Chapter 10: Unfinished Pieces

Aika's Perspective: A Lingering Note

The music room carried a quiet stillness, interrupted only by the soft hum of a guitar. Afternoon sunlight poured through the tall windows, casting golden streaks across the wooden floor. Aika sat on a stool near the piano, her sketchbook resting on her lap, pencil moving soundlessly across the page.

Across from her, Riku leaned against the piano, his fingers idly plucking at his guitar strings. His eyes were distant, half-lidded, as if lost in a world that she couldn't quite reach.

The melody he played was unfamiliar—soft, slow, and unsteady. It wasn't like him. Riku's music was always filled with energy, even in his slower songs. But this…

It sounded hollow. Like something unfinished. Like something slipping away.

Aika's pencil hesitated mid-stroke.

For days now, she had been noticing it—the subtle shifts, the way his fingers sometimes hesitated, the way his energy drained too quickly. He still laughed, still teased her, still played like nothing was wrong.

But something was wrong.

And she hated that she couldn't figure out what.

"…What are you playing?" she asked, breaking the silence.

Riku blinked, pulled from whatever thought had stolen him away. His lips curled into a lazy smile, but there was something off about it, something thin.

"Dunno," he said lightly, strumming another chord. "Just something I've been messing around with."

Aika frowned. "It doesn't sound like your usual stuff."

He tilted his head, plucking another note. "Yeah? What does it sound like, then?"

She hesitated, fingers tightening around her pencil.

Sad, she thought. Like something you don't want to let go of.

"…I don't know," she muttered. "Just different."

Riku chuckled, the sound quiet, almost like an exhale. "Maybe I'm finally maturing as an artist."

Aika scoffed. "Unlikely."

His laughter followed, but it lacked its usual weight.

Something in her chest twisted.

She tapped her pencil against her sketchbook, gaze flickering back to him. His smirk was still there, his posture still lazy, his presence still Riku.

But his hands—

They weren't moving as fluidly as they usually did.

"…Hey."

"Hm?"

"You feeling okay?"

The question wasn't heavy, wasn't accusatory, but she could feel the air shift the moment she asked it.

Riku's fingers stilled for a brief second before he resumed playing, too quickly, too smoothly—like covering up a mistake.

"You're weirdly worried about me today," he said, voice light.

Aika narrowed her eyes. "You've been acting weird lately."

He glanced up, meeting her gaze, and for a split second—so brief she almost missed it—his expression flickered.

Then, just as quickly, he smirked. "Maybe you just need to stop staring at me so much."

Aika clicked her tongue, turning her attention back to her sketchbook. "Not my fault you look suspicious."

Riku only hummed in response, but she could feel it—like an invisible wall between them, something he was carefully keeping just out of her reach.

And for the first time in a long time, Aika wasn't sure if she wanted to let it go.

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Riku's Perspective: Chasing the Echo

The moment Aika looked away, Riku let out a slow breath, flexing his fingers against the guitar strings.

She was noticing.

He had seen it in her eyes, the way they lingered on him a little too long, the way her voice carried something almost hesitant, almost worried.

Aika wasn't the type to worry about things without reason.

And he was giving her a reason.

Riku swallowed, ignoring the dry ache in his throat. He had been careful—or at least, he thought he had been. He kept things light, he deflected when she asked questions, he played and laughed and acted like everything was fine.

But lately… it had been getting harder.

His fingers ached more than before. The fatigue came faster, pressed into his bones like an invisible weight. Some days were better than others. Today wasn't one of them.

He had pushed too much again. He could feel it.

And Aika had seen it.

That was the part that scared him the most.

Because if she started noticing now—if she started looking too closely, asking too many questions—

He didn't know if he'd be able to keep pretending.

And he needed to pretend.

Not yet.

Not when there was still time left.

Not when he could still sit here, beside her, listening to the sound of her pencil scratching against paper.

He glanced up at her, watching the way she furrowed her brows in concentration.

For a second, he wanted to ask.

What are you drawing?

What do I look like through your eyes?

If I disappeared, would you still remember me in your sketches?

But instead, he strummed another chord, forcing a smirk onto his face.

"Oi."

Aika didn't look up. "What."

He grinned. "I bet whatever you're drawing looks awful."

Aika scowled before chucking her eraser at him. He caught it easily, twirling it between his fingers as he laughed.

Just like always.

For now, he just had to keep playing.

Even if his hands trembled when she wasn't looking.

Even if some notes felt harder to reach than before.

Even if, deep down, he wasn't sure if he'd ever finish this song.