The girl's sobbing voice echoed in her ears—raw, broken, accusatory. Crystal tears dripped from Hojo Suzune's chin, falling onto the white hospital bedsheet with a soft, repetitive pat... pat... pat..., darkening small circles of cotton like falling rain.
Hojo Shione's expression froze.
The lines of text on the phone screen filled her vision, burning themselves into her retinas.
"It doesn't matter anymore." Five simple words. Five syllables that contained an entire universe of meaning. She read them once. Twice. Three times. And with each repetition, fresh tears welled up in her dark eyes—but these tears were not like her sister's. They were not tears of fury or grief or accusation.
They were tears of pure, crystalline, incandescent joy.
A burning, tingling pain still throbbed from her right cheek where Suzune's palm had struck. The heat of it radiated down her jaw, a sharp, insistent reminder of her sister's righteous fury. But beneath that pain—beneath the sting and the shock and the lingering red imprint of five small fingers—something else bloomed.
Warmth. Relief. A happiness so profound it seemed to fill every crack and hollow space inside her, sealing the fractures, flooding the void.
He's not blaming me. Even knowing the truth... even seeing through everything I did... he still doesn't blame me. He forgives me.
He feels sorry for me.
He still cares.
A smile—slow at first, trembling at the corners, then widening, brightening, becoming something almost radiant—spread across Hojo Shione's pale, tear-streaked face. The curve of her lips grew wider and wider, her tear-filled eyes sparkling with an almost feverish joy, her slender shoulders trembling uncontrollably as the emotion welled up inside her, too vast to be contained.
And then, as if the pressure had finally become unbearable, she threw her head back and laughed. The sound that emerged from her damaged throat was thin and rough—a dry, rasping "ho ho ho" that was less a laugh and more a ghost of one—but the joy behind it was unmistakable. Real. Overwhelming.
Seiya. You still love me. You still love me.
Even though she had used Hasegawa Saori like a chess piece. Even though she had manipulated circumstances and weaponized information and set events in motion that spiraled far beyond her control. Even though, right up until the moment she'd stepped onto that stage, she had been gambling. Betting everything—her voice, her career, her future—on a single, desperate question that she couldn't answer.
She and Shiratori Seiya had been separated for so long. Too long. Long enough that when she saw him again, she could no longer be certain of his feelings. The way he looked at her. The warmth in his eyes. The tenderness that used to be reserved only for her.
Was it still there, buried beneath the distance and the new relationships and the careful, deliberate boundaries he had erected? Or had it faded? Had time—that merciless, patient eroder of all things—worn it down to nothing?
She had told herself, constantly and firmly, that Seiya still loved her. She had repeated it like a mantra. Whispered it into her pillow at night. Chanted it silently during rehearsals. He loves me. He must still love me. He can't have stopped. But no matter how many times she said it, a quieter, crueler voice always rose up from some dark corner of her soul to contradict her.
"Does he really still love you? He left so decisively. He didn't hesitate. He didn't waver. He walked away and never looked back. Does that sound like a man who's still in love?"
"Look around you. He's surrounded by women. Beautiful women. Talented women. That Takahashi girl with her ridiculous figure and her desperate ambition. That kendo prodigy who's been loyal to him since childhood. He's never lacked for options. What makes you so special?"
"And without him... who would you even be? Where would your career be? Those songs he wrote—those were what made you famous. You're nothing without him. Why would he come back to someone who's nothing?"
"If it weren't for him, would you be where you are now?"
If only Seiya were ordinary. If only he were mediocre. A good-for-nothing. A nobody.
Whenever she locked herself in her dim apartment, curled up on her futon with only the silence and the medication for company, Hojo Shione couldn't help but think this. The thought would rise up unbidden, selfish and cruel and utterly irrational.
If Seiya were useless—completely, utterly average—no one else would fall in love with him. Those other women wouldn't constantly hover around him like flies drawn to honey. He wouldn't have so many options. He might even depend on me for something. And then... then he would belong entirely to me. Only to me. Forever.
She fantasized about it sometimes. A version of reality where Shiratori Seiya was just an ordinary man. A man who needed her. A man who couldn't leave because she was the best thing that had ever happened to him. In that version, he would never have walked away. In that version, he would still be hers.
But these were just thoughts. Poisonous, shameful, deeply unworthy thoughts.
She couldn't actually chain him to her side like a prisoner. She couldn't dim his brilliance just to make herself feel secure. All she could do was fight—with every tool she had, no matter how desperate or ugly—to re-enter his life. To find a crack in his defenses. To carve out a place for herself.
Time, she knew, was the greatest enemy of love.
Her own feelings would never change. Even if her hair turned white with age, even if her rosy lips and bright cheeks faded and wrinkled with the passing decades, her love for Seiya would remain absolute. Unwavering. Eternal. Every minute. Every day. Every month. Every year. She knew this with the same certainty she knew her own heartbeat.
But she couldn't be sure if he could do the same. She couldn't know if his love had the same endurance, the same stubborn, unkillable permanence. He had left too decisively. Too cleanly. He hadn't even given her a chance to fight back, to argue, to bargain, to plead. Just... gone. Like a door swinging shut and locking behind him.
So, even though some of her theories about Seiya remained unverified—even though there were still unanswered questions, missing puzzle pieces, gaps in her understanding of his patterns and motivations—she had been forced to act before she was fully ready. Time was running out. The longer she waited, the further he drifted. The more entrenched that Takahashi woman became. The closer the three-year promise with Saori crept toward its fulfillment.
She had to move first. She had to secure a place by his side. Even if the methods she employed were somewhat despicable. Even if they were shameless. Even if they relied on exploiting his compassion, his guilt, his fundamental inability to abandon someone who was suffering because of him—methods that even she found vaguely disgusting when she examined them too closely.
But just the thought of being able to stay by his side again... it was worth it. Any means were worth that end.
Now, looking at the chat history glowing on Suzune's phone screen, seeing the proof that he hadn't condemned her even after understanding the truth of what she'd done... the last, trembling, uncertain part of her heart finally settled into place.
He really does love me. Still. After everything.
If he didn't love me... if there was nothing left in his heart but indifference or resentment... why would he forgive me? Why would he protect me from the truth he already knows? Why would he say "it doesn't matter anymore" instead of "I can't believe you would do this"?
Only love forgives like this.
A new resolve crystallized in her chest, harder and brighter than diamond. Seiya... I will definitely figure everything out. I'll solve every puzzle, answer every question, map every corner of your heart. And when I'm done... you won't be able to leave me. Ever. I'll make absolutely certain of it.
By the hospital bed, Hojo Suzune stared at her sister—at the way her pale, tear-streaked face had contorted first into a trembling smile, then into that strange, rasping, unhinged laughter. The fury that had been burning in her small chest flickered. Faded. Was replaced by something colder. Something that looked almost like fear.
She instinctively took half a step backward, her cherry lips trembling. "You're crazy... I think you've actually gone completely insane..."
Mrs. Hojo, standing frozen beside the bed, stared blankly at her two daughters with her mouth hanging slightly open. Bewilderment. Disbelief. A slow-dawning, helpless horror.
How did this happen? The thought spiraled through her exhausted mind. My two daughters... they were perfectly fine back in Kyoto. Normal. Happy. How did they come to Tokyo and end up... like this? One mute in a hospital bed, laughing like a madwoman. The other screaming and slapping her own sister. What is wrong with this city?
Tokyo really isn't a place for people.
After a long, paralyzed moment, Mrs. Hojo finally found her voice. She took a deep, steadying breath, stepped forward, and physically pulled Hojo Suzune back from the bed, her hands firm on her younger daughter's shoulders.
"You two..." Her voice was strained, cracking at the edges with the effort of maintaining composure. "What on earth is going on here?! Someone explain this to me right now!"
On the highway back from Yokohama, the afternoon sun had broken through the morning's gray overcast, painting the passing landscape in shades of pale gold. Takahashi Mio sat in the passenger seat, the window rolled halfway down, letting the cool, fresh air wash over her face.
Her left elbow was propped against the door frame, her chin resting on her hand, her gaze fixed on the blur of buildings and trees sliding past. She was lost in thought. The kind of deep, tangled, complicated thought that made her eyes narrow and her lips press into a thin, contemplative line.
After a long, silent stretch—during which Shiratori Seiya had begun to wonder if she'd fallen asleep with her eyes open—she suddenly stirred. Her expression shifted from brooding contemplation to something sharper. More decisive. She turned to look at him, a faint, knowing smile curving at the corner of her lips.
"Just so you know... I won't give you a refund. No matter what happens."
"...?"
Shiratori Seiya turned his head briefly, caught the strange, challenging glint in her eye, and elected not to dignify the non-sequitur with a verbal response. His attention returned to the road.
"Hey. I'm being completely serious right now. This is important."
Seeing his infuriatingly indifferent expression, Mio withdrew her arm from the window and shifted in her seat. She leaned closer—close enough that he could catch the faint, floral scent of her shampoo—and fixed her gaze on his profile with an intensity that demanded acknowledgment.
"If we break up... I genuinely, truly, one hundred percent will not give you a single yen back. Not one. The money is gone. Spent. Disappeared into the void."
She paused, letting the declaration hang in the air. When he still didn't react, she continued, her voice taking on a more deliberate, matter-of-fact cadence.
"Anyway, you already know my financial situation. There's nothing left to hide. So I'm just being honest with you upfront. The money you gave me? Part of it went to paying off my loans. Part of it I spent on myself—clothes, food, training materials, the usual. And the remaining part..." She tilted her head, her eyes glinting with something that was almost, but not quite, humor. "...well, consider it a breakup fee. Compensation for emotional damages. Hazard pay for having to deal with your collection of insane ex-girlfriends."
She paused again, tapping a finger against her chin in mock thoughtfulness.
"However... I will return all the physical things you bought me. The clothes. The accessories. The training equipment. Those are still in good condition. Even if you resold them on a second-hand platform, you could probably recoup a decent chunk of your investment. That seems fair, doesn't it? That's me being reasonable."
Shiratori Seiya listened to this rambling, increasingly absurd monologue with the gradually furrowing brow of someone who had been dropped into a conversation that made no contextual sense whatsoever. Finally—after she'd concluded her elaborate financial settlement proposal—he couldn't hold back any longer.
"What exactly are you talking about? Since when did I say anything about breaking up?"
"Huh?"
Hearing this, Takahashi Mio's eyes flew wide open. Her carefully composed, faintly smug expression cracked and crumbled. Her lips parted, then closed, then opened again. She looked, for a fleeting moment, genuinely, utterly flummoxed.
"You... you're not planning to break up with me?"
"When did I say I was?"
"But—but the situation—Hojo Shione, she's—she's literally in a hospital bed right now because of you! Because you broke up with her! She got so depressed she destroyed her own voice! Can you really be that heartless? Can you really just... leave her there and keep dating me like nothing happened?"
She paused, her brow furrowing further as another thought surfaced.
"And besides—I've been reading the news. Her online reputation is taking a massive hit. There are people saying her vocals were never that great, that she was always overrated, that her success was entirely because of A-Sensei's songs. The media vultures are circling. Aren't you planning to step in? Write her a few new songs? Make a grand comeback and stabilize her image before the public tears her apart completely?"
Shiratori Seiya glanced at her with genuine surprise. The analysis was sharper and more perceptive than he'd expected.
Seeing his reaction, a triumphant, knowing smile spread across Mio's face. She looked, in that moment, very pleased with herself.
"What? Didn't expect me to know all that? The last time you gave me the script, I figured out you were A-Sensei. It wasn't exactly a difficult deduction. The pieces fit together pretty obviously once I had the right context."
Shiratori Seiya considered this for a moment. She was right—it wasn't a complicated mystery. Anyone who knew that Hojo Shione had been his girlfriend, combined with the timing of A-Sensei's emergence and disappearance, could connect the dots without much effort. He nodded slowly.
"You're right. I didn't expect you to figure that out on your own. But..." He turned his head to meet her eyes for a brief, serious moment. "...I genuinely have no plans to write any songs for her right now. That's not the solution she needs."
"Oh."
Takahashi Mio absorbed this. She nodded slowly, understanding flickering in her eyes. She grasped what he wasn't explicitly saying.
Currently, the online discourse had grown vicious. A vocal segment of public opinion insisted that Hojo Shione's singing had always been mediocre, that her ability was unremarkable, and that without A-Sensei's songwriting genius propping her up, she was nothing but a pretty face with a manufactured career.
If he were to write songs for her now—if he were to swoop in like a white knight and hand her new material in the immediate aftermath of her collapse—it would only validate that cruel narrative. It would be like pushing her deeper into a fire pit while pretending to offer rescue. The public would say, See? She can't survive without him. She's nothing without A-Sensei.
However...
"You really, truly aren't planning to break up with me?" Takahashi Mio asked once more, her voice tentative, her eyes searching his profile for any flicker of deception. Then, before he could respond, a look of theatrical, sudden understanding dawned across her delicate features. She straightened in her seat, her lips curving into a knowing, almost teasing smile.
"Oh! Oh, right! Of course! I completely forgot—you secretly agreed to marry Hasegawa Saori, didn't you? You made that whole three-year promise, the engagement, the future wedding bells. And you didn't even bother breaking up with me when that happened. Why would this be any different? Silly me. I was worrying over nothing."
As she spoke, her playful lilt gradually faded. The smile on her lips flattened into something more serious, more searching. She fixed her gaze on Shiratori Seiya with an intensity that made the air in the car feel heavier.
"So... how exactly do you plan to handle the relationships with those two? Hojo Shione definitely still loves you. That much is painfully obvious. And she's not going to let go—not after everything she just did. And that crazy... stick..."—she waved her hand vaguely, the dismissive nickname a thin shield against the genuine bewilderment beneath—"...Hasegawa Saori. You definitely can't let go of her either. So who exactly are you going to choose? What's the endgame here?"
This time, Shiratori Seiya didn't deflect. He turned his head just enough to meet her gaze, his expression calm, his lips curving into a faint, meaningful smile.
"What's this? You've excluded yourself from the equation entirely this time? That's new."
"I—"
Hearing this, Takahashi Mio's mouth opened, then closed. She ran a hand through her wind-tousled hair, buying herself a moment to think. Finally, she slumped back against the passenger seat with a heavy, helpless sigh.
"I've realized something. Something kind of depressing." She stared out the windshield at the endless ribbon of highway unfurling before them. "I don't seem to actually like you that much. Not in the way they do, anyway."
Shiratori Seiya's eyebrow arched with genuine curiosity. "Oh? How do you figure?"
"Compared to your ex-girlfriends... compared to what they're willing to do, what they're willing to sacrifice..." She turned her head, meeting his gaze with an expression that was equal parts rueful and strangely liberated. "I just don't love you that much. I can't. I don't have it in me."
She bit her lip, the conflict playing out across her features in micro-expressions—furrowed brows, a slight tightening around her eyes, the way her fingers twisted absently in the fabric of her skirt.
"I guess that's the truth. I can't go crazy for you the way they do. I can't throw myself off a cliff just to prove a point. I can't dedicate my entire existence to loving you. So... compared to liking you... I still prefer money. I prefer acting. I prefer the dream I'm chasing."
A pause. A soft, almost wistful exhale.
"Although Hojo Shione's concert was a disaster—a complete, spectacular catastrophe—seeing her up there, seeing the scale of it, the thousands of people, the way she commanded that stage before everything fell apart... if I could one day become even half that famous, I think I'd be content. Truly content."
Shiratori Seiya nodded slowly, a look of genuine approval settling across his features. "That's a good mindset. A healthy one. With money, you can do anything. With a solid career, you'll never have to depend on anyone else for your happiness."
"Mmm..."
Takahashi Mio studied his calm, unruffled expression—the way he'd taken her declaration without a flicker of hurt or disappointment—and a small, knowing smile curved her lips.
"However... you've made a promise to that stick, and you're not breaking up with me either. I can understand that. It makes sense, actually. After all..." She tilted her head, her eyes glittering with sharp perception. "...you don't actually like me. Not in that way."
She had confirmed this already. Shiratori Seiya was dating her—staying with her, investing in her, devoting his time and resources to her—because he wanted to train her into a successful actress. That was the transaction. The core of their arrangement.
She had initially harbored a small, vain hope that he might also be attracted to her physically—she knew she was beautiful, after all—but after more than a month of close interaction, the evidence was undeniable. The scoundrel genuinely wasn't after her looks. Disheartening, yes. But also, strangely, reassuring.
Of course, the deeper reason why he was doing all of this still eluded her. The puzzle didn't quite fit together. If he simply wanted to write scripts and have them produced, that rationale didn't hold water. There were thousands of trained, experienced actors in the world. Why seek out someone like her—a complete novice, not even a drama major, who had only just begun learning the craft? It was wildly inefficient. Unnecessarily difficult.
The only explanation that seemed to fit was some kind of... nurturing preference. A desire to cultivate raw talent from the ground up. And if that were the case, then as long as she continued studying acting, as long as she kept improving, he would probably not give up on her. The sunk costs were too high. The investment was too significant.
Thinking these thoughts, Takahashi Mio regarded Shiratori Seiya with renewed curiosity. "But you definitely do like Hojo and that stick. Both of them. In the real way. So..." She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. "...between those two, who are you going to choose?"
Shiratori Seiya remained silent.
The hum of the engine filled the space between them. The road stretched on, empty and endless. He didn't answer—not with words. But his expression was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that suggested he had already resolved this question in his own mind, long before she'd ever thought to ask it.
Seeing that face—the quiet certainty in his dark eyes, the absence of turmoil or indecision—Takahashi Mio's heart stirred with a sudden, wild suspicion. She raised an eyebrow so high it nearly disappeared into her hairline.
"You wouldn't... you're not actually thinking..."
Her voice dropped to a whisper, half-horrified, half-fascinated.
"...you want both of them, don't you? At the same time? A genuine, no-compromises, two-woman conclusion?"
"Are you actually insane?!"