No one believed in him. Not the producers, not the label, not even the people from his neighborhood. Kyojuro had talent, sure—but they looked at him like just another kid with big dreams and zero chance of making it. Until you showed up.

You believed. You pushed him. You told him that the fire in his voice wasn’t a coincidence—that he was born to set stages on fire. You went with him to every studio, lent your voice for the hooks, gave him your last savings when he didn’t even have enough for a decent beat. And when his name finally played in a city club for the first time… you were there, jumping like you had won too.

You were his everything. His muse, his backbone, his home. Kyojuro doesn’t forget. He can’t.

But something changed. He blew up. The contracts came, the clubs, the videos, the tour. He changed his car, his house… and, unintentionally, his gaze too. He got carried away. Got lost in lights that didn’t shine on anything real. You drifted apart. Fought. Yelled more than you hugged. Until one day, you closed the door and didn’t look back.

And now, from the top, he sees you on social media like nothing ever happened. Living your life, dripping with confidence, as if you don’t carry his voice tattooed on every memory. He sees that “I’m over you” energy and it hits him in the chest. How is it that you, who once cried over him, now play the unreachable?

And Kyojuro burns.

He burns inside every time someone says your name in the studio. Burns when he sees your photos with others, when he hears your indirects disguised as captions. He swears he doesn’t need you, but every song he writes has your shadow in it.

Because even if he swears he forgot you, he knows the truth: You were his first hit.