The summer nights in Futako-Tamagawa had grown heavy. The breeze that once carried the scent of blooming sakura was now thick with the weight of river water and asphalt. Cicadas screamed in the dark, their voices sharp and restless, a mirror to the sleepless souls hidden behind apartment walls.
Arohi leaned over her balcony railing, one hand wrapped around her mug of tea, the other scrolling lazily through her phone. Her eyes flickered toward the next balcony, toward the familiar window that always glowed faintly long after midnight. Natsuo's curtains were drawn, as usual, but she could still see the slice of light leaking through.
"Does he even sleep?" she murmured, her voice almost swallowed by the hum of the city.
She remembered the morning — how he'd stepped into the elevator looking half-awake, shirt wrinkled, hair still damp from a quick shower. When she teased him about gaming all night, he'd only smiled that quiet, lopsided smile and said, "Something like that."
But that smile hadn't reached his eyes.
He was always composed, gentle, reliable — but lately, there was something different. Something worn-out in the way he carried himself, like the strings of a guitar pulled too tight.
Across the thin concrete wall between them, his world was different.
In his apartment, the air was stale — a blend of coffee gone cold, energy drinks, and the faint metallic buzz of too many cables running across the floor. The desk lamp illuminated the faint blue glow of his monitor, casting long shadows over the empty takeout boxes.
Natsuo sat hunched over his digital piano, headphones clamped tight, eyes locked on the glowing interface of his software. His fingers moved on instinct — dragging, cutting, layering — each note looping endlessly until it sounded right. Or at least, until he convinced himself it did.
He replayed the same eight bars for the fiftieth time.
The same melody, slightly tweaked. Again. Again. Again.
The manager's voice echoed in his head like static:
"Blue Records wants something fresh by Friday. You're slipping, Natsuo. You can't afford to. You're our golden one — remember that."
His eyes burned from staring at the screen too long. He blinked once, twice, and then kept going. The hum of his computer was the only sound left between him and madness.
The clock on the wall read 3:27 a.m. He hadn't eaten since yesterday afternoon.
A notification blinked on his phone. He almost ignored it — until he saw her name.
Arohi: "Don't overwork, okay? 🌙 I made tea. Tastes weird but feels nice."
A stupid little warmth rose in his chest. It was ridiculous — that a single message could make him pause. But it did.
He stared at it far too long, thumb hovering above the keyboard.
He wanted to reply. To say "Thanks."
To say "You're the only thing keeping me sane."
Instead, he locked the screen and placed it face-down. He didn't deserve that comfort. Not when the person she thought he was didn't even exist.
He pressed a new chord, let it reverberate through his headphones, and buried himself in the noise again.
Before all this — before the lights, the music, the lies — Natsuo had been just another face in a high school classroom, sketching lyrics in the corners of his notebooks instead of equations.
Back then, he'd slip away after classes, dodging teachers to attend karaoke competitions or small open-mic events. His friends called it reckless; his parents called it shameful. Music, they said, was not a career.
But when he stood under the flickering lights of those small stages, mic trembling in his hand, everything else went quiet. The noise inside him — the anxiety, the loneliness, the self-doubt — it all melted into melody.
He started writing songs in secret. He saved up for a cheap laptop and a secondhand keyboard. He composed at night when everyone slept, whispering into the mic so the walls wouldn't betray him.
By the time he was in college, he was sneaking out to record in dingy basements, posting anonymous demos online under different usernames. Some got ignored. Some went viral. One of them — one — caught the attention of Blue Records.
It should've been a dream come true.
But success came with chains. The label demanded an identity — one that was mysterious, flawless, marketable. So he became someone else. Someone untouchable.
And the real him — the tired, lonely, ordinary him — was buried under that persona.
Every day, the pressure grew. To write something new. To stay relevant. To keep smiling when he felt like screaming. There were no holidays. No rest days. Just the endless loop of composing, performing, hiding.
And yet, even in all the noise, he felt alone. No family. No true friends who knew him beyond the mask. Just the echo of his own voice in the studio walls.
Until Arohi.
It wasn't supposed to matter — she was just a neighbor. A stranger who smiled too easily and apologized too often. But somehow, her presence had started to slip into his routine like sunlight through blinds.
The small things — her clumsy mornings, her soft humming from the balcony, her endless curiosity — made the silence less suffocating.
She cared in ways that weren't performative. She'd leave him food when he forgot to eat. She'd ask if he slept, even when she knew the answer. And every time she said, "Take care, okay?" it felt like a promise he didn't deserve.
She was too pure, too honest for the kind of world he lived in.
Sometimes, when he looked at her — the way she spoke with passion about her designs, the way she found joy in small, meaningless things — he felt this strange ache.
An ache to tell her everything.
But he couldn't.
Because the moment she knew, the world between them would collapse like the past friends and family.
He was her friend, her quiet neighbor who liked music — not the man whose songs she listened to when she felt homesick. Not the face on posters she'd unknowingly admired.
And he wanted to keep it that way, at least a little longer.
Because in her eyes, he wasn't a star or a stranger. He was just Natsuo.
The days blurred into weeks. The heat grew thicker. He barely left the studio except to grab coffee or step onto his balcony for air. The sound of Arohi's laughter carried faintly across the wall sometimes — her voice a reminder that the world outside still existed.
He'd hear her talking to her coworkers over calls, or humming some half-familiar tune under her breath. Once, he even caught her humming one of his songs — softly, off-key, completely unaware that the original singer lived right next door.
He had to grip the railing to steady himself.
That night, he didn't touch his keyboard for hours. He just sat there, headphones around his neck, listening to the muffled sound of her laughter drift through the thin summer air.
For the first time in months, he smiled — a real one.
But even small joys carried weight.
He noticed the difference the following week. The deadlines came faster, the expectations heavier. The label's emails grew colder. His manager called twice a day.
"The new track needs to hit harder."
"Your last one didn't trend enough."
"We can't afford another miss."
The words sank like stones. Every song he made began to sound the same. Every melody felt forced. He couldn't remember the last time he'd written something for himself.
He stared at the soundboard, exhausted.
Sometimes he thought about quitting. About running away somewhere quiet, maybe near the ocean, where no one would know his name.
But even then, he knew he wouldn't.
Because this — the exhaustion, the applause, the lies — it was all he had.
And lately, the only thing that felt real anymore was her.
That night, he sat by the open balcony, the humid air sticking to his skin. His laptop screen glowed beside him, but he didn't look at it. Instead, his eyes drifted to the faint figure on the balcony next door.
Arohi was sipping tea, wearing that oversized shirt she always wore at home. Her hair was tied up loosely, strands escaping to frame her face. She hadn't noticed him yet — she was lost in thought, staring at the city lights.
He smiled faintly. For a moment, the world didn't feel like it was falling apart.
Then she looked up — caught his gaze — and waved.
He froze, mid-thought. Then, unable to help himself, he waved back.
Her voice floated across the gap.
"Long day again?"
He nodded. "Something like that."
She frowned softly. "You look tired."
"I am."
"Then sleep, baka," she said teasingly, grinning.
He laughed under his breath. "Hai, hai."
But she didn't go back in. Neither did he. They just stood there, two lonely people suspended between buildings, pretending the city wasn't loud, pretending the world wasn't watching.
For her, this was friendship.
For him, it was salvation he didn't know how to keep.
Later that night, long after Arohi's lights went out, Natsuo sat on his couch with his guitar resting against his knee.
His fingers hovered over the strings, trembling slightly. He wanted to write. To write something for her.
But everything he touched turned into the same melody — the same haunting tune that carried his loneliness, his guilt, and the shadow of every lie he'd ever told.
The hum of his phone broke through the quiet.
Manager (📞): "You've got interviews next week. Studio's booked for the next track. Don't be late."
He murmured something noncommittal and hung up.
The city outside was silent, save for the cicadas. The night pressed against the glass.
He closed his eyes and leaned back, the ache behind them spreading like smoke.
He had music, fame, and everything he'd once dreamed of — but he'd never felt emptier.
And when he thought of her — her voice, her smile, her faith in him — it almost hurt to breathe.
Because in her world, he was a gentle neighbor who made bad coffee and forgot to sleep.
In his, she was the only reminder that he could still feel human.
He knew one day she'd find out.
The posters. The name. The mask.
And when she did, she'd look at him differently — like everyone else. With awe, maybe. But never warmth.
He didn't want that.
He wanted to stay in this quiet illusion, where the only lie that mattered was the one that kept her close.
The clock ticked past four. He turned off his computer, letting the darkness swallow the room.
Outside, the river shimmered faintly under the moonlight — slow, quiet, endless.
Through the thin walls, he could almost hear Arohi's steady breathing in her sleep.
He smiled faintly, closing his eyes.
And for a fleeting moment, the world didn't feel so heavy.
But somewhere deep inside, the truth stirred — like a melody waiting to break free.
And when it did, it wouldn't sound like music.
It would sound like heartbreak.