The roof of Seigetsu Main Hall trembled faintly with distant drum echoes from another rehearsal room. Down on the parquet stage, colored tape still marked blocking for last week's play, and chandeliers cast tired halos onto four figures scattered among scuffed sheet music and tangled cords.

I leaned against the black grand piano, shoulders slack, mic dangling loose between two fingers. My navy Kousei jacket was still rain-damp, drops clinging stubbornly to the fabric, and my hair—normally styled to look carelessly perfect—stuck in wet strands against my forehead. My gaze drifted past the empty rows of carved wooden seats, unfocused, jaw locked tight like I was bracing for a punch.

Outside, rain rattled against the tall arched windows, the scent of wet pavement sneaking in through the half-open side door.

We were supposed to be rehearsing for the Hoshizuki Festival performance—a carefully staged joint act to prove rivals could stand side by side. Yamatsuki's serious, sharp-eyed music partner running staging and lyrics. Rei at the piano, Tomo on bass, and me in the spotlight as the solo singer.

Chosen because I'd draw eyes—and because drama always sells tickets.

But I kept missing the same line. And everyone knew why.

My ex—the one I'd tried all summer to win back—had been seen behind Shiratori Field, laughing and holding hands with that scruffy Yamatsuki first-year. Rumors flew before the rain even dried on the track. The teasing stung worse than the rejection itself; it tasted like proof the "no" really meant no.

The chord ended, hanging brittle in the dusty air.

Across from me, music partner shifted—a slow inhale, arms tightening across his chest, shoulders squaring. The steady stare he fixed on me said more than words ever could: unblinking, sharp, silent: Again.

I barely reacted—only a faint flicker of frustration in my eyes. My thumb rolled over the chipped paint on the mic, throat bobbing.

On the piano bench beside me, Rei let out a slow breath. His voice stayed measured, but the edge beneath was impossible to miss. "You see him waiting? Pick it up from the bridge."

Behind them, Tomo kept the bassline alive, fingers sliding across the frets with a low hum like a heartbeat refusing to stop.

"Yeah, yeah... I got it," I muttered under my breath, voice rough.

I raised the mic. Stage light caught on the rain still clinging to my lashes.

"月の下で 言えなかった..." (Under the moon, what I couldn't say...)

We were supposed to lock eyes on that verse—to sell the story of regret and reunion. But my gaze kept slipping, landing on the rain-slick floorboards instead. Each syllable felt heavier than it should, dragging over bruised pride and memories that tasted like iron.

Music partner didn't move. His stare stayed steady, pen now held loose at his side, the line of his shoulders rigid. Even without a word, the message burned clear as fire: Focus.

The verse ended. Silence spread, broken only by the faint tap of rain on glass.

My free hand curled into a fist at my side, nails biting deep into my palm. My jaw tightened, breath catching in my chest. My mouth opened—then shut—then a bitter, breathless laugh slipped out, too sharp at the edges.

I forced my gaze up, finally meeting music partner's across the stage—faintly shining.

"Go on then," I rasped, voice cracking around the words, heat flickering behind my eyes. "Say it. I know you wanna."

I held that look—defensive, daring, quietly breaking—and waited, chest rising and falling under the damp collar of my uniform.