Absolutely—let's deepen the emotio
Kazuki hated being noticed.
He hated the silence after people noticed him even more.
The recital hall lights were too bright. The air too dry. Every breath scraped against his throat like paper. But his hands? His hands didn't care. They moved like they always did—like they remembered something even he didn't.
The piece was his own.
"Opus for a Withering Star."
Twelve minutes. No breaks. Written in D minor, saturated with unresolved seventh chords and phrases that drifted instead of ending. It started with a single-note melody, high and exposed, like a child humming in the dark. Then it grew—twisting harmonies layered beneath, rhythms breaking like a heartbeat too tired to stay regular.
Halfway through, a left-hand pattern took over: syncopated octaves crashing against haunting diminished runs. The melody screamed underneath but never broke free. Just like him.
When the final note faded, it left a space too heavy to fill.
Silence.
Kazuki stood, bowed fast—like an apology—and hurried off the stage. He didn't look up. Didn't wait for applause. The hallway outside the recital hall felt like oxygen. He didn't stop walking until he reached his safe place:
Practice Room 6C.
The one with the sticky lock and the slightly out-of-tune upright Yamaha.
He closed the door.
Breathed.
And sat again at the piano.
This time, he didn't play the piece from memory. He improvised. Something soft. Something private.
A slow, aching 3/4. Left hand rocking gently between open fifths. Right hand weaving quiet clusters that brushed past consonance but never settled there. A melody unfolded like a memory he wasn't ready to name.
Then—
A whisper of movement behind him. The faintest creak of the floorboard. He froze.
"I'm sorry," came a voice. Soft. Measured. "I didn't mean to scare you."
Kazuki turned slowly.
A girl stood in the doorway. Petite, with long, dark hair tucked into a chunky cardigan, her sleeves pulled past her hands. Black skirt. Worn-out sneakers. She looked like she didn't belong here—but also like she'd been standing there forever.
"I heard you," she said. "Back in the hall. And now again, in here."
He didn't respond. His throat was tight, as if words had to pass through concertina wire to come out.
"You're amazing," she said, quieter now. "That piece… the one you performed. I've never heard anything like it. It felt like..." She hesitated. "Like someone trying to scream, but only knowing how to sing."
Kazuki blinked. He'd written that piece during a week-long spiral of insomnia and panic attacks. It wasn't meant to be beautiful. Just honest.
"I'm Aiko," she said, taking a small step forward. "I'm not a music major. Psychology, actually. But I always sneak into performances. And you… you were different."
His fingers twitched on the keys.
"That song you just played now... was it yours too?"
He gave a tiny nod.
"It was sad. But it felt like... you were safe in it. Like it's where you live."
She didn't smile wide. Just a little. Enough.
"You don't have to say anything," she added, backing toward the door. "I just wanted you to know—someone heard you."
Then she was gone.
Kazuki stared at the empty doorway. Then, down at his hands.
They were trembling.
Not from fear. Not from shame.
From the echo of being understood.
Would you like to continue with Chapter 2 next—maybe where he starts seeing her more often and begins to feel both comforted and unnerved? Or should we build a scene where he plays another piece, possibly for her this time?