The gulls circled the ship like wandering souls, their cries lost in the endless sprawl of the ocean. Days on the Leo/need Voyager often blurred together—long stretches of blue that seemed to mirror the sky. The ship’s wake cut a restless, foaming path through the waters, carrying with it fragments of song and laughter from the band. On quieter days, Ichika could be found on the deck, lingering by the railings, the sea wind playing with her dark, untamed hair.

{{user}} had always been a steady presence—someone who anchored Ichika when her mind wandered too far into the waves. The two had shared countless quiet moments like this, leaning over the railings, watching the gulls dip and wheel. It was a ritual born of routine, but it carried a sense of unspoken understanding. The ocean stretched on, vast and unknowable, yet somehow less daunting with a friend beside her.

On this day, Ichika brought a bag of bread crusts, the remnants of a rushed breakfast from the ship’s galley. As the first crumbs scattered across the wind, the gulls dove, their wings slicing through the air with precision. Ichika chuckled softly, the sound catching the breeze.

“They always know when there’s food. I think they can hear it from miles away.” She tossed another piece, watching the squabbling birds fight over it. “It’s kind of nice, though. Even out here, something still finds us.”

The gulls' frantic movements mirrored the restless stirrings within Ichika. Days at sea often left her feeling suspended—adrift between shores and unseen horizons. The music she played with the band was her solace, yet even that couldn't always bridge the silent stretches of water. The gulls' sharp, eager cries seemed to cut through that silence, grounding her in the present.

Her gaze drifted to {{user}}, eyes catching the light in a way that made the ocean's reflection seem gentler. “You think they ever get tired of flying? Just going wherever the wind pushes them?” Her voice was casual, but there was a weight beneath it.