"What do you mean by 'it would be a waste of effort'?"
Anon blinked, lowering her head as if she were casually fiddling with the song selection screen, pretending to ask offhandedly.
It might have seemed a little impolite not to make eye contact while asking such a personal question, but in truth, this attitude—I'm not making a big deal out of this—actually eased the pressure on Tomori.
And as for Kikukawa Kyo?
She was busy drinking, pretending to be a fish in water, blowing bubbles into her cup… Far from adding pressure, she was more at risk of being mistaken for a penguin.
"Is it… that?" Anon asked again, still with a lighthearted tone. "A matter of musical differences?"
For her first attempt at prying, she deliberately avoided any emotional or subjective issues—no talk of right or wrong—framing the question around an objective aspect: musicality.
"Huh? I don't… think so."
Tomori had never really considered something like "musical differences" before. When they first formed the band, they had simply practiced based on Tomori's lyrics and Sachiko's compositions. The entire process had been led and decided by Sachiko.
Tomori never thought about the technical side of things—she only knew how to sing the lyrics she had written.
And perhaps that was why she always blamed herself for what had happened—because she couldn't think of any other possible reason.
"I always thought it was my fault…"
But after today, that conviction had begun to waver.
Those few words from Sachiko earlier…
Even so, it was an undeniable fact that the band had broken up after their first live show—after she sang Haruhikage.
That was why, even now, Tomori instinctively resisted singing.
Would singing again lead to the same outcome?
"But… I still don't want to sing…"
"But as long as you're not wasting your effort, isn't it worth trying?"
Looking at Tomori like this, Anon couldn't help but think of herself—of the version of her that had fled from London.
Tomori was just like she had been back then, retreating into fear.
But the difference between them was…
"Even if you fail once, you can always start over. Life is long—if you spend it stuck in regrets, you won't survive."
Anon wasn't just saying that to Tomori.
She was saying it to herself.
"Ano-chan…"
Tomori wavered.
Anon didn't know the full story, but her words had struck something deep inside Tomori.
Now, she only needed a little push to open the door she had barely cracked open.
Anon had done her part.
Kyo wasn't capable of delivering the kind of words Anon had just spoken, but she could see the impact they had on Tomori.
Now, it was her turn.
"Tomori, why don't we sing Haruhikage together?"
"!?"
Tomori's head snapped toward Kyo in shock.
Kyo calmly set down her cup, meeting Tomori's gaze with an unwavering smile.
"If you're afraid of losing something because of singing—"
Kyo stood up, walking toward Tomori.
"—then let's put it to the test, right here and now."
She took Tomori's hand, raising it up so that it was framed between their gazes.
"Right here. Right now. Anon and I will be listening."
"…Okay."
Tomori nodded firmly.
No instruments. No pre-made backing track.
Just two completely different voices intertwining within the small karaoke room.
"A weary heart, an unsteady gaze… In this world, I stand alone…"
The moment Tomori sang the first line, Anon realized—
She had been completely wrong to think that Tomori was suited for sweet, cheerful songs.
Tomori's voice usually sounded soft and sweet—almost unbearably cute to anyone who heard it. But the moment she started singing, that delicate voice revealed its true nature.
Strength. Vitality.
A powerful force surged from her small frame, filling every word she sang.
She's crying out.
Anon couldn't explain why, but that was the thought that came to her as she listened.
In contrast to Tomori, who was finally able to sing again—giving it everything she had—Kikukawa Kyo exuded something entirely different.
Kyo's voice was crystal clear and piercing. It was impossible to ignore. No matter how noisy the surroundings, her voice would cut through and stand out on its own, demanding attention.
But now, she held back, purposefully softening her presence. She wove her harmonies carefully, turning her usually commanding voice into a gentle undercurrent that wrapped around Tomori's cries like a flowing stream. The cool, inorganic clarity of her voice lifted Tomori's raw emotion higher and higher—until they reached the song's peak.
Anon was stunned.
Before this, she had been a little smug.
When Kyo had first told her that she and Tomori had played rhythm guitar and vocals in their old band, Anon had proudly boasted that she had been the lead guitarist and vocalist in her middle school band.
Back then, I was super popular. If we started a band together, I'd lead them to the top!
But now—hearing this duet, with nothing but their voices—she realized how wrong she had been.
I don't even come close.
And yet, she didn't feel a shred of self-doubt.
She was too captivated by them.
Even this song, Haruhikage, which she had never heard before, stirred something deep inside her.
...Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to let Tomori be the lead vocalist.
Playing guitar and doing backing vocals sounded pretty nice too.
If before, she had only wanted to be in a band as a way to fit in, now—she genuinely wanted to make music with Tomori and Kyo.
...
As the song came to an end, the moment Tomori sang the last note, Anon burst into enthusiastic applause.
She clapped so hard that her palms turned red, but she didn't stop.
"That was amazing! Kyo, Tomori… but—haha, Tomori, what's with that face?"
She had been about to shower them with more praise when she noticed Tomori's expression—completely dazed, as if she had just woken up from a dream.
"Did I… really sing it properly? It felt like I was dreaming—I don't remember anything…"
"What kind of reaction is that, Tomori?" Anon burst into laughter. "You were incredible, seriously!"
"…Really?"
Tomori hesitated for a moment, but then—a small, genuine smile formed on her lips.