Kyo had never been one to care.
She didn't mind being used. She could always tell when someone was trying to take advantage of her, and as long as it didn't bring her any real harm, she was often willing to go along with it.
She didn't mind when her family restricted her from drinking too much of certain beverages. She understood that whatever limits they placed on her were meant to protect her health. And though Kyo pursued all kinds of drinks, she never turned down a simple glass of water. To her, there was no hierarchy among beverages—she could enjoy a cup of water just as much as anything else. That was enough.
She didn't even mind relationships, despite her efforts to maintain them. Kyo was always careful, always mindful of how she interacted with others. But if one day, suddenly, everyone around her began to hate her, it would simply mean returning to the miserable starting point of her life. She would try to mend things, of course—but if it proved impossible, she would let go without hesitation.
There was only one thing she cared about.
One thing she pursued relentlessly, one thing she upheld with an almost obsessive devotion—
Her fixation on movement.
What defined movement? Perhaps it wasn't easy to explain. But its opposite was far simpler: the refusal to remain stagnant.
This obsession stemmed from her deep hatred of her past self—when she had felt lifeless, trapped in a still, stagnant existence, like water sealed away in a container, cut off from the world.
That accident—when her life was on the verge of slipping away—had confused her. She had mistaken the desperate struggle to survive for the thrill of being alive.
It sounded like some ridiculous, twisted joke. But the truth was, that misunderstanding—the kind that might make others worry for her mental state—had made her feel, for just a moment, truly alive. And she never wanted to return to that cold, inorganic existence she had once been.
Kyo began mimicking the way others joked, even when she herself couldn't quite grasp what was funny. She deliberately chose unique ways to greet people—her signature "Good morning, good afternoon, and good evening" was just one of many small attempts to make herself seem more alive.
She sought out new skills. Before, she had found things too easy, and that ease had made them unbearably dull. But now, she chased new experiences. And naturally, she gravitated toward the arts—acting, singing, dancing, instruments. Each new skill was a potential flowing current that, at any moment, might bring her a sensation that truly stirred her heart.
She also tried to understand emotions. But her natural deficiencies forced her to adopt a warped method—her archive wall of detailed notes and observations on people.
Of course, she could have chosen a shortcut, relying on others to hand her those emotional experiences directly. But she still wanted to grasp them in a way that felt… normal.
In the end, everything she did was for the sake of movement.
Kyo lowered her gaze, staring into her half-finished cup of coffee. It would be easy to assume she was simply savoring the thick, well-balanced foam of her cappuccino—Taki had certainly improved since last time. But unfortunately, Kyo wasn't in the mood to hand out compliments.
In reality, she was trying to suppress the overwhelming disgust welling up inside her, fighting back the physical nausea and frustration that threatened to choke her.
She had wondered, at times, if her pursuit of movement had gone too far. But after reading so many novels and biographies, learning about people who had been willing to sacrifice their very lives for their obsessions, she figured—if she had only one fixation in life, wasn't it natural for it to be a little extreme?
It's… normal, right?
Kyo remained motionless in that posture for over ten seconds, saying nothing.
To the others, her refusal to join the band was already clear.
"Well, if Kyo doesn't want to join, it's not a big deal," Taki said indifferently. "As long as this one's guitar skills are at least half as good as Kyo's, we'll be fine."
Kyo not joining wasn't something worth making a fuss over. It wasn't like they were cutting ties. She still came by the café regularly to bug Taki about her coffee-making skills, after all.
"My name is Chihaya Anon! If you don't want to call me that, at least don't just refer to me as this one—that's so rude!" Anon waved her small fists in protest, but her annoyance quickly turned into curiosity.
"Wait… is Kyo really that amazing at guitar?"
After all, Taki's comment hadn't just implied doubt about Anon's abilities—it had also suggested something about Kyo's level of skill.
"Kyo is really incredible," Soyo chimed in, never one to hold back praise. "She can play incredibly difficult pieces without breaking a sweat."
At those words, Kyo—who had been working to suppress her own emotions—slowly lifted her gaze.
Soyo still didn't look great. But despite that, she was forcing herself to smile, hoping it would make Kyo change her mind.
It reminded Kyo of their last meeting. Back then, Soyo had desperately tried to make her stay, just like this. And now, after all this time, the same scene was playing out again.
Kyo spoke slowly. "Just like Taki said, I'm not a necessary part of this band. But I'd still be happy to stop by and watch your practices and performances from time to time. And if you don't mind, I can even help out with some managerial work—things like coordinating with RiNG's staff for studio reservations and scheduling live shows."
Her expression and tone grew increasingly neutral—not quite cold, but distant nonetheless. It was the result of years of carefully practiced detachment.
Most of Kyo's understanding of emotions came from those around her. She needed people as her reference points, her guideposts. No matter how much she tried to reason things out on her own, she could never truly learn emotions that way.
That also meant that even without anyone feeding her emotions directly, just spending time with people naturally influenced her. The way she adjusted her behavior based on those around her wasn't a conscious skill she had developed—it was simply a result of her nature.
—And that was why she often tried to help those around her with their problems.
The reason she wanted Tomori to grow wasn't just for Tomori's sake. It was because Tomori's stagnation deeply affected Kyo's own state of mind.
And now, there was someone even more deeply trapped in stagnation than Tomori—Nagasaki Soyo.
Even with Taki and Anon present, Kyo felt the weight of that stagnation creeping in, dark and suffocating. It was draining the energy she usually put into all her little efforts to stay alive.
I will correct you, Soyo.
Kyo's ocean-blue eyes reflected Soyo's figure—but without their usual light.
And if Soyo refused to change?
That was fine. Kyo had always understood that she was different.
She wouldn't force it.
If that was the case, then—goodbye.
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