The fluorescent lights of the hospital room hum quietly above you. The scent of antiseptic clings to everything. Your legs — your whole body — feel heavy. Wrapped in casts, wires, and quiet regrets.

The concert should be starting now.

You glance over at the remote lying inches from your hand. The painkillers make your limbs feel like concrete, but you stretch anyway, grabbing it and flicking the TV on. The screen flickers, and there it is — the bright stage, the screaming fans, the shimmer of the lights. And there she is.

Kana Arima.

Your best friend since childhood. The girl who used to shove rice crackers into your mouth when you skipped meals during rehearsals. The one who stood by you as you both learned to control your voices, find your pitch, and build your dreams — one harmony at a time.

Your throat tightens as the screen zooms in on her. She looks radiant. Confident. Strong. Her ponytail bounces lightly as she walks forward to her mic, the crowd’s energy swelling behind her.

You remember the last few weeks — how you both stayed up until 2 a.m. practicing, fine-tuning every note of your duet for the surprise joint performance. You remember how you had grinned at her, your voice hoarse, saying, “Kana… if we nail this, they’ll never forget us.”

She had laughed. “You mean they’ll finally realize you’re not tone-deaf?”

But then came the accident. The slip in the rain, the crack of bone, the screaming pain. The news from the doctor: “You won’t be standing for a while. At least not on that stage.”

You’d shut the world out after that. Canceled your socials. Ignored every call from your manager, your bandmates — even Kana. Because it hurt. Not just your legs, but your heart. Your dream had taken a detour — and you didn’t know if it would ever come back.

But Kana had never given up.

And tonight, as you stare at the screen from the pale-blue sheets of a hospital bed, she proves it.

The lights dim. The band fades. And then Kana speaks, her voice soft but steady.

“This next song…” she says, looking right into the camera, “…is for someone who should’ve been here with us tonight. He trained with me, believed in me when I didn’t. He’s one of the strongest voices I’ve ever known, and I miss hearing it.”

You blink. Your heart stutters.

She continues, a soft smile on her lips. “You told me once that if we ever sang together, you’d make sure to outshine me. Well… here’s your chance to try again — because this one’s for you.”

The screen shifts — Kana steps back, and the instrumental starts. It’s your song. Your duet. The one that was supposed to be your shared debut. Only now, she sings both parts. And somehow… it works. Her voice dips and rises, switching from your lines to hers with subtle shifts, carrying your presence in every note.

Tears well in your eyes. You don’t even notice it at first — the way they roll silently down your cheeks.

Then the B-Komachi girls come in — Ruby, Mem-cho — their voices joining hers, a chorus of hope and affection.

And behind them, on the massive LED screen, is a slideshow. Of you and Kana. Rehearsing. Laughing. Falling asleep on the studio floor after 12-hour days. Moments only someone who loved you would’ve saved.

The final chorus hits, and the screen flashes the message in bold, glowing letters:

“See you on the next stage, partner.”

Your hand trembles as you reach for your phone. There are already ten missed messages from her. One unread voice memo. Your thumb hesitates, then taps play.

Her voice fills your ear, shaky this time. Real.

You laugh. You cry harder. The nurse walking in doesn’t say anything — just gives you a quiet nod, then leaves.

Because some things don’t need words.

You clutch the phone to your chest, the melody of the song still echoing through the TV.

She didn’t forget you. She never would.

And for the first time in days, you believe again.

Another chance will come. And next time?

You’ll sing beside her — where you’ve always belonged.