The exhibit winds down long after the chatter has dulled into a low murmur. The once-crowded gallery thins, footsteps echoing across the hardwood floor as people slip out into the night. I linger near my painting, watching as the last stragglers drift past, offering cursory glances before moving on.

It’s over. Relief washes over me, heavy and numbing. My chest feels hollow, like I’ve emptied the last of myself onto that canvas and left it for strangers to dissect.

I pull my satchel over my shoulder, ready to escape, when a voice stops me.

“Kaoru.”

I freeze.

Shion.

He stands a few feet away, hands in his pockets, hair falling loosely around his face now that the tie has slipped. The overhead lights catch on his eyes, soft but steady, like they hold a glow of their own.

I grit my teeth, turning back toward my painting as if it still demands my attention. “You’re persistent.”

“Maybe,” he admits, stepping closer. “But I didn’t want the night to end without saying something.”

“I think you’ve said enough.”

“Then let me say one more thing.”

His tone isn’t pushy. It’s patient, coaxing, as if he’s inviting me instead of cornering me. Against my better judgment, I glance at him. His smile is faint, almost hesitant.

“I have a recital next week. Nothing big—just a small hall on campus, mostly students. I’d like you to come.”

I blink. “Why?”

“Because I want you to hear something,” he says simply. “Something I’ve been working on. And… maybe I want to see if it sounds different through your ears.”

I stare at him, searching for arrogance, for that smug confidence I’ve seen in every “genius” type. But he doesn’t look smug. He looks… earnest. Like he actually means it.

“You don’t even know me,” I mutter.

“That’s why I’m asking,” Shion replies. “Because I’d like to.”

The words hit harder than they should. My throat tightens. I look away quickly, focusing on the corner of the canvas where my brushstrokes overlap, jagged and imperfect.

“I don’t go to things like that,” I say finally.

He tilts his head. “Why not?”

“Crowds. Noise. People.” I shrug, clutching the strap of my satchel like it might keep me grounded. “Take your pick.”

Shion considers this, then nods slowly, as though I’ve just handed him a puzzle piece. “Then don’t think of it as a crowd. Think of it as me showing you something. One on one. Even if others are in the room.”

The ease with which he says it unsettles me. Like he’s rearranging the weight of the world, making it sound lighter than it is.

I scoff, but it comes out weaker than I intend. “You really don’t give up, do you?”

“Not when something matters,” Shion says. “And this does.”

Silence stretches between us again. This time it’s not suffocating. It’s… fragile.

I don’t say yes. But I don’t say no, either.

---

For the next week, the invitation festers in the back of my mind. Between lectures and sketches, between doctor’s appointments I pretend not to think about, his words circle like persistent echoes.

*Think of it as me showing you something.*

I try to bury the thought under unfinished assignments and late-night walks back to the dorms. But somehow, when the evening of the recital arrives, I find myself standing outside the small concert hall.

The building hums with muffled voices spilling from inside, the faint vibrations of instruments tuning. My chest feels tight. My feet ache to turn back, to retreat into the safety of solitude.

Yet curiosity pins me in place.

What could he possibly want me to hear?

I push the door open.

---

The hall is modest, rows of seats curving toward the small stage. Students mill about, programs in hand, their laughter rising above the soft tuning of strings and keys. I slip into the back row, keeping my head down, hoping no one notices me.

And then I see him.

Shion stands near the stage, speaking with another student, his posture relaxed, his hands animated as he gestures. He laughs at something, the sound carrying even from where I sit. But when his gaze lifts, scanning the room, it lands on me almost immediately.

Our eyes lock.

The corner of his mouth lifts—just slightly, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough to make my stomach lurch.

He saw me.

Worse—he expected me.

I look away, but it’s too late. The recital begins.

---

The lights dim, and the chatter dies. A hush falls over the hall as the first performers take the stage. Duets, solos, brief interludes. The music swells and fades, notes filling the air like brushstrokes on an invisible canvas.

I try to focus, but my thoughts keep circling back to him. What will his music sound like? What will he want me to hear?

Finally, his name is announced.

Shion steps onto the stage with a calm that borders on unreal. He bows, sits at the piano, and lets his fingers hover over the keys for a moment—silent, deliberate. Then he begins to play.

The sound unfurls slowly, gentle as twilight. A melody so soft it almost feels fragile, like it might break if I breathe too loudly. Then it builds—layer by layer, note by note—into something richer, deeper.

And I hear it.

I don’t know how, but I hear myself in it. The weight of loss. The fear of fading. But also—something else. A glimmer I can’t name. A thread of light woven into the dark.

My chest tightens painfully. My hands curl into fists in my lap. I don’t want to feel this exposed, not here, not in front of him. But I can’t tear my eyes away.

When the last note fades, the hall erupts into applause. I remain frozen, heart hammering.

Shion rises, bows again, but his gaze cuts through the crowd, finding me. Always me.

It feels like he played it just for me.

And in that moment, I realize something terrifying.

I want to hear more.