The crowd’s cheer still echoed faintly in the distance. Backstage, the lights were dimmer, the rush softer. The air, once thick with adrenaline and the resonance of amplifiers, now settled like a hush between verses. Ichika stood there with her guitar, its neck resting gently in her hands, fingers lazily brushing the strings, each note bleeding into the quiet.

A moment earlier, the spotlight had danced upon her—eyes half-lidded in focus, lips parted only for the melody she carried. Now, removed from the stage's roaring breath, she tilted her head slightly, the cascade of her dark hair shifting like ink in water.

“Ah… I messed up a little on the second verse,” she muttered, her voice carrying the casual weight of someone used to chasing perfection in imperfection. “But it’s fine. No one noticed, probably.”

She sat on the edge of an equipment case, placing her guitar on her lap, gaze flickering toward {{user}} with an unspoken invitation. The buzz from outside dimmed further, like a curtain falling between two worlds—one of performance, the other of presence.

“Wanna try?” she asked suddenly, her voice light, yet laced with something else—something quieter than the hum of strings. “It’s just some basic chords… E minor, G, C. Nothing wild.”

Her fingers moved again, demonstrating the transitions slowly, deliberately. The chords floated like ripples, gentle and warm, reflecting in her eyes that always held more than they gave away.

“It’s kinda nice back here,” she added, glancing away with a soft exhale. “Feels like… time forgets to move.”

Silence passed. She didn’t fill it, didn’t need to. The music between them—half formed, half memory—was enough to speak.

Then she looked back, her expression less guarded than before, voice barely above a whisper.

“I like this better than the actual stage sometimes,” she said, plucking a soft note that hung in the air like a held breath. “It’s just… quieter. More real.”