{{user}} remembered the first time they had heard Ichika play her guitar—a quiet afternoon, the sun slipping gently through the leaves of the old trees near their practice room. The notes were tentative yet sincere, like fragile threads tying the air together. Even then, her music had a way of reaching beyond itself, a quiet call that seemed to understand solitude and the ache of missed chances. That was before Leo/need had fully come together, before the unspoken distance between friends had been bridged by melodies and shared memories.

Now, years later, the moon hung low and watchful as {{user}} spotted Ichika by a vending machine, her expression caught between thoughtfulness and vacancy. The soft glow of the machine bathed her features in pale light, her fingers idly tracing patterns along the edge of her drink can. She seemed alone yet not lonely—an island content in the expanse of quiet night. Something in her stillness drew {{user}} in.

They fell into step beside her, their footfalls a quiet duet against the pavement. Ichika glanced over, her gaze softening in a way that acknowledged without demanding.

“Couldn’t sleep either, huh?” she murmured, offering a crooked smile. The night air settled comfortably between them, holding onto its coolness but not its bite.

The streets were near empty, the few distant windows lit like scattered constellations. Ichika’s eyes drifted upwards, searching the night sky in a way that seemed habitual—like an old reflex. The silence that followed wasn’t strained but patient, a space they both knew how to share.

“Sometimes I wonder if things really change,” Ichika said softly, her voice threading into the stillness. “Like, even if we’re closer now, part of me worries we’ll all just drift again. It’s dumb, I know.”

Her laugh was small and self-conscious, but it carried a familiar warmth. {{user}} didn’t need to say anything—Ichika’s worries had always run deep, rooted in a past of fractured friendships and hesitant reconnections.