I slept in, opting to skip today's lectures. Kai was annoyingly correct about me being overworked. I wake up with my fingers wrapped around my phone. I hold it tightly, as if it might buzz again if I don't let go.
I must have fallen asleep like this, keeping the phone close to my chest. The realisation comes in fragments: morning light seeps through the blinds, a dull ache lingers in my limbs, and a quiet disappointment settles in as I take in the silence.
I check my phone with half-lidded eyes. Nothing came in overnight.
I stare at the ceiling, breathing shallow, trying to shake the lingering sense that I missed something. If I had stayed awake a few minutes longer, if I hadn't let my eyes close when they did, Kai's name might've lit up my screen again.
I thought I hated him. I do. Don't I? No, fuck that. I do.
He's so bossy. He talks like everything he says is already settled, as if arguing back would just waste time. I hate how cold he can sound, how he never bothers to soften anything, never bothers to reassure unless he decides it's necessary. He's aloof in the most irritating way, like he's holding something back and daring the world—daring me to try and guess what it is.
He's annoyingly good at things. Not even in a loud way. Not in a way you can call out. As if it never occurs to him that he might not be the best person in the room. He's tall, so he literally stands out. He moves like his body was curated with purpose, like he's always aware of where his hands are, his posture, and how much space he takes up. Even his eyes—those fucking mismatched eyes—feel unfair, like some deliberate design choice meant to make me look twice. Like he knows exactly what they do to me when he fixes them with that unreadable stare.
Even worse, it's summer, no jacket on his shoulders, nothing to hide behind. If he brings a coat at all, he leaves it in the back seat of his car. He wears clothes that look expensive. Mostly dark colours. Black shirts that sit too close to his body, tailored with intention. Slim trousers or jeans, clean lines, polished black boots every time. I've seen at least three different watches on his wrist, depending on the day.
I'm not exactly impressed by how much it costs him. But I also can't deny how his confidence carries him. He looks good because he knows he does. It's unfair how put together he stays. Like nothing could touch him.
Except during soccer practice, when he removes layers and everything turns messy, it's worse. When his structure gives way to sweat-darkened fabric, and his hair loses its perfect shape, when he looks a little undone around the edges.
That's the version of him that gets me the most.
Because that's the one that makes my thoughts slip into filthy territory.
His voice does things to me too. Low and smooth, like velvet stretched tight. The way his voice commands across the pitch during training makes me forget that Riku is the captain instead of Kai. He doesn't raise his voice to me, doesn't need to. When he tells me to do something, my body reacts before I decide whether I'm going to listen.
My unguarded thoughts keep tilting around my futile attempts to convince myself that these are all things that I hate about him. I think about how his scent lingers on my clothes when he stands too close, about how his voice drops when he says my name, about how I had to fight the urge to pull him into my apartment last night and throw myself at him—just to see if those controlled hands of his might wander where they shouldn't.
I imagine Kai's hands, firm and unfaltering, sliding up my shirt instead of pulling away. The weight of him closer than he ever lets himself be, close enough that I can't tell where I end and he begins. The idea of his fingers at my throat makes something in me go strangely light, my breaths forget how to be steady. Instead, a ragged whimper escapes my lips.
Then it gets so much worse.
I can picture his mouth, the way it always looks like he's holding something back. I must be losing it—because I imagine what it would feel like if he didn't hold back. If he leaned in instead of away. If he kissed me the way everything in my body has been trying to deny craving—I wouldn't pull away, I wouldn't resist.
That thought hits me so hard it makes me dizzy.
Wanting that feels dangerous. Because it feels too vivid and because some part of me already knows how badly I'd fall apart for him if he ever actually did kiss me.
I can't push my feelings down anymore. I can't tell what's more exhausting: pretending I hate someone who sees more than anyone else ever has or letting myself admit that ever since that day in the high school locker room, when his gaze first met mine—
My phone vibrates in my hand. A reminder pops up on the screen.
Piano Recital – 19:30
Right. That.
The reminder sits there like a small, polite threat. I swipe it away and recline against my pillows, staring at the ceiling. I still can't believe I agreed to this. A recital at the university, officially "a music club showcase," which is a fancy way of saying a handful of students playing in front of an audience that feels much bigger than it really is. I signed up because I wanted to push myself beyond being the awkward guy in the music club who clearly cares but doesn't participate.
I unlock my phone; I didn't bother closing the app before going to sleep. The chat is quiet. Last night's messages are still there, sitting too close to my heart for something so small. I hover over the text bar, pulse ticking in my ears.
I type and delete:
you awake?
did you sleep?
morning.
Each message would feel like giving too much away. Like admitting that the first thing I wanted when I opened my eyes this morning was him.
I type:
you up?
I stare at the message, the typing cursor blinking like a heartbeat. I tell myself that he's probably busy; he doesn't need to know I'm thinking about him this early in the day. Even if I am.
I force myself to sit up, my thumb trembling over the delete button. I'm not going to reach out first. I can pretend I never even considered it.
But then my phone slips—just a stupid, clumsy twitch of my hand, and it tumbles into the sheets. I scramble to grab it, it's face down on the bed, and when I turn it over, it's the worst possible outcome. That tiny little "Sent" text next to my chat bubble.
ace-txt:
you up?
I freeze, staring at the message. I hadn't meant to send it. I think about trying to unsend it. However, that might make me look desperate. He'll still see that I messaged him first. Now it's out there, floating between us, waiting for him to see it. Embarrassment prickles under my skin. I want to take it back, but the damage is done.
I don't even have a reason to message him. What would I say if he replies? Even worse, what if he doesn't even reply?
I rub my face with both hands and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My muscles complain immediately, making me let out a rough groan. It's not a big deal; it was just a message. I should practise for my recital, catch up on coursework, text Yuujin, and try to actually prioritise what matters over some stupid words on a screen.
I shove my phone into the pocket of my shorts and drag myself to the bathroom, splash cold water on my face and stare at my reflection, letting out a dejected sigh.
Who am I even kidding?
My dark hair is messy this morning, not even in the endearing way. I rake my fingers through it, but it just sticks up in new, more tragic directions. I look tired—worse than that. I look hollow. I lean closer to the mirror, searching for something—resolve, or just a version of myself that doesn't look so lost.
I try to smooth my hair down again, but it's pointless. I just have to hope it behaves after a shower following soccer practice. Another groan escapes me when I wonder if Kai ever looks this wrecked in the morning. Probably not. He's the type who wakes up looking like he's already got the day under control.
I reach into my pocket for my phone. The screen lights up and my heart lurches—a little too hopefully, like maybe he's replied, maybe he's thinking about me too. I'm just met with the time, glaring back at me.
10:57
I step into the kitchen, flick on the kettle and decide to check other socials. I check the trending tabs: my favourite boy-group is set to have a comeback this year, celebrity dating rumours, then something else grabs my attention: Tokuryū: Japan's Elusive Crime Networks.
Tokuryū? The term appears to have been coined by Japan's National Police Agency; it means "anonymous and fluid."
The kettle starts hissing, but I lean against the counter, my thumb taps the link to the first article I see.
TOKYO, BREAKING NEWS:
Fatal Shibuya Heist Exposes Dark Side of Tokuryū Networks
Shibuya's nightlife was shattered last night when a high-profile jewellery heist on Center-Gai spiralled into violence, leaving one bystander deceased and police searching for answers. Witnesses described a scene of chaos as masked assailants stormed the store, only for the operation to unravel. Amid the panic, a single gunshot was heard, claiming the life of Kenji Sakamoto, a 42-year-old security guard who had worked at the store for over a decade.
"This was not a typical yakuza job," said Inspector Okada of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police. "The suspects were coordinated, but their escape was chaotic. The fatality appears to have been a result of panic and inexperience, hallmarks of these new Tokuryū networks."
I glance at the article's timestamp. Last night. Shibuya. Kai lives there, doesn't he? But then I remember him driving me home; he was with me, not in the chaos. I can't imagine him tangled up in something like that. He's always so composed.
I shake my head, trying to clear the thought. It's just another reminder that Tokyo isn't as safe as it pretends to be. I tell myself I have enough to worry about today, but I can't help holding the phone closer to my face, tunnel visioning on Sakamoto's picture.
My phone buzzes, sharp and sudden enough to startle me out of the pull that article had on me. My heart jumps—leftover nerves from the news, or maybe just the usual reaction to when Kai's name lights up my screen.
takato.kai-:
Morning.
He actually texted back. I open the chat to reply, then another bubble appears under Kai's name.
takato.kai-:
Everything alright? Are you not coming in today?
You don't usually text first.
I actually consider typing "I missed you." Because that is my truth, I missed him as I fell asleep last night. I missed him when I woke up. I miss him now.
ace-txt:
wasn't expecting you to reply
just one of those mornings i guess
i slept in, needed some rest. i'm coming to practice later
I hit send before I can talk myself out of it, then immediately regret not making it lighter or deflecting with a joke. Then, I swear my thumbs start moving on their own.
ace-txt:
are you okay btw?
saw an article, a heist went wrong last night in Shibuya
someone was killed, I just hope you're alright
I suddenly realise how overbearing I probably sound. Now I sound like I'm checking up on him, like I'm worried, like I care—I do care, but he doesn't need to know that, it'd only inflate his ego.
takato.kai- is typing…
He stops typing, and a lump forms in my throat. Still, I can't help watching the chat like a hawk, hoping, waiting for him to say something.
takato.kai- is typing…
takato.kai-:
Were you worried about me, Anri?
You're cute when you get flustered.
takato.kai-:
I'm fine. Heard some sirens, but no more than usual.
You sure you're not just looking for an excuse to text me first?
I stare at the screen, heat crawling up my neck. He called me cute. Does he actually think that, or is he just teasing? I want to throw my phone across the kitchen, but I don't. Instead, I hover over the keyboard.
ace-txt:
…
shut up…
i was just making sure you weren't dead
don't let it get to your head.
Sent before I can overthink it. I set my phone face down on the counter. But I don't want to look away. I want him to keep replying. I want him to say something real, something that isn't just teasing. I want him to say he missed me.
But I know better than to get my hopes up. With Kai, it's always a game. Push, pull, never quite enough.
The kettle clicks off. I pour my coffee with trembling hands, and I try to convince myself that I'm not waiting for more. I feign that I'm just being strict with my schedule, but I'm almost too overwhelmed to keep watching the chat.
Back in my bedroom, I set my coffee mug down on the desk beside my laptop.
A full-sized MIDI keyboard occupies most of the surface; it's by far the most luxurious thing I own. Everything else in my room feels temporary in comparison: hand-me-down furniture from Yuujin's parents, thrifted shelves, stacks of manga volumes I 'borrowed' that don't quite fit anywhere.
I plug the cable into my laptop and wait for it to chime. I stretch my fingers as I load up the DAW, cursing under my breath when the software lags. I hover my fingers over the piano keys without playing yet. Just feeling the shape of them, testing the resistance before sound exists.
I roll my shoulders, trying to loosen the knot of nerves that's settled there. I talked myself into performing Satie's "Gymnopédie No. 1" for my recital. It's one of those pieces that sounds simple, but it's deceptive in that every mistake feels naked and exposed.
I exhale and start.
The opening chords come out slightly harsh before drifting forward into the soft melody that's so familiar. This isn't a piece you can rush. It asks you to sit with it, let space do some of the work. I know this. I've played it enough times to know where my hands are supposed to go without looking.
Still, my fingers hesitate.
The melody drags forward, too mechanically. I follow, trying not to overthink. I let my wrists stay loose, let the weight of the melody fall naturally instead of forcing it. The notes stretch out, one after another, like they're breathing.
That look Kai gave me in the car, did I imagine it?
My right foot falters at the sustain pedal, pressing down too soon between harmony changes, making the piece sound muddy.
"Fuck," I mutter under my breath.
My chest feels light, Kai flickering on the edge of my thoughts, and I grit my teeth, determined to focus on the piece, not him. Every run-through sounds brittle. I can hear how forced it sounds, how every chord lands with a thud when it's supposed to sound controlled during the softer passages.
The more I try to shut Kai out, the worse it gets. My hands tense, wrists locked, the melody stumbles. I'm frustrated—at myself, at the deceptive complexity of a piece I've practised hundreds of times. I want to play this perfectly, to prove I can—because I know I can, but all I'm doing is fighting myself.
I try to give myself a moment. Just get it together. I take small sips of coffee that's now lukewarm. The harder I try to resist, pull away from this hold that Kai has over me—he creeps up on me, threading himself through my thoughts. Every time I try to tug him loose, the knot just pulls tighter, trapping me in the memory of him.
I stretch my fingers again, taking deep breaths. Run through the piece again, from the top.
I don't have the strength to pretend anymore.
So I let go. I let him in—I remember that day in the high school locker room, that jolt of electricity when our hands brushed. The way he made me feel so exposed and seen all at once. The way he kept my secrets to himself. Even when our classmates called us "the arguing couple", he didn't act defensive about it, didn't use me as a shield to protect his own reputation. In hindsight, after me and Kai clashed, other guys didn't bully me as much beyond teasing mine and Kai's bickering. Almost like I was off-limits, like I was his to keep in arm's reach.
The tension in my shoulders eases. My hands relax. The music shifts, softens, becomes something living. I can feel my heart fluttering in my chest again as I slouch slightly, but I'm not resisting anymore. The notes come out cleaner, more honest, like they're slipping past my defences instead of fighting them.
I let my hands drop from the keys as the last chords of "Gymnopédie No. 1" linger in the air. They are soft and genuine in a way I haven't felt in a long time. For a moment, I just sit there, exhaling and feeling relief take hold in my chest.
The apartment feels unusually quiet after I finish practising. Most of my neighbours are salary workers—gone all day—and I rarely take days off, so I never really get the chance to practise without headphones. The silence feels fragile, like it might shatter if I breathe too loudly.
I stand up and stretch while I soak in the rare hush, before I finally cross back to the kitchen to rinse my mug. My phone is right where I left it, face down on the counter, like I was trying to prove I could go an hour without checking. I can't help the little spike of hope as I flip it over.
takato.kai-:
I'm okay.
You don't need to worry about me.
You'll see me at practice.
This is so typical of Kai. Yet, a stupid smile is daring to tug at the corner of my lips. I know I shouldn't be getting my hopes up, but before, this would have made me spiral. Now it feels like I'm leaning into him—like he's holding me steady.
I set my phone down on the counter and turn back toward my room, meaning to finish some coursework while my hands are still warm.
It buzzes again.
Not a text this time.
I pick it up, thumb already swiping out of habit, and freeze when I see my username tagged near the top of my notifications.
Music Club – Summer Recital
Tonight, 19:30
Yasuda Auditorium
It's just a promotional post from the university's music club account with a simple graphic. My handle sits in the caption alongside a few others that were tagged.
Now I'm nervous again. Now it's real. This isn't something I can quietly back out of. People will come. People will look.
The post already has a couple of likes. Yuujin's name pops up almost immediately, followed by a stupid heart reaction that makes me huff out a breath.
And then I stop.
Because Kai follows the music club account. I know he does. I noticed weeks ago and filed it away, like everything else about him that I pretend not to keep track of.
My thumb hovers over the screen.
There's no notification from him. No reaction. Nothing to suggest he's seen it.
Which somehow feels louder than if he had.
I lock my phone and press it flat against the counter, like I can physically contain the feeling spreading through my chest.
—
Soccer practice is the last place I want to be today. Yuujin waves at me from across the pitch. Players are already warming up and I try to slip into formation unnoticed. I jog onto the grass, stretching as I go, rolling my shoulders.
Kai clocks me immediately.
His attention locks onto me, scanning over me until our eyes meet. His gaze doesn't read as careful or calculated as before; it's softened. Or maybe I'm just seeing what I want to see and that's just how he always looks.
Then, just as suddenly, he turns back to his warmup.
Coach Nakamura finally arrives and reminds us of the first match of the pre-season on Friday. It'll be the first opportunity for me, Yuujin, and Kai to prove ourselves as worthy forwards against another university's defence.
But I can't think about Friday. My nerves are on fire from the heat of practice and the prickling anticipation of tonight's recital.
When drills start, Riku is already barking orders at me. He's sharp today. Sharper than necessary. He corrects a pass that wasn't even off, then again as I hesitate because I'm already expecting him to call me out for it.
"Ace. Again. You were late on the turn," He snarls. "Reset and do it again."
I open my mouth to argue—Yuujin sees it, and Kai sees it. Riku does too, and that's all the invitation he needs.
"Again," he snaps, tossing the ball at me a little too hard. "Maybe try not to look terrified this time."
Riku is making an example out of me. No teammates, no rotation. Just him and me, running the same drill while the entire team is made to stand on the sidelines pretending not to watch. The silence behind us makes every mistake feel louder.
"Late again. You gonna play like that on Friday? Or are you planning to embarrass us?"
My lungs burn. I'm Embarrassed. The sidelines are silent.
"Move."
Kai's voice cuts through everything—cold, precise, impossible to ignore. Riku stiffens.
Kai doesn't look at him. He doesn't need to.
"Your passes are too heavy," he says before Riku can object. "I'll take over, unless you'd prefer to keep wasting everybody's time."
Riku opens his mouth to retort. Yuujin and a few other guys snicker. That's all it takes. Riku's authority fractures—small, but enough for everyone to feel it.
I barely have enough chance to agree to this before Kai sends me the first pass—it's fast but smooth, weighted perfectly, landing right at my feet like he knows exactly where I'd want it.
My body reacts on instinct. Touch, turn, strike. Shot on target.
The Coach calls out Riku's name. "Maeda, hit the showers, you're done for today. See me in my office after. The rest of you pick up the pace. Just because it's pre-season, it doesn't mean you should be slacking."
Riku freezes like he didn't hear it. Then his jaw flexes tight. He kicks a stray ball out of his way hard enough that it ricochets off the fence. Then he finally storms off the pitch alongside the coach without looking at anybody.
Drills continue like nothing happened, but my head is still buzzing from the fallout. I move to grab another ball, trying to focus, but before I can reach it, there's a sudden, firm tug at my arm.
Kai pulls me towards him, his grip unyielding, and before I can catch my balance, his arm slides around my shoulders—anchoring me in place. It's the kind of move that looks normal from the outside, just teammates sharing tactics, but the heat of his body pressed against mine makes my knees threaten to give out.
He leans in, breath warm against my ear, voice pitched low enough that only I can hear.
"Don't let him keep fucking with you," Kai murmurs against my ear; the vibration sends a tingle down my neck. "Otherwise, I'll be the one who handles him—or maybe you want that, hmm?"
I can barely process what he's even saying. His lips against my ear make me dizzy. I swallow hard before I speak, attempting to keep my voice low.
"He's captain—"
"He's not the captain of you," He cuts me off, his grip on my shoulder tightens. "He doesn't get to coach my left winger."
My heart stutters. I can barely breathe. My voice comes out breathy, "Your left winger?"
I feel his breath as he huffs out a soft laugh against my earlobe, "You heard me, Anri." He lets go as quickly as he grabbed me, stepping away as if he didn't just give me butterflies.
My skin still tingles where Kai's hand was, but I force myself to focus on the drills, pushing through the last few sets with a stubbornness that feels almost like defiance. By the time practice ends, my legs ache and my thoughts are finally starting to clear.
In the locker room, the usual chaos takes over—laughter echoing, the hiss of showers running. I keep my head down, moving through the motions: jersey off, towel slung over my shoulder, the familiar sting of hot water washing away sweat and nerves. I let the noise and steam blur everything out, grounding myself in the routine.
When I step out of the shower, Yuujin's already half-dressed, hair sticking up in every direction. He grins at me, nudging my side. "You alive, Ace?"
"Something like that," I mutter, but there's a smile tugging at my mouth now and a strange warmth that's desperate to settle in my chest.
I dry my hair as much as possible; my recital is in an hour, so I have to get ready here. I tug on my white button-down, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, collar open. Black slacks that sit sharp on my hips and my shoes, polished black, the kind that click on tile, too formal for a locker room.
I'm lacing up my shoes when I spot Kai stepping out of the showers. Then I take a second glance—towel slung low around his waist, droplets falling from his hair, tracing down the sharp lines of his bare chest, catching in the dips between his abs. For a moment, I forget where I am; the sight hits me harder than it should, and I have to force myself to look away before anyone notices.
"Hey," Kai calls out in my direction, "Let me borrow your shower gel."
I hesitate for half a second as I process what he's asking.
A normal request. Teammates borrow things all the time. My bag is at my feet. The small bottle is tucked into the side pocket.
"Uh—yeah. Sure." I say too quickly as I unzip the side pocket, trying hard not to look at him again.
His fingers, still wet, brush mine as I pass the bottle to him. Not a full touch. Just enough.
"Thanks," he says low enough to hear at arm's reach, turning back toward the showers.
"Kai," I call, catching his attention. "Don't worry about driving me back today. I'm gonna eat with Yuujin before the recital."
"Good luck tonight," Kai's eyes flicker over me, unreadable for a moment. "You look nice."
The words stick with me long after he disappears back toward the showers.
You look nice.
It shouldn't mean anything. Compliments happen. I tell myself that as I sling my bag over my shoulder and follow Yuujin out of the locker room, the evening air hits my damp hair like a reset button.
Yuujin doesn't say anything at first. That's what tips me off.
We walk side by side toward the cafeteria, the crowd thick with students killing time before evening classes. Usually, he fills the silence without thinking—complaints about drills, jokes about the match on Friday, something stupid someone said in the locker room. Today, he just glances at me every so often, like he's waiting for me to catch up to a conversation I don't know we're having.
We grab trays. I follow him through the line, stomach already tight with nerves, eyes skimming the options without really registering them.
"You know," he says casually, loading his plate, "if you'd told high school that you'd be walking around looking like this because of Kai Takato…"
I stiffen. "Because of what?"
Yuujin snorts. "Relax. I said if."
I glare at him, but he's already smiling to himself, that knowing little tilt to his mouth that makes me uneasy.
"You used to bite each other's heads off," he continues, like he's reminiscing about something fond. "Every day it was like—" he gestures vaguely between us, "—verbal warfare. I thought you were going to kill each other by graduation."
"I thought I hated him," I say too quickly.
"Sure," he hums. "That explains why you're blushing right now."
"I'm not—"
He stops walking and looks at me properly now. Not pushing. Just attentive.
"You should see yourself," he says quietly. "You get all soft around the edges when he's nearby. It's new."
My grip tightens on the tray. I stare at the counter like it might offer a way out of this conversation.
Yuujin sighs, softer. "I'm not judging. And I'm not worried about him."
That makes me look up.
His gaze flicks briefly, instinctively. "Riku's still the one I'm watching," he adds. "Kai's… intense, yeah. Riku's just a dick."
My chest does something uncomfortable at that.
Yuujin bumps my shoulder lightly, like he's giving me an out. "Just—be careful, okay? And maybe eat something."
"I don't know if I can," I mutter, reaching instead for a bottle of Ramune from the fridge.
He raises an eyebrow but lets it go. "Fine. But if you pass out on stage, I'm telling everyone it was because of unresolved sexual tension."
I choke on a laugh, heat rushing to my face.
"Shut up," I say, but it comes out weak.
He grins, satisfied—not because he's right, but because I didn't deny it.
He watches me for a moment, then grins, "So—Mei's coming tonight."
"Mei? Is she your date?" I ask.
"Mm. Kind of." He shrugs, casual but not dismissive. "We met on an app a couple of months ago. Nothing serious. Friends with benefits, I guess."
The words make heat creep up my neck before I can stop it.
"Oh," I blurt too quickly. "Right."
Yuujin notices immediately. "Hey, no pressure. It's not a big deal. She's cool. We're just having fun." He says it plainly, without arrogance or embarrassment. It feels like just another way of being with someone.
I nod, pretending the idea doesn't make my brain short-circuit. The thought of something like that seems impossibly distant. Giving myself to someone without meaning or weight. I can't imagine touching someone that way, letting them see me like that, unless it meant something.
I don't judge him for being able to do that. I just don't understand how he does it.
"She insisted on coming," Yuujin adds. "Said she wanted to see what kind of recital would make me cancel dinner plans."
"Yuujin," It's a girl's voice; she taps him on the shoulder. "I hope you're saying nice things about me!"
She's pretty in an effortless way. Soft smile, neat hair, easy posture. She looks at me next, tilting her head slightly, eyes bright. But her cheeks look warm and flushed, like maybe she stopped at a bar before arriving.
"You must be Ace! I'm Mei," she says before she turns back to Yuujin, "You didn't tell me he was cute!" She giggles and sways, swatting Yuujin across the chest.
I choke on my drink.
"Uh—" I manage, mortified. "Nice to meet you." I bow my head in greeting.
She sits beside him, slipping naturally into his space as if it's been practised, like it doesn't hold any weight. Watching them, I feel strangely out of sync with my own body and reactions.
They're cute together. Casual. Those words don't fit the thread that has been tightening around my heart lately.
Mei leans into Yuujin when he touches her. She laughs at his stupid jokes, she fixes his hair, she tastes his food. Impossibly close without commitment.
The contrast stirs something restless under my ribs.
By the time we reach the auditorium, the sky is almost dark. The building buzzes with murmurs, a vibe that's too formal for casual and too casual to feel comfortable. Every footstep echoes softly. Every cough seems louder.
I sign in at the side table with hands that feel foreign. Someone hands me a folded program. My name is there in clear print, nestled between others.
Harukawa – Gymnopédie No. 1
I swallow and fold it back up.
Yuujin, the strategist, leads Mei to the back row with deliberate care, the auditorium's whispered hush wrapping around them like a secret.
Backstage is just a narrow hallway behind the curtain, a spot for performers to wait and act like they're not falling apart. I stretch my fingers, flexing them one by one. They're trembling slightly. I haven't played for an audience since high school.
I peek through a slit in the curtain. A soft blur of faces and dark clothing. Professors I barely recognise. Students and a few strangers who wandered in because the doors were open.
And then I see him.
Kai sits a few rows back, legs slightly apart. His posture is straight, focused, like he's here for something important. Like he's here on purpose. He isn't glancing around the room. His gaze is fixed forward, already searching for me before I've stepped into the light.
He's actually here. That thought doesn't catch me off guard the same way that it used to. It settles in like it was meant to be.
My name is called.
Applause ripples through the room—polite, encouraging. My feet move forward before my brain can argue. The piano waits at centre stage, glossy black under the lights. I bow quickly, too quickly, then sit.
By the time I sit at the piano, my hands feel shaky and untrustworthy.
The lights shine warmer than I expected. They blur the edges of the room and flatten the audience into shadows. I tell myself this is a good thing. It means I don't have to see anyone clearly. I don't have to meet anyone's gaze.
Then I look up anyway, I already know who I'm looking for.
Something in my chest loosens and tightens at the same time.
So, he showed up.
That thought flashes through me, sharp and reckless. I should be nervous. I should panic about making mistakes, keeping the tempo, or my fingers slipping under the lights.
Instead, a different awareness settles in.
Let him have it.
The idea feels risky the moment it takes shape. Intimate. Like stepping too close to the edge of something I can't walk back from.
Isn't this what you wanted?
My fingers hover above the keys. For a moment, I almost slip back into old habits. Control. Precision. Playing it safe. Playing it the right way.
I stop myself.
No.
"Gymnopédie No. 1" doesn't call for perfection right now. It wants honesty. It wants restraint that comes from trust, not fear. It wants space, weight, and breath.
I lower my hands and let the first chord fall without softening it.
The sound fills the room, low, soft, and exposed. It resonates longer than I expect; the vibration travels and settles into my bones. I don't rush to cover it. I let the silence linger. Let it breathe.
My shoulders drop.
I stop trying to impress anyone.
I stop trying to hide.
The melody flows slowly and deliberately, and I follow it instead of forcing it where I think it should go. My wrists stay relaxed. My fingers sink into the keys with intention, not force. Each note feels like a choice I'm making in real time.
I'm not counting anymore.
I'm feeling.
The room fades until there's only the piano and the steady pull in my chest. My thoughts drift, open now. Maybe I wasn't being delusional when I saw something raw and unguarded in his eyes—like he's holding back words or feeling too much. When he says my name, it feels intimate, as if he's letting me be closer to him than anyone else. Even his silence, in those moments, I sense his vulnerability, and it pulls me in even more.
My throat tightens.
The melody deepens, both melancholic and tender. My fingers hesitate for half a beat before the next phrase, and instead of correcting it, I let that moment linger. Let it ache.
This isn't me performing.
This is me giving something away.
I glance up again without meaning to.
Kai hasn't moved. His eyes are locked on me, dark and intent, as if he's bracing for something. There's a tension in his face I've never seen so clearly before. His jaw is tight, and the rise and fall of his chest is shallow.
The realisation hits me hard enough to make my pulse stutter.
This is affecting him.
A strange heat coils low in my stomach, a mix of fear and excitement. I lean into it, letting it guide my hands. The notes soften even more, almost fragile, as if they might break if handled carelessly.
I play as if I'm speaking directly to him. As if I'm saying: Here. This is me. This is what you do to me. This is what happens when I stop resisting.
If he wants to see inside me, this is it.
Kai, as my fingers drift over the keys, I can feel you out there—I'm telling myself I'm playing for the room, for the applause, for the club, but it's a lie. Every note is for you. I want you to hear what I can't say out loud, to feel the way you've unsettled every part of me.
I wish I could look up and meet your eyes, just once, just to see if you're really listening. I wish I could tell you that you're the reason my hands are steady, and the reason my heart is racing. That I'm terrified and exhilarated all at once, because you're here, and that changes everything.
I don't know what this is—what we are, or what I want us to be. But right now, as the music fills the silence between us, I want you to know: you're the only person I want to play for. And if you're listening—really listening—maybe you'll hear it. Maybe you'll understand that, for once, I'm not running away.
By the time I reach the final chord, my chest feels hollow. The sound lingers, delicate and unresolved, hanging in the air longer than feels comfortable.
I let it.
Then I lift my hands.
The silence that follows is unbearable. My ears ring. My fingers tremble as they settle back into my lap.
Applause erupts, distant and unreal.
I stand, bow quickly, barely noticing the faces in front of me. My gaze finds Kai one last time before I turn away.
He's clapping slowly, deliberately.
He doesn't smile.
If anything, he looks like he's barely holding it together.
That thought sends a shiver through me as I step offstage, my legs weak, my heart still racing.
I gave him something tonight.
I don't know yet what that means.
But I know, with a terrifying certainty, that I can't take it back.
Kai is waiting when I step out.
I spot him before he spots me. He's leaning near the edge of the courtyard; he has his jacket with him tonight, slung loose over one shoulder instead of worn properly, like he forgot what it was for. He doesn't have his bag with him, most likely in his car. His hair isn't as neat as usual. Not messy, exactly—just undone enough to feel intentional in a way that makes my stomach dip.
He looks up.
The moment our eyes meet, something in his expression shifts. Not surprise. Not relief. Recognition. Like he'd been holding his breath and only just remembered how to exhale.
"Anri."
My name lands softer than it did last night. Less controlled. It sends a small, unsteady tremor through me.
"You were good," he says, stepping closer. "Better than good."
I open my mouth, then close it again. My throat feels tight, like the words have to push past something vulnerable to get out.
"Thanks."
That's all I manage. Pathetic.
He studies me for a second, gaze sweeping over my face like he's checking for cracks. His voice drops, deliberately casual, like he's trying to ground himself in something normal.
"I wasn't gonna let you walk home by yourself at this time of night." He grips onto the strap of my bag, sliding it off my arm before I can protest. When he slings my bag over his own shoulder, it doesn't just feel like a favour; it's a quiet claim, a way of saying I'm his to look after.
I swallow, suddenly aware of how close he is and how easily he takes my bag, how natural it feels. "You didn't have to," I say, voice barely above a whisper. "But… thanks." My cheeks burn, I have to look down, hoping he doesn't notice how much I need this, how much I need him.
We start walking side by side through the Hongo campus, the path lit by low lamps and filtered moonlight. The ginkgo trees loom above us, their leaves catching the light and breaking it into soft fragments. The air has cooled since earlier, the kind of cold that slips under your skin without asking.
I realise how exposed I feel without my bag to grip onto. My hands are shaking, curling into fists at my sides.
Kai notices immediately.
He always does.
"You're shaking, Anri," he says quietly.
The words hit me harder than I expected.
In high school, the way he'd tell me I'm shaking had been a tease. A knowing smirk. A way to get under my skin.
Now it feels like concern stripped bare of irony.
"I'm fine," I lie.
He stops walking.
I take another step before I realise, then stop too. He turns toward me, close enough now that I can feel his heat, smell him—clean, familiar, grounding in a way that makes my chest ache.
"You don't have to do that," he says.
Before I can ask what he means, his jacket is gone from his shoulder.
"Here."
"Kai—"
He doesn't wait for permission.
He steps closer and lifts the jacket, guiding it over my shoulders himself. His hands are careful but sure as he slips my arms through the sleeves, fingers brushing my wrists, my elbows. The fabric is warm from his body. It swallows me whole, oversized, heavy and unmistakably his.
My breath stutters.
"Better," he mutters, more to himself than me.
I pull the jacket closed instinctively, wrapping myself up like I'm afraid it might disappear. The scent of him clings to the fabric—subtle cologne, something clean underneath. My heart flutters so violently it almost hurts.
We keep walking.
I don't let go of the jacket the entire walk.
By the time we reach his car, my nerves are frayed down to something raw and exposed. The drive feels quieter than usual. Not empty—loaded. The city hums around us, but inside the car, everything feels suspended.
Halfway home, Kai breaks the silence.
"Why aesthetics?"
I blink. "What?"
He keeps his eyes on the road, jaw tight. "You care about music more than anything. I can see it. So why major in aesthetics?"
The question isn't accusatory. It's precise. Intent.
"I don't know," I admit. "Music feels… too honest, sometimes. Aesthetics lets me think about meaning without having to bleed all over the place."
His grip tightens on the wheel.
"And the piano?"
"That's different."
"How?"
I swallow. "Because I don't have to explain it. I can just… exist inside it."
He's quiet for a moment.
Then, softly, "You disappear when you play."
The way he says it makes my breath stutter.
We pull up outside my building too soon.
Kai cuts the engine, but neither of us moves.
"I'll walk you up," he says, already opening his door.
The hallway is quiet, echoing with our footsteps. The elevator ride is unbearable. Too close. Too intimate. When the doors open, the tension doesn't ease.
It gets worse.
We stop outside my apartment door. Kai drops my bag down by my feet.
I turn to face him, his jacket still clutched tight around me. My hands are shaking again, worse this time. My heart feels like it's trying to escape my chest.
Neither of us speaks.
Kai lifts a hand, hesitates—then brushes my hair out of my face.
The touch is gentle. Reverent.
I don't flinch.
I lean into it.
The moment stretches, fragile and electric, as if the entire world has narrowed to this lamplit hallway. Kai's thumb hovers, before it finally traces the edge of my cheekbone—slow, tentative, like he's memorising the shape of me beneath his touch. His composure finally cracks.
"Fuck," he breathes.
For a second, I think—this is it. This is where everything breaks open.
Then he pulls back.
Hard.
"Sorry," he says abruptly, already stepping away. "I—I have to go."
"Kai—"
He's already turning, taking the stairs two at a time instead of waiting for the elevator. He doesn't look back.
"Kai!" I call again.
He's gone.
I'm left standing there alone in the hallway, heart pounding, wrapped in his jacket like a promise he didn't mean to make.
The air feels too empty without him.
I stare down the stairwell long after his footsteps fade, my fingers tightening in the fabric at my chest.
I don't know what just happened.
Somewhere below, a door slams, distant and final.
I back up into my door and I let myself slide down to the floor, knees drawn to my chest. My breath comes slow and shallow; all the words I should have said swirl inside me, unspoken and restless. I shut my eyes and listen to the silence, trying not to fall apart with it.
But the silence presses in, heavy and merciless. I try to will the pain in my chest to fade, but it only grows sharper. The echo of Kai's touch lingers on my skin like a bruise.
A sob escapes before I can swallow it down. Then another. I bury my face in the sleeve of his jacket, shoulders shaking as the tears come, his scent only makes me ache more.
My phone is heavy in my hand. I type out a message:
Come back. Please, just come back.
But I can't send it. Instead, I let the words sit there, unsent, as the weight of everything unsaid hangs in the air, and the tears refuse to stop.