The invitation arrived on a Tuesday.
Folded neatly, tucked inside his locker like a secret. No glitter. No pink ink. Just plain black-and-white print on nice cardstock:
Ami Yuzuki – Live Showcase
Venue: Shibuya LX Stage
Date: This Saturday – 6:00 PM
Access: Press, Public, Industry Eyes
Manager: Elliot Graves
He read the last line twice.
Then again.
Then slowly folded the card and put it in his pocket like it might explode if he looked at it too long.
⸻
The stares hadn't stopped.
People still whispered when he passed. The ones who didn't whisper outright were worse — pretending not to notice him, only to turn and watch as soon as he walked past.
Even the teachers were oddly polite.
At lunch, he sat by the window, chewing a piece of bread that tasted like cardboard, trying to drown out the noise of it all.
Then a folded note slid across the desk beside him.
Neat, pink ink. Small handwriting.
He blinked.
"Want to skip lunch? Rooftop?"
Mizuki.
He looked across the room. She wasn't watching him. She was already walking toward the stairs.
He followed.
⸻
The rooftop was quiet. A breeze moved through the chain-link fence like it had somewhere better to be. Mizuki sat with her legs crossed on a blanket, bento box open between them. Two sets of chopsticks.
She didn't say anything when he arrived.
Just patted the space beside her.
He sat down without a word.
It felt like breathing again for the first time in days.
⸻
They ate slowly. No music. No phones. No questions.
Finally, after they'd almost finished, Mizuki broke the silence.
"You looked tired today."
"I am."
"You looked tired yesterday too."
"Still am."
A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"You're bad at hiding things."
"I wasn't trying to."
She turned her face to the sky, sunlight catching in her hair.
"Everyone's been asking me questions. About you. About Ami. About what happened."
He tensed.
"I told them I didn't know. Because I don't. Not anymore."
That stung. More than he expected it to.
"I'm sorry," he said. "For not telling you. For letting it all get so—"
"You don't owe me anything," she cut in gently.
"But I wanted to," he said, quieter. "I just… I didn't know how."
She turned to face him then. Fully.
Eyes soft. Not angry. Not cold.
"You still don't have to choose, Elliot. I'm not asking you to."
He blinked. "Choose?"
"Between what makes you burn and what makes you breathe."
The words sat between them like something heavy and honest.
⸻
They sat in silence for a while longer.
He leaned back, stretching out on the blanket, staring at the sky. Clouds moved slow. Students laughed somewhere below. The world kept turning.
And Mizuki just sat beside him. Not asking for anything. Not needing to fix it.
That meant more than she probably knew.
⸻
That night, Elliot stood by his window with the showcase invitation in his hands.
He'd reread it too many times.
Ami hadn't messaged him since her apology. No pressure. No manipulation. Just silence.
That should've made it easier.
It didn't.
His phone buzzed once.
Ami:
"I don't expect you to come. But I'd like it if you did."
No emojis. No fake cheer.
Just a sentence that felt real.
⸻
Elliot walked the city streets for an hour.
No direction.
Past lit-up shops. Vending machines. Couples laughing too loud. Someone blasting music from a second-story window. A stray cat watching him from the top of a car.
And then he saw it.
The big TV display outside the department store — looping promo footage. Ami's name in lights. Her silhouette on stage. Her voice, stripped down and raw.
And then — that clip.
Him. Stepping forward. Handing her the mic. The moment everything shifted.
He didn't smile.
He didn't cringe either.
He just watched it and thought:
That wasn't the end.
⸻
Back home, he dropped the invitation on his desk.
Then, finally, he picked up his phone and typed:
"Don't expect a hero. I'm just there to keep the mic working."
Ami replied almost instantly:
"That's all I ever needed."