The first time Shino felt it, she was backstage in Hiroshima, minutes before their set.
Her hands wouldn't stop shaking.
She'd been jittery before, of course—stage fright had haunted her since their very first live show—but this was different. It wasn't fear of performance. It was something hollow clawing inside her ribs, like her body had run out of whatever invisible fuel had kept her going all this time.
She stared at her guitar case, fingers numb.
"Hey," Mika said softly, crouching beside her. "You okay?"
Shino nodded automatically. "Yeah. Just tired."
She'd been saying that a lot lately.
Mika lingered. "You don't have to play tonight if—"
"I do." Shino's voice came out flat. Then, more gently: "I can't be the next one to vanish."
—
They played the show. And it was… decent. The crowd sang along, the lights flashed, the room vibrated with energy—but Shino felt like she was moving through water. Her solo on Static Heart flared out halfway through, forcing Aki to cover for her without missing a beat.
Afterward, she mumbled something about a migraine and disappeared into the green room.
She curled up on the floor, hugging her knees to her chest, and counted her breaths.
In, two, three… out, two, three…
But the pressure in her chest didn't ease.
She didn't cry.
That would've helped.
Instead, she sat perfectly still, afraid that if she moved, the pieces would scatter and she'd never get them back.
—
Two days later, in Nagasaki, she missed soundcheck.
Her phone buzzed with texts from Aki, from Mika. She read them but didn't reply. She couldn't. Her arms felt like they belonged to someone else.
By the time she forced herself to leave the hotel, it was dark. The others had gone out for dinner. She wandered the side streets alone, her hoodie pulled low over her face, ears ringing from silence.
At a quiet park bench, she finally sat down and let the world press against her.
That was when her phone buzzed again.
[Kanna]: I heard about Tokyo. You okay?
It was the first message she'd received from Kanna since she'd left the band.
Shino stared at it for a long time before replying.
There was a pause.
[Kanna]: Can I call?
Shino hesitated, then typed:
—
They talked for over an hour.
Kanna didn't try to fix anything. She just listened. And slowly, carefully, Shino began to speak the truth:
How exhausted she was.
How the stage had gone from her dream to her cage.
How every time a fan praised her playing, she felt like a fraud.
How she'd built an identity from being invisible online, only to be dragged into the light where everyone had an opinion about her—her face, her clothes, her silence.
"I wanted this," Shino said, voice cracking. "But I don't know who I am anymore without it."
Kanna's reply was quiet but firm: "You're still you, even when the music stops."
Shino didn't respond. She couldn't.
Tears finally came, silent and raw, soaking into the sleeve of her hoodie as Kanna stayed on the line.
—
Shino didn't play the next show.
Riku took over rhythm guitar. Aki handled vocals. Mika stepped forward with her usual brightness turned down several notches.
No one asked where Shino was.
Some fans noticed. Most didn't.
She watched from the wings, knees pulled to her chest, guitar still in its case.
—
The next morning, she called her mother.
They hadn't spoken in months. Her mother's voice was warm, surprised.
"Shino? Is everything alright?"
"No," she said. "But I'm trying."
—
For the final show in Yokohama, Shino returned to the stage.
She wasn't at full strength. Her playing was a little slower, her voice more tentative. But something in her posture had changed. She no longer tried to hide behind her hair or the edge of the lights.
During their final song—You Were Never a Ghost—she stepped up to the mic alone.
It was a stripped-down version. Just vocals and soft guitar. Aki, Mika, and Riku stood behind her in silence.
Her voice wavered, but she sang it through.
Not to the crowd.
Not even to the band.
But to herself.
When she finished, the applause was thunderous. She stepped back, heart pounding.
And for the first time since the tour began, she felt… present.
Not whole. Not healed.
But real.
—
Backstage, Aki and Mika wrapped their arms around her.
"You scared the hell out of us," Aki said, her voice thick.
Shino smiled weakly. "Me too."
Mika wiped her eyes. "That was beautiful."
Shino looked at both of them. "I don't think I can keep doing this."
A pause.
Aki nodded. "I know."
Mika didn't speak. She just hugged her again.
—
The night ended without fanfare. They packed their gear in near silence.
Lucid Dreams had played their final show.
No one said it out loud.
But they all felt it.