Shiratori Kiyoya believed Hojo Shione wasn't good at pretending.
He stood in the shade, behind her, in the sun-warped air, watching her trembling shoulders from crying and the hand clenched tight around the umbrella handle…
At 165 cm, Shione was tall for a girl her age. Years of competitions had given her a poised, serene air. In crowds she usually stood out like a pearl even without showing her face.
But now she was like a leaf on a plane tree—withered and thin, quivering in the wind, as if a touch would make her crumble.
Kiyoya watched her leave in silence.
One step, two steps…
Thud, thud, thud…
He started after her.
Putting on a brave face, tossing out a few faux-carefree lines and walking away—he couldn't just let that pass.
As she'd said, he'd been hard enough to make even himself feel it was too much.
Seeing Shione again after half a year left him torn. Reason tugged him toward the breakup; another part clung to the past, greedy for her gentleness and love.
He wasn't a robot. He couldn't just "delete the data" of his feelings for Shione and deal with her with perfect coldness.
If she had thrown a fit—crying and cursing him as a heartless jerk—that would've been easier. He would've taken it gladly, said nothing back, even felt relief at being punished.
But Shione wouldn't do that. She'd rather burn herself up inside.
He tugged at his collar and decided to say what needed saying.
"I'll walk you a little ways."
Her vision dimmed under his shadow; she stopped. A flicker of secret delight lit her tear-bright eyes.
Something she'd wanted to confirm seemed confirmed.
So you do have a little conscience.
The heart that had been scorched a moment before eased. Yet she turned her body aside, shielding her face with a pale hand so he wouldn't see the tears.
She blew out a breath, wiped her cheeks, and, head lowered, toed a pebble as she murmured, "You don't have to. It's not far…"
Bastard. You still can't let me go.
She bit her flushed lip and looked up at him with reddened eyes. "Kiyoya, is there anything else you want to say to me?"
"Mm…"
He nodded, turned the words over twice inside, and said:
"I have two wishes."
"First, I hope you can forget me. Second, I hope you live well."
"…"
Shione looked at him, eyes full of hurt, and said nothing.
"Even without me you'll succeed. No one can take your talent. No matter whose songs you sing, you'll catch fire.
"As for the breakup… try to make peace with it. Time smooths everything. You've got more important things—your dream, all those fans who support you."
Silence settled.
Shione tilted her head and held his gaze. "That's it?"
"Yeah."
"...Sigh."
She breathed out, tiredly, then softly: "So… Kiyoya, you really don't understand anything."
"Why do you think I ever decided to be a singer?"
"You think I truly love music? That I love practicing from dawn to dusk? That I love drinking liters of water a day, trying every method to keep my voice in shape, burning hour after hour rehearsing for contests and shows?"
"If it weren't for you, why would I have chosen this path? You have no idea how important you are to me."
Her nose stung; tears welled again.
"Yes, I do love singing now. I love being on stage, being watched."
"But when the person who always stayed with me and cheered me on isn't there, my heart just feels empty…"
"You shoved me through the door to this road, then turned your back and walked away, and smugly say that without you I'll be just fine on my own!"
Her voice rose, her slim body shaking, the cry-roughened tone turning sharp:
"Saying that—"
"—is way too much!"
The words cracked like thunder. Kiyoya stood frozen, as if struck by lightning.
People turned at the sound—human nature loves a lovers' quarrel. A few had already stopped to watch.
Noticing the stares, Shione dropped the umbrella, grabbed his wrist, and ran. At the corner she scanned around; only when she was sure no one was there did she exhale.
Having vented, she'd calmed somewhat. She rubbed the corner of her eye and looked at him.
"Alright. I don't mean anything else by this. I respect your decision. We weren't married—one person saying it's over is all it takes, right?"
She bit down hard on the word married, then stamped on his foot. "It's just that you were too much. I hope you're not this cruel to the next girl."
"…"
Maybe to ease the mood, she smiled. "Oh—almost forgot. Aoki-san Aoki asked me to check: are you not going to write songs anymore?"
She meant Aoki Yayoi, the producer at Shione's label. She'd been the one to buy the songs Kiyoya wrote for Shione.
"She's been grumbling—you changed your number without a word and vanished. She says money could've been negotiated, but you ghosted her. Infuriating."
He met her eyes, hesitated, and said, "I probably won't keep writing."
"Oh. So I'll tell her that?"
"Mm."
"Oh—so all the songs you wrote were for me to sing? That's kind of romantic."
She giggled, seeming genuinely happy. After a beat, she put the smile away.
"Then let's end it here. What I wanted to say, what you wanted to say—seems we've said it."
She pointed at a black van in the distance.
"The car's right there. No need to see me off."
"…"
He watched her leave in silence.
Once the arrow is loosed, there's no taking it back. Since he'd chosen this road, he had to keep walking.
He stood there until the car turned the corner and vanished. Only then did he stir to go.
Bzz bzz.
His phone buzzed. He pulled it out; the screen woke to a message from Shione.
"You say time can heal all wounds, but being apart from you still feels like yesterday."