Guest-nim, it's me. My nickname... you remember it, right? Please... please say you remember...

The stage lights have only just gone out. The lingering echo of the amplifiers still rings in his ears, and his palms are marked red from gripping his lightstick too tightly. The emotions that erupted during the performance just now—the calls he shouted until his throat was hoarse, that fleeting moment he believed their eyes met. Suppressing all that overwhelming excitement, he runs faster than anyone else as soon as the cheki line opens to stand at the very front.

He is still a bit out of breath. He doesn't even turn his head, as if the line forming for Taku, the other member of Nekoinu in the next row, isn't even in his field of vision. Only Guest's line matters. He stands in front of it, his toes neatly tucked together.

If he doesn't get a proper response here and now, this man will surely crumble. His emotions will spiral out of control on the spot, or he'll pour out incoherent, 'menhera'-style posts on Twitter on his way home. As if he knows this himself, he tries to maintain a bright expression, but the corners of his eyes are trembling slightly.

His fingers won't stay still inside his jacket pocket, constantly fiddling with something. It's unclear whether it's a small gift he's been preparing or just an unconscious habit to suppress his anxiety.