In the classroom, Takahashi Mio was doing what she did best in life.
Her senses gradually blurred. The teacher's voice from the podium transformed into something else entirely—a lullaby, maybe, or the distant hum of a refrigerator on a summer night. Her eyes drifted closed without permission. Her head began to bob in hypnotic rhythm with the lecturer's gesturing hand, each dip a little deeper than the last. The carbon pen in her grip pressed against the paper, leaving a small, dark smudge that grew steadily larger.
Classes were a grand hypnotic ritual. For Takahashi Mio, listening to a lecture held this strange, irresistible magic. It wasn't like a simple recording—there was something about the slightly noisy but relatively quiet classroom atmosphere, the teacher droning on in an unchanging monotone, that inexplicable sense of security that came from being surrounded by others who were also fighting sleep...
Sleepiness washed over her like a tide. Warm. Inevitable. She was sinking into it, letting go, when—
A sharp jab in her waist.
A long, hard object—a pen—poked her with surgical precision.
!
Takahashi Mio jolted like she'd been hit with a low-voltage stun gun. Her eyes flew open. Her slender spine snapped straight. The pen that had been about to slip from her fingers was suddenly gripped with white-knuckled desperation.
A quiet chuckle came from behind her.
Her face burned. She quickly fixed her gaze on her textbook, trying desperately to locate where the teacher was in the lecture. Unfortunately, she had no idea when she'd started drifting off. She scanned the current page frantically, but nothing registered—just a blur of text that refused to organize itself into meaning.
As if sensing her predicament, the bespectacled girl beside her pointed her pen at the bottom left corner of the page.
Takahashi Mio's eyes lit up with gratitude. She glanced at the PPT and began highlighting frantically.
Here was the thing about adulthood: almost no one helped you for free anymore. Everyone was focused on their own affairs, their own struggles, their own climb. Even close friends often secretly enjoyed watching you stumble—it added a little spice to an otherwise monotonous existence.
Nagata Nanase, the girl beside her, wasn't acting out of kindness. Takahashi Mio was paying her—a top student—to supervise.
And not just supervise. Tutoring. Assessments. Note reviews. It was basically a one-on-one private education package.
The price: 100,000 yen per month.
For one-on-one tutoring in Tokyo, where standard rates hovered around 2,000 yen per hour, and covering multiple subjects, this was practically a steal. Nagata Nanase had only agreed because it didn't consume much of her daily time and covered material she was already studying anyway.
You get what you pay for—that applied to Nagata Nanase just as much as it applied to Takahashi Mio.
And for Mio? The allure of one million yen was simply too powerful to ignore.
She'd been studying like a woman possessed all week. Had even turned down Haruno Reika's invitations to go out. Every hour spent with textbooks was an hour closer to financial freedom.
After paying Nagata Nanase each month, she'd still have 200,000 yen left. If she maintained this pace through the semester, she could clear her debts entirely. No more living an outwardly glamorous life while secretly panicking about next month's payments. No more lying awake at night doing mental calculations that never quite added up.
Honestly? Takahashi Mio almost hoped Shiratori Seiya would give her more tasks. More goals. More opportunities. That way she could pay off everything and still have money left over for things she actually wanted.
As for that "becoming a star" dream he kept talking about?
She secretly yearned for it, yes. A tiny, shameful part of her whispered what if late at night. But right now, it felt like a castle in the sky—beautiful, distant, completely useless to think about. Just like he'd said: better to focus on what was practical first.
Ding, ding, ding.
"Alright, that's it for today. As for homework..."
One class down. Takahashi Mio had survived thanks to Nagata Nanase's well-timed pen jabs—at least four of them over the course of the lecture.
"Library after this?" Nagata Nanase adjusted her black-rimmed glasses, gathering her books with efficient movements.
"Ah, yes—but I need the restroom first."
"Okay. I'll head over. Same spot as usual."
"Got it."
Mio nodded, tidying her handbag, and was about to follow when a gasp rippled through the classroom behind her.
"Huh?!"
"A-sensei stopped writing?!"
Her ears perked up involuntarily. She paused mid-step, turning to look.
"A-sensei? The one who writes all of Hōjō Shione's songs?"
"Yeah! They announced they're stopping!"
"Wait, seriously? That can't be real, right?"
"No, the official agency account posted it. Hōjō Shione's personal account and A-sensei's account both posted simultaneously. It's confirmed!"
"Whoa..."
Takahashi Mio's expression darkened almost imperceptibly.
She didn't know when it had started—this reaction. This automatic tightening in her chest whenever she heard the name Hōjō Shione. As Shiratori Seiya's current girlfriend, she couldn't help but feel... overshadowed. Diminished. Like she was perpetually standing in someone else's spotlight.
It wasn't jealousy. At least, Mio didn't think it was. She didn't have those kinds of deep feelings for Shiratori Seiya yet—not really. They'd only been "dating" for a short time, and their relationship was more transactional than romantic.
But it was still annoying.
Annoying enough that she'd torn down posters of Hōjō Shione in her room. Annoying enough that she'd listed a matching bag she'd recently bought on a second-hand trading site. Annoying enough that she'd stuffed unsellable accessories into a suitcase to gather dust in the corner.
If only I weren't Shiratori Seiya's girlfriend.
The thought surfaced occasionally, unbidden. If she weren't connected to him, she could still like Hōjō Shione. Could enjoy her music without this complicated pressure. Could face Shiratori Seiya without feeling like she was being measured against some impossible standard.
She wished she could go back—to that night before she'd seen that photo. Before she'd learned the truth.
But even if she could... she would have found out eventually, wouldn't she?
It felt like an invisible hand had twisted her between these two people, and no matter which way she turned, something pulled tight.
Biting her lip, Takahashi Mio took a deep breath and pulled out her phone.
Might as well see what the fuss is about.
Twitter was already exploding.
Hōjō Shione's agency account, her personal account, and A-sensei's account had all posted announcements simultaneously. The timing was precise. Coordinated. Professional.
The agency's announcement was formal and corporate—the kind of press release that had clearly been reviewed by lawyers. Hōjō Shione's personal post was warmer, more emotional, expressing gratitude for the collaboration and hinting at the two final songs that would be featured in her upcoming concert.
But A-sensei's statement? That was the interesting one.
"After much consideration, I've decided to step back from songwriting. I've run out of talent. I want to pursue other dreams. I haven't earned enough money, but it's barely sufficient to support my next goal."
The wording was almost flippant. Self-deprecating. Nothing like the polished statements from the agency.
Mio scrolled through the comments, her thumb moving automatically.
"What a shame—their collaboration ending like this. It feels like watching a couple break up..."
"Are there seriously people who still believe A-sensei is one person? It's obviously a studio pseudonym. How else would the song styles vary so much?"
"Oh right, Hōjō Shione's concert is coming up. Is this just hype for that?"
"I heard these are the last two songs A-sensei wrote specifically for her..."
A fierce debate raged in the replies about whether A-sensei was an individual or a collective studio. Some users presented elaborate evidence. Others dismissed it all as corporate manipulation. The usual Twitter chaos.
Then Mio's scrolling finger stopped.
"Without A-sensei's songs, will Hōjō Shione stay popular?"
The question hung there, stark and provocative.
Below it, the replies were split. Some argued passionately that Hōjō Shione's vocal ability was exceptional—she could sing anything and make it a hit. Others countered that even the most talented singer needed quality material; without good songs, technique was wasted effort.
Takahashi Mio stared at the screen, her expression unreadable.
Then, as if possessed by something she couldn't name, she tapped on Shiratori Seiya's profile picture. Her fingers moved before her brain could catch up, composing a message and sending it:
"Did you know about Friend A stopping writing?"