The message came mid-class.
No emoji. No warning. Just:
"You owe me bubble tea and something dumb. Let's go after school."
Elliot didn't reply right away. He stared at the screen, half-expecting a follow-up like she usually did — some dramatic threat or a badly drawn sticker. But nothing came.
Just that simple request.
So when the final bell rang and students poured out into the autumn air, Elliot waited by the gate. And after a few minutes, Mizuki showed up, half a lollipop in her mouth and a smug tilt to her head.
"Thought you'd bail."
"Thought you'd ghost."
"I would've. But then I remembered you owe me emotional restitution in the form of sugar."
⸻
They didn't go far — just a few train stops over to the quieter part of the city, where the streets felt slower and the shops looked older than time itself. Where the convenience stores played 80s pop and old men sat outside pachinko parlors talking about baseball like it still mattered.
First stop: bubble tea. Mizuki ordered the one with extra pudding just to annoy him. Elliot got the usual.
Second stop: a tiny retro arcade where Mizuki immediately blew ¥500 trying to win a frog plushie that looked diseased.
"He's ugly," she declared. "I love him."
On her second try, she got it. Shoved it into Elliot's backpack without asking.
"Now you carry my trauma for me."
He rolled his eyes, but left it there.
⸻
They walked through the park after, the late afternoon sun flickering through leaves just beginning to shift from green to gold.
"It's weird," Mizuki said, sipping the last of her drink. "This all feels… normal. Like we just hit 'undo' on the past month."
"Good weird or bad weird?"
"Like watching an old movie. One you know the lines to. Feels good, but you already know how it ends."
She sat on the edge of a dry fountain.
Elliot sat beside her, cracking open a vending machine soda.
For a long while, they just… existed.
No pressure. No performances. Just fizzy drinks and shared silence.
Then Mizuki leaned over, lightly bumping her head to his shoulder.
"Don't get used to it. I'm still mad at you."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
But the smile on her face — wide and unguarded — felt like the first one he'd seen in weeks. Not the polite one. Not the tired one.
The real one.
And maybe — just maybe — he was about to say something about that.
Until—
Buzz.
Then again.
And again.
His phone started vibrating like it was having a seizure.
⸻
He pulled it out.
Ami.
Messages stacked over each other:
"Where are you??"
"I need you at the studio NOW."
"The mixer bailed, the tech guy's late, and I just forgot my own lyrics mid-run."
"Please. I'm seriously losing it."
"You're the only one who calms me down. I NEED YOU."
Then her name flashed again.
Incoming call.
He stared at it.
Didn't answer.
Just… looked up at Mizuki.
She was already watching him.
"It's her?"
He nodded, quietly.
"You have to go, don't you?"
"She's panicking. It's a soundcheck thing and—"
"You don't have to explain."
She stood up, brushing snack wrappers into the bin.
"Go be the hero."
"Mizuki—"
"It's okay, Graves. Really."
She forced the smile again — but this time, he saw the seams.
⸻
He took the call as he jogged toward the train station. Ami's voice was chaotic, breathless, scattered.
He told her he was on his way.
Behind him, Mizuki sat back on the fountain, alone now. The breeze caught the empty boba cups and sent them skittering across the pavement. She didn't chase them.
Just pulled out her phone.
Typed something.
"Thanks. Today felt like us again."
Then deleted it.
Then typed it again.
Sent it.
He arrived at the studio ten minutes later, breath caught in his throat, heart hammering.
The building buzzed with voices and static — a technician arguing with a dancer, two interns balancing cables, the door to the rehearsal room swinging open and shut like it couldn't decide whether to stay in or out of the drama.
Inside, Ami was pacing — her hoodie half-zipped, hair tied messily, face flushed with panic. The mic cord dangled from her hand like she'd forgotten she was even holding it.
When she saw him, her entire body tensed. Then sagged.
"Where the hell were you?" she snapped, but it came out breathless, not angry. "I—I didn't know what to do."
"It's fine, I'm here," Elliot said, already moving toward the soundboard, checking levels. "What happened?"
"The mixer guy flaked. One of the dancers twisted her ankle. I forgot the second verse and Tetsuya was watching from the hall like I'm already a failure—"
"You're not a failure."
"Don't say that if you don't mean it!"
Her voice cracked.
Not from anger. From the weight of everything.
He stopped. Looked at her. Really looked.
This wasn't just about a rehearsal.
It was about all the moments she hadn't let herself break down until now.
⸻
He crossed the room and took the mic from her gently, setting it aside.
"Okay," he said quietly. "Let's reset. Start from the top. Breathe."
"I can't reset. I have six days until the Polaris showcase, and I just forgot the lyrics to a song I wrote. Do you know how humiliating that is?"
"You wrote them for a reason. That reason's still there."
She sat on the edge of the platform, fingers trembling.
"I can't do this if you're not here."
The room fell quiet around that sentence.
Technicians stopped moving. Someone at the door turned and stepped away.
Just her. Just him.
And the words she hadn't meant to say so raw.
"I know I act tough. Like I don't need anyone. But when I saw you weren't here today I—I panicked. Because you're the only one who makes this feel real in a way that doesn't hurt."
Elliot knelt in front of her. Not dramatic. Just enough that they were eye-level.
"I'm here now."
"But for how long?" she whispered.
He didn't answer.
Because that part… he didn't know.
⸻
They rehearsed for three hours.
And Ami didn't forget the lyrics again.
She didn't stumble over steps. She didn't shake. She sang — not for the crowd that might come, not for the scout who might change her life, but for herself.
Elliot adjusted the lights mid-verse. Moved monitors. Ran the board manually because the tech assistant had bailed again.
By the end, the room was silent except for their breathing.
Tetsuya poked his head in from the hallway.
"That's the version we need next week."
He nodded once. Left.
⸻
Afterward, Ami and Elliot sat side by side on the rehearsal room floor, backs to the mirrored wall, sweat drying in cold streaks down their spines.
She passed him a water bottle. Their fingers brushed.
"Thanks," she said. Not in her usual flirty tone. Not teasing. Just… sincere.
"Anytime."
A beat of quiet.
Then:
"Was it her?"
Elliot looked over. "What?"
"Before you came. You were with Mizuki, right?"
"Yeah."
"Did it feel normal?"
"Too normal."
"And now?"
He didn't answer.
Because this — whatever this was — didn't feel normal at all.
⸻
By the time he got home, it was almost 10pm.
The apartment was dark, his mum already asleep. The hallway lights buzzed faintly, flickering near the kitchen.
He dropped his bag. Peeled off his jacket. Sat on the edge of his bed and checked his phone.
A message from Mizuki, sent hours ago:
"Thanks. Today felt like us again."
He stared at it.
Then typed back:
"Yeah. It really did. I missed that."
No reply.
She'd probably already seen the timestamp on his last call.
He tossed the phone onto his pillow. Lay back. Stared at the ceiling like it might give him an answer.
Ami's voice still rang in his head.
"You're the only one who makes this feel real."
And Mizuki's?
That had faded again. Soft. Distant. Like a song on a loop too quiet to fully hear.