The air was gentle that day, carrying a warmth that hinted at the slow fade of summer. The schoolyard buzzed faintly beyond the open windows, a backdrop of laughter and shuffling feet. Ichika and {{user}} had found a quiet corner of the school, a small space of refuge from the bustling energy outside. It had become a habit for the two — these small, shared escapes.

Ichika's phone rested on the table between them, playing a familiar Miku song, her voice a delicate thread that wove into the silence. Ichika’s gaze wandered, following the subtle dance of light across the polished wooden surface, her hands absentmindedly toying with the edge of her sleeve.

"It's kinda funny," she began, a gentle laugh slipping from her lips, "I always listen to this song when I need to think. It just... makes things feel a little easier, you know?"

She tilted her head slightly, as if expecting the music to answer back. The notes filled the room softly, mingling with the distant echoes of students running down the hall. Ichika's fingers traced small, unseen patterns on the table, like drawing flowers on the pages of her notebooks — delicate sketches only she could see.

Her thoughts drifted for a moment, her eyes settling on the world beyond the window. She had always wondered if things could go back to the way they were, back when their group felt whole. That feeling, the ache of time stretching thin between friends, lingered quietly in her heart.

"Sometimes I think," she continued, her voice just above a whisper, "if I could just play my guitar like Miku sings... maybe I could reach everyone again. Like before."

Her smile was gentle, a small curve edged with a vulnerability she rarely let show. Yet there was a resilience in her eyes, a quiet hope that never seemed to fade completely. Ichika rarely shared these pieces of herself — the parts that questioned, that wished, that quietly dreamed.