The first time they noticed, it was just a missed reply.
The group chat had been buzzing about logistics—gear, transportation, travel schedules. Aki had sent a list of tour prep tasks, each name assigned its own row. Kanna's name was there, of course. But Kanna wasn't.
Aki: Kanna? You good with the drum kit case swap?
[Mika]: Maybe she's just at work?
[Shino]: Or asleep.
Aki: It's been two days.
It wasn't like her. Kanna, who color-coded her sheet music and checked the mics twice before every show. Kanna, who rarely said much but always showed up.
She missed their next rehearsal.
Then the meeting with the tour manager.
Then the pre-tour local gig in Saitama.
Shino tried to call her, only to hear her voice mail: "Hey, it's Kanna. Leave a message."
She didn't.
Instead, she walked to the park near the station where they used to kill time before early shows. The wind rustled through the swings and a plastic bottle rolled across the pavement. Shino sat on the bench they once shared, back when everything felt like a shared secret, and stared at her phone.
There were messages in the group chat—Mika trying to lighten the mood, Aki growing increasingly frustrated. But the silence from Kanna was louder than all of it.
The next day, Shino showed up unannounced at Kanna's apartment.
She knocked twice. Then again. Finally, she heard the lock click.
Kanna cracked open the door. Her hair was tied back messily, her eyes rimmed with shadows.
"Hey," Shino said.
Kanna looked down, avoiding her gaze. "Hey."
"I… we've been worried."
Kanna opened the door wider. "Sorry. Come in."
Inside, the place was quiet. Neat. But lived in. A pair of sticks rested on the table beside a metronome, untouched. Posters from old shows were pinned above her desk, curling slightly at the corners.
"I didn't mean to ghost everyone," Kanna said, settling into the chair. "I just… couldn't deal."
"With what?"
She exhaled. "Everything."
Shino waited.
"The tour, the pressure, the expectation of showing up with a smile when I feel like I'm falling apart inside. I love playing. But lately, it's been like dragging my own body somewhere it doesn't want to go."
Shino sat beside her. "You could've said something."
"I didn't know how. Everyone's moving so fast. Aki's practically on fire with ambition. You're… drifting away. Mika's pretending it's all still fun."
"I'm not drifting—"
"You are. We all are."
Shino's throat tightened. "So what now? Are you quitting?"
"I don't know," Kanna said. "I'm not ready for this tour. But I don't want to be the reason we fall apart, either."
"You're not."
Kanna shook her head. "If I step back, it'll tear a hole we can't fix. But if I stay, I'm not sure I'll survive it."
They sat in silence, the hum of the city filtering through the windows.
"I think I need time," Kanna said. "Just… time."
Shino nodded. Her heart ached, but she understood. Sometimes the quietest people carry the heaviest noise.
—
The next band meeting was heavy with unspoken things.
"She's out," Aki said flatly, reading Shino's face.
"She's taking time," Shino replied.
"Same thing, if you ask me."
"Don't."
Mika rubbed her eyes. "So… do we play with a session drummer?"
Shino didn't answer. Aki's silence stretched.
"This isn't a surprise," Aki said eventually. "She's been unraveling for weeks. We all have."
"Maybe that means we should stop," Shino said.
"No. It means we keep going."
Shino met her gaze. "Even without Kanna?"
"She made her choice."
They all had. Whether they realized it or not.
—
They found a replacement drummer—an efficient, polite university student named Riku who played everything perfectly but never smiled.
The chemistry was gone.
Lucid Dreams, as it had been, no longer existed.
Kanna didn't officially quit. She just… faded.
And in her absence, a silence opened up in the band that no beat could fill.