight. She swallows again to clear the sensation, but it doesn't. His thumb brushes over the fabric again, closer to her nipple this time, and she bites back a reaction. An instinct to pull away.

To run.

But she doesn't. She can't. She leans forward instead. She kisses him again, more forcefully than before. More desperate. She tells herself this is control. That if she keeps moving, if she keeps performing, she can steer the scene.

She can fix this.

Kenji makes a sound—low and pleased—and his hands move again. One at her back. One at her waist. He holds her like something valuable. Something his.

Mio's skin is on fire with exposure.

When he murmurs her name against her skin, she almost breaks. But she doesn't. She breathes.

(You're almost there.)

He kisses her breast again. Longer this time. His tongue darts out to taste the edge of fabric.

Mio's body flinches subtly. She stares at the ceiling. At the lantern's halo of light bleeding into shadow. Her fingers curl into his shoulders again, nails biting skin. She doesn't know if she's holding on or trying to keep herself from slipping away.

Her heart pounds. Too fast. Too loud. It drowns out everything else.

He presses closer, and it brushes against her again—harder this time.

And suddenly that's all she can feel. The fact of him. Wanting. Waiting.

She wonders if she should touch him. If that's the next part. If that's what people do.

She should... do something. Right?

Her fingers twitch at her side, then curl. She lifts her hand a few inches. Pauses.

What would she even do?

(Just try. Just make it easier. Just finish the scene.)

Her hand drifts down. She touches his stomach, then hesitates—just before. He shivers.

She can't. She can't.

Her hand falls back down. Useless.

Kenji's hand, though, moves again, upward this time, over skin that no longer feels like hers, like she's been hollowed out, leaving only a shell, a vessel. A body waiting to be filled with feelings she can't summon.

He cups her breast through the fabric. Thumb brushing experimentally across the thin cotton, over the line where sensation becomes something sharper, less familiar. It's careful. She's now something fragile he's afraid to break.

And yet something does break.

The choreography of this scene is intact, but inside, deep beneath the layers where her mind has worked so hard to keep things orderly—something fractures there. A fault line opening in the space between I should want this and I can't breathe.

His thumb strokes over her nipple again, once, twice. A slow, measured pressure. Mio's breath jolts in her throat from a sharp, clean line of sensation that feels alien. Like something being scraped raw beneath skin.

She's distantly aware of sound—hers, she realizes—some faint, ragged thing. Breathing too fast. Too shallow. But maybe he mistakes it for arousal. For consent.

He moves forward, shifting higher. His weight presses into her thighs, opening them slightly—no, forcing them apart—and Mio feels him between them. Hard. There.

A fact she can't process. A fact that settles too deep.

Should she touch him? Should she have already? Would that make things easier? Better? Right?

(Just ignore it. It doesn't matter. This is how bodies work.)

She tries to keep breathing. Steady. Calm. She tries to be the girl who is here. The girlfriend. The one who wants this. The one who chose this trip, this room, this moment. She tries to remember who she's supposed to be—like retying a costume after the show has already started.

But Kenji's kissing her again. Lower now. Mouth moving, damp and insistent. His lips brush her breasts again, skimming the part still hidden beneath her bra, and his tongue flicks at the edge of the fabric, tasting possibility. And then his mouth moves higher, toward the place his hand is still pressing. Still stroking.

Her chest tightens so suddenly it feels like drowning.

His lips are lower now.

(That's your skin.)

His tongue flicks. She jerks—internally. Internally.

She keeps her hands where they are. She keeps her breath in her throat. She keeps the scene going.

This isn't happening. Or it is. But not to her.

Everything's too hot. Or maybe too loud.

Or maybe—

Maybe she's gone already. Maybe she left five minutes ago. Maybe she's watching this from the corner of the room, arms crossed, mouth tight, waiting for the girl in her body to say something. Anything.

She doesn't.

He shifts his hand again, palming her fully now—he squeezes, then softens his touch, circling her nipple with his thumb in a way that feels mechanical, methodical.

Warmth. Pressure. Movement.

But there's no warmth here. Only heat. The kind that flushes under her skin like sickness. The kind that makes her ears ring and her stomach clench, and her breath rasp in and out—jagged, brittle lines.

Kenji's hand strokes her breast again, firmer this time. His thumb finds the same path, gliding over sensitive skin, creasing the cup. He touches her like he's not sure she'll let him do it again.

There's a reverence in the way his palm flattens, but also something unsteady—like the moment he feels her softness under his hand, something breaks loose behind his eyes.

His thumb drags slowly across the curve.

She hears his breath shift again. He shifts his hips, subtly. She feels it nudge her thigh—still hard.

The thought flickers, then fades.

She doesn't know what's expected anymore.

She wonders if it's uncomfortable for him. She wonders if she's supposed to do something about it.

She wonders if this is her fault.

Kenji tries to look back at Mio's face but can't quite make himself stop touching her.

"God," he whispers. More to himself than to her.

She smiles. Because she thinks she should.

But it's too much.

She can't track it.

His hands are there. There. There.

She's supposed to like this.

She doesn't.

She doesn't.

He circles again, a rhythm he must think Mio likes. Tender. But it feels clinical. An exploration toward an expected outcome she can't deliver.

And then his hands move to her back.

Fingers sliding over the nape of her neck, trailing down the line of her spine. Searching. Finding.

The clasp of her bra.

She hears his breath change as he works it loose, slowly. He's patient, as always. She told herself that patience was kindness. That it was safety.

But patience is still expectation, elongated.

His fingers fumble once. Then again.

"Sorry," he mutters. He's smiling—sort of. But his face is flushed now. Sweaty.

His hand steadies, but not completely. His composure is unraveling by degrees. She can feel it.

In the tremor of his breath.
In the way his gaze keeps dropping back to her chest.
In how hard he's trying—and failing—not to look greedy.

Then—

The clasp gives with a metallic sigh.

The band slackens. Something slides loose. The air gets sharp. The hook slips once; the breath he bites off sounds like a word.

She freezes. Doesn't move. Doesn't breathe.

(It's nothing. Just a bra. Just closure.)

But the room feels louder now. Bigger. Like the air has changed its density.

She can't name it. Only feel it. Like the moment after slipping on wet tile, when you haven't hit the floor yet, but you know—know—you will.

Her stomach coils violently, tight as wire, as the click of the clasp gives way. The band slackens against her ribs, no longer holding her in place, no longer keeping her together.

The bra slips slightly, but the sensation is seismic. Her skin prickles where cool air slips beneath loosened fabric. Her body—hers, hers, hers—is no longer listening. No longer entirely hers.

Just muscle. Nerve.

One of Kenji's hands shifts again—drifting lower, grazing her waist, then hovering just beneath the hem of her underwear, pausing, waiting for a signal he assumes will come.

(This is what happens now.)

Her lungs seize, and air itself is no longer something she can hold. Something cold and dense builds at the base of her spine, spreading upward.

Her body is bared to him. Almost.

This is it.
This is the last step.
This is the last barrier.
This is the moment before.
This is the part where it stops being theory.

Her throat tightens. And her chest. And the hollow in her stomach folds in on itself.

(You're ready.)

She wants to say yes. She wants to keep saying yes. She wants this to be real.

(You trust him. It's fine.)

But it's not.

(This is what being in love is.)

But she's not.

Kenji says her name again—different now, needier—and moves forward, his fingers brushing her arms, coaxing the bra straps down. They slide down her shoulders.

Nothing left after that.

This is where it becomes real.

Her body locks.

Her mind: blank.

No more metaphors. No more instructions.

Just—

No.

(It's fine.)

No. No no no no no—

(You said yes.)

That was before. That was before this.

(You chose this. You're ready.)

I'm not.

(He loves you. He's being careful. You're overreacting.)

This isn't right.

(It's only nerves. You always get like this.)

It's not nerves. It's dread.

(You're supposed to want this. You'll ruin everything.)

I'm trying.

(Try harder.)

I'm TRYING.

(It's normal. This is normal. This is love. This is what love is.)

I can't.

(You owe him. You owe him this.)

I can't I can't I can't I can't I CAN'T—

(You're such a child.)

(You're broken.)

(You're worthless.)

(You're impossible to love.)

I deserve love.

(Who's going to love you like this?)

(Broken.)

(Neurotic.)

(Abnormal.)

(Unable to give him what he's earned.)

Stop.

(He's been patient.)

(He's been kind.)

(He's been respectful.)

(And this is how you repay him?)

Stop.

(You're disgusting.)

(This is your fault if it breaks.)

(You deserve this.)

Stop.

(You deserve to never marry.)

Stop.

(You deserve to die alone.)

Stop.

(You disgust me.)

Stop stop stop stop stop stop STOP—

And that's when it happens.

There's no thought. No decision. No warning.

Only instinct.

It isn't measured. It isn't something she plans. One moment his hands are at her shoulders, his breath hot against her skin, his body heavy between her thighs, and the next—

She's pushing.

A pure, involuntary force, her body making a choice without waiting for her mind to catch up.

And her hands shove forward. On his chest—shoulders—somewhere—something. She doesn't know. Just knows:

Off.

And pushes.

Just—pushes.

Hard.

Hard enough that Kenji loses balance.

He gasps. The air sucks in between them as he falls—uneven, off-balance, like he wasn't built to tip. His expression changes. A quick flicker from tender concentration to shock. A split-second of pure confusion before gravity claims him. The futons catch him with a muffled—

Thud.

Futons. Body. Floor.

Mio scrambles. She's already grabbing the sheet, hands shaking, fists tight. Too high. Higher. She pulls the edge of the sheet over herself, up to her collarbone.

Skin. Gone. All of it. Hidden.

She knots her fists in it. The fabric is damp where it meets her hands. She doesn't know if it's sweat. Or tears. Or if she's crying at all.

Just—noise. In her chest. Behind her teeth. Under her ribs. Everything's moving and she's not.

She's not.

She's—

Gone.

Her breathing is sharp now. Audible. Ragged. Her chest heaves, breaking open. She feels everything at once: exposed, cold, burning, suffocating under the thin sheet. Her heart thrums wild and frantic, rattling the cage of her ribs like it wants out.

The silence between them is abrupt. A vacuum.

She can't look at him.

She can't move.

She's still breathing like she sprinted down the corridor. Like something chased her. Like something is chasing her, still. Inside her own skin.

Kenji's still sitting there, disheveled, dazed. One hand braced on the floor, steadying himself. His mouth is open, but no sound comes out for a moment. For a beat, he just stares at her, eyes blown, carefulness gone.

And then—

"What the fuck, Mio?"

It's the first time she's heard him swear since she met him.

He's on his hands, breath knocked short; the gentleness is gone from his voice. Shock laced with something else. Confusion. Hurt. Frustration. Frayed at the edges in a way that makes her stomach twist even harder. A dissonance that sours the air between them.

Mio can't speak. Her throat has closed around something thick and sharp. She tastes metal. She tastes salt. She tastes shame. But it's not regret she feels. She feels relief's inverse, hollow and loud.

(Say something. Anything.)

But there's nothing.

She finally looks at him, and she doesn't recognize either of them.

Not him. Not herself.

Her arms tighten around her knees under the sheet, and she stares at the space between them, wide and impassable.

(What have you done?)

But there is no answer.

Only the frantic thrum of her pulse in her ears. Her breathing, uneven and wrong. She's still here—the room swaying a fraction, like the floor had shifted. At the back of her mind, the distant knowledge that she's ruined this moment. That this—whatever this was supposed to be—is broken now.

Irreparable.

Notes:

If you've made it here: thank you. This chapter is one of the most emotionally difficult in the story, not because something dramatic happens, but because something quiet and deeply personal does. Mio doesn't say no. She doesn't even know how to. What she knows is how to perform closeness—how to perform yes—while her body says something else. That kind of dissonance is real, and for many people it's part of how they begin to understand their own identity.

This chapter sits at the intersection of hard things: desire vs. duty, consent vs. comfort, identity vs. performance, safety vs. want. Underneath it all is the slow, confusing unraveling of compulsory heterosexuality—the idea that to be "normal," to be good, to be enough, a girl must want what she's told she should want.

There's no villain here. Kenji is kind and cares for Mio. And Mio cares for him, too. But kindness and care don't guarantee mutual desire, and Mio's kindness toward him has too often come at the expense of honesty with herself. That catches up to her here. Her body finally speaks when her words can't.

If this resonated with you—whether in echoes or shadows—you're not alone. And if it didn't, that's okay, too. What matters is the space we make for complicated experiences, and the tenderness we offer when someone begins to realize that something inside them isn't broken. Just different.

This is a turning point in Mio's journey. Thank you for witnessing it with her.

Chapter 32: Never Born, Never Dead

Summary:

Mio grieves what never began.

Notes:

Last stop on the Hakone Arc, finally! Thanks for riding the footbaths/ferries/feelings express with me. Half "yay we made it," half "... at what cost." Deep breath; onward.

Never Born, Never Dead, by Trophy Scars, was released on July 19, 2011.

July 30, 2011

Kenji's question hangs in the air.

He's still breathing hard—residual heat, confusion, adrenaline. His cheeks are flushed. His chest is visible—the faint line of hair low on his stomach, a detail Mio isn't supposed to see. But she does. She sees everything. Maybe that's the worst part.

His hand moves on its own, trying to adjust something beneath his underwear. His expression flickers—an involuntary wince. Mio realizes, sudden and visceral, that his body hasn't caught up yet. That this moment of rupture is also one of physical discomfort and shame.

Kenji looks away, jaw flexing. He shifts his weight, legs drawn up slightly now, tension curling in his thighs. "Fuck," he mutters, low and bitter. "This is fucking humiliating."

She registers the sound more as vibration than language, a pressure behind her ears. Sustained, like the onset of a migraine. His voice isn't loud, but it doesn't need to be—there's an edge that makes volume irrelevant—a surgical sharpness rather than the blunt force of anger. Precise. Controlled. Like everything else about him. Like everything that has always seemed, to her, safe.

Safe.

(Isn't he supposed to be safe?)

Mio's breath scrapes raw at the back of her throat. The edges of each inhalation catch like unfiled glass. Her fingers ache from how tightly she clutches the sheet. The damp cotton sticks to her knuckles, but she doesn't let go.

She can't.

The room is too quiet. The clock doesn't tick. Pipes don't knock. Even the air holds.

Across from her, Kenji exhales through his nose. Almost a sigh. He moves, gathering his yukata with both hands. His fingers are steady as he pulls the fabric across his chest and reties the sash at his waist. The knot is functional, but not as neat as usual.

(You should say something.)

But her voice is gone. Or hiding. Or lost. She isn't sure there's a difference anymore.

Kenji's hand pauses against his thigh before he shifts to sit straighter. His knees pop with the movement. It feels intrusive, the tiny click of cartilage, betraying the illusion that this is still unfolding according to plan.

"What just happened?" he asks, and his tone is quieter now. Less jagged. But it's taut, stretched thin over something Mio recognizes and fears: his confusion. His attempt to understand.

He's always been like this—methodical. A man of structure and diagrams. She used to find it calming, the way he could compartmentalize. How he could separate emotion from action, logic from reaction. But now, under the weight of his gaze, she feels dissected. Itemized.

He's waiting.

(He's always waiting when it comes to you, isn't he?)

Mio forces herself to lift her head just enough that her eyes catch his. He's searching her face the way someone might search a text they've read too quickly the first time: looking for context, looking for subtext, looking for a clue he might have missed.

He's patient. He's always patient.

(He was always patient.)

Her throat constricts. It's a physical reaction, but it carries meaning she doesn't want to acknowledge. Her fingers loosen fractionally.

"I didn't... I didn't mean to."

The words are papery thin. Dehydrated. They disintegrate the moment they leave her mouth, and she's left wondering if he even heard them.

Kenji tilts his head. His eyes narrow.

"So what... what was that, then?" His voice cracks. "You—" He stops. Shakes his head. His jaw unlatches. "You looked like you were into it. And then suddenly I'm—what? Just disgusting?"

Mio flinches. "No, I—I didn't mean—"

"I know you didn't," he says quickly, cutting her off. "I know. I'm not saying you meant to—God, I'm not saying that. But I'm just—what the hell was I supposed to think, Mio?"

"It was—" she begins, then stops. Starts again. "It was instinct."

Instinct.

The word sits heavy between them, dense as lead. It sounds too detached—explaining an involuntary muscle twitch rather than the fact of her hands shoving him away with enough force to unbalance him; narrating a phenomenon rather than confessing a truth.

Because instinct isn't a verdict against him; it's a reflex older than language. The hand that drops the hot pan before you decide to let go. A body refusing to be argued out of itself.

Kenji processes this. His gaze flickers.

"Instinct," he echoes. He scoffs, but it doesn't land. It's not sharp enough to wound, just dull surprise bleeding into something closer to offense. "Right. Instinct," he repeats, quieter now. "So your instinct was to get me the fuck off you. Great."

He doesn't mean it cruelly, she thinks. But it stings anyway.

Because it's true.

There's a pause. A small one. And then he exhales. A long, slow, measured breath. He's recalibrating. He shifts subtly and winces again. Mio knows what it is—not lust anymore, but leftover pressure. The ache of something unspent, of need redirected into shame.

She feels her stomach twist. Her chest contracts. There's a familiar pressure behind her ribs, the ache of something about to fracture.

(Say something else. Make it better.)

But there's nothing else to say. Because if it was instinct, then what does that mean?

It means her body doesn't trust him. It means she doesn't want him. It means—

(You're broken.)

No.

(You're broken.)

No.

(You're broken.)

She grips the sheet tighter.

"I was just surprised," she offers. It's a lie, but not entirely. She was surprised by herself.

Kenji's mouth pulls into a line. Not quite a frown. His fingers press against his knee. She watches the tendons shift beneath his skin.

"You were surprised," he says.

The repetition grates. He's building a pattern—mapping the conversation.

Mio looks down. She stares at the fine weave of the cotton clenched in her fists. Her knuckles are bloodless.

She doesn't say I was afraid.
She doesn't say I felt sick.
She doesn't say I wanted to run.

Because those things aren't true. They're not.

Not entirely.

And even if they were, they wouldn't make sense. Kenji is kind, patient, gentle. He hasn't done anything wrong.

But something is wrong.

I haven't done anything wrong.

(You have. You've destroyed everything.)

Safety sits beside her like a chair that never becomes a bed. It holds; it doesn't open. She keeps waiting for safety to ferment into want, like time is the missing ingredient. It isn't. That's the cruelty—he did the right things. Her body didn't change its answer.

Instinct doesn't lie. Her body made the choice her mind was too careful to speak.

Kenji knows that now.

Mio feels the shift. The incremental tilt of gravity in the room. Something inevitable is coming. She wonders, distantly, if this is what the earth feels before a quake—beneath the surface, the knowledge that everything is about to break.

Kenji scrubs a hand over his face. His palm drags across his jaw, trying to erase the heat from his skin. His ears are red. His cheeks, too.

"God, Mio, I—" His voice cuts through, quiet but weighted. He laughs once, low and sharp, like a scalpel nicking air. "I mean, fuck. Do you know how long I've been—" He shakes his head. "No, forget it. That's not fair. But... why would you do that... if you didn't want me to stop?"

He shifts again. She sees the flush at his neck. The stiffness of his posture. The awkward way he angles his hips to shield himself.

"Shit," he mutters. "Sorry. It's just—fuck."

Mio blushes. Hard. She doesn't know where to look.

"I'm still—God, this is stupid—it's not going away," he says, gesturing vaguely downward. "And I don't want to make this weird. I mean, we were—" He stops. "It was kind of a lot, Mio. You can't just—" He breaks off. "Never mind."

There's a pause. It stretches too long.

"I mean, was it me? Did I... was I too fast? Did I do something wrong?" he asks suddenly, a rush of breath meant to be under his control, but not quite. "I thought—I really thought this was it. I thought we were finally..."

He trails off again, but his hand stays in his hair. He doesn't meet her eyes.

(He's embarrassed. You embarrassed him.)

Mio closes her eyes. Her pulse jumps in her throat again. Her breathing is wrong.

She doesn't have an answer. Or she does, but it's not one she can give him.

Because if she says I didn't want you to touch me, she'll shatter.
And if she says I wanted to want you, it won't be enough.
And if she says nothing, it might be worse.

But Kenji is still waiting. He's always been patient. He's always thought patience was enough.

She did too.

Kenji sits very still now. Not out of shock anymore, but out of deliberation. He's thinking—she can see it, the faint crease at the corner of his mouth, the way his gaze fixes somewhere just past her shoulder like he's scanning a complex equation for an error. It's almost familiar. She's watched him do this before, over textbooks and photographs and travel itineraries. She used to admire it, his methodical way of making sense of things. Now it feels like dissection.

She doesn't move. She can't summon shame right now. Just the hollow where it should be.

Her fingers are numb where they clutch the sheet. Her arms ache with the weight of keeping still. Every nerve is tuned to the frequency of waiting—for what, she doesn't know. An answer. A reprieve. Something more permanent.

Kenji breathes. Long and low, like he's centering himself in the aftermath of an argument they never had. He treats silence like something he can parse into reason. Like this, too, can be managed with patience. And Mio realizes she's waiting for him to be the one to put the pieces back together. To offer her some scaffolding. To translate this.

But Kenji doesn't have the words. Neither does she. So the silence stretches until it becomes a presence. Until it becomes a third body between them, heavy as marrow, dense as regret.

Finally, Kenji moves. His hand runs over his face again, fingers pressing into his temples like he can massage sense into this. Into her.

When Kenji speaks again, his voice is even. But there's a fragility in it Mio has never heard before.

Fatigue.

A disappointment so subtle she almost misses it.

"I have been so patient."

Five words. Simple in structure, inarguable fact. And they split her in two.

The words land quietly, without accusation. But they settle deep, like sediment in still water, and Mio feels herself sinking through them.

Patience isn't neutral when you're the one receiving it. It becomes a ledger, all zeros that still feel like numbers. He never said she owed him anything, but the math sits between them anyway—proof written in how long he waited.

"I've done everything, haven't I?" he says, and now his voice is tighter, rougher. Not as measured. "I backed off when you needed space. I waited when you weren't sure. I stopped asking. I didn't even touch you unless you gave me a green light." His voice cracks—a small fissure. "And I told myself that was... that waiting was proof of how much I—how much this mattered." His hands fall back to his knees, palms up, like asking the room for answers. "But how long am I supposed to wait for something that never... that maybe never even existed?"

She blinks. Once. Her throat works around nothing. Her hands tighten around the sheet. She imagines the fabric tearing in her fists, but it doesn't. It holds.

(He's accusing you.)

He's just confused.

(Of course he is. He gave you everything, and you gave him nothing.)

Kenji isn't looking at her when he says it. His gaze rests somewhere in the middle distance, like this conversation is unfolding outside his body. She understands the impulse. It's how she's lived for years: separate and compartmentalized.

He breathes in again. In. Out. Like counting. His gaze is still elsewhere—at the floor, at his hands, at the careful grid of tatami mats that don't shift, don't crack. Unlike her.

"I have been so patient," he repeats. "Trying to understand. Waiting for you. Letting you set the pace. And I thought I was giving you time. I thought..." There's a small shift in his voice. "I thought that's what you needed."

It was.

(It wasn't.)

Mio's breathing is shallow again. She tries to slow it, but the attempt feels theatrical, dishonest. Performative in a way that disgusts her.

"I planned all of this," Kenji says suddenly, like he can't stop the words anymore. "The ryokan, the ferry tickets, the dinner reservations—I got the stupid private bath, Mio. Do you even know how embarrassing it was to request that?"

Mio's mouth opens, stunned. "Kenji—"

"No, I'm not mad," he says, hands raised now like he's trying to wave off his own voice. "I just—I thought it would matter. That it would show you... I don't know. That I was serious. That I really like you. That this meant something. But..." He trails off, quieter now. "I don't know what we're doing anymore."

The words are stripped of ornamentation. They are simple, and they devastate her.

She wants to look at him.

She doesn't.

Instead, she swallows. Her throat is dry. The act feels mechanical. Her body keeps functioning while her mind is elsewhere.

(Say something.)

But the words don't exist. Not in a language he speaks.

The sentence she needs is shaped like this: I want to want you. It breaks in her mouth because "wanting" is the verb, and she only has the adverb—carefully, slowly, eventually. You can't hand someone an adverb and call it a promise.

"I thought," Kenji says again, "we were working toward something." He hesitates. "I thought we were okay." And then, like realizing the insufficiency of that: "I thought we were... moving forward."

Forward.

Like that's the axis on which all things must turn.
Like there's a destination to reach.
Like she was always supposed to move toward this—toward him.
Like staying still is failure.

As if she is failure.

Because forward is the only direction they've ever allowed.

Because isn't that what people do? What couples do?

Because forward is linear. Forward is sequential. You date. You fall in love. You hold hands. You kiss. You touch. You undress. One after the other, no steps skipped.

The next thing.

She thought so too.

Mio learned love as a diagram: boxes and arrows. Girl → Boy → Hold hands → Kiss → Bedroom → Future. No symbol for pause. No loop for unsure. The legend didn't include what happens if the arrow never points anywhere.

(You're off the map, Mio.)

Her stomach twists in a slow spiral. Because forward, for Mio, has never been a line. It's been a loop. Endless. Repetitive. Progression that only ever brings her back to the same point of paralysis.

Mio breathes in. She thinks of how her lungs expand beneath her ribs, how the space fills up only to empty again. In. Out. Mechanical.

(You have to tell him something.)

But what?

She opens her mouth, but nothing coherent emerges. A breath. A shape without sound. Because what can she say? What could possibly be enough? What could make this less ruinous?

"You know I've been waiting," he says. "Not just for this, but for something to click. For something to... open up between us." His hands move as he speaks, fingers twitching like they're looking for something to hold. "I thought it would be worth it. I thought I'd get it eventually. Like I'd finally see the version of you that... wants this. Wants me." He sighs. "And now I'm sitting here with a hard-on and a pit in my stomach, and I feel like an idiot."

"I was trying," she says, and it's small. Not defensive. Not even explanatory. Closer to an apology, though she can't find the shape of the word either.

The words don't sound like salvation. They sound like surrender.

Kenji's expression doesn't shift, but his body does. His shoulders lower a fraction, an internal decision made. He turns to her. His expression doesn't sharpen; if anything, it softens. But there's something behind it now.

Sadness.

An understanding neither of them wanted.

"Maybe that's the problem," he says, quiet. His hands fold loosely in his lap. "You shouldn't have to try." Kenji rubs the back of his neck. His fingers are trembling now, though his voice tries to sound neutral. "Shit, I don't know. Maybe I fucked this up too. I should've—I don't know. Talked about it more. Or not talked about it." He laughs—tight, bitter—at the absurdity of trying to solve this like a math problem. "I don't know how to do this anymore."

It isn't unkind. It isn't untrue. And it splinters something raw inside her.

Mio closes her eyes. The words feel like they should be obvious, but they land like revelation. Obvious things often do. Gravity. Decay. The realization that no matter how still you hold yourself, your body is always moving. Blood, breath, thought. Inescapable.

(You can't stop trying because you don't know how.)

She feels it—sharp and bright—that cleaving. Not a wound, but a dissection. Precise. He isn't wrong. And because he isn't wrong, it hurts in a way an accusation never could.

Mio swallows again, hard. The motion feels scraped out of her, like something dredged from a place long untouched.

When she speaks, her voice isn't hers anymore. It's thinner. An echo from somewhere distant.

"I was trying to be the girl you needed."

A truth. A confession. A failure, laid bare.

She knows how to play to a room. She's done it since middle school—count in, keep time, don't drop the line. She tried to treat love like that: watch for cues, come in soft on the verse, swell on the chorus. But this isn't a song you can rehearse. The downbeat comes and her hands don't move.

There's a long pause. Air leaves Kenji in a flat sound. "You didn't have to perform for me, Mio. I didn't ask for that."

"You didn't have to," she echoes, the words catching on her tongue. "But it still felt like I did."

Kenji exhales again. The sound is different this time—less controlled, less patient, but not unkind.

"I didn't think you'd have to try to be yourself." He avoids her eyes. One of his hands fists in the fabric of his yukata. "Do you think I planned this? That I brought you here just to get laid?" His voice cracks—almost. A bit defensive. A bit raw. "I mean, yeah. I wanted it. Of course I did. I've wanted you since the first time I kissed you and you looked like you were going to faint from it. But I didn't think—" He stops. Clenches his jaw. "I didn't think it would feel like this. Like I'm disgusting for wanting you."

There's no malice in it. And that is the cruelty of it: the inadvertent cruelty.

Because he means it. Because he thought it was that simple.

And that's why it breaks her.

Because she doesn't know who she is. Because she has tried so hard to be something coherent, something knowable, something someone else could recognize as enough. And all this time, the effort was visible.

She thought she'd concealed it. But it's here, now. Exposed. Dissected under lamplight.

Mio draws a breath. It shudders in her chest, without pitch or melody. Her lungs are tight. She's running out of space inside herself.

"I thought if I worked at it," she says, softer now. Almost to herself. Her hands are shaking. She doesn't unclench them. "If I was careful enough. If I—"

Sacrificed enough.
Suppressed enough.
Erased enough.

He watches her. He doesn't interrupt. He doesn't fill the space she leaves.

And she hates that. Because now the silence is hers.

"If I was good enough," she continues. Her hands twist in the sheet. Tighten. Loosen. Repeat. "If I tried hard enough, I could be..."

She falters.

(Could be what?)

Enough?
Normal?
Real?

"... someone who wanted the same things you did."

Kenji doesn't react right away, but something settles in the space between them. A recognition.

She feels cracked open. Like the soft parts of her have been scraped away, and what's left is bone, white and brittle beneath the wrong hands. Or maybe just any hands. Maybe that's the point.

Mio feels it, deep in her chest—that strange, hollow cavity where meaning should live.

An absence.

A void where conviction should be. Where certainty should be.

She isn't even sure what she's feeling.

Guilt?
Grief?
Relief?

No. Self-loathing, maybe. Or something colder. A failure so complete it erases the framework of judgment.

She's failed a test, but she doesn't even know what the test was. Or who made the rules.

(You did. You did this to yourself.)

There's nothing to be done now but sit in it. In the empty.

She thinks of Ritsu tapping out rhythms on the back of her chair in middle school. Of Mugi's careful fingers adjusting sheet music. Of Naya's hands coaxing sound from strings.

Warmth. Pressure. Movement.

Mio is none of those things now. Only stillness. Only quiet.

She draws in another breath. It tastes metallic. Kenji is still watching her, and his patience feels like a verdict now. She wonders if this is what unmaking feels like—not destruction, but negation.

Never born. Never dead.

Just this.

Kenji shifts his gaze downward to the edge of the futon between them, then back up. There's a steadiness in him now—resigned, like he's surrendered to the inevitability of this moment. He clears his throat.

"I just..." His voice is careful, like he's laying pieces on the floor and hoping she'll understand the picture. "I thought we were... getting there."

Mio doesn't answer. She's not sure what "there" even means.

Kenji gestures toward the floor between them. "I mean... this. Tonight. It felt like we were ready. Like you were ready."

(You said you were. You planned for this. You folded the underwear yourself.)

Mio swallows again. The back of her throat burns.

"I thought you were just nervous," he says, faster now, like momentum might shield him from the weight of what he's saying. "Or shy. I thought that was it. That all I had to do was wait. And I've waited, didn't I? I've given you space. I've followed your pace. But now..."

He trails off. The rest is obvious.

Now he's not sure what he's waiting for. Or if there's anything to wait for. If there ever was. If it's even worth the wait.

Mio's hands twitch in the sheets. Her fingers flex, then curl again, knots of bone and tension.

"You were," he says quietly. "Ready. Weren't you? I thought you were looking at me like you wanted me," Kenji says suddenly. "Earlier. You touched my hand. You smiled. You kissed me. You kissed me, all aggressive, like—" He cuts off again. "What was I supposed to think?"

She doesn't nod. She doesn't shake her head. She just looks at him and finally says the only thing she can:

"I thought I was."

The words are threadbare. A worn-out truth she's tried to stitch into something believable.

Kenji lets out a half-laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Great," he mumbles. "So I'm not crazy, but I'm still wrong."

Mio flinches. Not because of the words, but the way he says them—half under his breath, like he doesn't mean for her to hear. Like it hurts to admit he's hurt.

"I mean—fuck, Mio, you were the one who agreed to this."

It slips out. Regret flashes across his face.

He doesn't take it back.

"I proposed the trip, and you agreed. We booked it. We said we needed this break. We wanted this weekend to be special. I didn't even realize what that meant until now." He laughs, sharp and empty. "And you were so excited about it before finals. You were planning, you were asking, you—fuck, Mio—you're wearing almost fucking lingerie!" His shoulders tense. His mouth works like he's chewing something he doesn't want to swallow. "Was I supposed to know? Was I just being stupid for thinking that we were going to—?"

He stops himself, presses his lips together. Starts again.

"I don't know what any of this meant to you."

And then:

"... What happened?"

Inside her, something buckles.

"I don't know," she says. It's not enough, but it's the only honest answer she has.

A pause.

Kenji shifts forward, hands braced on his knees. His tone is calm, but not unfeeling—cautious, like someone navigating uncertain ground with a map written in smudged ink. He picks his words like he's testing loose boards. Trying to understand.

"Is it me?" he asks.

Yes.

(No.)

Not like that.

(Not in the way he means.)

"It's not you," she says quickly. And immediately regrets it, because now she sounds like she's reciting from a script.

Kenji studies her. "Then what is it?"

Mio opens her mouth—closes it again. Her stomach lurches. She wants to name it. To point and say: That. That's why. That's the thing that doesn't work. But there's no word for this. No diagnosis. No clean shape. Just a hundred half-explanations scattered in her chest like broken teeth.

(You're afraid. You're wrong. You're defective.)

She exhales shakily.

(And that's worse.)

"I do want to be close," Mio says, sudden and hoarse. "I just—I don't know what it's supposed to feel like. Or how to get there. Or if I'm even... supposed to." Her fingers twitch, clenching the sheets to her chest. "Sometimes I think I'm almost there. And then I blink, and it's gone. And I feel like I'm lying to both of us. But I've been trying," she says again, like it's a shield. A mantra. A lifeline. "I really have."

"I know," Kenji replies. "But maybe that's the problem."

She closes her eyes. That again.

"You shouldn't have to try," he says. "Not this hard. It should just... happen. Eventually."

Eventually.

Mio's throat constricts. A hollowness opens in her gut, spreading outward like frost through old glass.

"After everything," Kenji says again. "After all this time. It felt like..." He frowns. Rethinks. "It felt like you were finally ready."

There it is again.

Ready.

A word that implies sequence. That implies correctness. That implies failure if it never arrives.

"Ready," she echoes, and her voice sounds foreign in her own mouth—distilled to the syllables of a person she doesn't recognize. "You keep saying that. You think this is about being ready."

Kenji considers. He seems genuinely confused. "I think that's what I've been waiting for." There's no accusation. That's what makes it unbearable. "I thought... this was the next step."

Mio stares at the sheet pooled around her body. The fabric is wrinkled where her fists knot it, evidence of a failed spell she tried to cast.

She hears his voice again, quiet and firm:

"It's what couples do. It's natural."

Natural.

"Natural," she repeats, and this time the word scrapes on its way out. "You think this is about nature?"

"I didn't mean it like that," he says quickly. "I mean—it's normal."

Normal.

Natural is rain. It arrives without asking. Normal is bringing an umbrella because everyone else did. But Mio keeps standing under a clear sky, opening and closing a parasol for a storm that isn't coming. The performance looks polite; the forecast stays wrong.

"I guess it's... expected," Kenji finishes.

Her breath stutters. Catches.

"So because it's expected, it's... right?"

"It's just... logical. It's how people—how couples—get closer."

Logical.

There it is.

Mio lifts her head. Just barely. Just enough to meet his gaze.

"But I thought love wasn't supposed to be logical."

Kenji falters. His mouth opens, then closes. There's no response waiting for her.

Mio stares at him.

"Then... what was the point?" she asks.

It's quiet. Flat. An implosion, not an explosion.

Kenji squints. "What?"

"This." Her voice cracks slightly. "All of this. The trip. The room. The planning. Everything. What was the point?"

He frowns, caught off guard. "Mio—"

"I mean it," she says. Her voice isn't raised, but there's something tremulous under the words. Something fraying. "Was it just about... getting to this part?"

She gestures between them. The space where their bodies didn't meet.

Kenji blinks, startled. "No! I mean—not just that. It's not like I had an end goal. I just... I thought..." He ruffles his hair.

Mio feels something cold trickle down the inside of her spine.

"I thought it was about connection," she says quietly.

"It is," Kenji replies immediately, like that's obvious. "Of course it is. This is part of that. This is how people get closer."

"Then why does it feel like I'm failing a test every time I don't want to do this?" The words leave her in a rush, too fast, too raw. "Why does it feel like something's wrong with me if I—if I can't—if I don't—"

She breaks off.

Kenji's expression is complicated now, defensive in the way someone gets when they feel misunderstood and don't know how to fix it.

"Mio, I never said there was something wrong with you."

But you didn't have to.

"And I never meant to make you feel like that," he says, and it sounds like he's trying to believe it. "But how the hell am I supposed to know what you're thinking if you never tell me?" He scoffs, frustrated. "I'm not a mind-reader, Mio. I've been guessing this whole time. Second-guessing. Triple-guessing. Waiting for signs, or signals, or whatever the fuck you were trying to give me. And maybe there weren't any. Maybe it was all just... nothing." His hands rub over his face again, like he's trying to wipe the whole night off of him. "I don't even know if you ever actually liked me. Or if I was just..."

A beat. He doesn't finish, but the implication lands anyway.

(A placeholder. A theory. A step in the process.)

"This is part of how people get close," he says again, more gently, repetition aimed to make Mio believe it. "I just thought we'd finally get there. That it was our moment. That you could do it."

Kenji doesn't mean to hurt her. He keeps his voice even; it hurts more. Because the things he says—and the things he leaves unsaid—widen the crack already forming in her.

If I can't do this, I'll never be loved. If I can't do this, what's the point of love?

Her thoughts fracture. Scatter. No sentence survives intact. Just fragments. Just impact.

I thought love was something else.
I thought love could save me.
But maybe it was always supposed to be this.
Maybe love is just touch, want, need.
And I am none of those things.

(You're not normal. You're too much, but you'll never be enough. No one will ever stay.)

Her skin feels too tight. Her ribs too narrow.

"But... is that all love is?" she asks, the words out before she's ready. "This?"

Kenji looks confused. Alarmed, even. "No, I—Mio, come on. You're twisting this."

But she doesn't think she is. She thinks she's finally saying the thing she's been afraid to look at.

And it hurts.

God, it hurts.

Mio's hands twist again in the sheet.

"So if I can't do this," she says, and her voice is small now, "we can't be close?"

"That's not what I'm saying," Kenji says, but there's a wobble in it now, a defensiveness that gives itself away. "It's not that black and white, Mio. I just—God, I've been so fucking patient, and I don't know what I'm supposed to do with that anymore. I keep telling myself to be understanding, to wait, but I'm not a saint. I'm not made of stone." He gestures helplessly. "I'm human! I have needs too! I want to feel like you—my girlfriend—even see me that way! Is that so wrong?"

His voice dips at the end, weighted. Powerlessness.

Mio doesn't flinch—she's already folded in on herself. The words don't sting, but settle.

Kenji winces like he didn't mean to say that much. Like he's surprised by the shape of it, now that it's out in the open. He seems like he's weighing whether to go further. Whether it's worth saying aloud, or if it will only make things worse. But the silence stretches, and something in him—maybe pride, maybe restraint—gives out.

"I liked you the moment I saw you. At that stupid live house show," he says, voice uneven. "You were playing bass, looking like you'd rather be anywhere else, and I couldn't stop watching you. You looked..." He falters. "I don't know. Beautiful. But like you didn't know it."

That's the part that stings.

Not because it's untrue, but because it's too true.

She's always known people see her that way—beautiful. Not everyone, not always, but enough times that it stopped being flattering and started feeling like a trick mirror. Like her body was something detached from her. A costume she didn't pick. Something people admired in passing without asking how it felt to wear it.

She doesn't feel beautiful.

She feels big. Awkward. Soft in the wrong places. Too much in others. Her height feels like intrusion. Her chest, like a joke she doesn't get. She remembers being fifteen and standing sideways in the mirror, pulling at the hem of her uniform blazer, trying to find where the fat ended and she began.

And yet—men look. Always have. That casual, hungry sort of attention that feels like being seen through, not seen. And she's learned that if she flinches from it, she's the one being difficult.

So she learned to be polite. To be flattered. To be grateful that at least it's not worse.

But it never made her feel beautiful. Just visible.

Now, hearing Kenji say it—"you didn't know it"—she feels caught in a lie she didn't know she was telling. Like her discomfort is proof she was never lovable in the right way. Like her body has been betraying her this whole time, offering a promise she can't keep.

"I've wanted you for so long, Mio," Kenji continues. His hand moves to his neck, rubbing hard, like he's trying to erase the admission. "Not just like that, but yeah—like that too. Of course I have. You're my girlfriend. You're so fucking hot. I like you. And I—" He stops, laughs, short and brittle. "I don't know. Maybe that makes me shitty. Maybe that makes me normal."

He doesn't look at her when he says it, and that makes it worse.

It doesn't read like lust; it reads like hope. It's all the wanting he wrapped up in the word love and handed to her—over and over—hoping she'd unwrap herself.

She couldn't.

"I'm not saying you owe me anything," he says. Then, quieter: "I just... I liked you. From the start. Since that first concert, when I saw you on stage. You looked—" He cuts himself off. His ears go a little red. "And I wanted you. Not just because of that. But... yeah, also because of that," he admits, almost apologetically. His voice isn't angry anymore. It's tired. "I'm not proud of it, but I'm not ashamed either. I'm just being honest."

Mio's breath is slow. But inside, something twists. She's not disgusted. She's not offended. But what he's saying confirms the thing she's been trying not to name.

You liked the idea of me. The version you could hold.

Her throat works around a question she can't quite ask.

Would you still have stayed if I didn't have this body?
Would you still have wanted me if you knew from the start that I might never want you back the same way?
If I were something else entirely—someone else entirely—would you have looked at me at all?

Would you have stayed if I couldn't give any of it?

She doesn't ask.

Because what scares her isn't Kenji's desire. It's how much she's tried to meet it. How far she bent herself around it like a trellis, hoping that if she grew the right way, it would count as love.

It still wasn't enough.

Kenji exhales, something brittle in his voice—a rawness closer to fear than blame.

"Do you even... find me attractive? In that way?"

The question lands rough and unfinished. Like he regrets it the second it leaves his mouth. But it's too late. It's out there now.

Mio stiffens. Her breath catches at the top of her throat.

Mio doesn't answer. Not because she lacks one, but because she can't translate it into something he could hear without breaking.

So the silence is the answer.

It lands like gravity after a long fall—sudden, irreversible, inevitable.

Then, she tries.

"I..."

What is she supposed to say?

That his body has always felt more like an idea than a pull? That she tried to picture it, tried to want it, tried to will the desire into existence, like lighting a match in a vacuum? That she doesn't even know what attraction is supposed to feel like—only what it looks like on other people's faces?

"... I don't know," she admits, and the words shame her.

Kenji doesn't speak. The quiet shifts, like something inside him has gone still.

The pause that follows is the loudest thing in the room.

Mio looks down. Her chest is tight again. From grief this time. She's grieving something that hasn't even ended yet. Or maybe something that never properly began.

She's not angry. She's not even surprised.

But she's hollowed.

Because that was the fear, wasn't it? That if she couldn't do this, she couldn't be loved. That desire—this kind of desire—was the metric by which closeness was measured. Intimacy counted only in touch. Connection only in physical surrender.

She can't give that.

Not here. Not now. Maybe not ever.

So what's left of her?

What's the point of me?

She's suddenly aware of every fault line in her body, every place where she has tried to shape herself into something coherent. Palatable. Wanted. And all of it has failed.

She isn't the girl who says no.
She isn't the girl who says yes, either.
She's the girl who tries. And fails. And ruins everything.

She stares at her hands. At the small tremor running through them. Like her body is beginning to reject even itself.

(You're broken.)

She breathes. It feels useless. Air goes in. Air goes out. Nothing changes.

If I can't give this—this thing that everyone else seems to give so easily—then what am I?

(Something empty. Something half-formed. Something unworthy of love.)

"Mio..." Kenji says, and there's something soft in it. Something like sympathy.

But not love.

Not anymore.

Kenji is still watching her, but something in his expression has shifted. The confusion hasn't disappeared—it's calcified. Hardened into something less fluid. Less open. He's silent for a long time. The kind of long that swells, that multiplies inside the ribcage. That gives the silence time to become sentient.

Mio doesn't move. Her hands have stopped trembling, not because she's steadied, but because she's gone numb.

(He's going to say it.)

She knows this feeling. Knows the shift in atmosphere before something irreversible is spoken. It's the low pressure before a storm. The minute before the curtain rises and you forget your first line.

Kenji's eyes are trained on the space just beside her, somewhere between her shoulder and the window. Avoidance disguised as gentleness.

"I was waiting for you," he says. It sounds like reciting a line he's rehearsed without knowing when he'd need it. "But I thought we weren't waiting for the same thing."

Same thing. Same thing. Same thing.

It's such a simple sentence. Such a gentle one. Yet it dissects her cleanly.

Mio breathes in. Her body folds inward around the words. She doesn't show it—she never shows it—but inside, a seam splits open.

(You weren't waiting for him. You were waiting to become someone else.)

Someone who could fit into this shape without cracking it. Someone who didn't look at love like a puzzle with the wrong pieces. Someone who didn't feel this—this ache, this revulsion, this wrongness—where other people felt desire.

She thought so, once. That they were aligned. That love, or something close enough to pass for it, would carry them forward on the same track. That patience was a virtue, a bridge, a form of proof.

It was always choreography.

Timed movements. An imitation of yearning.

Kenji was waiting for a door to open. Mio was waiting for the door to stop existing. And now, here they are.: not in front of a door, but a wall.

"I mean, maybe we can still..." Kenji trails off, and for a second he looks impossibly young. "Maybe this was just—bad timing. Or pressure. Or..." His voice drops. "I still want you, you know. But do you... want me, too?"

Mio closes her eyes.

She wishes that were enough.

He sighs—a soft, barely-there breath. The kind of breath you take before turning in a test you already know you've failed. It feels heavy now. Like this whole night has settled into his bones and he's trying to carry it somewhere else.

"I don't think this is working."

There's no drama or blame in it, but pure resignation. Like he's finally stopped trying to find another page in a book that ended three chapters ago.

"I kept thinking," he goes on, voice tight, "if I just waited, if I didn't pressure you, eventually you'd feel it too. That it would click. That we'd—" He stops himself. "I guess I thought it was just nerves. Shyness. You said you liked me. You said—"

"I do," Mio says, too quickly, without thinking.

"But not like that," he finishes.

Silence.

He huffs. "I feel like an idiot."

Mio hears the words. Registers them. They don't surprise her, but they still land like something structural collapsing. Dust and debris inside her chest.

She doesn't cry, though. That would be release. This isn't that.

(Don't act surprised. You knew this was coming. This is what you deserve.)

But knowledge is not insulation. It's not armor. It's just a sharper kind of pain, one that draws blood in places no one can see.

Kenji's gaze drops to his hands, fingers splayed against his knees. He looks like he's bracing himself for an aftershock.

"This... sucks," he says after a moment. "For both of us."

Mio says nothing.

"You shouldn't have to keep trying," he says, and his voice tightens—not with anger, but with effort. Like he's pushing something fragile up a hill and it keeps sliding back. "But I kept thinking, maybe I just had to earn it," he adds, voice tighter now, more urgent. "Like if I waited long enough, did all the right things—respected your pace, made you feel safe—eventually you'd want me back." His hands clench once on his knees. "But maybe you never did."

Mio's chest burns.

"And I..." He stops. Reconfigures. "I can't keep waiting if it's... not coming."

Not coming. Not coming. Not coming.

She hears it on loop. A phrase that dismantles something carefully constructed inside her. The kind of soft-spoken devastation you can't blame anyone for.

(You don't want him. You never did.)

But it still feels like a failing.

Because she tried. Because she wanted to be the kind of girl who could want that. Who could give him what he needed. Who could feel safe inside his patience. Who could unwrap herself like a gift and mean it.

But that never happened.

Her chest aches. Not with sadness, but with emptiness. A hollowing that began hours ago and has now finished its work. She doesn't respond. She only nods—barely, maybe even reflexively. Like her body is trying to be courteous while her mind is dissolving.

He stands slowly, as someone who's finished waiting. Who has finally accepted the stillness as permanent.

His eyes linger on her face.

"I'm gonna... take a walk," he says. "Give you some space."

She nods again, this time smaller. As if even agreement is something that must be rationed.

He walks to the door, bare feet silent on tatami. He moves slowly, as if unsure whether he's allowed to touch the air around them anymore. He opens the door quietly. Pauses for a second—maybe expecting her to say something, maybe just collecting himself.

Still, Mio doesn't speak. She doesn't cry. She doesn't scream, doesn't reach for him, doesn't plead.

Because what is there left to do? What is there left to say?

So she sits, still as sediment, and watches the narrative end in real time.

Kenji sighs. Leaves the room. The door closes with a sound that isn't loud enough to echo.

Mio feels it anyway. Like a pressure drop. Like silence after music.

Proof.

Then he's gone.

And that's it.

This is how it ends.

Not with cruelty or betrayal like in the movies, but with the soft, clinical precision of a suture being removed from skin that never healed.

She doesn't cry, but part of her wishes he'd yelled. Or accused her. Or said something ugly. Something she could push against. Something she could call unfair.

But instead, he just... left.

And that hurts more.

She stays where she is. Alone. The sheet has slipped down from her shoulders, but she doesn't fix it. Her hands are in her lap now. Her fingers curl slightly. They're cold.

There is no anger inside her. Only the quiet, catastrophic confirmation of a fear she's never been able to name.

(He left.)

Not because he stopped loving her, but because he realized she wasn't something he could understand.

And that's worse.

Because it means love isn't enough. Because it means she was right all along.

She is too much. Or not enough. Or both.

Something malformed. Something unsustainable.

(You are the equation that never balanced.)

She blinks once. Her vision doesn't blur. She lowers her head. The sheet is still bunched in her lap. Her hands don't move. Her back curves in, shoulders folding inward like wings collapsing. Her spine bows under the weight of failure.

The words echo in her head, dull and distorted:

"This isn't working."
"You shouldn't have to try."
"I can't keep waiting."

And underneath them, crueler:

I wasn't enough.
I wasn't enough.
I wasn't enough.

She stays like that for a long time. Held in the stillness, like an abandoned instrument.

The worst part is she agrees.

Not because she wants to, but because it fits. It confirms the thing she's always suspected—that whatever part of her is supposed to bloom when someone touches her like that simply doesn't exist.

That maybe she's... missing something. Some synapse, some spark, some instinct.

And if that's the case—

(Who will ever want you?)
(Who could ever love you?)
(What's the point of you?)

The silence answers.

There is no point.

Just the sound of her own breath. And the feeling of the sheet against her skin. And the knowledge that she's utterly alone in a room planned for two.

Eventually, her body remembers that it exists. That it can still do things, even if there's no meaning attached to them. She peels the sheet away from her lap. Her skin is damp beneath it, chilled from exposure. The air touches her and she flinches from the sheer awareness of being a body at all. Of still being here.

Her hands reach for her back. The straps of her bra are curled like question marks on her shoulders. She clasps it behind her with muscle memory, even as her fingers fumble. The gesture is almost surgical. Not concealment—containment. A way to put herself back in her box. A lid on a jar she should never have tried to open.

The yukata follows. Wrinkled from earlier. Damp at the collar. She slips it over her arms, tightens the sash twice, three times. Makes sure it's secure. Makes sure it's shut. Her movements are precise and clinical. Like she's dressing someone else's body for a funeral.

Her own.

Her hands fall to her sides. She stares at the wall across the room. Blank. Impenetrable. Featureless.

Then, finally, she breaks.

It's not graceful. Nothing like the sobbing heroines she used to imagine in her worst-case daydreams.

It's silent, at first. Then stuttered. A breath that collapses in the middle. A hand that comes up too late to cover her mouth. A sound that's not a sound—just the pressure of grief forced through a body with no vent.

Tears leak out of her eyes without consent. They sting. Her throat tightens. Her jaw aches. Her whole face contracts like it's trying to crumple inward, to disappear inside itself.

She convulses.

Shaking. Shallow. Wordless.

For the story she told herself. For the fantasy she wrote in invisible ink and then held up to a flame, hoping something would appear. For the hours she spent rehearsing who to become. For the version of herself she tried to offer like a gift wrapped in tissue paper and red string. For the fact that she is still here and none of it was enough.

The tears smear hot down her cheeks and into her collar. She doesn't wipe them away. She lets them run. Lets them mark her. Lets them prove, at least, that something inside her is still capable of feeling.

She lowers herself into the futon. Her knees curl in. Her arms fold tight across her middle. Her back arches subtly, like a question mark pulled too thin. She tucks her chin toward her chest and lets herself collapse into the shape of defeat. The room is dark now. Dim, really, but darker than before. Or maybe that's just her. Maybe she's absorbing light the way grief absorbs language—completely.

Her thoughts keep moving. They don't stop. They become louder in the dark.

I tried.
I did everything right.
I made space. I waited. I was careful.
I followed the rules, didn't I?

But what were the rules? Was there ever a guidebook?

She doesn't know. She doesn't know what she wanted.

She wanted him to want her. She wanted to want him. She wanted to want someone. Anyone. She wanted to be the girl who says yes. Or at least the girl who doesn't say no.

But she said no. With her body. With her breath. With the way her hands pushed instead of welcomed.

And now here she is, alone in a shared room.

"You shouldn't have to try."

She closes her eyes.

(You're the problem. It was always you. You're not built right. You malfunction. You love wrong. You feel wrong. You're wrong.)

She breathes through her mouth now. Her nose is too clogged.

The tears keep coming, slower. They're not expressive, but leakage. The body weeping for her because she no longer has the language.

And then—

A sound.

The soft click of the door.

Mio freezes.

Footsteps. Bare. Hesitant.

She hears Kenji's presence—air shifting, the creak of wood, the subtle compression of tatami as his weight returns to the room.

She doesn't sit up. She doesn't speak. She doesn't even open her eyes. She just lets him think she's asleep. Lets him think she's dissolved.

He doesn't call her name. Doesn't kneel beside her or whisper "I'm sorry." He doesn't ask if she's okay. Maybe he knows the answer. Maybe he doesn't want to know. Maybe he doesn't care anymore.

She listens instead.

To the rustle of fabric. To the soft drag of the futon against tatami as he pulls it away from hers. Separates it. Places it down at a distance.

They are still in the same room. The same coordinates. The same zip code of heartbreak.

But they are elsewhere now.

Together, but miles away.

She doesn't sleep. She just lies there. Quiet. Still.

Like an artifact.

Like a fossil of a girl who once believed in love.

---

July 31, 2011

They went to Hakone together. Now they return side by side as strangers.

It's the framing Mio would have scoffed at in a bad rom-com: a boy and a girl meet on an hour-and-a-half train ride, sit next to each other by chance, share headphones, fall in love. She used to believe that. Not just the scene—the architecture of it. That closeness could arrive suddenly. That it could feel natural. That hearts could unfold like origami in the right light.

But there is no light now. Only motion. Only the dull, linear rhythm of return.

Outside the train window, the scenery scrolls like background footage in a video she's no longer in. Blurred outlines of houses, hills, signage. Everything familiar, everything lifeless. The world keeps existing in spite of her. Or maybe without her.

Her earbuds are in. Not to drown him out—he hasn't spoken since they boarded—but to fill the space. The silence between them is so total it has gravity.

Sleepwalker hums in her ears, cyclical and numbing.

I'm sorry you don't know.
Where did I wake up today?

Again.

I'm sorry you don't know.
Where did I wake up today?

Again.

Each loop feels more accusatory. Or maybe more accurate.

Mio stares out the window. Her reflection stares back in the glass, superimposed on the moving landscape. She barely recognizes the girl in it. Pale face, hair slightly tangled from the night. No expression. Just blankness. Like a passenger in someone else's life.

She woke up alone again.

Not alone in the poetic way. Not with drifting sunlight across a shared futon, not with the slow breath of someone beside her, not with the ache of meaning. No. She woke up to absence. Again. Kenji's futon was already folded. He was already dressed and ready. His face unreadable when he looked at her and said, simply: "Good morning."

Procedural. The phrase equivalent of a receipt being handed over.

No touch. No lingering gaze. No kiss on the forehead. No evidence that anything had existed between them except choreography and timing.

They said goodbye to the ryokan staff like nothing had happened. Smiled. Bowed. Thanked them for their hospitality. Played their parts well.

She wonders if the woman at the front desk could tell. Probably not. That's the thing about practiced politeness—it's indistinguishable from peace.

Mio closes her eyes. Breathes in the sound of the train. The pulse of the tracks beneath her. The music looping.

I'm sorry you don't know.
Where did I wake up today?

(Where did you wake up today?)

Somewhere else. Somewhere unfamiliar inside her own skin.

She tries to reconstruct the trajectory of the past forty-eight hours, hoping memory will clarify something. But all she gets is sensory fragments that don't fit. The sheet twisted in her hands. Kenji's voice—"I thought we were waiting for the same thing." Her own mouth forming, "I thought I was ready."

Ready for what?

For love?

For touch?

The rest empties out of her like air.

(You pushed him.)

I'm sorry you don't know.
Where did I wake up today?

The lyrics repeat, a confession caught in stasis. Her fingers clasp together in her lap, going cold from lack of circulation.

Kenji shifts beside her. The faintest movement. He's reading something on his phone, or pretending to. She doesn't look.

Their thighs don't touch. Their elbows don't brush. It's choreography again, but this time, not the practiced intimacy of a couple, but the practiced avoidance of strangers. Two people who just happened to sit next to each other.

That's all this is now. A failed romance disguised as coincidence.

She used to believe in something else. Something simpler. She used to believe that if she loved someone enough, she would become the kind of person who could do this. That intimacy would unfold from the inside out. That desire was a matter of timing, of trust, of care.

But it never arrived.

She waited. She tried. She offered her body like an unopened envelope, praying something inside would change.

It didn't.

And now, here she is. Riding home with the boy who loved her, the boy she thought she loved, in whatever way she was able to. And none of it was enough.

I'm sorry you don't know.
Where did I wake up today?

Not in love. Not in safety. Not in a future.

Suspended, here.

And maybe that's the cruelest part.

That she still doesn't know what she wants. That she still doesn't have a name for what she is. That her desire—if it exists—is still shrouded in conditional tenses and unfinished metaphors.

I want to want. I want to be wanted as I am.

But she doesn't know what it's supposed to feel like.

And that, more than anything, makes her feel broken.

I'm sorry you don't know.
Where did I wake up today?

She presses her forehead to the glass. It's cold. The vibration of the train echoes through her bones.

Kenji doesn't look at her. She doesn't look at him.

Maybe that's the only mercy left.

"This isn't working."

They are silent the rest of the way.

She listens to the song again.

Again.

Again.

Not because she needs the words, but because she doesn't know how to turn it off.

---

The train slides into Tokyo Station with a sound that feels too definitive. A severance.

The arrival doesn't announce anything dramatic—no screeching brakes, no sudden lurch. Just the soft hiss of compressed air. The subtle shift in inertia. The quiet realization that something has ended because there's nowhere left to go.

Kenji stands when the announcement plays.

Mio doesn't.

Passengers slide around her without touching, eyes on the floor arrows and overhead boards. They stream like they know exactly where they're supposed to go. Like their lives resume the moment their feet hit the platform. She can't remember what that feels like, having a destination.

Kenji reaches for the luggage rack without speaking. His hand closes around the strap of her bag—automatically—and they both feel it: that small betrayal of habit. That minor, mortal gesture.

His fingers still for a beat. Then, wordlessly, he shifts the strap into her lap and retrieves his own.

She lowers her eyes. "Thank you."

Her voice sounds like a misused instrument. Breath without shape.

He nods once.

They wait. The car empties. It doesn't take long. It never does when you're standing still.

Mio rises. Not because she wants to, but because she has to. Because gravity still works. Because it's time to pretend to be a person again.

They exit the train together, though they are not together.

The platform is crowded, but they move without touching. Parallel lines. Close enough to suggest proximity, far enough to confirm distance.

They stop just past the boarding gates.

The moment arrives as a pause. As suspension. As the absence of what should come next.

This is the part where people hug. Where they exchange final words. Where they cry or laugh or promise or plead. The scene Mio has watched a hundred times in films, in dramas, in music videos with cheap lighting and better soundtracks. The parting on the train platform. The last moment before the plot diverges.

She thought it would feel cinematic.

It doesn't.

Movies give you a string swell so the ache feels earned. Stations give you fluorescent hum and a timetable. Sleepwalker loops in the back of her mind like a private subtitle: I'm sorry you don't know. Everyone moves on their marks. She misses her cue and the scene still ends.

Kenji turns to her. He looks like someone who's rehearsed a script and forgotten every line. His mouth moves, then stills. His brow knits, then smooths.

"I can't keep waiting."

Finally, he says: "Take care, okay?"

His voice is gentle. He speaks across something fragile. The cracked ice of what they were.

Mio nods. "You too."

They both look at the space between their shoes.

We should say more.

(There is nothing more in you.)

Kenji shifts his weight. His bag strap creaks against his shoulder.

"I hope... I hope you figure things out," he says after a pause. "Whatever they are."

It's not condescending; it's sincere. Uncertain. A blessing in imperfect phrasing.

Mio's throat catches around the shape of thank you, but the sound never makes it out. So she nods again. It feels insufficient.

It is.

There's a beat of silence.

Then Kenji steps forward and opens his arms. Hesitant. Awkward.

She doesn't move. Doesn't lean in. But she doesn't recoil either, and that is enough of a yes.

So he hugs her.

A short, tentative thing. One arm around her back, the other pressing between her shoulder blades. A contact so minimal it might not register as affection. But it holds the shape of something once earnest. Once real.

Mio doesn't return it, but she closes her eyes. Just for a moment. To let it pass through her. To let it mark the end.

When they part, he doesn't linger. He just gives her a small nod, then turns.

And walks away.

She watches until he disappears into the crowd. No backward glance. His silhouette swallowed by bodies and movement, dissolved by momentum.

And then she's alone on the platform.

The world moves around her. People pass. Voices rise and fall. A train pulls in from the opposite track, and another prepares to leave.

Mio doesn't move. She looks down at her feet. Scuffed sandals. Pale ankles visible. Her hands are cold around the strap of her bag.

The pain is cavernous, raw and humming. A shape without definition, too large to contain and invisible to name. And yet, no one sees it. The platform is loud with motion. Announcements rattle overhead in indifferent tones. Shoes scrape. Bags bump. Somewhere, a child laughs. None of it pauses for her. None of it recognizes that something has ended.

That's the thing about grief, isn't it? The way it isolates. You can be crumbling quietly in the middle of a crowd, and still, traffic continues. Schedules hold. People argue about lunch or check their phones. And your heartbreak becomes a private absurdity. A whisper drowned out by arrival times and platform numbers.

She thinks: maybe this is the loneliest version of pain: the kind that feels like a stopped clock in a world that keeps going.

Mio doesn't know what to do with that.

She told herself—at the beginning—that this wasn't an ending. That it was a beginning. That she was stepping into something. That she was becoming.

But now?

Now she isn't sure.

Goodbyes, she once thought, happened at train windows. That was the line. That was the metaphor. The image she built her expectations around.

But this didn't happen at a window. It happened here, on the platform. Not with tears, not with a final kiss, not with a wave through glass as the train pulled away.

With stillness.

With two people standing beside each other and realizing they've arrived at the wrong destination. Or maybe the right one. Just too late.

She turns her face toward the tracks. Another train is coming. It doesn't matter which one. None of them lead to where she thought she was going.

She adjusts her grip on the bag.

Beginnings and endings look the same from a distance. But up close, she thinks, they feel different.

Endings leave silence. Weight. A kind of gravitational loss. And this—this ache in her chest, this slow echo of everything she didn't say—is not the feeling of something beginning.

It's the sound of absence.

She lowers her eyes. Then turns.

And walks away.

The music still rings in her ears.

I'm sorry you don't know.
Where did I wake up today?

She doesn't know.

But she walks anyway.

Notes:

Jesus. Finally. Kenji leaves. Close the door on your way out, dude.

Nah, I'm kidding. (Well... not really.) But the point is: Kenji didn't do anything evil. I tried hard not to make him a villain. He's about as exciting as a rice cracker in Tupperware, sure, but he isn't a bad person—he's just a person. A boy carrying the expectations he was handed, who got it wrong and hurt someone without meaning to. Same as Mio, unfortunately. That's what happens in stories with complex people: there are blameless hurts, and there are people who hurt without intending to. It's what happens when two people want what they were told to want instead of what they actually want, and then try to fit.

This story is told in Mio's POV, after all, and in Kenji she saw what she needed to see: patient, kind, gentle, steady. In the end he turned out to be a real person—a young guy trying to love the only way he knows how, and failing not for lack of care but because it was never the right shape.

Anyway... where are the girls? WHERE ARE MY LESBIANS? Close, I swear. Mio has a rough week ahead, and then it's Training Camp, where... things may happen. Perhaps. Maybe. I don't know. (Okay, I do know. If you want to know too, you know the deal: 20k a week.)

Thanks for reading. And I'm sorry, Mio. But don't worry—good things are coming for you.

Chapter 33: The Inside Room

Summary:

Mio counts in.

Notes:

FUCK YES, I MISSED THIS. The introspection. The spiraling. Mio's brain. The girls. Naya. A world without men.

I still feel like the Hakone Arc was kind of a mess (which is great, because it's definitely not a pivotal arc in Mio's journey or anything, nope), but hey—Hakone is over, Kenji is over, heterosexuality is over, and suffering is... mostly over. You get me.

Anyway, let's see what spiral our favorite left-handed, introverted bassist has chosen today.

The Inside Room, by 40 Watt Sun, was released on July 19, 2011.

August 1, 2011

Mio doesn't move when her phone chimes.

Not because she doesn't hear it. Not because she's asleep. She hasn't slept. It's just that moving would mean acknowledging the sound. And acknowledging the sound would mean acknowledging the world still wants things from her.

Face down on the futon, the new phone warms a pale oval in the sheets. The strap—plastic candy beads, purple and pink—lies curled beside it like a half-dead jellyfish. It's the only bright thing in the room. The old flip is somewhere behind her, exiled the week she started university. This one—a white Sharp SH-06A—looks grown. The strap didn't change. She did.

She stares at the ceiling.

Another chime. A thin, synthetic cheerfulness nicking the air. Silence. Then another. She'd tuned them on purpose—Ritsu a percussive tap, Yui a chiptune riff, Mugi default-elegant, Azusa a bright cascade that irritates her just enough to be unmistakable.

Now they're not people. Just ghosts inside pixels.

She doesn't need to check to know the order. She rolls anyway; the phone slides to her elbow and lights.

Ritsu is the loudest, even in text. A digital persistence.

Ritsu 🥁

Ritsu: Mio, are you okay? I mean, yeah, dumb question, but... you know.

Ritsu: Want me to come over?

Ritsu: I won't bug you. But just say you're alive or something (눈_눈)

Ritsu: You don't have to talk. But if you want to, I'm here (´；ω；｀)

Yui 🎸

Yui: Do you want pudding, Mio-chan? I found the melon kind! We can split!! Also how are you?? (❁´◡`❁)

Mugi 🎹

Mugi: We're thinking of meeting for tea this evening. We'd love to see you, Mio-chan. But only if you feel up to it (◡‿◡✿)

Azusa 🎸

Azusa: How was the trip, Mio-senpai? You doing okay?

She stares at the string of messages like they belong to someone else's life. Someone with a voice.

She doesn't reply yet. She doesn't owe the world her immediacy.

Instead, she thinks. Or rather, she spirals, because thinking implies order. This is something else. More like intellectual disintegration.

No tears. Those were yesterday, the involuntary kind. Now the room hums with the blank after-sound.

Why isn't she crying? Maybe because he was kind. Maybe because she saw it coming. Or because it isn't him she's lost.

It's the fantasy.

The scaffolding of normalcy she'd built from movies and paperbacks and classroom gossip: date the nice boy, be the nice girl, kiss, hold hands, fall in love, proceed. Move forward. Forward, always. Eventually, if you're patient, it'll feel real.

(And if it doesn't? Pretend. Until it does.)

That's what she did: she learned the choreography, hit her marks, said the lines. And now the play is over, and she doesn't know what remains of the actress.

She flips the phone open, finally, more out of reflex than desire. The screen flickers to life. Ritsu again.

Ritsu 🥁

Ritsu: Mio, are you okay? I mean, yeah, dumb question, but... you know.

Ritsu: Want me to come over?

Ritsu: I won't bug you. But just say you're alive or something (눈_눈)

Ritsu: You don't have to talk. But if you want to, I'm here (´；ω；｀)

Ritsu: Mio? Call me when you can. Or just... Dunno. Blink twice if alive (￣▽￣;)

Her thumbs produce the habit-sentence:

I'm okay. Just tired.

She doesn't hit send.

Instead, she watches the cursor pulse, a toy heartbeat, a counterfeit metronome.

She deletes it.

Tired is not the word. It's not even in the correct category. Tired is physical. Tired can be cured.

What Mio feels now is not curable. It's not even nameable.

Sadness is not the word, either. Wrong bin. Sadness has a temperature and a half-life; it dims if you wait it out. It falls, drains, lets you cry and feel lighter after.

Loss needs an outline—something you can point at and say there, that's where it was. A door that slams and leaves a nameplate behind.

Confusion has questions, at least, and the promise of an answer. It crackles, then sleeps it off.

What sits in her chest has none of those mechanics.

This—whatever this is—doesn't fall or slam or crackle. It just sits, untranslated, where her voice should be. It's a pressure change in a sealed room; her ears won't pop. It's breath going in and not counting as breathing. A light left on behind her eyes after the switch has clicked down.

It's the sudden vacuum left behind when belief collapses. When you realize the scaffolding wasn't holding you up—it was holding up an idea you no longer recognize.

She thought love would translate her. But she played the part, and still she was only a girl with a mouth full of silence and a body that refused the script.

She thought it would open something.

It didn't.

So what does that make her?

(Defective. Irrevocable. Insufficient.)

That's the piece of her that worships measurement, wants a rubric, a grade. The piece that believed intimacy was a final exam—and she failed.

Her phone chimes again. She sighs.

(Just tell them you're tired from the trip. Say you're not feeling well. It's not a lie.)

Eventually, she types a few vague responses. Something bland, the way you bandage without looking.

Ritsu 🥁

Ritsu: Mio, are you okay? I mean, yeah, dumb question, but... you know.

Ritsu: Want me to come over?

Ritsu: I won't bug you. But just say you're alive or something (눈_눈)

Ritsu: You don't have to talk. But if you want to, I'm here (´；ω；｀)

Ritsu: Mio? Call me when you can. Or just... Dunno. Blink twice if alive (￣▽￣;)

Mio: Thanks, Ritsu. Just need some time.

And to the rest, just enough to remain legible:

Yui 🎸

Yui: Do you want pudding, Mio-chan? I found the melon kind! We can split!! Also how are you?? (❁´◡`❁)

Mio: Tired from the trip. Gonna rest a bit. Thanks though (´∀｀*)

Mugi 🎹

Mugi: We're thinking of meeting for tea this evening. We'd love to see you, Mio-chan. But only if you feel up to it (◡‿◡✿)

Mio: Tired from the trip. Gonna rest a bit. Thanks though (´∀｀*)

Azusa 🎸

Azusa: How was the trip, Mio-senpai? You doing okay?

Mio: Tired from the trip. Gonna rest a bit. Thanks though (´∀｀*)

Neutral phrasing. Undetailed. Defensible. Not a lie so much as an omission: she came home hollow and boneless; set her bag down; let her mother read her face and choose mercy.

She tosses the phone face down again, discarded.

It's quiet again.

Yesterday she came back from Hakone.

She told her parents the truth—or a version that would hold.

When she stepped into the genkan, the lights were warm and yellow. TV murmuring—news, maybe, or some documentary with grainy subtitles. Kenji surfaced in the back of her mind; she opened their chat to type "Home" and remembered there was no their anymore. The cursor blinked in a room that didn't exist. She backed out.

Her mother welcomed her, padded toward the genkan and asked, "How was it?"

And Mio, her bag still on her shoulder, her phone still in her hand, her body still carrying the scent of shame and tatami, looked straight ahead and said:

"We broke up."

Just like that. As though it were a weather report.

No interrogation followed. Just the slight maternal tilt of a head and a soft, "I'm sorry, Mio-chan. Do you want dinner?"

Mio shook her head. She hadn't eaten since breakfast that morning. She wasn't hungry. Not then. Not now.

Her father made a sound—an inhale, maybe. A throat-clear. One of those masculine gestures that says I'm here without having to risk the terrain of emotional vocabulary. He nodded once, and that was all.

It was mercy, the silence. Earned by years of being the 'Good Daughter.'

She knows they would've blessed most roads she chose, but she could feel the ghost of the expected route breathe between them—the nice boy, the steady years, a ceremony after college like a neat period. A penciled future now erased, the paper left blank where the strokes used to be.

And now she's here, alone in her childhood room at 10:42 a.m. The curtains drawn but not shut. The fan humming its low circle. Lavender sachet in the dresser giving off a polite ghost of scent; underneath it, the musk of sweat and not-crying. There's a half-finished book belly-down by her pillow, a bottle of barley tea sweating on the desk, and a music notebook smothered under a pile of printed lyrics.

She's already showered. The water hit too hard. She turned the pressure down until it became warm rain and angled it onto her shoulder, not her chest. The lock clicked louder than it should; she counted the clicks anyway. She toweled without looking at herself. Then she brushed her teeth.

She's human-shaped again.

But human-shaped isn't the same as inhabited. Her jaw keeps finding that hard set that makes her molars ache; her ribs feel cinched from the inside, a seatbelt diagonally across her that won't release. For now, shoulders and forearms are safe terrain; her sternum is not.

She lies very still and wonders what it is about her that makes love disintegrate on contact.

Maybe she's not built for it. Not the romantic kind.

She'd thought love was something else—a kindness with velocity, a bridge between solitude and safety, a hand reaching for yours in the dark. But with Kenji it was never that; it was order, process, the tidy escalation from affection to obligation. First the kiss, then the dates, then the careful progression toward inevitability. A paved line she stayed on because everyone else walked it like it was natural.

(And you thought if you followed it too, it would lead somewhere true.)

It led to a ryokan room. To a body that flinched. To silence dressed in linen and an absurd ivory set.

A knock. "Mio-chan? Do you want some tea?"

"No, thank you."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

A pause.

"Let me know."

Then quiet again.

Mio looks around her room. The walls are mostly bare except for the corkboard: a scatter of band photos, Yui's drawing of a cat that looks more like a deformed raccoon, a collage of stubs and slips—London trains, concert nights, their first live house. Everything so unmistakably hers, and yet it feels remote. A museum exhibit of a girl who had plans. A girl who believed love was a solvable equation—practice your scales, and eventually it flows.

There's no frozen moment of her and Kenji on the corkboard.

There never was. The dorm photo she tucked into her suitcase before Hakone is buried in some drawer she can't remember opening.

She thinks: I didn't love him.
She thinks: I tried to.
She thinks: Why didn't it work?

(Why can't you just be normal?)

Her hands curl loosely at her sides, limp on the futon.

She doesn't say it aloud, doesn't even phrase it cleanly in her head, but the fear is there: that she's incapable of the love people mean when they say the word. The kind that transforms you. That makes desire a tether and not a burden.

Because she wanted to want him.

She really did.

She really, really did.

And still—her body said no. An unspoken dissonance that has no diagnosis, only shame.

She touches her chest. Rise, fall. Lungs converting air into proof. Still here.

It doesn't feel like enough.

Maybe love was never what she thought. Maybe it's not a language she speaks. Not fluently, anyway.

But I was so sure.

She doesn't move for a long time.

Eventually she rolls onto her side. Knees tucked. Hair sticking to her neck. Hands finding each other under the pillow. Her heart goes slow. Careful.

This is the funeral. Not of him, but of the girl who believed she could perform her way into love.

That's why it hurts.

Because she was so good at the part.

And it still wasn't enough.

She closes her eyes.

There is no music playing. No book in her hands. No pages turning. No rhythm to borrow. Just the fan's low sweep and the aftertaste of last night on her tongue.

She's too tired to read. Too tired to move. And too scared to admit the small relief: not about the breakup, but about not having to perform anymore.

She misses the simplicity of it all.

The days when the biggest worry in her life was forgetting a lyric. Or when Ritsu's teasing was the most complicated thing she had to navigate. At fifteen, everything felt manageable. Contained. Music, school, friends—it was a little world with a tempo she could keep. A rhythm she could follow.

Now, she's dropped the beat and can't find her way back in.

She used to believe in love so strongly. It was this distant, golden thing—choose it, reach for it, and it shimmers back. At fifteen she could write about it without understanding; believe without contact.

Now it feels like a trick. A progression that loops and never resolves.

She misses that version of herself. The one who could dream without needing proof.

---

August 2, 2011

The book slides out of her hands at 11:43 a.m.

Not because she's finished—she hasn't turned a page in over an hour—but because her fingers forget their job, uninterested in gripping anything. It thuds once against the blanket, bends a corner against her hip, and stays there. She doesn't look down.

She woke up segmented. Disassembled. One part of her awareness on the desk, one stitched into the pillowcase, one snagged in the snarl at the back of her neck where last night's sweat dried to salt. None of the parts return when called. She doesn't gather them.

Outside, the sky is aggressively blue—the kind that insists on its own optimism. It slices through her curtains at a diagonal, catching on the stacked books by her bed like an accusation. Look, it says. Look at your unfinished stories. Look at your interrupted dreams.

She rolls away from the light. It follows anyway.

She picks the book up, tries again.

One sentence. Then another.

They slide off. Not because they're dull, not because she doesn't care, but because the mechanism that used to make meaning has grit in it. Everything's half a beat late—like subtitles running five seconds behind.

The book is a collection of translated essays. A gift from Mugi for Mio's nineteenth birthday. Lyrical, meditative, full of botanical metaphors. Something about decay and rebirth. About how roots grow sideways when they can't find depth. But her mind slides off every sentence like oil on a pane of glass.

Nothing lands.

She blinks once, then reaches for her headphones—AKG K701, once a personality, now part of the decor. The cord is a small knot; she doesn't unknot it, just pulls enough slack to get the cups on. Jack in. Player on. She scrolls to ambient—no hook, no voice, just sustained notes stretched thin across a big, empty soundstage—and turns it up. Then up again. And again. Louder. Louder. Louder.

Noise. That's what she wants. Just noise dense enough to press against thought.

She doesn't want to hear it. She wants it to fill her. Overwhelm. Override.

Bassline, harmony, reverb invade and set up camp. She lets the sound drill in, carving a room where thought can't follow.

Because silence is dangerous; it amplifies the self. And right now her self is radioactive.

Eyes closed. Breath measured. Volume almost uncomfortable.

Punishment, maybe.

Or an attempt at resonance: make her skull vibrate with anything that isn't her.

The loop is slow, hypnotic. A hollow drum nicked by fuzz. She lets it flood her, not to feel, but to feel less.

She breathes through her mouth. Her lips are dry. Her tongue tastes like sleep and cotton.  Hunger flickers, noted and filed, but it's irrelevant now.

Once she believed feelings were data points—map them, and you could know your weather and predict the tides. Now it's just a fuzzed-out waveform. Static. No discernible pattern, only the fact of being alive without appetite for it.

She clicks to the next track. Then the next. Then back.

She wants to find the sound that matches her heartbeat. Not the emotional one, but the vascular one. The slow, thudding, dissonant loop of blood doing its job without fanfare.

She wants to sync.

But nothing matches. Nothing resonates.

Music is supposed to help, she thinks.

(You're not letting it.)

She believed that too: music as a language you speak when the others fail. But lately it feels like a translation of a truth she no longer reaches.

She presses her palms to her eyes. The pressure leaves afterimages—red-blue pinpricks in the dark.

What if this is me now?

What if the lightness never returns? What if the ache becomes the default? What if the version of love she built was not only wrong, but irreversible? A mutation of meaning?

It's too much.

Everything is too much, and nothing is enough.

Her fingers rake through her hair and snag on a knot. She doesn't fix it. Just drags down, slower.

What if I'm unlovable not because I'm broken, but because I've been performing a shape I was never built for?

What if love isn't a sequence? Not kiss, date, touch, sex, 'I love you.' Not a train station with scheduled stops, but simply standing still beside someone who doesn't ask you to explain?

How many times has she lied without speaking? Smiled because unlearning the choreography would take too long?

Maybe the lie wasn't that I didn't love Kenji. Maybe the lie was believing I could.

(And what does that make you?)

Confused.

(Empty.)

She lies back. The headphones buzz against the sheet, the music faint now, like the memory of a song you half-forgot. She puts them on again.

No tears.

Five albums go by. None of them register. They pass through like weather you watch on a map. It's not that they're meaningless. It's that she is, today. In this shape. In this suspended, unclaimed state.

She tries to make the sound louder. Her player won't let her. Maximum volume reached.

She presses the cups tighter anyway, like depth will compensate for intensity. As if pressure equals entry. Penetration.

Penetration.

At least this pressure is chosen. The ache draws perfect circles where pad meets cartilage; the sound crowns bone instead of asking anything of her chest. She breathes into her back, not her front, and calls it good enough.

She doesn't move.

She's not syncing to anything. Not even herself.

Scroll. Post-rock now. No words. No metaphors to unpack. Just vibration. Erosion.

Eyes closed again.

There are things she's supposed to do. Her mother mentioned laundry. Her father asked her—twice, even gently—if she'd practice piano this week since the end-of-year recital isn't that far off. Her inbox still has messages.

She hasn't answered most of it.

Even Ritsu—yesterday—she answered in fragments. And it worked. For all her chaos, Ritsu knows when to retreat. She's probably waiting, somewhere building something loud and ridiculous to drop like a parachute in a few days. A surprise visit. A pudding parade.

Mio doesn't dread it. She just can't yet picture surviving the impact.

Her stomach growls. The sound surprises her. She can't tell if she's hungry or just empty.

She stands.

The music stays on, an IV she wheels from room to room. Headphones still in place, she pads to the kitchen and drinks barley tea straight from the bottle. The apartment is empty of mothers.

Setting the bottle down, her eyes catch a magnet on the fridge—translucent purple, jellyfish-shaped.

Small, glossy, infuriatingly serene.

A reminder, Kenji had said.

She goes back to her room.

Her body feels... unincorporated. Limbs not yet rehired by the spine. Skin like an outfit issued last-minute, fastenings missing.

She folds herself onto the futon again.

The track playing now is from a band Naya recommended during their exchange. Mio hasn't thought of her—consciously—in over twenty-four hours.

It slips in anyway. Not a memory. An image.

Naya in the practice room, wrist turning as she dials a pedal. The way her laugh curves around consonants.

Her accent.

Mio blinks, hard.

(Don't go there. She's not a solution. No one is.)

The image stays.

The music keeps moving.

Mio lifts her hands. Studies them.

Her knuckles are pale. Her wrists delicate. She remembers when Kenji touched them once and said they looked like porcelain.

What felt wrong wasn't the compliment. It was the claim—the suggestion that beauty proved belonging.

She wanted to want that. Truly. But her body refused.

No.

A word without breath.

Love used to be magic.

A feeling she could write about, believe in, sing like a lullaby.

She used to think the right person would make her heart race. That there would be a spark. That when it happened, she would know.

But Kenji kissed her, and all she felt was the rough scrape of stubble and a hollow where a flare should be. Nothing like the stories.

At fifteen, love was the greatest force in the universe.

At nineteen, it feels like a lie.

What if this is the whole of it? This gnawing silence, this foggy weight. What if growing up is learning how to live with that?

She rolls back to the ceiling.

It hasn't changed.

---

August 3, 2011

Mio doesn't decide to write; she simply finds herself at the piano.

Not from inspiration or deadline or even habit. She's alone in the house and needs somewhere to sit, and her body chooses this: the secondhand Yamaha Clavinova her parents gave her for her nineteenth. Warm brown woodgrain dulled at the corners, key action a little uneven. Her mother found it at a resale shop in Kichijōji—no prestige, no promises. Just eighty-eight keys and a stand wide enough for unglamorous work. Her father and a coworker hauled it up the entrance stairs; no wrapping, only a modest ribbon on the fallboard and a card tucked between stand and control panel: "Do your best, Mio-chan," in his careful hand.

Most people assumed Literature for her; books had always been how she breathed. But music is the grammar that bypasses her tongue—the thing that says what her sentences keep sanitizing. She chose the instrument that lets her mean without adjectives.

So it startled her, that quiet vote of confidence. A gift not just of sound, but of space. A place to practice. To fail. To become.

The bench creaks under her weight. The keys wait. Her fingers hover over C like a trespasser at a glass door. The sheet-music folder is open on the stand, though she doesn't remember placing it there.

Maybe yesterday's self left it that way, trying to leave a message.

She scans the music room her parents arranged for her. A spare room given a purpose: a low shelf with scores, blank staff paper, a tin of pencils, a folding stand leaning like a spare limb. Under the window, her Hartke A Series A70—grille cloth clean, power switch taped to keep dust out. Elizabass's stand in the corner; the Keeley 4-Knob Compressor coiled neatly on the amp. Lemon oil and felt dust live in the air. Cicadas lay a light veil outside; inside, everything is tuned for quiet.

This is a room for procedure. She keeps a cloth on the fallboard, a tuner clipped to the stand, a metronome within reach. The door closed with a neat click and the pressure in the room settled. Her hands knew the protocol here: tune, set levels, check the line, then play. A space calibrated to hold sound until it learns how to stand.

She hasn't touched the piano since before Hakone—since the afternoon Naya sat beside her and played like it still meant something. Since Naya let her in—just once, just barely—and then shrugged it away like it didn't matter, like nothing had been shown at all.

"You're the only person I've told after I quit. The only one I've told the whole story to. And the only person I've played for."

A strange weight settles in her chest. Something delicate, a shared absence held between them now.

(You're supposed to be writing your end-of-year recital piece.)

It's only August.

She sets her fingers down. The ivory is cool beneath her skin. No pressure yet.

One test note—featherweight, then firm. Here, weight is elective; consent lives in dynamics—pp, mf, f. She decides when the room gets louder.

Her notebook sits nearby, cover warped by humidity. She flips to the last page. The ink is smudged. She must have written it while sweating. Or while crying. She can't remember which.

She reads the draft. Some lines look like hers. Others like a stranger wearing her hand.

"I wonder if I'll meet them somewhere... the wonderful lover from my dreams."

Lover.

She chose that word on purpose. The kanji reads 「恋人」 but when she wrote it, she refused a pronoun. Not 「彼」 or 「彼女」 but 「ひと」.  Person. Undefined. Neutral.

Her fingers twitch.

(Poetic or evasive?)

The piano waits.

She exhales and starts small—an arpeggio in B♭ minor. Then again, slower, tracing a seam by touch.

Not pretty yet. But movement.

Her body remembers patterns before her mind agrees. She builds scaffolding: octaves, suspended fourths; the left hand walking steady while the right stutters toward courage.

It's a song she hasn't written and somehow already carries. A resonance. A monologue.

Pencil.

"Under the sky dyed red and blue, I'm all alone in the classroom.
Closing the novel I finished, there's a yearning, quivering in my chest."

Nostalgia or nausea, she can't tell.

She plays the opening again, slower, breathing it instead of beating it. Left hand first—rooted, heavy. She wants it to feel like a schoolbag too full, like balancing on a train that doesn't stop. The right takes longer: soft, then an echo, then a counter-line—a question that can't find its sentence.

"Each day, I carry textbooks in my heavy school bag.
My cell phone is plugged with messages.
This is the way I seem right now, but I'm not really this way."

If she sang this aloud, her voice would betray her. So she doesn't. She mouths it instead. There's a wrongness in her mouth lately, like her tongue has lost faith in pronunciation. She doesn't trust it not to tell on her.

Her hands, though. Those she can trust.

Chords. Suspension. Wait the resolution. Don't give it away too soon.

"I wonder if I can become her someday... the lovely person from my dreams."

The word 「女性」 on the page—woman—makes her pause.

She wrote it weeks ago. Or months. Time is smudged.

She chose the elegant kanji over "girl," then penciled 「ひと」 in furigana, refusing to narrow the shape even as she named it.

She crosses out 「おんな」. Then 「じょせい」. She leaves only 「ひと」—person. She chooses someone.

(Who were you writing to?)

Herself, maybe. Or the version of herself she hasn't earned yet.

The melody trembles here. She plays it softer, unsure on purpose.

"Because I'm too shy, I can only speak through monologues."

She stares at the bar and draws a fermata over the last note. A sanctioned hesitation. A breath held open.

(It's easier to talk when no one answers.)

Her hands fall to her lap. The page looks nearly finished; she does not. She feels vented—something unnamed left the body and took nothing with it.

Still, forward.

A key change—brighter, not major. Mobile. The left hand ticks into sixteenths that read as footsteps. The melody picks up. She starts layering.

"Shining somewhere far away is my number one star, so I quickly take the road home."

A walk, then a retreat, then the admission she already knows:

"But I soon understand that I can't return; I can only head towards the future."

She knows this. That there's no going back.

Not to childhood. Not to high school. Not to Kenji. No to to the girl who believed love was a riddle with a single, golden answer.

Her pencil hesitates at the familiar line:

"I wonder if I'll meet them somewhere... the wonderful lover from my dreams."

And below it:

恋人
(ひと)

Person. A dream-shape with the edges left soft.

(You're not writing about him.)

No. She's writing a yearning without an object. A mirror not yet silvered.

She adds the next stanza in a light hand, careful not to bruise the paper:

"It's important, though very small; I can only speak through monologues."

(Important things hide better when they're small. You can protect them by making them quiet.)

She plays the bridge again, hands steadier. The melody steps down—a measured descent—and then:

"But someday, my dream will absolutely, most definitely come true."

The phrase snags in her throat. Faith optional. She writes it anyway.

Coda.

No flourish, just slow chords and minimal motion. The rhythm of dusk.

"Under the blue, blue evening sky, I have just one thing for the world.
With my heart filled with courage, my story will last forever."

She lifts her hands. Silence returns. The song ends with a resolution that knows not everything is resolved.

She studies the keys, then the face in the fallboard's gloss—pale, eyes rimmed in depth—and notes, simply: Here. Still here. Still becoming.

Maybe that's the point. A slow, quivering becoming.

The page stares back, filled but not full. The melody refuses an easy collapse. She picks up the pencil again.

Aozora Monologue comes to mind first. Sky blue. Clear. The kind of title someone else might give it. The kind someone might hum along to, assuming they understand.

But that isn't the sky she wrote under.

She hesitates. Then presses the lead gently to the upper margin.

蒼空のモノローグ
Soukuu no Monologue

A monologue, written under a fading sky.

---

August 4, 2011

Mio's room holds the exact temperature of absence.

The window is open, but the air that slips through is thick with August—wet, heavy, uninterested in moving anything. The curtains don't lift. The walls don't breathe. The quiet presses in like a pressure chamber.

She's just returned from what counted as dinner.

Her parents didn't press. They never do. Not when she'd stood in the genkan days ago and said, like a forecast, "We broke up." Not when she pushed rice around her bowl tonight and called it eating. Her mother asked, gently, if she wanted more. Mio said no. Her father didn't say anything at all. Then the room went back to the air conditioner's hum, chopsticks on ceramic, and the audible swallow of words that stayed unsaid.

Afterward, she rinsed her dishes and excused herself. "Tired," she told them, though fatigue wasn't the axis. Not physically, at least.

Earlier: her phone, still full of gentle insistence.

Ritsu 🥁

Ritsu: We're meeting tomorrow, wanna come? No pressure, but it'll be fun (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ:･ﾟ✧

Yui 🎸

Yui: Mio-chan, let's go get cake tomorrow! We can get strawberry cake too if you want!! (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ

Mugi 🎹

Mugi: Thinking of getting tea tomorrow with everyone. Would love to see you there, but no worries if not. Take care, Mio-chan (｡♥‿♥｡)

Azusa 🎸

Azusa: Mio-senpai, if you're free, we could meet tomorrow? No rush, just thought I'd ask (・ω・)ノ

She told them she had to help her parents. Busy, sorry. Not a lie, exactly—just easier than saying, I don't want to be perceived.

Only Ritsu knows. Even she has stayed quiet since that first check-in. Mio is grateful for the waiting. Silence as a form of care.

She exhales and shifts on the futon. The clock on her desk blinks 8:42 p.m.

Her phone buzzes against the blanket. She doesn't look. She has been waiting for some rope thrown from outside herself, and when it arrives, her body refuses to reach.

Naya

Naya: hey Mio

Naya: wanna call? :)

The breath she's been hoarding leaves in a small not-sound. A redistribution of air. She rolls onto her side, fingers hesitating over the keyboard.

(No, thank you.)

That would be polite. Manageable. A closed circuit, a clean refusal.

Instead, her thumbs type:

Naya

Naya: hey Mio

Naya: wanna call? :)

Mio: Ok.

And then it's real.

The phone vibrates. Incoming Call.

Her throat tightens on instinct.  A quiet, unnoticed muscle contraction. She swallows it down and answers.

"Hey, Mio." Naya's voice fills the empty space immediately, smooth and warm, like the strumming of a familiar bassline. Soft distortion.

Mio inhales, but her own voice doesn't come right away. She hasn't spoken properly in days. When she tries, her voice comes out hoarse from disuse. "Hi."

"Shit, did I wake you up?"

Mio shakes her head, then remembers to speak and clears her throat. "No."

A beat. A small background life: fabric shifting, the soft chhk of a cap twisting open. "You sound like you just crawled out of a cave."

Mio exhales a breath that almost laughs. She rubs her knuckles against her forehead. "Yeah."

Naya hums—thinking, not prying. Then:

"I miss our game."

Mio's breath stutters.

(Don't react.)

It's nothing. Just Naya being Naya, naming what is. It shouldn't catch under Mio's sternum like a shard, but it does.

"You do?"

"Mhm. It's not the same listening to Liz's recs."

"What, is she bad at it?"

"She has horrible taste."

"No, she doesn't."

"Ok, no, but she's been making me listen to BUCK-TICK for the past week and—"

Mio frowns. "Wait. That's good taste."

"I know." A dramatic groan. "I hate how much I like them. It's sick. They have so many albums. And they're all different. And the vocalist is stupidly good."

Mio's fingers tighten on the phone. Something warm—not happiness, but adjacent—pushes at the edges of her chest.

I should be telling her about Hakone.

Instead:

"So what's your favorite so far?"

Naya makes a tch sound. "Liz started me with Kurutta Taiyou. And I thought, 'ok, cool, kinda gothic, kinda weird, whatever.' Then she threw me into Memento Mori and Aku no Hana and I was like, excuse me? Who let them do this? And—Mio, Juusankai wa Gekkou? Muma -the nightmare is one of the best songs ever made. And their last album? RAZZLE DAZZLE? PIXY is so beautiful? And Yogetu Yogetsunoutage—Mio, are they even legal? I swear, all bangers."

Mio smiles. A minor, involuntary curve of the lips, like a muscle remembering its function.

She missed Naya's music rambling more than she would ever admit.

More than she should, actually.

"Oh, and there's this song in Tenshi no Revolver. Zekkai." Another groan. "Liz said I'd like it because it 'sounds Spanish.' Like, excuse me? Just because something has a vaguely flamenco-ish guitar, I have to love it? Stereotyping at its finest."

Mio hums. "But you do like it, don't you?"

A dramatic pause. Then, begrudgingly:

"... That's not the point."

Mio chuckles.

"I like others more," Naya insists, suddenly defensive. "Like Snow White. Or Beast."

"Sure."

"I do!"

"Sure," Mio repeats. "Let's pretend that flamenco instinct doesn't come out when you hear a Spanish guitar or castanets."

Silence tick-ticks across the line. Then, an operatic gasp.

"Akiyama Mio. Did you just racial-profile me through music?"

"You're the one who said you liked Zekkai because it sounded Spanish."

"I didn't! You did!"

"And you didn't deny it."

"Irrelevant. This is a hate crime."

Mio rolls onto her stomach, cheek denting the pillow, laughter pressing up despite itself. "Sue me."

Another exaggerated exhale—Naya's favorite punctuation. "I should've seen it coming. I got my revenge though. I played Liz Alaska y Dinarama and now she won't shut up about it. I think she's going through a full-blown Spanish pop crisis."

"A-ra-su-ka?"

"Alaska. The one I told you about, remember? Looks like a vampire, sings like she hexed you?"

"I recall something more like you throwing links at me and saying, 'Educate yourself.'"

"Semantics."

"So, you're telling me Liz is into Spanish synthpop now?"

"Into it? Mio, she—she's obsessed. She tried to sing along to Cómo pudiste hacerme esto a mí and it made me rethink the entire concept of spoken language."

The laugh that comes out of Mio is small but whole, the kind that briefly lifts the chest from the mattress. It startles her with its completeness.

Naya pounces, pleased. "Ah, see? There she is."

(Careful.)

The word flicks across Mio's mind like a hand on a hot pan. She knots her fingers in the blanket, grounds herself in the fabric's give. "Did you eat yet?"

"Too early, as always. I swear, this country has the dumbest meal schedules. Lunch at noon? Dinner at six? Unhinged."

"That's normal. You are the one who eats at impossible hours."

"How am I the weird one for wanting lunch at two?"

"That's practically dinner."

"Your entire civilization is wrong."

Mio bites her lip. The ease of it—the shared key they keep without trying—slides into place. It shouldn't. Not when her insides still feel cauterized. And yet.

Naya sighs. "Actually, I've barely eaten today."

Mio frowns. "Why?"

"Eh. Dorm's empty, so more stares in the cafeteria when I go there with Liz. I miss being invisible. I mean, the flashy, flame-haired J-rock frontwoman and the budget Antonio Banderas over here? Totally inconspicuous."

Mio answers with a soft sound that isn't quite a laugh, acknowledgment tucked inside it.

"Not to mention," Naya continues, voice shifting, "now that there are fewer people, some girls actually come up to us in the cafeteria just to talk to Liz."

"Liz is popular."

"Yeah. And then there's me. The weird foreigner. Apparently now that I hang out with you and the girls, people have been leaving me alone. I miss being left alone."

Something tilts in Mio. Recognition finding purchase. She noticed. Naya noticed how things changed when they started spending time together. Not just the band's orbit, but the shelter of it.

Mio doesn't know what to do with that.

Naya keeps talking, casual. "And there's this girl—I don't even know what club she's in, some sports thing—who keeps saying weird shit to me. Like, she said I look like a 'pretty boy.'"

Mio's brow furrows. "What?"

"Yeah. Like. She said I have feminine features but dress like a guy, so I'm a soft boy. I don't even know what that means."

Mio exhales through her nose, heat under the sound. "Did she mean it as an insult?"

"I don't think so?" A pause. "I think she's... flirting? Or no? I don't know. But it's weird."

A beat stretches.

"I don't know why I'm telling you this."

Mio swallows. I do, she thinks, and chooses the gentler truth. "You needed to tell someone."

Naya is quiet for a second. Then she says, softer, more careful, "Yeah."

It lands like a small weight in Mio's ribs. Comforting, not crushing. An invisible gravity.

Another quiet. Then Naya, lighter: "So... how was the trip? I did some research on Hakone. Seems cool. Did you do all the touristy stuff? Ride the pirate ship, see the shrine, eat the eggs that make you immortal?"

It's such a Naya question—half-serious, half-poking fun at the absurdity of it. The joke hovers just above Mio's reach.

She doesn't want to talk about it.

But she also does.

Or maybe she just wants the words out of her body, like exhaling smoke from a room that's been burning in silence.

"Kenji and I broke up."

The words leave her without ceremony, quieter than their size.

Naya doesn't react right away. No sharp inhale. No immediate condolence. Just a pause, soft and considering, like she's turning the words over in her hands. Like she's letting Mio's voice settle before touching it.

Then:

"Oh, fuck."

It's so blunt that a snort escapes Mio before she can brace. She startles at her own body for choosing humor.

Naya latches onto it immediately. "Wait, you laughed? Damn. And here I was about to pull out my 'Tragic Romance' voice." Her tone shifts dramatically, exaggerating a gasp. "Noooo, Miooo, my dear, I can't believe it—your love! Your tragic love, torn apart by the cruel, unforgiving hands of fate—"

Mio groans into her pillow. "Shut up."

"What, did he do a full-on 'It's not you, it's me' speech?"

Mio sighs. "It was more like... 'It is you, actually.'"

Silence. Then a low Spanish oath. "Joder. Sorry, Mio. That's just—Jesus."

"Not in those words, obviously."

"No, no, that's—" A throat-clear, an attempt at gentleness without dressing it up. "Damn, Mio. You got a personalized breakup critique. That's a hell of a way to go."

Somewhere under the ache, a small muscle unclenches. The room loosens by a millimeter.

"Are you okay?" Naya asks, softer this time.

Mio stares at shadow and streetlight stitched across her ceiling. The honest answer is a fog. The dishonest one is a reflex. She could lie. She's been doing it all week. It would be easy to say yes, easy to say she's fine, easy to let the words slot into place like a placeholder in a script she doesn't believe in anymore.

She opts for the only shape that fits. "I don't know."

"Yeah," Naya says simply. "That makes sense."

And that's it. No rescue. No silver paint. The kindness of not fixing.

"I think something's broken in me," Mio mumbles. "That there's something wrong with me."

Naya doesn't hesitate. "No, there's not." Her voice is immediate, firm, but not forceful.

Mio presses a hand over her eyes. "You don't know the full story."

"I don't need the full story. I just know you."

The sentence lands and stays. Mio presses her forearm over her eyes, as if she can keep the heat in place by making darkness.

Naya doesn't push. She lets the quiet breathe around them until it can bear weight. Lets the words exist without needing to be fixed.

"I keep thinking I should feel worse," Mio adds.

"Why?"

The question hangs, unthreatening, and Mio feels its edges with care. Because relief has been skulking around the wreckage, she thinks. Because the hush after performance sounds like oxygen. Because the grief isn't for Kenji but for the version of herself who thought passing would become belonging. Because she expected catastrophe and found vacancy. Because the emptiness is honest, and honesty is terrifying.

She tries to translate the ache into something with edges. Not sad about him, she thinks, sad about the script I thought would turn me into someone true. The choreography had seemed foolproof—kiss, date, touch, sex—an escalator with a glowing arrow that said UP. Practice the scales until the fingers remember and feeling will arrive on schedule. If you're diligent enough, desire will learn its lines.

It didn't.

"It just didn't work," she says finally.

Naya doesn't rush to tuck the sentence in. She lets it lie between them, breathing on its own. Then, dry as paper: "Well. Since you're newly single, I regret to inform you that the dating scene in your country is brutal. You could go for a guy with a briefcase and a slicked-back salaryman haircut, but I feel like you deserve better."

Mio snorts. "You're an idiot."

"But I made you laugh."

Mio doesn't deny it.

"You know," Naya muses, "if I'd known, I would've sent you a whole breakup survival kit. Chocolate, sad playlist, a tiny cactus—"

"A cactus?"

"You're sad, but you're also spiky. And you're probably not hydrating properly. Seems fitting."

"Incredible," Mio breathes, the word shaped like a smile she doesn't have to show.

They let quiet stretch again. No pressure to fill it; no obligation to explain any further than she already has. The relief of not being asked to make a theory out of pain.

Then, with the weightlessness of someone who knows exactly when to change the subject: "Alright, so, I was debating whether to tell you this because I think I might actually have to transfer dorms out of shame, but, uh." A beat. "I did something stupid."

Mio blinks, still lying on her side, the phone pressed against her cheek. "... Okay?"

"You know how barely anyone's left in the dorms?"

"Mm."

"Yeah, so, uh—sometimes I forget that I'm not literally alone. And sometimes..." Another pause, like she's bracing herself. "Sometimes I do things that should only be done alone."

Mio squints at the wall. "... What did you do?"

A beat. Then, Naya sighs like she's confessing a crime.

"I, uh. I had a full-blown one-woman concert in the dorm showers."

Mio frowns, confused. "Okay? That's not that bad. People sing in the shower."

Naya groans. "No, Mio, listen. Listen. It wasn't just any concert. I started humming." A beat. "And somehow, some terrible part of my brain decided to escalate."

Mio shifts. "Escalate to what?"

Mumbled contrition.

"What?"

A tiny, doomed voice: "Fuwa Fuwa Time."

Silence.

"You didn't."

"I did."

"In the public showers?"

"SÍ."

Mio slaps a hand over her mouth; laughter detonates anyway, bright and breathless.

"And not just humming, Mio. I committed. I did the whole thing. Every part. I switched between your lines and Yui's like some kind of unhinged duet, probably traumatized the acoustics—"

The laugh breaks into a wheeze.

"—and then, like, mid-performance, I stepped out of the shower, butt-ass naked, only to find two girls just standing there."

Now it's helpless. Mio folds around it, face in the pillow.

"Like—Mio, they were just staring. Like I was a cryptid. One of them actually jumped."

Mio can't breathe. Tears find a use that isn't sorrow.

"And the worst part," Naya groans, "is that one of them knew the song."

Mio gasps. "No."

"Yes. She was humming it when I left." Naya sighs. "This is it. This is my villain origin story," she laments. "I can never go back. I have to move. Go back to Salamanca and open a churros stand."

Mio shakes her head, still giggling uncontrollably. She hasn't laughed this hard in—

Oh.

Her breath slows.

She stares at the ceiling again, the laughter still warm in her chest, but now it's something else. Something quiet.

Mio wipes her eyes, still giggling. "You're such an idiot," she murmurs.

Naya huffs. "Certified."

"Wait." Air catches as realization does. "Wait. Do you even—do you actually know all the lyrics?"

"Excuse me?" Naya sounds personally affronted. "Of course I do."

"You do?"

"Mio. First of all, you and your band play it all the time at the club. Second, Yui sings it every now and then. And third, it's a banger. It's iconic."

Mio smiles. "You know, it was the first song we ever wrote properly as Ho-Kago Tea Time."

A soft, impressed sound. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Back in high school. We wrote it when we were fifteen, for the school festival. It was our first time playing onstage."

There's a pause, as if Naya were locating the anecdote in her head. "Wait, the school festival you told me about in the cat café? The one where you fell and showed—"

"That one," Mio cuts in, flat.

"Damn. A historic performance in every way."

Mio sighs. "Yui loved the lyrics, but Ritsu and our advisor, Sawako-sensei, practically broke out in hives from how cheesy they were."

"They have no taste," Naya decrees. "Those lyrics are adorable."

"I was fifteen. And they're very fluffy."

"And? Listen, if anyone—anyone—messes with Fuwa Fuwa Time, I'll throw hands."

Mio snorts. "Throw hands?"

"This is serious," Naya says solemnly. "Some songs deserve protection."

Mio chuckles, head shaking against the pillow. The laugh loosens something, then leaves air behind.

"... I actually wasn't supposed to sing it that day."

"Eh?"

"When we first wrote it, Ritsu told me to do vocals since I wrote the lyrics, but I really didn't want to sing something that embarrassing in front of the entire school. So Yui said she'd do it. Ritsu tried asking Mugi, but she refused. So we went with Yui—except she couldn't sing and play guitar at the same time yet."

Naya hums, hooked. "And then?"

"Sawako-sensei got involved." Mio can still feel that week like a bruise that never decided to turn yellow. "She trained Yui so hard to get her to sing and play at the same time that Yui lost her voice right before the festival."

Naya cackles. "No way."

"So, in the end, I had to sing it. And I was terrified." She can hear the auditorium's stale echo, feel the damp of her palms on maple. "I'd never performed in front of people before. I thought I was going to mess up the lyrics. I thought my hands would shake too much to play. But I really, really rehearsed to get it right. And... the girls were there with me on stage. And somehow, I got through it."

Naya laughs softly. Mio's mind drifts a little. The old fear had borders: a stage, a time slot, a setlist. But still manageable somehow. You could rehearse at it until the panic took a number. Back then, everything felt smaller: her world was school and practice and friendship, and even her worst fears had borders. There was a comfort to it. A clarity.

This new fear doesn't queue; it leaks. No room, no curtain, just the vague and constant sense that something's off and won't name itself.

She used to believe in things more easily. She used to write songs without needing a reason, without doubting every note. She used to know what she wanted, or at least know how to pretend she did.

She misses that.

She misses that version of herself. The one who could write about love without really understanding it. Just make stuff up and believe it anyway.

Back then, it all felt so easy. Like it didn't matter if it made sense. It just felt good.

There's a pause.

Then, Naya says, quieter, "And now? Still nervous when you have to sing?"

Mio tilts her head against the pillow. "A little. But if I have my bass, it's fine. If I have my friends, it's fun."

"Yeah, I can tell."

"Tell what?"

"Even when you're nervous, even when you overthink, the moment you're up there on stage—it's like you're meant to be there," Naya says, voice casual. "Like the stage is just another extension of you and your bass." She chuckles on the line. "You were born to give music, Mio."

Something catches and stays. Mio says nothing; she only presses the phone closer, like that will somehow close the distance between them.

"So, how'd I do?"

Mio blinks. "What?"

"On a scale from one to ten," Naya says. "With my odyssey in a public shower. How much did I improve your mood?"

Mio stares at the ceiling, heartbeat still uneven. She pretends to consider. "Negative two."

"Qué—negative two?" Naya says, mock-wounded. "So. So. I pour my heart out, humiliate myself for the sake of your entertainment, and this is how you repay me?"

"You humiliated yourself before I even knew about it."

"Details," Naya huffs. "The point is, I gave you comedy gold. Top-tier material. I deserve at least a three."

Mio rolls onto her side, covering her mouth to stifle another laugh. "Fine. Zero."

"Zero?!"

"Generosity has limits."

Naya makes an exaggerated noise of betrayal. "I thought we had something special, Akiyama. But no. Turns out I'm just another clown to you."

"You're the one who put on a full musical in a public bath."

"Unbelievable," Naya mutters. "I'm gonna remember this. Etched into my soul. I'm revoking my friendship privileges."

Mio exhales through her nose. She almost tells Naya she's an idiot again, but the words get caught in her throat.

Instead, she murmurs, "Thanks."

"For what?"

Mio hesitates, then just says, "For the cactus."

Naya lets out a small, breathy laugh. "Anytime." Then, she sighs. "Anyway, I should let you get some sleep."

Mio hums something half-coherent.

"Yeah, you should sleep," Naya goes on, sliding back into laziness. "You guys go to bed at, like, geriatric hours. I swear, if I hang up now, you're probably seconds away from faceplanting."

"You're still mad about the lunch thing?"

"Justice never sleeps," Naya says solemnly. "Unlike you. At 10:00 p.m. Like a Victorian child with consumption."

"It's not that early."

"It is, but it's also practically the middle of the night for you. I bet your ancestors are shaking their heads at how rebellious you're being right now."

Mio huffs. "Shut up."

"And, hey, I know you have your friends, but... if you need anything, you can talk with me, too. Or not talk. If you want."

Mio blinks again. Her lips draw a traitorous smile.

"I know."

"Not that you're gonna die or anything," Naya adds, lazy again. "But, y'know. If you did, I'd totally play something wildly inappropriate at your funeral."

"Like what?"

"Hm... You ever heard of Was ist dein Lieblingsfach??"

"... Did you just have a stroke?"

"God. Hold on. You're gonna regret asking." There's a rustle. Fabric, maybe. A faint grunt. "Ugh—hang on, I have to get up for this. Look what you make me do."

Mio hears the clatter of movement, the sound of a laptop lid creaking open.

"You're sending me a YouTube link, aren't you."

"Yes. And if you don't open it, I'll assume you're a coward who hates pan-European art."

Mio sighs, dragging herself toward her laptop like she's being asked to walk to her own execution. "If this is a jumpscare—"

"Mio, I would never do that to you," Naya promises. "It's an early '90s educational music video from a language show. It's about favorite school subjects. But with Eurodance."

Mio clicks the link.

Two seconds in: horrifying fonts, mismatched outfits, epileptic backgrounds, dead-eyed choreography.

Four seconds in: the line Was ist dein Lieblingsfach? delivered with unblinking intensity.

"What am I watching."

"The death of art," Naya replies solemnly. "But like, in a catchy way."

"Is this a German children's music video?"

"Yes. Created to teach German to unsuspecting British youth. And now, to haunt your funeral."

Mio, in complete sincerity: "... What is this continent."

"It's all just confusing synths, mildly threatening children, and educational programming that haunts your dreams. Welcome."

"Do all Europeans grow up watching things like this?"

"Yeah, it's part of our citizenship exam. We recite the lyrics in harmony with our hands on our hearts and looking at the EU flag." A pause. "Anyway, I'd sing this over your grave. With full choreography."

Mio is too stunned to respond. She's watching pixelated teens eurodancing about math in German.

"Rolli und Rita walked so Kraftwerk could run." Naya's voice floats in again, smug: "Consider it my final love letter."

Mio presses a hand to her face. Despite everything, despite herself, she's smiling.

"You're insane."

"You're lucky to have me."

She is.

She really, really is.

"You're actually an idiot."

"Eh, you'd miss me if I weren't."

Mio doesn't answer that. Because she would.

"Night, Mio. Thanks for picking up. Now take some rest. And drink some water."

"Night, Naya. Thanks for reaching out."

Mio can hear the smile, summer-warm, through a cheap speaker. "Of course." A pause. Softer: "See you in a couple of days, yeah?"

It's a simple fact, but something flutters under her ribs anyway; the feeling has its own small gravity. She nods, pointless and true. "Yeah. See you."

It shouldn't feel like a promise. But it does.

Neither of them hangs up right away. For a breath, the silence between them is the most solid thing in the world.

Then, finally, the call ends.

Mio watches the phone's screen go black, then stares at it for a long time. The warmth of the phone lingers against her palm. She presses it against her chest. And there, she feels something different now—like the weight in her chest has been slightly, slightly redistributed. Not gone, but shifted. Edged a little away from center, making space for breath.

The room is still the room. Still unchanged. Still quiet.

But it doesn't feel quite as hollow anymore.

---

August 5, 2011

The envelope arrives in the early afternoon.

Plain, thin, off-white. Her name sits on it in tidy black ink, written by someone at the Fujifilm counter on the shopping street. Her mother handed it to her earlier—no comment, just a passing gesture in the kitchen, like it was a bill or a catalog or something similarly impersonal.

Mio doesn't open it. She sets it beside the sweating tea bottle and goes back to watching dust collect in the window track like silt in a dry riverbed. The sky is cloudless, violence-blue again, like yesterday forgot to stop.

On the wall, August is still neat in navy serif. Little blue dots where she'd penciled futures—museum day, fireworks, the movie Kenji wanted to watch because "everyone's talking about it." She takes the pen and draws a single line through each square. No longer scheduled. The ink dries fast. The boxes look cleaner and, somehow, louder.

Do I miss him? Or do I miss the sheet music? The comfort of knowing which page came next?

She flips the phone open. The hinge clicks like a habit. Schedule → This Month. The screen is a tiny city of squares. She scrolls. Fireworks (K). Lunch (K). Photography Exhibit (K). Meet Taro & Ritsu? (Maybe). Delete. Delete. Delete. The phone chirps after each deletion, inappropriately cheerful, like applause in the wrong scene.

Her thumb hovers over Ueno Zoo (K). For a second she almost saves it—not the plan, just the way Kenji'd said "penguins" like a big kid.

Delete.

Contacts. Kenji. She removes the tiny heart she added in spring and nothing else. The phone asks if she wants to assign a ringtone. She assigns Silent.

Messages. The thread opens on a hundred small kindnesses and three dumb stickers. The cursor lands on Delete All? and blinks, patient. She watches its steady pulse like it's breathing.

(Erase the future. Box the past.)

She turns off the phone instead.

On her laptop, a playlist named summer later sits in lowercase, stubborn. She renames it to a single dash and leaves the songs where they are. Music can exist without belonging to anyone.

When she looks back at the wall calendar, the blank white squares read like teeth. She presses her thumb to one; nothing changes. Not grief, not relief. Just precision. The part of her that loves clean frets and new strings nods once. Future cleared. Past filed. Proceed.

Half an hour later she's on the floor without remembering how she got there—knees folded, ankles crooked, body parked at the wrong angle like she forgot how to sit comfortably. The futon is still a mild landslide of linen and cotton.

The envelope is open now. Thirty-six slices of suspended time inside. Borderless 4×6s. Glossy—the kind of gloss that throws light even in shade, as if memory intends to blind. Developed, chronologized, incontestable.

She doesn't fan them, doesn't shuffle. She moves through them like an archivist, one by one, silence running backward. Chronologically, like a documentary spooling back in silent reverse.

Hakone.

Sculptures first. The Open-Air Museum. Henry Moore. The Reclining Figure looks balanced on absence. Negative space pretending to be structure. It had made her feel seen in a way she didn't want to articulate. In the print, it's slightly underexposed; she tilted the Lomo to catch the rolling cloud back, and violet lens flare bled in at the corner. She likes it better that way.

Then the Weeping Woman—ivy hair, vine lashes, a face in deliberate suspension. She remembers how long she lingered there; remembers Kenji just out of frame, the tension between them already fraying like a crack that only reveals itself when the light hits it just so.

Mount Fuji next, far and pale and impossibly symmetrical, like a memory you're not sure you lived. Lake Ashi, white wake curling behind the ferry. The torii gate, its reflection trembling in the water like it's unsure it belongs there.

And then, a photo she didn't take. One Kenji snapped in the gondola.

Her own face looks different in it. Pale, measured. A smile assembled rather than arrived at. Skin fitted to body with care and intention. Hers. Posed, not poised. A human-shaped girl performing a self she hasn't yet decided to inhabit.

Before the not-sex. Before the silence. Before belief's internal organ folded in on itself.

Something stutters in her chest. She keeps paging through, detached and gentle. Curating the failure.

Then, footsteps.

She knows by cadence alone, coded into her nervous system. Those uneven steps. That particular stomp-then-pause.

The door opens without ceremony. Mio doesn't flinch. She doesn't even have to look up.

"Hey," she says.

"Yo."

Ritsu drops to the floor beside her the way she always has: like gravity has claimed her more aggressively than it claims most people. The room makes space around her arrival. Legs folded, arms draped casually over her knees like she's settling into a long movie or a lazy afternoon nap. No announcement, no interrogation, no forced affection.

Just there.

Ritsu peers at the photographs without asking. "Man, you guys really committed to the couples vacation aesthetic, huh?"

Mio hums, noncommittal.

"Damn," Ritsu mutters, plucking a photo off the top of the stack. "This looks like it came from a brochure."

Mio glances sideways. It's the lake shot, wake split into clean arcs, the kind of geometry that pretends water has rules. She doesn't answer. Her fingers keep sorting, archivist-steady.

"God, I should've made you take my vacation pics. Taro and I went to Enoshima last week, and every shot looks like it was taken by a drunken toddler." Ritsu stretches. "He kept taking pictures of his food. Like, I get it. Fried squid. Revolutionary. But dude. Eat it."

A sound slips out of Mio—half-exhale, half-laugh. It startles her ribs; they remember how to move around it.

Ritsu grins like she just hit the downbeat. She flops onto her back, hands behind her head, gaze on the ceiling. "Taro wants to do one more of those," she says. "You know, those dumb couple things. Matching yukatas, romantic-tier photos. He's been watching these vlogs with 'cute date ideas' and it's making me want to dissolve my corporeal form."

Another thin breath from Mio. Not quite laughter. A slippage of sound.

"You should see his face when he says 'hot springs date,' like he invented the concept. And his feet are disgusting. Like, offensive. A crime against toes."

Mio slides one photo back into the pile, too careful, as if memory is glass that knows when it's mishandled.

"You know what he said the other day?" Ritsu continues, adjusting her hairband with one finger. "He said, 'Ricchan, I think we have good communication.' And I was like, 'Dude, we just had a ten-minute argument about which brand of rice is superior.'"

Mio's own face looks up from a different print—soft focus, merciful blur. She prefers herself this way: edges suggested, not enforced.

"I mean, he's not bad," Ritsu adds. "But sometimes I think he's, like... reheated tofu. Like, he's trying really hard to be a boyfriend. You know?"

Mio nods. She doesn't speak.

A beat.

Then:

"Do you know how... Kenji's doing?"

Ritsu doesn't fill the beat with noise. She shifts her weight, breathes out. "I think Taro said he's been quiet. Not moping, just... weird. Bummed. Mostly confused."

Mio nods.

"I didn't tell him anything," Ritsu adds. "Just that it didn't work out. You want me to punch Kenji?"

"No," Mio says, voice low, even. "He didn't do anything wrong."

"Still. Could be cathartic."

Mio doesn't pick that door. She lifts the lake again: no people, just water and sky and trees like inkblots bleeding into the frame. Emptiness, composed.

Ritsu leans back on her hands, palms squeaking on the floor. "The girls miss you," she says. "Mugi's been trying to bait you with sweets. Yui's threatening to drag you out by force." A small pause; the volume drops a notch. "I didn't tell them anything. Just said you've been tired. Helping your parents and stuff. You know. I figured... if you wanted them to know, you'd say it."

Relief and guilt arrive in the same breath, cancel each other imperfectly. Mio doesn't say thank you, but Ritsu hears it anyway.

"I can hold them off a bit longer," Ritsu jokes. "But Yui's already plotting a kidnapping, so... limited time offer."

"I'll see everyone at camp," Mio murmurs.

"Yeah, but missing isn't about logistics."

Something thick rises—unspecified, heavy. Mio swallows it like a bad pill. "Well, they'll get a full week of me," she says, forcing the sentence into existence. "Camp starts Sunday."

"You're still coming, then?"

Mio nods.

Ritsu nods back. She doesn't press. She never does. She knows where the wall is. She props herself on an elbow and studies the stack. Lifts the torii. "Man. You really love liminal shit, huh?"

Mio lets her eyes drift: Fuji framed between pine, the sky thinned to gauze. Holy, almost, except holiness doesn't usually make you feel like you're borrowing your own skin. Kenji's shoulder warm against hers that day, his voice soft.

"It's nice, right?"

And her answer.

"It is."

How easily the lie fit in her mouth.

Ritsu sets the print down. "You look really pretty in this one," she says, holding up another photo with Mio in it.

Mio looks away. Pretty feels like a costume note from a play she didn't audition for.

Silence folds back in. A thicker kind. A waiting kind.

Then, quietly:

"How are you really doing?"

There it is. The line she can't rehearse.

Mio closes her eyes.

The answer is: I don't know.
The answer is: I'm coming apart at sizes too small to see.
The answer is: I thought love was a key; it turned out to be a riddle that ate itself.

Her mouth opens; nothing arrives. She tries again.

"I'm..."

Her throat locks; breath stumbles.

Ritsu doesn't move.

Carefully, like peeling gauze from skin, Mio says, "I feel... like something ended. But I don't know what."

Ritsu watches her.

Mio presses her thumb into the glossy edge of a print until the ridge bites into the pad of her skin. "I tried," she says. "I did everything right. I followed all the steps. I said the right words. I let him kiss me. I smiled. I tried to want him." Her voice drops to a smaller room. "I wanted to want him. And I thought..." She measures the next clause like it could bruise. "I thought if I followed all the steps... it would make me real."

Ritsu's brow furrows. "What steps?"

"You know. The script. Kiss. Date. Touch... Sex." She flinches. "Like a ritual. If you just do it right, it transforms you. If you perform it perfectly, you'll become someone worth loving. Someone functional."

"Mio—"

"I tried. I really tried to want him."

Ritsu doesn't interrupt.

"But I didn't. Not enough. Not the right way." Mio's voice wavers. "And I kept thinking—if I just kept going, if I practiced, if I waited—it would change. That I would... arrive somewhere. Some place where love made sense. Where I felt like I belonged inside it." She looks down. "But it didn't happen. I just felt... empty. And guilty. Like I was stealing something I couldn't return."

She looks at her hands. They look like props—competent at playing, useless at wanting. Belonging to an actress who never got paid.

"Kenji was patient. He was kind. He never pressured me. And I still couldn't... I still couldn't give him what he deserved. What he wanted."

"Do you know what he wanted?"

"I think he wanted me to want him." Her voice cracks, a hairline fracture. "And I should have, right? I should have wanted that. I should have been able to—" She bites the sentence off, jaw setting. "I wanted to want him. I really did. And I thought if I just waited long enough, if I just practiced, eventually it would feel right."

"Mio," Ritsu says, gentle now.

But the words have found a channel and keep moving, slow and viscous, like sap. "There was a moment," Mio says. "In the room. At the ryokan. We were kissing. It was... supposed to go further. And I thought, 'okay, this is what people do, this is how you prove it, that you love someone.'" Her throat tightens. "But when he touched me, my body just—shut down. Like a circuit breaker."

Ritsu's gaze doesn't flinch. Doesn't change.

Mio goes on, haltingly, "I didn't even panic. I just... went cold. Like I wasn't in my skin anymore. I kept thinking, 'I should be feeling something. I should want this. He's patient. He's gentle. He's kind. I should want this.'" She closes her eyes. "But I didn't. I didn't want it. I didn't want him. I didn't want the story I was inside."

(But you should have, shouldn't you? And if you can't want a boy like him, what does that make you?)

"I didn't feel safe," she whispers. "Not in a danger way. In a wrongness way. I couldn't—my body didn't—he tried to kiss me, to touch me, and I just—" She shakes her head. "I thought it was a phase. Or fear. Or performance anxiety. But it wasn't. It was my body saying no. And I didn't listen. I tried to overwrite it." A hard breath. "And I almost let him—"

Ritsu sits up.

Mio's lip trembles. "I didn't want to hurt him."

"You didn't."

"I did."

 "You didn't lead him on, Mio. You were just trying to figure it out."

"But I did it wrong. All of it. And now I don't know what love is anymore."

Ritsu is beside her now.

"I thought it would make me real," Mio says again, and this time the tremor in her chest rises—sharp, sudden, a tectonic shudder. "But I did everything right and I still feel like—like a malfunction. Like I was built wrong. Like there's something inside me that just doesn't activate. And I think..." she finishes, soft and wrecked, "I think I'm broken."

Ritsu exhales sharply through her nose.

Mio stares down at her hands. "I just thought it would save me," she says. "Being loved. Being... normal. If I followed the script, maybe I'd learn how to be inside it. Maybe it would make me feel real."

Ritsu turns her palm up between them, open and visible and still, giving Mio time to look at it. Mio nods once and leans in on her own vector.

She folds against Ritsu's shoulder, fingers clutching cotton like a child trying to hold still through an earthquake. At first there's no sob. Just breath, uneven and ripped.

And then—

Mio cries.

Not for Kenji so much as for the myth: the tidy inevitability that promised transformation if you traced its steps with enough devotion. The sound that leaves her is demolition and relief, plates shifting until they find new purchase. Ritsu hooks her chin over Mio's shoulder and pulls her close. A proper, Ritsu-brand grapple.

"You've always been real, dumbass."

Mio exhales into the fabric. Her hands rise, hesitate, then find the back of Ritsu's shirt and hold on. There are no remedies offered, no bright slogans. Just breathing in time, drums and bass steady beneath the melody. Even when the melody wavers.

Eventually—after minutes or hours or some quantum distortion of time—Mio's breath evens. Her grip loosens. She pulls back, face flushed, eyes tenderized.

She reaches for the photograph of the lake again. Her hands are steadier now; the water doesn't look so accusatory.

"I'm proud of you," Ritsu says.

Mio snorts, thin. "For what? Getting dumped?"

Ritsu shakes her head. "For coming to the camp anyway. In this state."

Mio looks down; the fingers of her right hand are still caught in the knit of Ritsu's shirt like she forgot to let go. "It's music. It's you guys. Where else would I go?"

Ritsu only nods, like she knew all along.

Mio swallows; her throat aches. Without looking up, she reaches beside her and pulls a small object from an envelope.

An omamori. Yellow. For energy.

She presses it into Ritsu's palm.

Ritsu blinks.

"I got it for you," Mio murmurs. "In Hakone. Before... everything."

Ritsu turns it over, a grin breaking. "Energy, huh?"

"I figured you'd need it. For surviving your exams for another semester."

Ritsu barks a laugh, then drags her into another hug, tighter, like a count-off that won't let you miss the entrance.

Mio closes her eyes.

The photos lie scattered on the floor now, face up. Gates. Mountains. Reflections. Absences.

Proof.

But not truth.

The truest thing in the room is the weight of an arm around her and the new lightness under her ribs.

On stage, her body behaves—an instrument that knows the setlist. Offstage, it's a costume she keeps forgetting how to fasten. Watching Ritsu find her rhythm with Taro stings and warms at once.

I'm happy for her.

And the pinch that comes with it is just love wearing tight shoes.

---

August 6, 2011

There's nothing poetic about the light today. It doesn't paint or bless; it barges in. A blunt, white pressure through thin curtains, the kind of glare that erases edges instead of drawing them. Mio stares up anyway, as if the ceiling might return a shape she can copy. Guidance, or maybe a solution. It offers nothing. Blank meeting blank.

The ceiling, like her, is withholding.

She rolls her head; something in her neck ticks. Limbs wake like machinery that's been left idling, overused by stillness. Her fingers twitch where they rest against her chest, unmoored from utility. Her pulse is steady but uncommitted, a metronome someone forgot to wind.

Tomorrow is camp.

She stands because standing is a verb with clear steps.

Packing, too.

The quiet choreography of functionality.

Clothes first: T-shirts folded in thirds; shorts and denim pressed into clean rectangles; socks paired and nested, small animals agreeing to hibernate. The striped pajama set her mother gave her last year goes low in the stack; a second set follows because failure of foresight is a kind of sin in August. Neutral underthings. Nothing to explain.

Her hand hesitates over the bikini. Black, knot at the chest, modest on purpose. She bought it for her first training camp, but it still fits. It has followed her through summers that used to feel weightless, clinging to a version of herself she's not sure she believes in anymore. The thought of sun on her sternum pricks. She lifts the top between two fingers, as if temperature can travel by fabric.

I have nothing to be ashamed of. It's fine. I'm fine.

(Then why does warmth feel like exposure?)

She slides the bikini in anyway and lays a towel over it like a quiet treaty. A high-neck tee goes in as insurance. Let the sun negotiate with cotton, not skin.

At the desk's edge: the bass case, zipper parted enough to peek. Elizabass sleeps in its foam cradle like a relic that's kept its miracle. Three-tone sunburst, tortoiseshell guard, rosewood steady under light; chrome that catches and returns a small, private star. She rests her palm on the case a beat longer than it takes to confirm existence.

I'm still a musician. I still deserve to take up sonic space.

Supplies are already lined up: Smith Classic wax polish, Howard Orange oil, the little cloth that remembers every curve. She doesn't really expect to need them—Mugi's villa is climate-controlled—but she needs the illusion of control, the possibility of restoration. A fresh pack of D'Addario EXL160s, her preferred gauge. The Keeley 4-Knob Compressor nestles into the corner of the hard case, still with that faint factory-clean smell that announces potential. She spent an afternoon last week chasing sustain as if decay had a hidden hatch that opened into relief.

Compression is math.

Power daisy-chain, patch cables, spares. Each coil a tiny loop of control. Each click of a latch an amen.

Music still makes sense.

The camera is easier than people. Lomo LC-A, loaded. She flicks the meter and listens for the yes. It gives her a soft mechanical answer—obedience without commentary. The camera will take what's in front of it and refuse to argue. No "why haven't you smiled," no "who will this belong to." Frame, capture, forget. She isn't sure she deserves to hold anything still right now. She zips it into a side pouch anyway.

Gifts.

For Yui: the package of manju with a cartoon fox on the front, its grin wide and idiotic. She can already hear "kawaii~" through crumbs.

For Azusa: a study omamori in purple silk. She presses her thumb into the kanji the way you check the tuning peg.

For Mugi: a yosegi-zaiku coaster boxed in rustling paper. Geometry that looks like kindness trained into discipline. She lingers over it, then sets it aside like placing a note where it will resolve later.

And for Naya—

She hesitates, even now.

The travel omamori is green. Too bright, almost artificial. Not like her eyes.

Not that she was thinking of her eyes.

She is now.

That specific shade. That impossible green that never sits still, flecked and forested and always looking at Mio with more than color.

She folds the charm over once in her hand. Safe passage. Return. A destination not named on the ticket. She tucks it between shirts where cotton can hold the secret and the light can't get purchase.

She should be done. The suitcase looks like a solved problem; the bass waits with preemptively patient.

Her body doesn't move.

Instead, she sits on the edge of the desk and stares at the floor, at the suitcase now bloated with objects that define her: strings, polish, pedals, cotton, cloth. Things with names. Things with function. But not meaning. Not anymore.

Packing should feel like motion; today it feels like records management. Evidence bagged and labeled for a hearing no one has scheduled.

She lifts her lyrics notebook, flipping through empty pages. The one she hasn't touched since Soukuu no Monologue. Blank staves, a ghost of ink that still smells like hesitation.

She sighs.

This isn't grief. Grief has edges and a center of mass. This is aftermath—the fine silt that settles when a structure caves in.

The mirror returns her in chopped pieces: hair, eyes, collarbone, chest, knees. None of them agreeing to be a person. She looks nineteen, almost twenty: whatever integer adulthood demands for her. She looks like a girl who knows how to pack a suitcase. Who's done this before. Who's ready to go.

Inside, she's still fifteen.

Still the girl who Ritsu pried the Literature Club form from her fingers and literally dragged down the hallway, shoes echoing on the linoleum, declaring her fate sealed and promising something Mio pretended not to want. The girl who resisted. Who yielded. Who thought: just for today.

The girl who stayed.

Because Yui smiled like the sun had a little sister. Because Mugi had brought cake. Because Ritsu had grinned like the entire future was a joke only they understood.

Because Mio resisted, half-heartedly. But secretly, she wanted to be chosen.

She remembers the first training camp.

Summer of their first year. Just her, Ritsu, Yui, and Mugi. Azusa hadn't arrived yet—was still a mystery, a future encounter. They had no songs and barely knew how to tune. But she had the cassette from Sawako-sensei's band, Death Devil. It lit something feral behind Mio's ribs and the conviction that "real bands" hold training camps.

Ritsu and Yui turned it into a beach vacation within twenty minutes.

She remembers protesting. Scolding. Lecturing. Explaining warm-up routines, practice schedules, and the importance of metronome discipline. And then, she remembers letting go. Being pulled into the tide of laughter and dumb games and late-night watermelon fights. Ritsu's hand in hers when she was scared of the dark. Yui humming off-key beside her. Mugi's gentle, disarming smile as she brewed them peach tea with herbs from the villa's garden.

They laughed more than they played and played more than they planned. They got better anyway. Magic, if you insist on the word.

She had felt, back then, like she was becoming.

Like joy was a language she could still learn.

Like life was linear, and she was walking a path that had meaning.

The second camp had Azusa. Another serious one. Another girl who believed in progress, in tempo, in tuning—metronome in human form. Chaos still won on points. Somehow, improvement arrived in the slipstream of joy. That was the trick: the laughter carried the work.

It didn't make sense, but it worked. And that was the magic, wasn't it?

Magic.

God.

What a ridiculous word.

She misses that version of herself. Not because she was naïve, but because she was uncomplicated. Feelings arrived as themselves, unlabelled, and existed without interrogation. Longing didn't demand a taxonomy. She wrote about love because it sang, it sounded good, and it made a melody. Not because she knew what it was. Because back then, love was abstract, a future tense lullaby addressed to whoever she might become.

She used to believe in it. In love, after all. That strange, luminous force. That narrative engine. That equation of becoming: if you love, you matter. If you're loved, you're real.

And so, she wrote songs about it. Vague, abstract, unnamed longing. Serenades for no one. For everyone. For someone she hadn't met. She used to believe that love, when it arrived, would translate her. Would turn all her contradictions into harmony.

Now she knows better.

But she loved Kenji, at least. She did.

(Did you?)

She tried.

And still, emptiness. Silence. The body a misfiring instrument. The heart kept time without a beat. A metronome clicking in an empty room.

Is this what growing up is? The slow erosion of belief?

(Yui still believes. Ritsu still laughs. Azusa still cares. So maybe it's just you.)

The worst part isn't the silence in her notebook. It's the part of her that isn't shocked by it anymore. That expects the blankness. The practiced acceptance of silence.

What happened to the girl who could dream about love without needing to survive it?

That girl is gone. Buried, maybe. Or folded so deep inside her that even music can't reach her anymore.

The fan ticks. Cicadas swell and recede like a fever trying to regulate itself.

She misses being fifteen.

Not for its sweetness but for its borders. The boundaries were visible. Friendship, music, school—everything circumscribed, rooms with doors and names. She could play at maturity without having to inhabit it.

Now the stage feels two sizes too big.
Now the script is missing.
No lines to read, no cues to fake.

At fifteen, love was a theory—a bright, distant constellation she could aim her telescope toward, comforting precisely because it stayed far away. At almost twenty, it's a language she can't produce. A song she can't play. The more she tries to perform it, the more dissonant it becomes.

(Then why Kenji?)

Because it was supposed to work.
Because it matched the pattern.
Because he was kind and gentle in an ordinary way that promised safety.
Because she thought that if she just followed the steps—kiss, date, touch, comply—eventually desire would arrive. That it was a train, not a choice.

But her station never came.

And now she's here, sitting on the edge of the desk, packing for a training camp she's not sure she belongs at anymore. Not because the others wouldn't have her—no, her friends still orbit her with quiet gravity—but because she doesn't know which version of herself they expect to receive.

Because the girl she used to be—the one who sang love songs into a void and believed in the echo—is gone.

And the girl who remains is untranslatable.

She doesn't know how to say: I'm scared.

Of everything and nothing. Of arrivals. Of departures. Of the spaces between songs.

She used to write as if love were gravity—inevitable, shaping, kind. But now she understands gravity crushes, too.

Now she understands that sometimes love isn't arrival, but inertia.

She misses fifteen—not the simplicity, but the permission it gave her to be unfinished. To believe that feeling lost was part of the process, not a personal failing.

Back then the fear was embarrassment. Now it's permanence. Of never changing at all. Or worse: of changing into someone she can't recognize.

Tomorrow she'll meet her friends at the station. The train will come. The girls will laugh. She will go. And maybe there will be a moment—fleeting, unrepeatable—where music slips its hand into hers again. Where she remembers how it feels to play without proving, to feel without interrogating, to exist without apology.

Her palm rests on the suitcase. A tremor answers. The mirror watches her steadily, unhelpful.

She's packed. She's ready. But she isn't prepared. Not for the villa, not for the first downbeat, not for the way she'll look at her—and what will happen inside her when she does.

(You miss who you were before you needed answers.)

She draws the zipper slowly, like sealing a time capsule. Beneath the thought, another surfaces, clean as a label:

(You're not in love with Kenji.)

Simple now. Categorical.

(You never were.)

What frightens her more than breakups or silence is this:

What if love isn't what I thought at all?

And that's more terrifying than anything.

Because if it's true, then everything before this—every poem, every song, every gesture, every try—was only prelude.

She presses her palms together. Feels the sweat there. A minute shake. The weight of a name she won't say aloud.

She stands and walks to the mirror. It returns standard inventory: hair tied back, rumpled tee, a small crease at her temple where her fingers rested too long. She looks fine.

She isn't.

She touches her collarbone. Then her wrist. Just to feel the blood beneath. The pulse. The proof.

She's alive.

But being alive is not the same as living.

She makes a quiet inventory of the body: jaw, throat, sternum, belly, hips, palms. The places that shout; the places that permit a whisper. In the glass, she looks the same as she always does: shy, reserved, a little unsure of herself. The same girl she's been for years.

Inside, she feels like she's falling behind, the world slipping forward while she stands on a platform with no departure board. Waiting.

(Waiting for what?)

She doesn't even know.

I'm not sad, she thinks—and guilt arrives on schedule. Not for the thought, but for the vacancy it reveals. The grief that should have climbed the walls after a breakup hasn't even shown up to knock. She cried yesterday in Ritsu's arms, but not for him—for rupture. For a scaffold collapsing.

The funeral was never about Kenji; it was for the girl who believed that if she followed the formula, she would become whole.

Kiss the boy. Smile. Pretend to want. Wait for the wanting to arrive.

It didn't.

Six days shouldn't unbuild a relationship, and yet here she is—mourning not the person but the promise. Not the past, but the architecture that framed it.

I should feel worse, she tells herself. She doesn't. Or she does, but only in the impersonal way of an unanswered letter. She hurt him—that part is fact—and she wishes she hadn't. That part is guilt. But sadness doesn't land.

The thought returns like tide: she loved him, right?

(Or liked him enough.)

She once believed love was a linear thing, like musical notation. First the clef, then the key signature, then the bars, the notes, the rests—play them in the right order and the music will emerge. Stay in time. Keep your fingers where they belong. Follow the rules, and it will sound like love.

It didn't.

She thinks of Ritsu.

Ritsu, of all people, makes it look so easy with Taro. Mismatched, chaotic, mundane. They fight over rice brands and fall asleep during movies, and somehow it just works.  Compatibility that doesn't apologize for itself.

She envies that.

She's envious of Ritsu.

Ritsu, whose entire adolescence was a riot of disorganization. Ritsu, who once called an essay on Chopin "emotionally constipated." Ritsu, who trips over her own shoes and has never, not once, said "I love you" without sounding like she was daring someone to flinch.

And even she can love a boy.

Even she can be loved back.

In spring, Mio asked—casual, careful, like a joke—what it felt like. She meant: what does normal feel like. She meant: how do you want.

"I think the important thing is that he makes me feel like me," Ritsu had said, waving it off. "And not like I'm pretending to be a lovesick lady."

Mio nodded and filed the answer away and tried to bend that answer into a tool.

But what if me is the part I can't locate?

She thinks about that too often now.

She glances at the laptop—closed, innocuous. She sits up slowly. Her limbs feel a half-second away, instruments that haven't been tuned. Her hair is flattened on one side, frizzed on the other. Her shirt clings where she sweated through it. Her body is not radiant, not elegant; it's simply human, and she can't decide whether that's a relief or an indictment.

She thinks of Ritsu again, months ago—Mio confessing nerves, confessing ignorance, confessing she'd never had a boyfriend and feared she'd do it wrong. Ritsu had smiled. "You just need to find your rhythm."

Ritsu found hers.

Even Ritsu—irreverent, trope-proof Ritsu—has Taro. 

Mio loves Ritsu. Respects her. Reveres her, sometimes. And still—

Why can she do it? Why not me?

Ritsu can walk the path Mio trained for, rehearsed for, dreamed for; Mio stepped onto it and the ground dissolved.

She closes her eyes. Her mind betrays her, sliding where she doesn't want it to.

Naya.

Mio opens her eyes.

It is always Naya now.

Tactful, intuitive, soft without weakness, confident without intrusion. Her culture teaches her to be circumspect, but her presence feels direct. A presence that lands. Mio has wanted that skill all her life: to be delicate and not vanish.

She thinks of that hug.

In Naya's room after the surprise birthday party. The one Mio conducted.

The first touch in months that didn't arrive like a challenge. Her body didn't brace. Skin didn't harden. Pulse didn't run. Touch didn't feel like performance. There was a strange, cellular-level rightness in that embrace.

Warmth bloomed in the clean part of her chest.

And then—god. The strap thing.

She blushes just thinking about it.

Naya's hands in her hair, the small domesticity of being helped. Fingertips brushing the nape, a heat left behind. Mio's entire nervous system lit up and she called it startle. Proximity. Coincidence.

(It was nothing.)

But it felt like something.

"Your hair's really soft."

Thrown off casually, like it meant nothing, and somehow Mio's spine rearranged. Naya just turned away, moved on, and the moment passed. And Mio was left touching her neck like she'd been marked.

It felt good.

More than good.

It shifted tectonic plates.

Too easy. Too safe. Too different from Kenji.

(It was nothing.)

Then why am I still thinking about it?

(You're overthinking. She's just kind. She comes from a tactile culture. She's used to that.)

But no one else has ever made her feel like that.

Not even Ritsu, who knows her better than anyone. Not even Kenji, who waited and waited and waited.

She presses the heel of her palm into her eye until light patterns break.

Tomorrow, the train. Tomorrow, the villa. Tomorrow, Naya.

The green omamori is tucked between her folded shirts. Tomorrow she'll see Naya and call it a souvenir.

Her pulse calls it something else.

She exhales, counting four. The habit remains—the click behind the ribs. She sets the bass case by the door and tests each latch: click, click, click. She tucks the green omamori deeper into cotton. She slips the notebook into the outer pocket even though it's heavy with blankness. She tells herself tomorrow is just a train, just a villa, just the same girls who've always turned noise into a home.

Maybe the script is gone. Maybe the stage is too big.

But count-ins don't need lines.

One. Two. Three.

Four.

Notes:

I hope this wasn't boring. I love climbing into Mio's head and letting her spiral, but I worry I repeat myself. Honestly, I do it when I talk, too. Maybe it's an ADHD thing; I ramble. The point is, I write this fic trying to capture exactly where Mio is in the story, and if she circles the same thought, it's because she's literally stuck in a loop. Still, I sometimes can't tell where the line is between "this is intentional because Mio is walking in circles" and "I'm just talking to talk." Anyway, this was an experimental chapter about how Mio lives through her first breakup by isolating for a week.

The most dynamic piece is the phone call with Naya, obviously—because of course this chapter was going to be a monstrous word-count of someone trapped in her own skull, and of course half of those words would be these two idiots flirting on the phone. I love writing their dialogue so much it's embarrassing. I know it's egocentric and weird because Naya isn't canon and she only exists in my drafts, but the Mio/Naya conversations just... flow. Is it just me or do they have ridiculous chemistry? THEY'RE SO CUTE. It's silly for me to say that when Naya only exists in my head and this is a crack ship I invented, but I don't care. Let me have this.

While I'm beta-ing this, I'm also writing ahead (of course), and the story is moving (I swear), and the relationship is close now (really). I won't lie: I feel vertigo. There's the expectation bit—people are somehow reading because they want to see these two dumbasses together and I'm like, what if I can't deliver? But also, I'll miss the mutual pining. It's just... so fun to write. I don't know why it's so entertaining to watch these two disaster lesbians flirt by accident while clearly wanting to make out and absolutely not doing anything about it. Fanfiction is a strange little miracle.

Also: lots of BUCK-TICK songs this chapter! Fun fact: BUCK-TICK is my favorite band ever and I barely mention them in this story. I'm still a little heartsore about Sakurai's passing. Even now, almost two years later.

As always: thank you for reading, for being here, for shipping. Next chapter finally kicks off the most ambitious arc (and the biggest headache, in a good way): the Training Camp Arc. Eight days. Eleven girls sharing a dreamlike summer villa. Music. Shenanigans. And absolutely no stray feelings escaping the box. None. Nope. Of course not.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Truth Is a Beautiful Thing