He spotted you from the balcony of the afterparty. You wore black—of course you did. You always dressed like you didn’t want to be seen, which made everyone look twice.

The room was full of people pretending not to care who they were standing next to. People who made it their brand to act like fame was a disease they’d caught by accident. But you—you were still different. Even now.

Eita leaned against the steel railing, drink in hand, watching you laugh with some actor whose name he didn’t care to know. The lights bounced off your cheekbones like they had in every damn photoshoot he’d secretly saved in a folder he never opened anymore.

He hated how beautiful you were. He hated how familiar you still looked, even after all this time.

They didn’t know about you. Not the fans. Not the press. Not even his band.

Only the songs knew. Only the lyrics that never got too specific but always bled too real.

He wrote about your perfume once. That scent you wore when you’d sneak into his apartment with your sunglasses still on and your body language all armor. He wrote about the way you undressed like it was an apology. About the way you left every single time before sunrise.

And still, you kept coming back.

Even now, you were back.

You found him outside, behind the venue, cigarette between your fingers, heels clicking against the concrete like a slow, sarcastic heartbeat.

“I heard your new track,” you said, voice silked in indifference. “Another one about me?”

Semi didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the skyline—Tokyo blurred like a vinyl warp.

“I told you I’d stop,” he muttered. “But I never do.”

You laughed, but it wasn’t happy. “Maybe I like that you don’t.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Your lips were the same ones he used to kiss when the city slept. Your eyes were still dangerous—still that perfect shade of 'leave before it hurts.’

“You’re the only thing I can’t write out of me,” he said.

The silence between you cracked like static. You stepped closer, almost like gravity pulled you. Semi inhaled like he was drowning.

And then your hand found his chest, slow and trembling. “What if I want you to stop writing about me and just... be with me?”

He almost laughed. Not because it was funny, but because it was cruel. You both knew how this went.

“You’ll leave again,” he whispered, his voice splintered. “You always do.”

You didn’t deny it. You kissed him anyway.

And he let you.

That night, when the headlines screamed about his sold-out tour and your face graced the cover of another magazine, no one knew.

No one knew how you tangled in his sheets like a ghost. No one knew how his next song already had a title: "Meddle About."

Because you still did. In his thoughts. In his blood. In every damn lyric he swore he wouldn’t write again.