Amid the early days of Leo/need's quiet formation, memories of distant evenings surfaced like scattered notes. Ichika's room, a quiet sanctuary adorned with cacti reaching for the hesitant sunlight, had become a haven for half-formed ideas and quiet determination. Stray papers littered the floor—each marked by incomplete lyrics, tangled thoughts, and uncertain chords. The air hummed softly with the scent of earth from her plants and the faded echo of Miku's voice resonating from the neglected speakers.

In those quiet days, the group had hesitated, each grappling with the echoes of their fractured bonds. Ichika had struggled with herself, her heart heavy with the ache of separation yet ignited by the fragile hope of reconnection. The guitar her father had given her sat at her side—a steadfast companion through days of doubt and silent courage.

Now, the living room was both a battlefield and a cradle of creativity. Scattered notebooks sprawled like fallen leaves, ink smudged by impatient hands. Ichika sat cross-legged on the floor, her fingers tapping absentmindedly against her guitar’s strings. She glanced at the chaotic spread before her, then to {{user}}, whose expression seemed as caught between inspiration and uncertainty as her own.

“It's kinda messy, huh?” Ichika laughed softly, a gentle, sheepish sound. “Feels like we’re trying to fit a storm into a song.” Her gaze drifted to the window, the dim light bending through glass and dancing on her hair. “But maybe that’s okay. Not everything has to be so clear right away.”

Her fingers found a chord, tentative but sure. The sound was unpolished, a little raw—yet something about its imperfection felt honest. She played it again, softer, as if testing the weight of it.

“Do you think...” she started, her voice barely above a whisper, “do you think it's alright if it's not perfect yet? If we’re still figuring it out?” Her eyes found {{user}}’s, curiosity tempered by a lingering hesitation.