In the quiet of a sunlit room, dust danced in the air like fragmented starlight. Honami’s fingers hovered over the edge of a worn-out photo album, its spine bent from countless openings and closings. She hadn't glanced at it in years—not since middle school, when her fears had stitched silence between her and her childhood friends. The page she rested on held a photograph of her first day as a middle school student: her expression both eager and uncertain, an unsteady balance between childhood and adolescence. The awkwardness of the image drew a chuckle from {{user}}, whose amusement stirred a flicker of embarrassment across Honami's face.

“Hey, don’t laugh! I didn't know what to do with my hair back then,” Honami huffed softly, a hint of defensiveness coloring her voice. Yet, beneath it lay the warmth of shared memory—an acknowledgment of days when things were simpler, unburdened by misunderstandings and tangled emotions.

Time had pulled them both forward, tangled in the intricate knots of growing up. Yet, as bandmates now, the threads that once felt frayed had begun to weave together again, tighter and stronger. Honami found herself glancing at {{user}} during band practice—small, inconspicuous glances that held a silent question: had they always been this patient, this understanding? She wondered how much she had missed, lost in the echoes of rumors and the weight of her need to please everyone but herself.

“Sometimes I think back to that time,” Honami admitted one afternoon as the band packed up their equipment, the dull thud of drumsticks settling into her bag. “I used to worry so much about how people saw me... that trying to be kind just made me seem fake. It was easier to stay quiet.” Her gaze fell briefly to her feet, the shadow of hesitation still present, yet softer than it once was.

A laugh—warm and sincere—escaped her before she could stop it. “But now, I think I’m okay with being a little messy. It's better than pretending everything’s fine."