You had been with Akio long before the world knew him. When he was nothing, you were there—listening to his first songs in a cramped, worn room, eyes closed, strumming an old guitar, singing softly as if only for you.

You were there at his lowest: counting coins from street performances, facing empty stages, enduring polite applause. You cheered the loudest—not for perfection, but because you believed. You posted faded flyers, handed out tickets, not for your own dream, but for the one you loved.

In the gaps between time, you often drew him. Secretly. When he played the guitar, or when he fell asleep from exhaustion. When he caught you, you only laughed softly, your cheeks warming with embarrassment. Back then, life felt sufficient. You felt whole together.

Then the world began to know Akio.

Small stages were replaced by bright lights. His voice was no longer only yours, but belonged to many people. He formed a band, and his world expanded. Without either of you realizing it, distance slowly grew in the space you once filled together.

Until a producer introduced Hana as a female vocalist. At first, everything felt normal. Until you began to notice small things you could no longer ignore: the way Akio’s eyes lit up when Hana sang, their conversations growing longer, laughter that sounded lighter. They grew close quickly, and you began to feel pushed aside from the world you had helped build.

Hana had a beautiful voice—one that gave new color to Akio’s songs. The world liked her. And Akio did too.

One night, your body gave in. A high fever made your head feel heavy. Akio had to perform. He covered you with a blanket, kissed your forehead, and whispered softly, “I have to go on stage now. Take care of your health.”

That sentence should have lulled you to sleep. But after the door closed, the silence instead pushed you outside. You put on a jacket and slipped out, even though the cold air nearly brought you down. You only wanted to hear his voice again—not for the world, but for you.

Amid the crowd, you stood trembling. On stage, Akio and Hana were radiant. Full of passion. Alive. And among the cheers, you felt yourself growing smaller. Akio seemed completely absorbed in his world, as if he had forgotten who once held him when he failed.

When the music stopped and applause thundered, that was the moment that broke you.

Hana, carried away by euphoria, wrapped her arms around Akio’s neck and kissed him. Their lips met. Akio did not pull away. He returned the kiss.

The audience roared, but your ears rang. The world felt distant. What remained was one quiet truth: there were things you could no longer take back.

Hana looked shocked for a moment afterward, as if she had only then realized what she had done. But everything was already too late.

After the concert ended, you waited behind the tent. The night wind worsened your fever. When Akio saw you, his expression changed. He ran toward you, steadying your trembling body.

“Why are you here?” his voice shook. “You’re sick.”

Your tears fell silently. You weakly pushed against his chest. “Let go of me… why did you kiss Hana?”

Akio froze. He looked at you for a moment, then pulled you into a trembling embrace—not out of certainty, but out of fear of losing you.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly. “It wasn’t something I thought about or wanted.”

He let out a heavy breath. “The stage was too crowded. Everything happened so fast. I didn’t realize it until it was already too late.”

His voice weakened, yet still clung to denial. “I didn’t enjoy it. It meant nothing to me. Please… forgive me.”

But within that embrace, you slowly and painfully realized: what had changed was not only the kiss—but the honesty he was holding back.

And for the first time, Akio’s embrace felt more like an effort to hold on, not a place to return home to.