Shiratori Seiya was A-sensei.
Although she hadn't yet heard the confession fall directly from his lips, Takahashi Mio had already arrived at a place of near-absolute certainty within her heart. The pieces fit together with the satisfying click of a completed jigsaw puzzle. There was simply no other logical explanation. If he was A-sensei, then every scattered mystery suddenly snapped into perfect, crystalline focus.
Why was Shiratori Seiya so mysteriously wealthy despite his unassuming student lifestyle?
Why did every single song penned by the enigmatic A-sensei flow exclusively into the waiting hands of Hojo Shione, as if bound by some invisible contract written in starlight?
Why did A-sensei's creative well run completely dry the moment the two of them broke up, vanishing from the music scene like a ghost at dawn?
However, despite this earth-shattering revelation solidifying in her mind, from the instant she stepped out of Shiratori Seiya's car, climbed the stairs to her apartment, unlocked the door, and collapsed face-first onto her futon, her emotional state remained surprisingly... stable. There was no dramatic internal screaming. No explosive, anime-style freakout with exaggerated sweat drops and flailing limbs.
It was more like the quiet, centered calm that follows a sudden flash of enlightenment. A gentle, internal murmur of "Ah... sou iu koto ka." — "Oh, so that's how it is."
The sensation was oddly reminiscent of receiving one of those mysterious black packages in the mail, the kind with no return address that makes your imagination run wild. Your fingers brush against the surface—it feels rounded. You lift it—there's a pleasant, satisfying heft. You give it a tentative knock with your knuckles—a hollow thump-thump-thump echoes back.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, an expectation blooms: "There's probably fruit inside." You just don't know if it's a perfectly striped watermelon or a fragrant golden cantaloupe. Though, there's always the off chance it could be something completely unexpected, like a bowling ball wrapped in deception.
But when you finally tear away the tape and peel back the cardboard flaps, you find... a coconut.
A bit unexpected, sure. Not precisely what you'd envisioned. But hardly the kind of revelation that sends you reeling backward with sparkly, wide-eyed shock. Just a quiet, nodding acknowledgment. "Ah. A coconut. That tracks."
Of course, there was also the distinct possibility that she was simply too exhausted to muster a more dramatic reaction. Today's training had drained her batteries down to absolute zero.
Her mind still swirled with unanswered questions, hazy fragments of thoughts she wanted to pursue. Takahashi Mio resolved to keep thinking, to untangle the knot completely. But her brain had apparently clocked out for the evening, hanging a little "Closed for Maintenance" sign on her forehead.
She genuinely lacked the energy for even basic hygiene. With mechanical efficiency, she peeled off her clothes, letting them fall in a careless heap onto the tatami mat. Clad only in her loose pajama top, she burrowed beneath the thin summer blanket like a small animal seeking shelter.
A moment later, however, the oppressive humidity of the Tokyo night made itself known. Too hot. Much too hot. With a groan of frustration, she kicked out her long, slender legs, straddling the bunched-up blanket in a thoroughly unladylike fashion. At the same time, her hand fumbled blindly beneath her pillow, retrieving the air conditioner remote.
Beep.
A cool, artificial breeze sighed into the room. Yet, even as the ambient temperature began its steady descent, Takahashi Mio squeezed her eyes shut and felt a persistent, smoldering heat radiating from deep within her chest. Calling it mere restlessness would have been a criminal understatement. It was a low, simmering agitation that refused to be quelled by chilled air alone.
Her eyes snapped open. She shuffled into the cramped bathroom, her slippers making soft peta-peta sounds against the floor. Leaning over the sink, she splashed cold water onto her face, the shock of it jolting her system back to a semblance of clarity. She took a long, steadying breath and picked up her phone, her thumb hovering over the screen.
With a sense of grim determination, she opened her chat window with Hojo Shione.
Takahashi Mio frowned at the glowing screen, her fingertip suspended in the air like a pianist hesitating before striking a crucial key. She turned the question over and over in her mind for what felt like an eternity. In the end, the message remained unsent.
'Is Shiratori Seiya A-sensei?'
The words felt heavy. Too heavy. If she actually sent that message, if she gave voice to that question, it would be an implicit admission. An admission that she didn't understand Shiratori Seiya as deeply, as thoroughly, as intimately as Hojo Shione did. And while that was, objectively speaking, the undeniable truth... there was this stubborn, irrational, fiercely burning pride nestled in the core of her being that simply refused to let her concede.
So what if she met him first? Takahashi Mio reasoned with herself, her jaw tightening. That's nothing special. It's not some legendary advantage. I'll just... I'll learn more. I'll see more. Eventually, I'll understand him better than Hojo Shione ever could. That's a promise.
However, beyond that specific inquiry, there was another question burning on her tongue. The one she truly, desperately wanted to ask.
Why exactly did you two break up?
Some hazy, instinctual part of her already grasped the likely shape of the answer. Shiratori Seiya was almost certainly the one who had initiated the separation.
After all, she had seen Hojo Shione in the flesh. The raw, unguarded affection swimming in those eyes hadn't seemed like a performance. Unless the girl had also undergone rigorous acting training herself... but no. Her gut rejected that possibility.
Yet her heart stubbornly resisted accepting such a conclusion. Because if Shiratori Seiya was capable of walking away from someone like Hojo Shione—someone so talented, so beautiful, so clearly devoted—then what did that imply about her own future?
It painted a terrifying picture. A future where she, too, might one day find herself cast aside by Shiratori Seiya, left behind like a finished chapter in a book he'd already closed.
A sharp sting of frustration shot through her. Takahashi Mio gritted her teeth and shifted her position on the bed, her hips wiggling as she resettled. Her thumb swiped away from Hojo Shione's chat window and landed on Haruno Reika's name instead.
But even then, staring at the familiar profile picture, she found herself utterly lost. She had no idea where to even begin unraveling this tangled mess of emotions.
As her thoughts drifted like clouds across a vacant sky, a wave of profound exhaustion finally crested and crashed over her. Sometime between one wandering thought and the next, consciousness slipped away.
That night, Takahashi Mio had a dream. A dream she hadn't experienced in a very, very long time.
She dreamed that Shiratori Seiya wrote scripts. Scripts crafted specifically for her. Not for Shione. Not for anyone else. Every line of dialogue, every emotional beat, every triumphant moment—all of it belonged to Takahashi Mio. She starred as the undisputed female lead, and under those brilliant stage lights, she became famous. Not just mildly successful. She blazed across the sky brighter than Venus itself, outshining every star in the constellation of entertainment.
She dreamed that her father, that stubborn, immovable mountain of a man, finally ran out of objections. He had no choice but to grudgingly, silently relent. On the surface, he maintained his gruff facade, acting as though she still owed him a debt of millions of yen. But in the privacy of his own home, she knew—she just knew—he was secretly tuning in to watch every single drama she starred in, a hidden, begrudging smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
She dreamed that her love story with Shiratori Seiya, her devoted producer, became the stuff of national legend. Theirs was a romance sung about by countless admirers, a tale whispered in cafes and trended endlessly on social media. They were crowned the nation's ultimate power couple. The best couple in all of Japan.
And that sword-swinging maniac—the one whose only skill was waving a bamboo stick around—could do nothing but gnash her teeth in impotent fury. Saori could only watch from the sidelines, her eyes filled with longing and envy, forever an outsider looking in on a happiness she could never touch.
But then... just as she stood at the altar, radiant in her wedding gown, ready to exchange eternal vows with Shiratori Seiya... the world plunged into absolute darkness.
From the shadows, a figure emerged. Hojo Shione. Dressed in a wedding dress even more stunning, even more elaborate, her expression a mask of cool triumph. With a single, contemptuous kick, she sent Takahashi Mio tumbling to the ground. She hooked her arm possessively through Shiratori Seiya's and looked down at her fallen rival with icy disdain.
"He never loved you. Not even for a second. Everything was nothing more than your own pathetic wishful thinking."
The saccharine dream curdled into a bitter nightmare.
Takahashi Mio's eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks. A sliver of golden morning sunlight, sneaking through the gap in her curtains, painted a warm stripe across her face. Her eyes flew open with a sharp gasp.
She lay there motionless, staring blankly up at the familiar, unremarkable ceiling. The air conditioner hummed quietly in the corner, yet her skin felt hot and prickly, as if she'd just run a marathon in a sauna. She reached a hand behind her neck and found her palm slick with cold sweat.
The vivid, detailed scenes of the dream began to dissolve almost immediately upon waking, fading into indistinct blurs like watercolors left out in the rain. But Hojo Shione's final, cutting words echoed in her ears with crystal clarity.
It's fine, Takahashi Mio told herself firmly, pressing a hand to her racing heart. Dreams are just dreams. They're fake. Meaningless noise from a tired brain.
If I truly become brighter than Venus, there's no way Shiratori Seiya could ever bring himself to leave me. When we get married—and we WILL get married—I'll make absolutely certain to invite Hojo Shione to be my bridesmaid. She'll have to stand there and watch. That'll be my revenge for this stupid dream.
I have to work harder. I have to surpass her. No. Matter. What.
Takahashi Mio sucked in a deep, fortifying breath and gave herself a firm internal pep talk. Reassured by her own resolve, she reached for her phone out of sheer habit, tapping the screen to check the time.
Her eyes went wide. Nearly eight-thirty already?!
She still had her second-tier acting class today. In an instant, every last trace of drowsiness was incinerated by a surge of pure adrenaline. She scrambled out of bed and made a beeline for the bathroom, a whirlwind of flailing limbs and determination.
Attending specialized training sessions with a genuine professional instructor guiding her every step of the way was, she had to admit, a completely different universe.
Sitting in the lecture hall, listening to the teacher dissect a scene from the podium, Takahashi Mio felt her understanding of the characters within the story deepening by the minute. It was like a fog was slowly lifting from a landscape she'd only ever seen in blurred outlines.
A profound sensation of sudden enlightenment bloomed spontaneously within her chest. "Eureka," her soul seemed to whisper.
There were moments—brief, fleeting, almost transcendental—where she felt as though she could genuinely merge with the character. Not just imitate. Not just perform. But become. To breathe their air and see through their eyes.
Though these moments of perfect symbiosis lasted only heartbeats, the clear, tangible sensation of progress was absolutely intoxicating. It sent a thrill of exhilaration racing down her spine.
The previous fog of dizziness and drowsiness that used to cloud her mind during lectures had completely vanished. The more she listened, the more energized she became, like a sponge eagerly soaking up every precious drop of knowledge.
This transformation did not go unnoticed. Nagata Nanase, seated beside her, found herself sneaking increasingly frequent glances at her friend.
When a person's internal state shifts, their entire aura transforms along with it. It was like watching a monochrome sketch suddenly bloom into vibrant watercolor.
Nagata Nanase could hardly believe this was the same Takahashi Mio from last week. She absorbed the lecture with laser-like focus. Her pen flew across her notebook, capturing notes at a furious pace. She practically vibrated with an infectious, almost restless energy.
Even though she wasn't an acting major herself, Mio was listening with more genuine seriousness than ninety percent of the students in this room. A spark of genuine curiosity flickered in Nagata Nanase's eyes.
When the class finally ended and the shuffle of packing bags filled the air, Nanase turned to ask if Mio had experienced some kind of divine revelation over the weekend.
But before she could get a single word out, she noticed a small cluster of figures hovering at the classroom doorway. They were waving enthusiastically in Takahashi Mio's direction.
This wasn't a new phenomenon. Over the past couple of weeks, people had been dropping by with increasing frequency to pull Takahashi Mio away for lunches, shopping trips, or impromptu hangouts. Usually, Mio would flash her a quick, apologetic smile and drift off with them. There was no point in judging; everyone had their own social orbits.
"I'm heading out now. Let's compare notes and go over the test prep questions tomorrow, yeah?"
Nagata Nanase slung her bag over her shoulder, offering a casual nod toward Takahashi Mio as she prepared to leave.
"Oi, wait."
Before Nanase could pivot fully toward the door, Takahashi Mio's hand shot out, latching onto her arm with surprising firmness. Mio shook her head, her expression resolute.
"No, I mean it. Wait for me..."
Nagata Nanase blinked, momentarily stunned into stillness. She watched as Takahashi Mio strode past her, approaching the group at the door. Words were exchanged, too quiet for Nanase to catch in full.
But she unconsciously drifted a few steps closer, her ears straining. Fragments of the conversation floated back to her.
"...No time this weekend either? Seriously?"
"...How are you busier than all of us combined lately?"
"...Are you actually busy, or just avoiding us? I've never seen you work this hard before, Mio. It's kinda freaky."
The exchange concluded with Takahashi Mio dipping into a crisp, formal bow. A perfect forty-five-degree angle of polite refusal.
When she straightened up and turned back around, her eyes met Nagata Nanase's. A bright, unwavering smile lit up her face.
"Let's go, Nagata-san."
Nagata Nanase opened her mouth. Part of her wanted to say that skipping just one day of studying wouldn't be the end of the world. That friends were important too. But the words that actually emerged were softer, more tentative.
"Are you... okay, Mio?"
"I'm perfectly fine."
Takahashi Mio shook her head, her dark hair swaying gently with the motion. A brilliant, almost dazzling smile blossomed across her delicate features, as radiant as the morning sun breaking through the clouds.
"If you want to gain something precious, you have to be willing to let go of something else. That's just how the world works. Wishing for the best of both worlds, trying to hold onto everything at once... that's nothing but greed, you know? "