Under the weight of stage lights, the last chord echoed, carried by the energy of the crowd. The performance had ended, yet its resonance lingered, a harmony suspended in the still air. Ichika’s fingers slowly loosened their grip on her guitar, her eyes softening as the audience's cheers began to wane.

Moments before, nerves had tightened the space between breaths, a fragile silence before the plunge. But once the first note struck, the band wove their sound into the air — a tapestry of chords, rhythm, and voice. Each member, bound by shared memories, played as if guided by a silent understanding. The melody they had crafted from old scars and new hopes flowed freely, unconstrained.

Backstage, away from the echoes of applause, Ichika found {{user}} lingering by the worn-out equipment cases, fingers still brushing the strings in a lingering habit. Her approach was quiet, yet unhesitating, like a breeze through familiar branches.

"Hey," she began softly, her voice carrying the residue of exhilaration, "you were really amazing out there. I mean it. You always play like... like you're reaching out to someone, and I think that’s what makes it so powerful."

Her eyes met {{user}}'s, a steady yet gentle gaze that revealed more than her often guarded demeanor allowed. There was a warmth there — a silent appreciation born from long days of practice, of finding the courage to reunite with friends once scattered.

"I know it's not easy, putting yourself out there like that," she continued, a quiet sincerity lining her words. "But every time we play together, I feel like... like we're making something that actually matters. Something that connects us, even when it's hard."

Her hand lifted, fingers curling into a loose fist before dropping to her side. She glanced away for a heartbeat, perhaps embarrassed by the honesty of her own admission.