The school auditorium buzzed with rehearsals. Students scurried across the stage, dragging props, adjusting lights, and checking costumes. Amid the chaos, Rika stood near the edge, her arms crossed, watching silently. Her eyes weren't focused on the stage—they were searching the shadows behind it.
Kaori hadn't shown up yet.
It wasn't like her to be late. Especially not for something this important. She was the one who insisted the performance had to be flawless. That music wasn't just sound, it was truth. Then where was she?
"Rika," came a voice from behind.
She turned. Yuna stood there, hands in her hoodie pocket, looking casual but with that worried flicker in her eyes.
"You okay?"
Rika shrugged. "Fine. Just distracted."
Yuna glanced toward the backstage curtains. "Still no sign of her?"
Rika shook her head.
"Well, maybe she got caught up. Teachers have lives too."
Rika looked away. "Yeah. Lives they don't talk about."
Yuna hesitated. "Rika… can I ask you something?"
Rika sighed. "If this is about her and me—"
"No. It's about you," Yuna interrupted. "I just… you've changed. Since she got close to you. You seem stronger. But also like you're carrying something heavier."
Rika didn't answer.
Yuna leaned in a little. "You don't have to tell me everything. But I'm here, you know. Even if it's just to sit in silence."
Rika managed a small smile. "Thanks. I mean it."
Just then, the auditorium door creaked.
Every pair of eyes turned. Kaori entered slowly, her steps deliberate, her face unreadable. She wore a loose beige coat over her usual dress, but something about her was different. Distant.
Rika's heart thudded.
Kaori walked up the aisle, ignoring the curious stares. She climbed the stage, whispered something to the director, then finally turned toward Rika.
"Can I talk to you? Alone?"
Rika followed her backstage.
They stood between racks of costumes, shielded from view by a velvet curtain. The scent of old fabric and wood polish hung in the air.
Kaori finally spoke. "I wasn't going to come today."
Rika blinked. "Why?"
Kaori took a slow breath. "Because I was afraid. Afraid that being around you again would make me forget every line I promised myself not to cross."
Rika's throat tightened. "Do you regret what happened?"
Kaori shook her head. "No. I regret not being honest with myself earlier."
Silence.
Then Rika stepped closer. "I don't want this to be some broken thing we keep hiding."
Kaori's voice trembled. "It already is. But broken doesn't mean worthless."
A pause. Then Kaori handed her a folded letter.
"What is this?" Rika asked.
"Something I wrote last night. I wasn't sure if I'd give it to you. But now I need you to have it."
Rika unfolded the letter. Her eyes scanned the first few lines. Her hand trembled.
Before she could respond, Kaori touched her cheek.
"No matter what happens next," Kaori whispered, "you gave my silence a voice."
Then she turned and walked away, leaving Rika under the weight of words that didn't need to be spoken aloud.
She clutched the letter to her chest.
Rika didn't go back to the rehearsal. Instead, she found a quiet corner near the stage props and began to read.
The letter wasn't long, but it cut deep:
"There are things I've never told anyone. About my past. About why I stopped playing music publicly. When I met you, it was like hearing a song I thought I'd lost forever. You made me remember the parts of myself I buried. You also made me afraid. Because you see right through me. If I cross this line, I'm not sure I'll ever come back. But I want to. For you, I might. If I disappear after this, please know—it wasn't you. It was the world we live in. And the rules I never wrote but still have to follow."
Rika closed the letter, her fingers pressing into the creases.
Kaori's words weren't just a confession. They were a goodbye and a plea.
Outside, the curtains rustled. The play was about to begin.
But backstage, a very different story had already unfolded.
Rika stepped out just before the curtains parted. The lights dimmed. Music began.
And as she moved into her place on stage, something shifted inside her.
Not closure. But clarity.
She would perform tonight. Not for the audience. Not even for herself.
For Kaori.