He spoke briefly with Manager Ijichi Seika about doing a solo spot. Given Aoki's skill and an open slot, she hesitated, then agreed.
A few minutes later, Aoki walked on stage with his guitar.
A whole-band stage felt spacious with one person.
There were lots of people; first time solo in that setting—he was a bit nervous.
But that wasn't the point.
He scanned the crowd, spotted Nijika in the far right corner.
The audience settled; he didn't stall.
He stroked the strings lightly.
A simple strum rang out. Then he spoke into the mic:
"Aoki Kei. The song is 'So I Gave Up on Music.'"
Short, not loud, but clear through the mic.
A song heavy with negativity but burning with defiance—perfect for certain moments.
Some in the crowd were annoyed.
They'd come for their fave bands; they'd just sat through a shaky set. Now some high-school-looking kid, alone with an electric guitar, walked up? Mood killer.
Others were puzzled.
STARRY booked bands, not soloists. And this kid? Alone? With a guitar?
And—
Nijika blinked.
She hadn't expected Aoki-senpai to take the stage.
And the title… "So I Gave Up on Music."
Weird.
Weird enough to make you curious, weirdly fitting the situation.
Her head was fuzzy with fever; her hands still trembled from playing.
She didn't know what to think or do—so she looked at him.
Then—
Aoki moved.
His fingers skimmed the strings—"So I Gave Up on Music" intro.
Fast tempo, high difficulty.
Over the rapid guitar, his voice began:
"I thought about it, but I still don't get it."
"Under the blue sky I wait for you; after the breeze at noon, my mind drifts to the afternoon."
"Hey, what do I do from here? No one taught me how to move forward."
Clear tone, great rhythm. With Skilled Singing and Master-level guitar, three lines pulled the room in.
They realized the kid's level was frighteningly high.
But they also wondered—
None of this matched the title "So I Gave Up on Music"…
Aoki didn't care what they thought.
He only wanted to pour everything into the song he'd heard a thousand times.
Second verse:
"No matter how I think, I can't make sense of it—youth is boring anyway."
"I already quit the piano, but I still can't stop drumming my fingers."
"Hey, what will I do in the future?"
"It'd be better if I didn't do music."
"Don't keep bothering me."
Completely different from the love-songy opening, the second verse hit the title square on.
Like a little story of someone giving up on music, unfurling line by line.
Beautiful. Too beautiful. Perfect melody, light rhythm—mismatched with heavy lyrics, yet fusing seamlessly under his hands.
Nijika stared up at him. The lyrics were heavy—but she heard something else.
Her feverish brain couldn't dig deep; she just watched and listened.
Then the chorus hit.
Guitar eased, voice surged, building to a pre-chorus crest—
He barked the first line with a cutting shout:
"Hey—stop thinking about it!"
His voice pierced, riding the near-perfect guitar—melding perfectly.
He drove on:
"You're all wrong! You don't get it at all!"
"Truth, love, the world, pain, life—none of it matters!"
"Wanting to know what's right is just a defense mechanism!"
"I've thought about it!"
"It's all your fault."
Raw catharsis, rich contagion—everything Nijika had almost noticed earlier bloomed fully now.
Not willing to give up—even if you say you have…
Emotion poured from his voice, filling STARRY. The skeptics quieted; many were swept up. A handful who'd looped "Lemon" many times were now sure—this was suki-san.
Meanwhile—
Listening, Nijika felt strangely lightheaded.
She thought of Aoki's history, the words he'd written in the "Lemon" description.
Right now—was he singing that defiance for himself?
Forced to give up, maybe even lose his guitar. Considered quitting, but couldn't shake the habits of practice—heart full of unwillingness…
If so—how much courage did it take to sing a song like pouring salt in a wound?
Why sing this?
Aoki didn't know her thoughts.
On stage, singing that heavy song, his chest ached a little too.
Empathy is human.
"So I Gave Up on Music" is brutally honest about dreams.
Fulfilling a dream is a hundred times harder than becoming a millionaire.
Life's pressures grind you down; you give up. Only a sliver hold on.
In his last life, Aoki had dreamed of making games; due to family, he chose a totally different major.
His dream slid away; all those futures popped like bubbles.
Effort, persistence, struggle—gone.
So… give up from the start.
Don't fantasize. Don't dream. Kill your hopes early—
But… is that okay?
He didn't stop playing. After the chorus, the lyrics softened, guitar sped back up. He sang on:
"No matter how hard I think, there's no answer. Just being alive already hurts enough."
"You can't make money with music."
"Lyrics? Just scribble something."
His timbre gentled; tempo eased; his voice dropped.
"It's fine. It's not wrong. This is fine, right? This should be fine, right?"
It was like he was asking himself; or the crowd; or—Ijichi Nijika.
The music halted.
He lifted his eyes, found hers. Their gazes locked.
For some reason, her heart kicked.
He drew a deep breath—audible in the mic—
Then the guitar roared back in—stronger, harder, like a scream, like he was spitting out all his unwillingness.
And he flung everything out:
"You're all wrong! I knew it already!"
"Truth, love, salvation, kindness—none of it matters!"
"Every 'right answer' you can't say out loud is just a defense mechanism!"
"Whatever! It's all your fault—!"
More force than before. The room vibrated.
He kept going.
Second chorus ended; the song wound down.
The rhythm smoothed, slowed, softened, to the final lines:
"So I…"
"So I gave up on music."
Silence fell. Aoki closed his eyes.
"Thank you, everyone," he said. He opened his eyes and looked to Nijika again.
…
Nijika's thoughts were still tangled.
She didn't know why he sang this, or why he looked at her after.
From "I'll prove it," to "gut-punched by failure," to "pressure → a flash of wanting to quit," to hearing him finish—she didn't know what to think.
Until—
Watching him, she saw his tiny gesture after the thanks:
Not a bow, not a "rah-rah."
Just… a soft inhale, a look at her, and then his fingers brushed the strings one more time.
Such a simple, ordinary move. But right then, it hit her like a bell.
Like a rebuttal to his last lyric. Like telling her—
"I didn't give up."
"Don't give up."
In the noisy livehouse, the world seemed to hush for a blink.
Reason and feeling blended. Fever-fog lifted just enough.
She suddenly understood why he'd sung it.
Her heart pounded; her vision misted.
-------
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