"I promised I would marry her."
Hojo Shione stared at the words glowing on her phone screen. The characters were simple, unadorned, yet they seemed to pulse with an almost malevolent energy. The ambient noise of the agency lounge—the distant ringing of telephones, the muffled chatter of staff passing by, the soft hum of the vending machine in the corner—all of it suddenly blurred and distorted, as if someone had submerged her head beneath the surface of a cold, dark ocean.
The saltwater stung. Not her skin, but something deeper. Her vision swam, the edges of the screen fracturing into prismatic smears. Hot tears welled up unbidden, escaping the corners of her eyes and trailing silently down her cheeks. They fell onto the faded denim of her jeans, blooming into irregular dark blue patches like tiny, sorrowful flowers.
She tried to draw a breath, to fill her lungs with something other than this crushing weight, but a dense, throbbing ache had taken up residence in her chest, squeezing tight.
And then—
Bzzzt.
A sharp, internal jolt, like static electricity snapping her back from the edge of a dream. Hojo Shione blinked rapidly, and the world rushed back into focus.
She laughed.
It was a sudden, unexpected sound—a soft, almost delicate heh that escaped her lips before she could catch it. Her fingers, still clutching the phone in a white-knuckled grip, trembled faintly. The tears continued to fall, tracing the elegant curve of her smile, mingling the salt of grief with the sweetness of something she couldn't quite name.
Her emotional state at this precise moment defied simple description. It was like honey drizzled into a glass of seawater—a strange, inseparable emulsion of joy and anguish. Bittersweet to the point of absurdity.
'Phew...'
Hojo Shione straightened her spine against the back of the lounge chair, exhaling a long, steadying breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. A peculiar light flickered in her tear-glazed eyes. Something that looked almost like... satisfaction.
What was all that about, then? she mused silently, a wry, inward smile curling through her thoughts. Pretending to sever all ties with the past, acting like you were moving on completely... but in the end, you couldn't actually bring yourself to let go, could you?
She had been prepared for a protracted campaign. She had steeled herself to devise new strategies, to lay careful siege to the fortress around his heart. She never imagined his resolve would crumble so swiftly, so completely.
"Heh heh..."
Hojo Shione's gaze traced the line of text Shiratori Seiya had sent, her fingertip hovering just above the screen as if she could feel the shape of the words through the glass. A soft, almost fond chuckle escaped her. After a moment's contemplation, she composed herself and typed out her response.
"Why?"
"Did Takahashi-san break up with you?"
The message indicator flipped instantly to 'Read.' The reply came shortly after, clipped and direct.
"Shiratori Seiya: No."
"Hojo Shione: Huh? Then... Takahashi-san agreed to this arrangement?"
"Shiratori Seiya: I'll tell her myself."
Hojo Shione's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. Her fingertip rested motionless on the screen for a long, suspended beat. Then, she began to type once more.
"I also think it's better if Seiya is the one to be clear with her. Don't worry—I won't say anything to anyone..."
Reading Hojo Shione's carefully worded assurance, Shiratori Seiya felt a weary flicker of helplessness pass through him.
If she truly possessed the ability to 'say nothing,' she would never have told Saori as much as she clearly had. Saori would never have descended upon his campus like a sudden summer typhoon. And beyond that, the fact that Shione was evidently still in contact with Takahashi Mio—actively exchanging information—made her promise of silence about as believable as a politician's campaign pledge.
He didn't trust her to keep quiet. Not for a second.
After a brief, calculated pause, he typed his reply without hesitation.
"Mio actually brought this topic up to me herself before. She'll agree to it. So you really don't need to worry yourself over this."
Truth be told, Shiratori Seiya wasn't genuinely concerned about Shione running to Takahashi Mio with this information. His promise to Saori had been forged from two distinct metals: one part was the heavy, undeniable weight of his lingering concern for her—a worry he couldn't seem to set down no matter how he tried. The other part stemmed from what Takahashi Mio had told him that night, her voice quiet and steady in the dim restaurant light: 'I can accept it, even if you date her.'
Still, knowing Takahashi Mio's particular brand of pride—her carefully cultivated vanity that she wore like designer armor—he had wisely pushed the actual execution of that promise three full years into the future. A buffer zone. A safety margin.
The message flipped to 'Read.' The chat header displayed the maddening 'Typing...' animation, pulsing on and off, on and off, for over a full minute.
Finally, a handful of words materialized on his screen.
"Hojo Shione: Don't you think this is unfair?"
Unfair?
Shiratori Seiya blinked, momentarily thrown off balance.
His first, instinctive interpretation was that she meant the situation between Takahashi Mio and Saori. But almost immediately, a deeper, more uncomfortable reading surfaced in his mind. He sensed, with a dull, familiar ache, that she was really talking about the chasm between herself and Saori. The distance he had created. The door he had closed.
Shiratori Seiya pressed his lips into a thin, resolute line. His eyes narrowed as he composed his response, his heart hardening into something necessary and unyielding.
"It's consensual. In matters of the heart, there's no grand cosmic scale measuring out 'fair' and 'unfair.' If you want to see me as a scumbag, then fine. Go ahead. Everyone has their own path to walk. That's just how it is."
"Besides... you have a concert next month, don't you? Dwelling on things that have nothing to do with you anymore will only mess with your head. It'll affect your performance."
He had almost typed something far more blunt. Words like 'Don't meddle.' Or the more pointed, 'Mind your own business.' They had hovered right at the edge of his thumbs, ready to be deployed. In the end, he swallowed them back.
After his message was sent, the screen remained stubbornly still. No 'Typing...' indicator. No immediate reply. The silence stretched, heavy and fraught, as if Hojo Shione had been plunged into a paralysis of indecision.
Just as Shiratori Seiya concluded the conversation had reached its natural, awkward end and moved to close the messaging app, two final notifications from her appeared.
Short. Simple.
"I understand."
"I wish you happiness."
Seeing those two clipped sentences, a long, slow breath escaped Shiratori Seiya's lungs. Relief, cold and clean, washed through him. He swiped the conversation away, banishing it from his screen.
He lifted his arm and draped it over the back of the sofa, tilting his head back until he was staring blankly up at the featureless white ceiling. His vision gradually lost its sharp edges, softening into a distant, unfocused blur. A hollow, echoing emptiness opened up somewhere in the center of his chest.
And from the cracks in that hollow space, a memory stirred. Crawling out unbidden like morning mist seeping through a broken window seal.
Flashback—
The recording studio. The air was thick with recycled oxygen and the faint, metallic scent of audio equipment. The red indicator light above the booth had flickered to life twice already, and twice it had blinked out in disappointed silence. On the third attempt, Hojo Shione had finally, barely, managed to stumble through to the end.
But if he was being honest—brutally, professionally honest—the quality was subpar. It fell far short of the standard he knew she was capable of reaching. They would almost certainly need to schedule another session. Re-record everything.
Pushing down the knot of concern tightening in his stomach, Shiratori Seiya crossed to where Hojo Shione stood slumped by the microphone, her shoulders drooping. He offered her a bottle of cool water, his voice gentle with genuine worry.
"Shione... are you feeling alright lately? Have you been getting enough rest at night?"
"Mm..."
She knew. She knew her performance today hadn't been good. She could barely bring herself to meet his eyes, her gaze fixed somewhere around his collarbone as she nodded, a flush of guilt coloring her cheeks. Wordlessly, she handed the unopened bottle back to him.
Shiratori Seiya understood the silent request immediately. He twisted the cap off with a crisp crack and held the bottle out to her. Her eyes, which had been downcast and troubled, instantly transformed. They curved into delighted crescent moons, a pure, unguarded expression of 'happy' dancing in her brow and the corners of her lips.
He watched her drink, her throat moving with satisfied swallows. After a moment's hesitation, he carefully chose his next words, turning them over in his mind like fragile glass ornaments.
"Shione... do you remember what you told me before? About going to the Budokan together someday?" He paused, letting the weight of the memory settle between them. "Lately... you've seemed a little... lax."
*Budokan (武道館) literally translates from Japanese as "martial arts hall" or "hall of martial arts". It refers primarily to the Nippon Budokan in Tokyo, a famous arena built for the 1964 Olympics, which now serves as a premier venue for both martial arts tournaments and major concerts (e.g., The Beatles, Bob Dylan).
"Hmm..."
She sensed the subtle shift in his tone. The gentle reprimand wrapped in concern. She lowered the bottle from her lips and blinked up at him, offering a small, acknowledging nod.
Then, a troubled expression clouded her delicate features. She tilted her head, her voice soft and contemplative.
"But if I pour that much time and energy into work... I won't be able to be with you wholeheartedly anymore, right? Wouldn't that be... unfair to Seiya?"
A brief pause. Then, her face brightened again, that happy, carefree smile returning like the sun emerging from behind a cloud.
"Besides! Isn't this still pretty good? Right now? The way things are?"
She reached out and playfully tugged at his sleeve.
"Alright, alright. Don't worry so much about me. I'll work hard, I promise. It'll all be fine. We'll definitely make it to the Budokan. Together."
People, he had learned, often possessed a strange, almost mystical confidence regarding things they were fundamentally incapable of achieving. Hojo Shione was no exception.
She seemed to be trying. On the surface, she went through the motions of effort. But Shiratori Seiya could perceive, with painful clarity, the truth beneath the performance. As long as he remained within her orbit, as long as she could reach out and touch him, her focus would inevitably, irresistibly, gravitate back toward him. Her thoughts would circle and settle on his presence like moths drawn to a flame.
She couldn't control it. It wasn't a conscious choice. It was simply the gravity of her heart.
Her Singing Skill proficiency hadn't increased. Not for two consecutive months.
Hojo Shione finally seemed to grasp this reality herself. After a period of quiet, frustrated sulking, she appeared to broker a peace treaty with her own limitations. She looped her arm through his, pressing close, and whined with a theatrical pout.
"There's really nothing I can do about it, Seiya. This is probably just... my limit. My ceiling. After we get married, I'll just have to rely entirely on you to support me, okay? You'll take care of me, won't you?"
You are absolutely, definitely not just at this level.
Shiratori Seiya had wanted to say it. The words had burned on his tongue, desperate to be spoken. But when they reached his lips, he realized the futility. Saying it would change nothing. It would be meaningless noise.
Because as long as he stood beside her, she would uncontrollably, instinctively, make him the center of her universe. Her gravity well. Her everything.
Present—
Shiratori Seiya pulled himself back from the edge of memory. He drew a deep, steadying breath and lowered his gaze from the blank ceiling.
He knew. He knew with absolute certainty, even if he thought with his toes instead of his brain, that Hojo Shione must be hurting right now. The kind of deep, resonant ache that echoed in hollow spaces.
But better a short, sharp pain than a long, lingering one. A clean cut healed faster than a wound left to fester.
He had to be firm. He had to draw the line with unmistakable clarity. By telling Hojo Shione, directly and without ambiguity, that he had decided to marry Saori... he was giving her the key to her own cage. He was forcing her to give up. To move on. To finally, truly, let him go.
Perhaps this was indeed unfair to her. Perhaps it was the cruelest form of fairness there was.
But...
Another image surfaced in his mind's eye. A different girl. Hasegawa Saori, standing in the rain, holding a long bamboo sword, her face streaked with tears and yet somehow, impossibly, curved into that foolish, radiant, heartbreaking smile. A smile directed only at him.
Shiratori Seiya's eyes, which had been turbulent and clouded, gradually settled. The storm passed. The waters stilled.
His heart grew calm once more.