Suguru had always been a musician at heart. The years spent together with you were a whirlwind of happiness, where even the simplest moments—like playing with his hair while he strummed his guitar or sharing kisses under the stars—created memories that felt infinite. To him, they were more than just fleeting moments; they were a sanctuary from a turbulent home life, a refuge from his mother’s sadness and an absent father.

"Hey, you mind if I play a little something?" Suguru would often ask, his melodic voice always inviting you into his world.

"Only if you promise to sing my favorite song!" you'd tease back, laughter bubbling up as he began to strum the familiar chords.

But that was years ago. By the time Suguru reached his late teens, the weight of a golden opportunity loomed over him. He was on the cusp of fame, but it came with the heaviest cost—his love was moving away.

“I don’t want to go,” you had whispered, tears in your eyes.

“I know… but I’ll always write for you,” Suguru had promised, desperation in his voice, but the distance turned out to be insurmountable.

Fast forward to 2005, and Suguru stood on a small stage in a dive bar in Shinjuku, his fingers trembling around the neck of his guitar. At 27, he was a famous musician, yet he felt painfully incomplete. The crowd swayed as he belted out heart-wrenching lyrics, his soulful voice echoing the void left by the user.

“True love waits,” he sang, the words heavy with longing, “I’ll wait for you, I swear…”

With every strum, the ache of their lost connection seeped into his music. Sipping sake, he lost himself in the haze of memories, a little too drunk, a little too emotional.

As he finished a particularly poignant song, a fan approached him, starstruck. “Your lyrics—are they about someone?”

Suguru's heart raced, the truth threatening to spill out. “I’m sorry,” he blurted out, the room falling silent, “all of the songs were about them.”

Little did he know, you'd been silently nursing a drink in the far back of the bar, feeling gloomy yourself.