The thing I hold on to no matter what

 To celebrate our one-year anniversary, I took him to our favorite livehouse—the place where our music club often performed, and where I had first learned what it meant to truly stand on a stage.

 No longer the comfort of a school auditorium or familiar cheers. The neon lights blinked and danced over a sea of expectant faces. My heart thudded. Fingers trembling against the cold strings of my guitar.

 As the intro played, I dove into it, each strum steady and deliberate, then gradually faster. It was like everything I'd kept bottled inside melted into that explosive riff. I sang—deep, honest, burning.

 The pounding drums, the growling bass, the shimmering keyboard—they weren't just sounds. They were fire and heartbeats, crashing together in a perfect storm.

 I sang about love. I sang "1,150,000 Kilometers of Film", a song dedicated to my first love, to the boy standing somewhere in the crowd.

 A film of love, endless and fragile, stretching over 1,150,000 kilometers. Every precious second I had with him, immortalized in this song.

 Whether joy or sadness, I wanted to keep writing our story. And Ryusei—were you listening?

 I couldn't stop looking, couldn't stop hoping he could hear every word, feel every vibration of my guitar screaming out my heart.

 At that moment, I wanted him to see me. Truly, completely. The best version of me.

 And I saw him. He was there. Eyes on me. But something about his gaze felt distant.

 The final chord rang out. The lights dimmed. I turned back toward the audience—

 He was gone.

 My arms fell to my sides.

 Was he still here? In this world? Could my music even reach him...?

 The concert ended. I ran outside, heart pounding. And then, I saw him by the exit.

 Ryusei said nothing. He simply took my hand.

 We walked side by side through the quiet streets. Only the sound of our footsteps echoed on the pavement.

 At the park nearby, I sat on the swing I always loved. He stood beside me, hands in his pockets.

 "Do you like hearing me sing?" I asked, staring at my shoes.

 "You sing beautifully," he replied, no hesitation.

 Just one sentence, and yet it stirred something deep inside me.

 I kept my voice calm. "But... it doesn't seem like you enjoy our performances."

 "I don't know. It's just... that song made me feel something strange."

 I didn't press further.

 Because I was afraid of what lay behind that "strange feeling."

 Ryusei, my love for you was still so undefined. I didn't truly understand its depths. I had no real expectations. Just being beside you, holding your hand—that was enough.

 But still, I wondered: what did love mean to you?

 That unfinished question lingered inside me. I clung to his warmth as the swing rocked gently beneath me.

 It took me years to understand.

 First love isn't always sweet like a Choco Monaka.

 But it leaves behind a taste that never fades—something I'll carry with me, always.

….

 After passing the university entrance exams, my parents finally allowed me to return to my hometown for a while. Beloved Osaka—at last, I had wings to freely fly back on my own.

 My two-year-long love with Ryusei seemed to come to an end just like that. No goodbyes, no explanations. We both understood, silently, that we were never walking on the same path. Two years, like a toy outgrown by a child, discarded without sentiment.

 Looking back, I couldn't help but feel ridiculous. My first love was nothing but a tragicomedy of youth.

 But the real heartbreak came when I received the news: Grandpa Takumi had passed away. It was the darkest time of my life.

 I left behind the name Akari Akibara—a pale shadow of a girl who had left no trace of joy. In her place, I became Jun.

 The music I uploaded to SoundCloud grew heavy, shadows of sorrow bleeding into every note. My first love had ended abruptly, my beloved grandfather passed in loneliness, and I was left alone, with no one who truly understood me.

 I had no attachment left to Tokyo. I returned to Osaka, partly to gather the instruments Grandpa Takumi had once promised to pass on to me.

 That's when I reunited with Hiroki. Turns out, he was one of the secret fans among the 20,000 monthly listeners on my SoundCloud. Together, we started a band, along with a few other like-minded souls.

 Around the same time, I helped find a job for a girl introduced to me by a distant relative.

 Grandpa Takumi's "Antique Library" became part of the inheritance he left for his granddaughter. I renovated it into a book cafe, and appointed that girl as the very first manager.

 Her name was Amane Mei. My first impression of her was her dreamy, camel-colored eyes tinted with violet—like a silent galaxy, or a night sky filled with quiet stars.

 You could stare into them forever. Few knew her vision was impaired, shrouded in blur.

 Perhaps that's why I always wanted to help her. From day one, I guided Mei around the newly restored book cafe.

 She walked slowly beside me, her hand in mine, light and gentle as if afraid to disturb the stillness around us. Though she couldn't see, it was as if she sensed everything through the soft language of touch.

 I guided her hand to every corner of the store, let her feel every shelf, chair, and detail. She paused when we reached the old piano in the corner. Her fingers glided across the keys like she already knew the song buried within.

 "This used to be Grandpa Takumi's piano," I said, watching her. "I learned music here. Played here. If you ever want, I can teach you, too."

 She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she simply let her fingers continue to trace the keys—as if the sound had long since taken root in her heart.

 A quiet warmth bloomed in me, watching her. No words, no questions. Just silence and feeling.

 Later, I took her to the reading area—a large wooden table, red fabric chairs. I let her trace the spines of books, describing each one. At the counter, I had already prepared a Brailler—a typing device for the visually impaired.

 Mei possessed a rare sensitivity. Sharp, adaptive. I guessed it would take her no more than two days to memorize the entire layout of the shop and run it well.

 "You'll still visit often, won't you?" she asked, her voice soft.

 "Of course," I smiled, struck by the quiet determination in her eyes. "This is my place. And you, you'll be the heart of this book cafe."

 "Thank you, Jun. I really love it here."

 And just like I promised, I visited every week.

 Life, even after droping out, was still a whirlwind. I started a band with my special circle—including Hiroki—and even became a model for a youth magazine.

 Schedules were packed. Sometimes the exhaustion was bone-deep, but I told no one. I was no longer that invisible Akari. I was Jun—someone who stood in front of cameras, someone who built her own image, who lived in the armor she'd forged.

 Studios weren't always pleasant either.

 "Mallow, stop smiling and focus on the bass!"

 The pink-haired boy chuckled, still staring at his phone. His hippie curls bounced with every small giggle. Maybe his heart was fluttering again.

 Of course—we all knew Mallow had a girlfriend.

 His expression reminded me of myself back then—the giddy expectation, the awkward happiness that came from caring for someone.

 But no—I'd sworn to leave the past behind. I wasn't that person anymore.

 "Why are you only scolding me! Look at her!"

He pointed to Raven, the goth girl turning her keytar into a pretend rifle, aiming it at Hiroki.

 "Take this, Hiroki! Pew, pew!"

 "Raven," I tried to keep my stern face, but her puppy eyes made me bite my lip to suppress a laugh.

 "J-Jun... let's start," Hiroki said, his voice resigned. Poor guy.

 I shot a helpless glance at Starlin.

 Starlin said nothing. He never did. But with a flick of his wrist, the drumstick hit skin and echoed like thunder.

 Everyone froze.

 And then, silence turned to fire.

 Hiroki lowered his hands to the electric guitar. The first note tore through the air. Raven giggled—this time in excitement. Mallow adjusted his bass and jumped in. Raven followed, her keytar soaring, wild and untamed.

 I drew a deep breath, tightened my grip on the mic.

 This was our song—written together, fought over, refined like a piece of our youth.

 As I sang, everything else melted away. The cramped studio, the looming deadlines, the worries. There was only music. The thing that drew us together.

 A solo began—Starlin's drums surged. Raven's fingers danced wildly. Mallow and Hiroki blended in seamlessly. Our eyes met. Not a word needed.

 Even if it was just another rehearsal, that feeling—that raw fire of perfect harmony—was irreplaceable.

 And I thought, maybe… no matter how tired I was, this stifling studio was carved deep into my soul.