The morning after the showcase was colder than it should've been.
Not in the weather — the sun rose just like it always did, brushing Tokyo's rooftops with that warm October glow. But in her chest, in her limbs, Mizuki felt distant from the warmth. As if the night before had shifted something just enough to make her feel a step removed from everything she used to walk confidently through.
She sat at her desk while her phone buzzed relentlessly beside her cereal.
Photos. Messages. Tags. Her name and Elliot's and Ami's all thrown around together like pieces in a puzzle that didn't quite fit.
The one image that made her stop scrolling was a blurry, candid backstage photo:
Ami and Elliot, sitting on a plastic crate, side by side. They weren't touching. Weren't talking. But the way their bodies leaned toward each other said everything.
Not staged. Not romantic.
Just… close.
She stared at it for a long time.
⸻
School didn't feel any different. But she did.
The people were the same. The classes didn't shift. The teachers still handed out assignments as if the world hadn't tilted even slightly. And yet, when Mizuki walked through the halls, she felt like she was walking through a version of herself that had already started fading.
She didn't go looking for Elliot.
She didn't have to.
He wasn't avoiding her anymore. That wasn't it. He still nodded when they passed, still held the door open if she was behind him, still looked at her with those same tired eyes — only now they looked a little more awake for someone else.
That was the part she couldn't quite place.
She used to be the one who brought the spark back into him. With teasing. With chaos. With kindness disguised as annoyance.
But lately, when she tried to do that — it didn't quite land.
Like she was echoing an inside joke that only used to be theirs.
She wasn't angry.
Not yet.
Just… quieter.
⸻
She spent lunch on the rooftop again. Alone this time.
The bento she brought for two — out of habit — stayed sealed in its wrapper. The wind moved through the fence. The sky looked too clear to match the way her stomach churned.
She didn't cry.
She didn't even frown.
Just sat there.
And waited for a feeling that didn't come.
⸻
Somewhere across town, Elliot was staring at a clipboard with his name on it.
⸻
The Polaris Entertainment office didn't look like a place where dreams happened.
It looked like a bank. Clean white walls. Tall glass doors. Marble floors. A front desk that didn't flinch when they walked in wearing jeans and borrowed confidence.
Ami didn't say much in the elevator.
She chewed her lip, adjusted the hem of her hoodie, and didn't meet his eyes.
Elliot didn't say anything either.
What was there to say?
They were both pretending to be calm.
⸻
Tetsuya was already waiting when they arrived.
Not in a suit this time — just a clean polo and slacks. Still sharp. Still put-together. But… human, now.
He gestured for them to sit in a conference room lined with soundproof panels and minimalist decor. A single framed poster on the back wall read:
"Voice matters more than volume."
He placed two slim folders on the table.
"I'll be brief. This isn't a contract. Yet. It's an invitation."
He opened Ami's first.
"You, Ami — we want you to perform in front of our internal producers. One original song. Three weeks from now. If they like what they see — we'll talk next steps: training, debut tracks, PR. But that all depends on you."
Ami nodded, swallowing hard. "I can do that."
Tetsuya turned to Elliot.
"You, Mr. Graves — you're interesting."
Elliot blinked. "That's… a first."
"You have instinct. You think like a technician. We've had managers who don't know how to respond to a mic cut. You fixed it in real time and kept her voice on stage. That matters."
He slid the second folder over.
"We want to offer you entry into our Junior Technical Program. Part-time. You'll shadow our live crews, learn rigging, sound checks, emergency fixes, tour setups. It's not glamorous — but it's real. It's yours, if you want it."
Elliot stared at the folder.
For a second, he didn't move.
This wasn't about Ami anymore. Not entirely.
This was his name on a page.
His future.
Not as someone's shadow, but as someone seen.
⸻
They stepped out of the building in silence.
The city was loud around them — taxis, trains, kids with iced coffees and tangled earbuds — but between them, there was quiet.
Ami finally broke it.
"This is real now, huh?"
Elliot nodded.
"Yeah. It is."
She didn't smile.
But she didn't look scared either.
Just… steady.
They didn't hold hands. Didn't hug. Didn't say "Let's do this."
But something settled between them. Some small agreement written in the way their footsteps matched on the sidewalk.
⸻
Back on the rooftop, Mizuki finally opened the untouched bento.
She pulled out her phone.
Typed a message:
"Don't forget who you were before all this."
Then deleted it.
She didn't send anything.
She just sat there, chewing quietly, staring out at the city that had already started moving on without her.