The days that followed blended into one another, a steady cadence of labor, stress, and quiet looks. For Ren, the studio no longer felt like the lively space it had been. The thing that hurt the most was not Ayaka's icy professionalism. Her eyes used to soften slightly when she looked at him, and the laughter and lingering warmth were the ghost of what had been there before.
They hardly ever met his now.
But occasionally, he could sense her eyes darting toward him in the silences between sentences. One second too long. She hesitated for a second, then turned away once more.
He also noticed it.
even though she didn't want him to.
He didn't confront her about it. He was afraid to.
Rather, he continued to move.
Haruto was the first to notice.
Ayaka was looking over the revised scene boards during the lunch break. With a cup of coffee, Haruto sat next to her, his gaze fixed on her rather than the storyboard.
"You look tired," he remarked nonchalantly.
Without raising her gaze, Ayaka answered, "I'm fine."
Unconvinced, he hummed back. "Are you certain?"
"Yes," she replied, a bit more firmly this time.
Haruto smiled a little. He was wise enough not to push. Once closed, Ayaka seldom opened unless she felt compelled to. However, he kept the observation in the back of his mind.
Her gaze was not the only one that wandered to Ren.
Her silence was too purposeful. Her directions were too direct. The distance between them seemed purposefully created.
Then there was Ren.
They were finishing up the day's recording a few days later. Ren stayed behind, slowly getting his belongings together. He was caught by Haruto close to the exit.
Haruto said, "Hey."
Ren looked up. "Yes?"
"How are you doing?"
Ren nodded gently. Indeed. "Everything is fine."
Haruto remained motionless. He tilted his head after crossing his arms. "Is everything good between you and Ayaka?"
Ren paused for a moment. On the strap of his bag, his hand froze. He cast his gaze downward.
There was no response.
Haruto allowed the silence to linger as he watched him.
"You lost your heart to her, didn't you?" Haruto then said calmly.
As if someone had taken his truth right out of his chest, Ren's head jerked up, eyes wide with a kind of stunned pain.
Haruto remained expressionless. He was serious.
After swallowing, Ren slowly shook his head. "Is that—?"
"Obviously? Absolutely! To a person who has known her for years? Just a bit." With a sigh, Haruto crossed his legs and sank onto the studio couch. "Observe. I probably would have immediately dismissed you from the team if this had happened a year ago or if I didn't know you."
Ren said nothing.
But I've seen you at work. I've watched you develop. You're not just any idol chasing attractive women." With his elbows resting on his knees, Haruto leaned forward. "But is she aware of it?"
Ren glanced down once more. "I didn't tell her."
"Why not?"
Before responding, Ren bit the inside of his cheek. "Because I am nothing."
Haruto furrowed his brow.
Ren went on, "I want to become someone deserving of her. Not only as an idol or performer, but also as someone she can gaze upon guilt-free. Someone she can trust. I want to be the one who unapologetically stands by her side. The man she is due."
After observing him for a considerable amount of time, Haruto emitted a tiny chuckle.
"Well," he said, "that's the first thing you've said that gives me hope that you might one day be suitable for her."
He got up and gave Ren a quick pat on the back. "Good luck."
Later that week, after the studio lights had gone out and Tokyo's nightlife had started to bustle, Ren entered a silent recording booth that he had independently rented. No engineers. Not a producer. Only him and the booth's blinking red light.
There was only a chair, a microphone, and soundproof walls in the tiny space. However, it was sufficient.
He placed the file folder on the table next to him. His notebook was inside, the pages folded, the ink still fresh. He began with "If Only You Knew," a song he had written.
As he set up the microphone, his fingers trembled a little.
It was a rough first take. At the chorus, his voice broke. The second was superior; it was deeper, more steady, and had an ache that he was unable to get rid of.
Perfection wasn't necessary for him.
All he needed was the truth.
Ren saved the track three hours later. The file was labeled. He failed to upload it. didn't even distribute it. Rather, he stored it in the same folder as his lyrics after copying it onto a tiny flash drive.
The world wasn't prepared for it.
It wasn't for the world.
It was for him.
And perhaps... one day... for her.
Ayaka's POV
She had no intention of looking.
But it continued.
Ayaka's gaze would always find Ren whenever he stood in the recording booth, practiced a scene, or shared a quiet laugh with someone. against her will.
She caught glimpses of him when he wasn't looking, such as when he scowled intently or grinned at a line that struck a chord. Lately, he had a tenderness about him. A silent sorrow that gripped his shoulders.
She felt guilty for noticing.
However, she was unable to shake the sensation of her heart thumping the night he kissed her. Or the way he had appeared the next morning, as though he had broken something inside himself rather than taken something.
She was aware that it had been incorrect.
Both of them were intoxicated. Emotions mixed together. The moment—it had gone too far.
So she retreated. She constructed walls.
She looked, though.
And her eyes always flitted away when he turned to look back.
Nevertheless, it was insufficient to prevent the pain.
Ayaka was sitting at home, working on a storyboard, but her thoughts were elsewhere. On the cast sheet, she gazed at Ren's name. Her fingers lingered over it.
She whispered out loud, "He doesn't say anything anymore."
She recalled how he would inquire about her thoughts, make lighthearted remarks about her, and become agitated when she confronted him.
Nothing now.
She couldn't decide whether the silence she had forced upon him or the one he silently accepted hurt more.
The days went by routinely back in the studio. Ren didn't push. He didn't inquire.
Ayaka, however, observed. Her eyes grew a little softer. Still, she said nothing.
And buried like a secret in a silent folder was a song that reflected the pain of a boy who fell in love.
A boy who wasn't ready to tell the girl.
Not just yet.
But one day.