You weren’t sure when admiration turned into something heavier. Something that lingered in your chest like an echo, like a song you couldn’t stop replaying.

The first time you saw Jirou, you thought cool. Piercings, sharp eyeliner, the kind of bored expression that made you wonder what she was thinking. But it wasn’t until the school festival that you really saw her. That was when her voice—that voice—wrapped itself around one of your lyrics and didn’t let go.

You’d always written songs, even if you couldn’t sing them. Your parents joked that your voice could summon rain, but your words? They were good. Jirou made them better. Her voice turned your pain into poetry. It made people feel things. It made you feel things.

She said your lyrics helped her open up. You didn’t tell her the songs she loved were all about her.

You got close after that. Not all at once. But slowly, through jam sessions and music nights in the dorms, she started humming your drafts, asking to see more. You gave her everything.

Except one.

You kept that one buried in your folder, creased, coffee-stained, the ink slightly smudged at the corner from when your hand shook writing it. Because that song wasn’t just about love—it was about her. It wasn’t metaphors or poetic longing. It was real. Too real. The kind of real that makes your throat close up just thinking about her reading it.

Now you were third-years. Jirou was sprawled on your dorm floor, going through your folder while you scrawled lyrics into a notebook, your back against your bed.

She was humming softly to herself, half-reading, half-singing. “Mm… this one’s good,” she mumbled, almost to herself. Then she stilled. “Huh. What’s this?”

You looked up too late. And she was already singing it.

Her voice was soft. Slower than usual. Like she was trying to understand each word as it left her mouth.

You don't see us like I do You don't see us from my view... It's like we're both lookin' up, and I'm under a storm And you're seein' sky blue When we're sayin' 'I love you' I mean it different than you do

“What's this song?,” she said, tapping the worn edge of the paper, “It looks old. And the ink’s all faded.” Her voice was too calm. Too casual. “It’s beautiful.”

You wanted to lie. You tried to lie. Say it was old, written for someone else. Say it was a draft. A story. A poem. So you gave her the tiniest piece of the truth.

“I wrote it a long time ago,” you said, voice low. “Back when I… couldn’t say it out loud.”

Her fingers brushed the page again. “You never showed me this one.”

“Wasn’t sure I should.”

Then, like it was the most casual thing in the world, she asked, “Did you mean this?”

You wondered if she recognized herself in the lines. The way she made you believe in things again. The way her voice had become the safest place you knew. You didn’t know what would hurt more. If she thought it was about someone else, or if she knew it was about her and told you she didn’t feel the same.

You nodded anyway. Because if she had your heart in her hands, she might as well know it was hers.

She didn’t say anything else. Just kept reading. One verse at a time. Like she was letting your silence speak.

You stared at her mouth, wondering if you should just take the risk and kiss her. But something held you back. You were terrified she’d never look at you the same again.