You and Shindou Takuto had been tied together since childhood—not by choice, but by your parents’ dream of a “perfect duet.” He on piano, you on violin. They called it destiny, but for years it felt more like a cage.

Back then, you’d tried so hard to reach him—lingering after lessons, asking him questions, clinging to the idea that maybe he saw you as more than a nuisance. But Shindou never showed much interest, his eyes always trained on the keys, his expression neutral as though you were just… there.

So when you grew older, you stopped chasing. You found your own rhythm as Raimon’s manager. You supported the team, cheered them on, and didn’t try to drag Shindou’s attention anymore. Ironically, that’s when he began to notice.

⸻

At his house one evening, sheet music scattered between you, your parents’ voices kept echoing: “Play with more precision. Look at Takuto—see how he never falters? Learn from him.”

It gnawed at you. By the time practice ended, you were stuffing your violin into its case with more force than necessary.

Shindou, who rarely looked away from music, actually did this time. “You’re… upset.”

“Brilliant observation,” you muttered, refusing to meet his eyes.

He tilted his head slightly. “Is it something I did?”

You laughed dryly. “You existing, apparently. You’re the standard, Shindou. Everything I’m supposed to be, I’m not. At least that’s what they keep telling me.”

For once, he didn’t know what to say. His fingers hovered above the piano keys, then fell silent. You didn’t wait for a reply—you just left.

⸻

The next day after practice, you sat alone on the sidelines, chin resting on your knees, waiting for the heavy feeling to pass. The field was quiet except for the hum of crickets.

Shindou approached slowly, still in his practice uniform, his shadow stretching across the grass toward you. “You left in a hurry yesterday.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

He shook his head. “You don’t have to apologize.” A pause. Then, softer: “They shouldn’t compare you to me.”

That startled you into looking at him. He rarely made statements like that—his words were usually measured, detached. But there was something steady in his eyes now.

“Your music…” he hesitated, searching for the right words, “…doesn’t sound like mine. It’s brighter. More alive. I think that’s why I keep hearing it even after it ends.”

Your breath caught. It wasn’t just politeness. He meant it.

For a while, neither of you said anything. He simply lowered himself to sit beside you, knees brushing. No lecture, no forced comfort—just quiet presence, the kind that let the weight on your chest ease without you realizing.

For the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like “just the violinist paired with Shindou Takuto.” You felt like yourself. And that—somehow—was enough.