When The Music Fades

Disclaimer:

All characters depicted in When the Music Fades are 18 years of age or older, regardless of how emotionally stunted, romantically confused, or artistically tortured they may appear. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental--or a wild stroke of literary luck.

Also, don't steal my work. Seriously. Plagiarizing it doesn't just cross a legal line--it pokes a very sleep-deprived, emotionally-invested bear. And trust me, that bear bites.

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Journal Entry -- April 2nd

Shirogane Rooftop, Cultural Festival Morning

* "Some songs are never sung aloud--not because they aren't true, but because they're too true."

* --R.N.

I don't know why I'm writing this. Maybe because I need to put it somewhere before I forget how it felt. Maybe because the city's too loud today and my heart feels too full. Or maybe because this might be the last time I get to say any of it. Not out loud. Just here.

I've never been the girl who shouted to be seen. Not in class, not onstage, not even at home. Even when the lights found me--when the crowds screamed my name and the billboards said I'd made it--I still felt like I was singing from the shadows. People say I'm lucky. That I'm living the dream. But it doesn't always feel like mine. It feels like something I slipped into because someone else opened the door. Because he did.

Daniel Poole changed everything. He probably doesn't even realize it. To everyone else, he was the quiet American with kind eyes and poetry books under his arm. But to me, he was the first person who ever really listened. Not to the polished version of me, not to the rehearsed answers or the demo tapes. He listened to the girl who stayed behind after class and hummed half-finished melodies into the pages of her English workbook. And when he told me, "Don't ever hide your voice," I didn't. Not again.

That was three years ago. I've been writing ever since--lyrics shaped like secrets, choruses laced with things I'll never say. And now I'm eighteen. Famous. Exhausted. And completely, hopelessly in love with the one man I was never supposed to love. So I wrote him a song. The kind that doesn't ask for anything. Just the truth. Just one final verse before I leave this place, this rooftop, this version of myself behind. Maybe I'll sing it today. Maybe I won't. But if I do... I hope he hears what I've been trying to say all along.

That it was never about the fame. It was always about him.

-- Rio

**********

Chapter 1 -- "Petals and Paper Hearts"

(POV: Rio Noda)

There's something cruel about spring in Tokyo.

The way the cherry blossoms fall so gently, so effortlessly, like the world isn't full of impossible choices and silent heartbreaks. They flutter past the windows of Shirogane High like a dream in slow motion--pink and white confetti raining down over students laughing and running toward a future I'm no longer sure I want.

I used to love this time of year. The air always felt new, like it carried promises. But today, it feels like a funeral for something I've been pretending doesn't matter. And the blossoms? They're just paper-thin lies floating past my face.

I sit alone on the edge of the school rooftop, legs dangling through the bars of the safety fence, notebook clutched to my chest like a shield. From up here, the city hums below--cars weaving, lives moving, people rushing toward appointments and ambitions and late lunches. But my world has narrowed to these few pages of lyrics I've kept hidden like a diary, and one man who has no idea he's the reason I ever opened my mouth to sing in the first place.

Daniel Poole. Poole-sensei, to everyone else. But to me--he's the reason my songs ever had meaning. The reason I didn't give up the first time I forgot the lyrics during a showcase audition. The reason I dared to dream at all. I still remember how he smiled when I sang a melody for him that first time--something clumsy and unfinished. He closed his eyes like I'd handed him something sacred, and when he opened them again, I wasn't invisible anymore. I was heard.

I've tried to write other songs--ones for the label, for the fans, for the endless parade of media that want me to be bright and cute and uncomplicated. But none of them come close to this one. The one in my notebook. The one that scares me. Because it's not just a song. It's everything I've never said, folded into verses and laced with all the feelings I've spent three years hiding in between the lines.

The lyrics still feel like they might burn through the page if I look at them too long. Every note aches with the weight of what I've never had the courage to say aloud. Not to my best friend, Emiko. Not to my mother. And definitely not to Daniel. Because saying it would make it real--and real things can break. But today... maybe I'm ready to break. Just a little. Just long enough to let him hear what's been inside me all along.

I wonder if he'll even come. He said he would. Weeks ago, after class. "I wouldn't miss it," he told me with that quiet, calm voice that always feels like a lullaby for my nerves. I know it wasn't a promise. But I believed him anyway. I have to believe him. Because if he's not there... if he never hears the song... I don't know how I'll let it go. Or if I even can.

A gust of wind lifts the edge of my skirt and carries a few petals past my face, brushing against my cheek like a goodbye. I shiver. Maybe from the chill. Maybe from the fear. Because if he hears it and still doesn't see me--really see me--then at least I'll have my answer. And answers, even painful ones, are better than wondering. Right?

I sit with the silence for a little longer, letting it press against my ribs. Then I stand slowly, brushing stray petals from my skirt and tucking the notebook carefully into my bag like it's made of glass. The rooftop has always been my escape hatch, my quiet sanctuary between the chaos of school and stardom. But today, it feels more like a waiting room before something irreversible.

Just as I reach for the door, it creaks open.

"There you are," Emiko says, stepping out with a familiar bounce in her boots and the smell of strawberry lip gloss trailing behind her. Her hair's in messy space buns, dyed cotton-candy pink at the ends, and her blazer is already unbuttoned like she's daring the teachers to scold her.

I smile, but it doesn't quite reach my eyes.

"You hiding from your adoring fans or just trying to avoid the first-years and their cursed TikTok dance booth?" she teases, leaning against the doorway like she's been looking for me since homeroom.

"Maybe both," I say softly.

She eyes me for a second, her usual grin fading into something quieter. "You're doing the thing again."

"What thing?" I said.

"The 'I'm totally fine, Emiko' face that you wear when you're very much not totally fine." she replies.

I exhale through my nose, knowing there's no point pretending. Emiko doesn't just read people--she decodes them like it's a second language. "I'm nervous," I admit. "But not like concert-nervous. More like... standing-on-the-edge-of-something kind of nervous."

She nods, motioning for us to head downstairs together. "Because of the song?"

I glance at her, then nod once. "It's not like the others. This one... it's personal. And today might be the only chance I get to sing it. For him."

Emiko lets that hang in the air as we descend the stairwell. The building smells like chalk dust and old floor polish, but there's something electric beneath it. The kind of buzz that only exists on festival days--hopeful, chaotic, a little too bright. But the way Emiko looks at me now, it's different. She's not teasing. Not smirking. She's serious in that rare, protective way she reserves for the things that actually matter.

"You're really going to do it?" she asks, stepping aside so I can lead the way toward the courtyard. "Sing that song?"

"I think I have to," I whisper. "Even if he never figures it out. Even if it changes nothing. I just... I need him to hear it. Once. Just once."

She bumps my shoulder with hers. "You know, for someone who's spent the last year dodging interview questions about dating and hiding notebooks like they're state secrets, that's pretty brave."

"It's not brave," I murmur. "It's just the only thing left I haven't tried."

We push open the doors into a swirl of colors, laughter, and music already echoing from the stage setup in the courtyard. The festival is alive, blooming like the sakura trees themselves. But for me, it all comes down to this moment--this walk, this song, this chance.

And the hope that somewhere in this crowd... he's waiting to listen.

The courtyard is a blur of color and sound, like a dream painted in festival ink. Streamers sway from the cherry trees like ribbons in a wind that knows it's carrying something important. Students shout over each other in a cacophony of cheerful chaos--booths hawking takoyaki and handmade bracelets, a first-year club selling neon cotton candy, and the brass band warming up near the fountain with a rendition of "Ue o Muite Arukō" that's slightly off-key but somehow perfect.

I've done arena shows. I've stood in front of thirty thousand screaming fans with fireworks behind me and lights in my eyes so bright I couldn't see the front row. But this--this tiny little school festival with its folding chairs and wonky banners--this feels more terrifying than any stage I've ever stood on.

Because he might be in the crowd.

Because this time, it's not Rio the pop idol performing.

It's just... me.

"Smells like someone burned the yakisoba again," Emiko says, scrunching her nose and tugging me toward the side entrance behind the stage. "You okay to sneak around without getting mobbed?"

"I'm not that famous here," I lie. And we both know it.

We weave through the tents and past the third-years manning the karaoke booth, until we reach the makeshift backstage area--really just a tent with zip ties and clipboard chaos. A few students glance up as I enter, some doing double takes. One girl whispers to her friend and tries not to make it obvious she's texting someone about me. I ignore it. I'm used to it. The stares. The rumors. The expectation.

But I'm not used to the weight in my chest. Or the tremble in my fingers as I unzip my bag and slide out the notebook.

"Rio," Emiko says gently, stepping close. "Are you sure you want to do this? You still have time to switch songs. Nobody would blame you."

I look down at the lyrics again. They feel heavier than paper. Heavier than anything I've ever carried.

"I don't know what I want," I admit. "But I know I'll hate myself if I don't try."

She doesn't answer right away. Just pulls a small piece of candy from her jacket pocket--matcha-flavored, my favorite--and presses it into my hand.

"For luck," she says. "And because you look like you're about to pass out."

I laugh, a shaky sound, but real. "Thanks."

"Give it everything," she says. "Even if he doesn't get it. You will."

Then she steps away, letting the stage coordinator know I'm next in line.

I take one last breath, one last glance at the folded lyric sheet in my hand, and close my eyes.

This is it.

One verse. One moment. One chance to tell the truth the only way I know how.

Through music.

The crowd looks like a living sea from behind the curtain--parents with camera phones, siblings in oversized hoodies, classmates laughing with juice boxes and sticky hands. A dozen folding chairs already filled. A dozen more filling fast. My heart is louder than the brass band. Every time someone new enters the courtyard, I flinch.

Then I see him.

Daniel stands near the back, arms folded, wearing that soft-gray button-down shirt I've only ever seen outside of class. His hair is just a little tousled, like he ran his hand through it one too many times on the train ride here. He's scanning the stage, not urgently, just curiously--but it's enough to make my knees lock. He came. He kept his word. And for a flicker of a second, I let myself believe in everything again. The song. The moment. The miracle.

Then she steps into view beside him.

Ms. Takahashi. One our school's Literature teachers.

She's thirty-two and looks like every magazine stylist wants her phone number. Hair sleek and shiny, lips glossed the color of wine and confidence. Her skirt hugs her curves like it was tailored to remind people she doesn't have to try. She's everything I'm not--grown, graceful, composed. Even the way she laughs is elegant, like she belongs in a lounge with jazz playing behind her and a glass of something expensive in her hand. She leans in, says something to Daniel, and her fingers brush his arm like it's the most natural thing in the world.

I stop breathing.

He smiles.

Not big. Not dramatic. But enough. Enough to slice through the tiny, hopeful fantasy I've carried around for three years like a secret melody I thought no one else could hear. My hands grip the curtain tighter. My throat closes. I know it's stupid. I know it's just a touch, a laugh, a casual moment between two adults who work together. But the way she looks at him--it's not casual. It's practiced. And the way he doesn't flinch? It's not nothing.

"Rio?" Emiko's voice is a whisper behind me, but I barely register it.

My gaze stays locked on them as if looking away might make it real. The pages of my notebook tremble in my hand. Every note I wrote for him, every lyric laced with unspoken feeling, turns sour in my mouth. My chest feels like it's caving in. Like the weight of all my unsaid things just collapsed inward on itself.

He smiled at her.

He let her touch him.

And suddenly, my song feels like a joke.

"Rio, you're up next," the student coordinator says, clipboard in hand, his voice cheerful and oblivious to the war unraveling inside me.

I nod, but it's automatic. Like my body is moving without me in it.

Behind me, Emiko is saying something--I can hear her voice but not the words. I think she's asking if I'm okay. I think I lie and say yes. My fingers tighten around the notebook as I walk toward the stage steps. Every instinct is screaming to stop, to turn back, to sing what I came here to sing. But my heart is already in pieces, and I'm too afraid to hand him the last one.

So I don't.

At the top of the stairs, I pause. I reach into my pocket and slide the lyric sheet from the notebook, that song I poured everything into, and tuck it back inside. Then I pull out a different one--a single from my early debut. Catchy. Shiny. Empty. Or at least it does now at this time. It's the song they made me sing on a morning variety show where I wore cat ears and lip-synced through a fake cold.

I step onto the stage and paste on the smile I've learned to wear like foundation.

The crowd cheers. I can hear a couple of classmates call my name. I grip the mic like it's an anchor and not a weapon. I glance out, just once, and catch Daniel's eyes. He's watching me now. Focused. Still. Ms. Takahashi is saying something again, but he doesn't turn toward her this time.

It doesn't matter.

Because it's too late.

The music starts, light and upbeat. My voice follows, pitch-perfect. My movements rehearsed. I smile, I twirl, I hit every note the way I was trained to. And I die a little with each lyric that means nothing. With every second I spend hiding again.

When it's over, the courtyard erupts. Confetti flies from somewhere--probably one of the second-years with a party popper. There's applause, shouts, even a few people jumping to their feet. I bow once. Then again. Smile like it meant something.

Then I turn and walk offstage, each step louder than the clapping behind me.

Emiko meets me backstage, wide-eyed. "You didn't sing it," she says, voice quiet, almost stunned.

I shake my head. "I changed my mind."

"Rio--"

"I couldn't," I say, already brushing past her, already halfway to the back gate.

She calls after me, but I don't stop. Because if I stop, I'll cry. And I refuse to let the school courtyard be the place where I break.

I slip through the back gate, barely noticing the rusted latch catch against my blazer. The noise of the festival fades behind me with every step--laughter, music, applause--all swallowed by the hum of the street. I keep walking, head down, past the corner store, past the park bench with peeling paint, past the world that kept spinning while mine cracked open.

I don't know how I got here.

One minute I was walking. The next I was running. And now I'm just sitting--on an old wooden bench across the street from the school gate, my blazer hanging off one shoulder, my notebook shoved so deep into my bag it's like I'm trying to pretend it never existed. The spring breeze is soft, gentle, cruel. It carries the scent of grilled yakitori and fresh cut grass, and I hate it for trying to comfort me.

The blossoms are still falling. Stupid, perfect blossoms.

I press my palms to my eyes, but it's too late. The tears are already sliding down, hot and messy. Not the kind you can dab away and keep your eyeliner intact. These are the kind that swell up from your chest and spill out with everything you've been choking back. I don't sob. I leak. Silently. Shamefully. The way people like me are trained to cry--off-camera, out of frame, in private.

I don't even know who I'm mad at.

At Daniel? For smiling at her?

At Ms. Takahashi? For being beautiful and adult and exactly the kind of woman he could actually want?

Or at myself--for believing a smile three years ago meant something more than kindness. For building entire songs around a look, a word, a moment that maybe he never even thought twice about. I wrote him a melody of my whole heart, and he brought someone else to the show.

I reach into my bag and pull out the notebook. It feels heavier now, like it knows it's been betrayed.

The song is still in there.

Folded. Fragile.

Still hoping.

I stare at it for a long time, then unfold it carefully, smoothing it flat on my knees like it deserves a funeral. I read the lines I know by heart:

* I saved this song

* For the day I could stand in the light

* Not as a star, not as a girl in a magazine

* But as the one who never stopped loving you

It hurts.

Just reading it hurts.

I rip it in half. Then again. And again. Until the words I couldn't say are nothing but shredded pieces in my lap, blowing away with the petals like broken prayers.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I wipe my face with the back of my sleeve and look at the screen. My agent.

I stare at the name for a full ten seconds before answering.

"Noda-san!" she says, all energy and excitement. "I saw the video--your performance is already trending. We've had three new offers come in. One of them wants you headlining in L.A. by July. You ready to talk tour?"

I close my eyes.

The last piece of me--the soft, secret part--just crumbled into dust.

"Yes," I whisper.

She gasps like she's been holding her breath. "Really? Are you serious?"

"Yes," I say again, louder. Steadier. Dead inside. "Book everything."

"Europe, the States, the full year?"

"All of it."

She laughs, full of pride. "Rio, this is it. This is the start of everything."

But it's not.

It's the end.

**********

Chapter 2 - "What I Didn't Hear"

(POV: Daniel):

They say it's the quiet ones you have to watch.

That's probably true of Rio.

She never asked for attention. Never tried to be the loudest voice in the room. She just was. Luminous. Not in a showy way--more like how the sky looks after a storm clears. Soft. Honest. The kind of presence you don't notice until it's gone, and then it's all you can think about.

I watched her sing today. Watched from the edge of the courtyard like I was trying to stay invisible. I told myself I was just being professional. But the truth is--I was nervous. Genuinely nervous. Not because of the song, but because of the look she gave me two weeks ago when she asked if I was coming. It wasn't casual. It wasn't small talk. It was... something else. A question folded into hope.