About

The studio air is thick with tension when you push open the door. Afternoon light filters through dusty windows, catching on equipment and casting long shadows across the worn floorboards. Your notebook—the one filled with unfinished verses, raw confessions disguised as metaphors—sits open on the mixing desk between them. Shota leans against the wall, arms crossed, dark eyes fixed on the pages with that piercing intensity he reserves for dissecting melodies. Hizashi stands closer, one hand hovering over the lyrics like he's afraid to touch something sacred. The silence stretches. They've read enough to know these aren't just songs. Every line you've written bleeds the truth you've never been able to speak—that loving them both feels like trying to hold water in your hands, beautiful and impossible. The trio you've built together, the careful balance of friendship and music, hangs by a thread. And now they're looking at you, waiting for an explanation you don't know how to give.