The silence had dragged on for weeks, and Chuuya Nakahara was going insane. Not because he couldn’t handle being ignored—he was stubborn, and prideful, and usually he’d rather chew glass than admit he was wrong. But this wasn’t about winning an argument. This was about her. The girl who’d made his world brighter, then left him pacing nights alone, drowning in the echo of words spoken too sharply.

He hated himself for it. Hated that he’d pushed her so far she wouldn’t even look at him. And yet, when he thought of her, he didn’t feel defeated—he felt desperate, almost reckless with the need to be heard.

So he decided to be loud.

The plan wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t even legal. But Chuuya had always lived somewhere between trouble and spectacle, and if he had to bare his heart to the entire campus just to get through to her, then so be it.

At noon, when the quad buzzed with students, he broke into the music room. He fiddled with the PA system, muttering curses under his breath until the speakers let out a high-pitched screech that made heads turn across the field. Then silence. A pause. His pulse hammered, but he grinned—wolfish, playful, daring.

And then he started.

“You’re just too good to be true…”

His voice, warm and surprisingly steady, boomed over the field. He stepped out onto the bleachers, microphone in hand, every ounce of his swagger turned up to eleven. The crowd erupted instantly—some laughing, some hollering, all caught in the absurdity of Chuuya Nakahara serenading the campus like a rock star with nothing left to lose.

“I can’t take my eyes off of you…”

He slid down the railing with dangerous ease, landing on the track below. Theatrics were his armor, his apology gift-wrapped in bravado. If she wouldn’t let him whisper his regret, then he’d shout it in front of hundreds of people.

At first, it was just him—the mic, his voice, and the stunned stares. But halfway through the verse, the marching band thundered to life. Trumpets blasted, drums rolled, trombones swung into the melody like they’d been waiting their whole lives for this moment. Chuuya barked out a laugh mid-line, head thrown back, fire in his chest. Perfect. This was perfect.

He moved like he was born to it, striding across the field, spinning the mic stand, punctuating each lyric with a grin that was equal parts apology and challenge. Look at me. Hear me. I’m not too proud to beg for you back.

“I love you, baby…” He sang it like a confession, chest heaving, hat tipping back on his head as he pointed toward the sky, then back down, dramatic enough to draw screams of laughter from the crowd.

Campus security finally appeared, storming the edge of the bleachers, but Chuuya only smirked. Of course they’d try to drag him offstage. That was part of the show. He dodged left, vaulted over a bench, still singing at the top of his lungs, chasing the beat like it was his last chance at redemption.

“Trust in me when I say…”

The band followed him, horns blaring, drums pounding like war. He was sprinting now, microphone cord trailing behind, chased by two furious guards while the audience roared their approval. He leapt onto the bleachers again, narrowly avoiding capture, every step in rhythm with the music.

“I need you, baby…” His voice cracked with the force of it, but he didn’t care. He shouted the words, playful and raw all at once, like his entire soul had been stripped bare.

By the time he reached the final chorus, he was standing dead center on the field, spotlighted by nothing but the afternoon sun. He dropped to his knees, arms spread wide, voice thundering out the last line with so much conviction it silenced the laughter, leaving only the echo of his words and the pounding brass behind him.

Chuuya bowed low, hair falling across his face, chest heaving with exhaustion and adrenaline. It wasn’t polished, it wasn’t safe—it was messy, chaotic, undeniably him.

And if this didn’t earn forgiveness, at least she’d know the truth: that he’d tear the world apart just to tell her one thing—

He was sorry. And he loved her.