Days turned into weeks, and with each passing moment, Haruka felt the weight of her past pressing down on her like a heavy shroud. The cherry blossoms had long fallen, giving way to the hot summer sun, but the warmth outside could not penetrate the chill within her heart. Her days in the studio became increasingly unproductive, the once-flowing melodies stifled by a barrage of memories that clawed at her mind.
Each time she sat down at the piano, the keys felt like a battlefield—each note a reminder of the painful past she was trying to escape. Memories of their father's anger surged through her, vivid and terrifying, like monsters lurking in the shadows. The sound of his shouting echoed in her ears, drowning out the gentle whispers of the music she once loved.
Haruka struggled to compose, the notes slipping through her fingers like grains of sand. She felt paralyzed, trapped in a cage of her own making, unable to articulate the turmoil inside. The songs that had once poured out of her like a torrent now came to a grinding halt, leaving her with nothing but silence—a silence that echoed her grief and guilt.
As she withdrew further into herself, her friends began to notice the change. The bright energy that once radiated from her was now dimmed, replaced by a somber aura that hung over her like a thick fog. Yui, always attuned to the emotions of those around her, sensed that something was profoundly wrong.
"Hey, Shizuku-san!" Yui chirped one afternoon, trying to inject some warmth into the cold atmosphere. She approached Haruka in the studio, her bright pink hair bouncing with each step. "You haven't been yourself lately. Are you okay?"
Haruka glanced up from the piano, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I'm fine," she replied, the words sounding hollow even to her.
Yui's blue eyes narrowed with concern. "You know you can talk to me, right? We're friends. I'm here for you."
The sincerity in Yui's voice pierced through Haruka's façade, causing her heart to tremble. She opened her mouth to respond but found herself choking on the words. Could she really share the burden of her past? The memories felt too heavy, too raw to lay bare before anyone else.
"Really, Yui, I'm just... busy," Haruka managed to say, forcing herself to return her focus to the piano. But Yui wasn't fooled.
"Busy with what?" Yui pressed gently. "You haven't composed anything in weeks. It's not like you."
Haruka felt a flush of shame wash over her. The truth was that she felt lost, adrift in a sea of darkness. "I just... I need some time," she said, avoiding Yui's gaze.
Yui took a step closer, her voice softening. "Time for what, Haruka? We're a team. If you're struggling, we need to work through it together. You don't have to shoulder this alone."
At Yui's insistence, Haruka's defenses began to waver. The unyielding weight of her memories pressed harder against her chest, and she felt as though she might crumble under the strain. But she couldn't bring herself to share the truth—the violence of her past, the fear, the trauma.
"Yui, please," Haruka whispered, her voice breaking. "It's just... complicated."
"Complicated how?" Yui pressed, her blue eyes searching for answers. "Whatever it is, I promise you can trust me."
With a trembling breath, Haruka finally lifted her gaze to meet Yui's. "It's not something I can just explain," she said, frustration and desperation mingling in her voice. "I'm trying to piece together my memories, and it's all so overwhelming. The abuse, Shizuku's illness... everything is just—"
Haruka's voice faltered as the memories surged back, unbidden. The chaotic nights filled with screams, the helplessness as Shizuku's laughter faded away, replaced by the sound of a hospital room and the sterile scent of antiseptic. Haruka had wanted to protect her sister, but instead, she had felt powerless to save her.
Yui stepped closer, her expression softening. "You don't have to carry all of this alone. We can help you, Haruka. We're your family. Just talk to us."
The warmth of Yui's words filled Haruka with a longing for comfort, but fear held her back. What would they think of her if they truly knew the extent of her pain? Would they still look at her with the same admiration?
"I just can't," Haruka finally admitted, tears spilling down her cheeks. "I thought I could forget, that I could pretend everything was fine. But the truth keeps clawing its way back to the surface, and I don't know how to deal with it."
Yui reached out, placing a gentle hand on Haruka's shoulder. "You don't have to forget. Remembering is part of healing. But shutting everyone out won't help you find peace."
Haruka closed her eyes, the weight of her friend's words settling heavily on her heart. Could she truly face her past? The memories that haunted her, the guilt that wrapped around her like a suffocating blanket—could she find a way to share it all with someone who genuinely cared?
"Just promise me you won't shut me out," Yui said softly, her voice a soothing balm amidst the chaos. "I'll be here for you, no matter what."
With a shaky breath, Haruka nodded, the resolve to fight against the darkness beginning to flicker inside her. Perhaps Yui was right. Perhaps facing the memories was the only way to reclaim her voice and her identity.
As the sun began to set outside, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, Haruka took a deep breath, feeling a glimmer of hope ignite within her. She might not have all the answers yet, but with Yui's support, she could begin to confront the weight of her past.
"Thank you, Yui," she whispered, a faint smile breaking through her tears. "I promise I'll try."
And as they sat together in the quiet of the studio, the weight of the past slowly began to lift, allowing the first notes of healing to resonate within her heart.