People are shaped by contradictions, tears, and scars.
At first, when Yamada Ryō saw lines like that, she would react without emotion—"Wow, that's pretty poetic."
But at some point, she began unconsciously thinking about what those words actually meant.
If she had to pinpoint when it started, it was probably the moment she discovered that blue sheet of paper Narumi had tucked inside the notebook—the one labeled "Top Secret: For Yamada Only."
She kept that message, read it carefully, and stored it away at home. Even after her emotions had settled, she would still take it out from time to time and read it again.
Or rather, once she was emotionally stable, rereading the words he left for her allowed her to think more calmly about what kind of feelings he must have had when he wrote them.
She'd kept that note for years now. Exactly how many, she no longer remembered.
But every time she reread it, it gave her a different feeling.
As if that boy were still chatting away beside her, never having truly left.
[When you read this message, Yamada, I hope my appearance didn't scare you too much. I know people tend to look kind of horrifying after they die. If I showed you that without giving you any mental preparation, I'll accept it if you're mad at me]
So even at a time like that, you still couldn't resist being a jackass to lighten the mood. That really is just like you.
[But please allow me this bit of selfishness too—leaving you out of the full truth, planning everything on my own, and only notifying you after the fact so you could handle the cleanup. Because I know that if you'd realized what I was thinking, you'd have smashed my head in with your bass. And honestly, I'd rather die than get hit like that—those things hurt like hell]
True. If there weren't some mysterious force stopping me, I'd have sent you straight to the hospital.
That familiar, reassuring tone made the corners of her mouth lift despite herself.
Once everything had settled, rereading the letter no longer stirred her emotions—only calm.
[I did something unforgivable to Caterpillar. And honestly, it was unforgivable to your whole band as well. If you can't forgive me for that, I completely understand. But if possible—out of pure selfishness—I still hope you won't hate me. That's why I left this note for you]
Haha. (Emotionless.) How did you know I hate self-important, self-absorbed jerks the most?
[This might sound kind of gross, but I felt an intense sense of familiarity toward you from the very beginning. If I'm the type who builds layer upon layer of defenses when it comes to friendship, then you're the type who blew them all up and strolled right in. Maybe we were even life-and-death comrades in a past life, who knows?]
More like 'stepped-on-each-other's-shoes' kind of comrades.
This wasn't something she and this world's Narumi Tōru had ever experienced together, so that retort stayed only in her mind.
[It probably seems strange to others. We'd only met once or twice, spent barely any time together—yet I trusted you unilaterally and entrusted you with things I couldn't relax leaving to anyone else. I don't know how you saw me, but I truly treated you as a friend]
Ditto.
Even though this world's Narumi hadn't shared her past experiences, that indescribable sense of closeness was still there.
Knowing he'd felt the same way actually made Yamada a little happy.
She would've been even happier if he'd said it to her directly.
Unfortunately, there was no if.
[This may sound cold, but I honestly don't care how anyone else sees me—not even how Caterpillar sees me. Their opinions mean nothing to me]
What is this, we weren't even that close in this world. Are you seriously confessing your love to me on your deathbed?
[And I felt like if I only wrote to Caterpillar and left nothing for you, you might get a little mad. Of course, that's just my own assumption]
I'm not mad.
…Well, before she'd found this blue sheet—when she'd read the densely written letter to Bocchi that didn't mention her at all—she had been a tiny bit annoyed.
[To be honest, there's probably no real meaning in leaving these words for you. But I wrote them anyway, almost on impulse. I don't even know why myself]
[Since I had the chance, I figured I'd say the things I never planned to say. Truth is, I've always really admired you. You look like you don't care about anything and just go with the flow—but when it's something you truly care about, you give it everything. You do things your own way, stay unconventional, and still manage to look after the emotions of the people around you]
Keep going. I like hearing that.
Every time she reached this part, Yamada Ryō's mood improved.
Still—if those words had been spoken aloud by him, rather than written out of necessity at the very end, it would've been better.
[I know we hadn't known each other long, and the time we spent together was barely anything. Saying all this probably isn't very convincing… If only I'd had enough time to prove it]
Too bad neither of us had that time.
[No matter what, I want to say this—sorry for putting you through so much, Yamada. And this might sound sudden and heavy… but meeting you in this world was my only comfort]
This is worse than a love confession, you know that?
[Honestly, this life I lived was an awful experience. Like wearing shoes that didn't fit, being forced into a body that wasn't compatible with me. Every second, I was doing things I didn't want to do. I'm not trying to dodge responsibility—I just want to say that I don't have any real attachment to this world. Except for you. You're the only person I trust]
[This might sound cliché, or just weird to you. But like that line from the movie says—when I grow tired of everything, I think of you. Knowing you're living in this world lets me endure these blistering shoes and this uncooperative body, and keep going. Your existence was crucial to keeping my sanity—and to ending this absurd game as soon as possible]
[If anything, it was precisely because I wanted to reunite with you sooner that I could face death so calmly]
[I hope you'll be sad for me, even if just a little. But don't be too sad. We'll meet again soon—just think of it as waking up from a very long dream]
What is this certainty of "we'll definitely meet again"? What did he think his life was?
Strangely enough, the letter gave Yamada a feeling that it hadn't been written by the third-rate bassist Narumi Tōru—but by the Narumi Tōru she'd first met working at the front desk.
There was no evidence for that assumption. She decided to treat it as intuition.
Because, honestly, her image of him had been growing blurrier with time.
Feelings are like pouring cola—too fast and it spills all over the table, and when you look back, you realize there's only half a cup left.
Maybe she hadn't cared about him as much as she thought.
At the bottom of the letter, there was a small arrow, telling her to flip the page over.
On the back was a bass score Narumi had written in his final moments.
A farewell gift for you—that was probably what he meant.
Frankly speaking, it was crude. The melody was barely catchy, nothing novel compared to truly stunning compositions.
If anything, this was about the upper limit of what a third-rate bassist could write.
Even so, Yamada Ryō learned the piece.
She rearranged it, added details to enrich the sound, turning it into something that could actually be performed—not just a simple melody.
She treated it as a special number at every show, quietly playing it whenever a warm-up was needed.
Even after leaving Kessoku Band, even though she never stayed long in any band, that song stayed with her for a very long time.
They'd known each other in this world for only a few dozen days before he died at an age that left the deepest impressions.
By any rational measure, that wasn't nearly enough time for Narumi to become someone truly important to her. Their bond in this world shouldn't have reached that level.
Logically speaking, that was how it should be.
But Yamada Ryō realized she couldn't measure her true feelings with logic or reason.
She'd spent more time losing him than knowing him. Someday, that time would even exceed the length of her own existence.
He had stepped outside of time. She couldn't.
Like a sneeze, years slipped by in a single instant.
Yamada Ryō became a free-spirited bassist, drifting from band to band, performing purely according to her own tastes. Her family's wealth supported her doing what she loved. Sometimes she still blew an entire month's living expenses on gear she wanted, but with performance income, she was never truly broke.
Only when she stood on stage, doing what she wanted, could she snap out of this lucid-dream state and fully sink into the feeling of being herself.
Because only when she looked at the audience did that hazy unreality fade a little—making her feel as though she'd merely been dreaming a very long dream.
"…A dream?"
She stared blankly at the blurred faces of the crowd, confused.
She'd never noticed before… she'd never actually seen their faces clearly.
The moment she realized that, her memories up until now also became indistinct. Not just nameless passersby—even the faces of former bandmates were no longer clear.
That kind of haziness felt like something that only happened in dreams.
So when would she wake up?
As that thought crossed her mind, she suddenly remembered—
This wasn't the world she'd originally belonged to.
Was this a lucid dream? Or had she fallen into some kind of vortex?
No matter what the truth was, Yamada Ryō just wanted to break free from this life, which had long since grown dull.
Her real family—her bandmates—were waiting for her.
The moment she let go of her bass, the crowd no longer illuminated by spotlights faded into near-nothingness, swallowed by pitch-black darkness.
Within that darkness, faint points of light glimmered in one corner of the noisy crowd.
Yamada Ryō recognized that familiar corner.
It was where Narumi Tōru had stood when they first met.
Almost instinctively, she stopped playing. Her bandmates on stage and the audience below vanished without a trace, as if the entire world had turned into a one-woman play.
She walked straight toward the corner illuminated by a single spotlight—the place the boy had once occupied.
"…?"
As she stood bathed in that cold light, the stage lights went out.
Then the light above her head disappeared as well.
Darkness returned. Silence followed.
It felt as though she herself dissolved into that void.
She didn't know how much time passed before sensation slowly returned to her limbs.
"…!"
Yamada Ryō opened her eyes.
She was in a noisy rehearsal room.
"Ahh… this can't go on forever. Maybe tomorrow I'll look around for someone who can handle guitar."
Standing dumbly in the center of the room with her bass in hand, she saw a girl with a blonde side ponytail sitting in front of her, frowning over sheet music while tapping the floor tom.
"Hey, Ryō, don't zone out either. I haven't heard your bass at all—no slacking."
"…Nijika?"
She called the name blankly. The blonde girl turned around, finally looking at her.
"Ryō? What's wrong, spacing out like that—ugh."
Yamada Ryō suddenly wrapped her in a bear hug, freezing Ijichi Nijika in place.
"W-wait, the bass—your bass is crushing me, it hurts—!"
Ignoring Nijika's protests, Ryō gave her a tight hug—bass and all—then bolted out of the rehearsal room in a few long strides.
By evening, people were already trickling in to see the show. She carefully examined their faces as she walked from backstage, past the stage, and up to the front desk—
And there she saw him.
The familiar curly-haired boy had just finished switching shifts. With his back to her, he stretched lazily, yawning as he bent slightly to pour himself a cup of water at the dispenser.
While that was happening, Yamada Ryō walked up behind him, bass in hand.
She stared wide-eyed at his back, as if checking whether he might vanish in the next instant.
Then she raised her bass—
SMACK!!
"?!"
She brought the back of the bass down squarely on the bent-over boy's ass.
"Y-Yamada?!"
The sudden attack made the curly-haired boy shudder like a startled cat. He spun around, staring at her in pure confusion.
"That hurts like hell!! Why did you hit me so hard?!"
"…Mm. Satisfying."
Yamada Ryō glanced at the slightly dented back of her bass—the result of its intimate contact with Narumi's butt—and light returned to her once-calm eyes.
At last, she'd wrested control of her body back from that mysterious force.
Which meant she'd broken free from that world where she wasn't the protagonist.
Yamada Ryō let out a long breath, the corner of her mouth lifting just a little.
"…Looks like I'll need a new bass."