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One day, you were nothing but an abstract collection of feelings; the next day, you were alive.
You were born of emotions, weaved roughly and laced gently around a "true feeling" you could only infer about. Yet, there was an intimate compulsion that seemed to never stop pounding deep through your body: to help these true feelings become accepted, whatever that meant.
When you appeared, you knew nothing—rather, you thought you knew nothing, but that's not the entire truth. You knew this was your SEKAI, you knew the names of four girls the same age as you, and you felt the stinging, dull, pain of isolation.
The classrooms all looked the same, yet you just knew which one was yours. Inside, there were empty desks with unoccupied chairs, each identical to one another. You sat down at a random desk, noting how the seat seemed to make your experience with it as uncomfortable as it possibly could. You took a look around the room, but there was only one other thing of interest—a single message written on the chalkboard: "Welcome to middle school."
You don't know how long you've been sitting there, fidgeting every few seconds to find the best angle on the chair for the least discomfort, before the door slides open. It's a girl with long, pink hair that walks in, taking a seat next to you.
This is your first time meeting her; she's a stranger by definition, but you don't feel that way at all. You don't delay a single breath before greeting her.
"Good morning, Luka," you greet, as if her name was carved into your tongue since the beginning of time.
The girl smiles back at you. "You too, Miku."
While a SEKAI can be created with any number of people, four seems to be the sweet spot. In that sense, each creator only affects a quarter of the SEKAI at any time, unless they share the same, strong feelings with at least one other.
Theoretically, this means that feelings outside of the one that made this SEKAI won't be particularly strong. "Theoretically," because what you're constantly experiencing is so statistically unlikely, yet that's the reality you're living in.
So frequently you feel the trembling of their hearts that never ceases. So frequently you see a never-ending thunderstorm outside the windows, pouring raindrops and roaring regrets. So frequently you see the faintest glimmer of light, only for it to be shattered apart and torn to shreds by itself.
Sometimes, there are days where you'll see the setting sun or a twinkle of stars barely peeking through the sea of clouds before it unceremoniously gets covered by another endless barrage of rain. Those are the lucky days.
Personally, you don't hold any significance to the weather—you've never seen it outside of the SEKAI, nor were you born with any sort of societal bias towards its conditions, yet there's a feeling of hopelessness that plagues you whenever the skies darken.
Oddly enough, you don't feel like it's you who's feeling that.
One day, when you walk into the classroom, the blackboard merely has the words: "Welcome to high school" written on it. A quick look down, and it seems like your uniform has changed, too. As you drum your fingers against the desk, waiting for the lesson to start, you hope that you'll get visitors, soon.
It's a few more weeks before you finally, finally , meet the creators of the SEKAI. After long, long months, you're able to put a face to the names you've read about in the books scattered across classroom shelves. Ichika, Shiho, Honami, Saki. You've never met them, but they feel so much like what you'd known them to be.
You meet their eyes, and their loneliness is so palpable it nearly drives you to tears. You don't cry, because you need to set a good example as their senior.
Shiho and Honami look tense, and you can tell that they're practically begging to leave, but you refuse to tell them how to exit the SEKAI just yet. As your first act of helping the four girls in front of you find their true feelings, you force them to play a song. It's technically kidnapping, but you won't let them run away so easily.
You can't help but jump in and play along on their second run-through, and at the end of the song, it feels like things have changed a little bit.
Still, Shiho demands you to let her leave, so you acquiesce.
As you watch Honami and Shiho disappear in a flash of light, you can already hear the thunder cracking in the distance. You feel like you really hate the rain.
Ever since Ichika and Saki have been practicing in the SEKAI, the downpours you've gotten used to have lessened in number. It doesn't feel right, at first—you've gotten used to the arrhythmic pounding that beats against the windows. You'd like to think that there's a part of you that enjoyed the rain, liked how it drowned out your thoughts, but you can't find it in your mind anymore.
Now, it seems that the only emotion that resides in your heart is an nervous kind of hope, but it doesn't sit right with you, after all, it's not you who's practicing to play a song perfectly so Shiho can join the band. The sensation is jarring, like it's a fragment of a jigsaw puzzle forced into a similar, but ultimately wrong place.
You know they can master this piece within the time limit, it's a fact, not a wish made on a shooting star, but that's not what you feel.
Ichika messes up a tricky section in the bridge, the chord dissonant and off-key.
"Don't worry," you reassure, jumping up from your seat and patting her on the back, "let me show you how it's done."
Saki and Shiho appear in a flash of light, panicked and determined, respectively. You lead them up to the roof, and watch them reunite with each other, eyes teary. The sky flashes bright, the Leonid meteors painting the night with majestic streaks of light.
You feel relief, that everything went well, along with joy that they managed to reconnect with each other.
You feel those emotions, yes, yet they seem diluted, as if there was another source mixing these feelings into you.
A blinding light snaps you out of it—it's not the time for this—you have to let the catalyst of the SEKAI turn into a song, first. Yet, as the weight of a guitar materializes in your arm, you can't help but think that you're feeling a little uneasy.
It's only until the newly formed Leo/need leaves the SEKAI after their first rehearsal when you realize how quiet it is without them. There's a gaping hole in your chest that you've only noticed once you just became accustomed to it being filled in. Without them, you realize, you feel empty.
Your shoe taps the floor erratically, impatiently. You wonder, selfishly, if they'll come back tomorrow.
"Ichika," you ask, hastily, abruptly—it's a spur of a moment decision that happens before you register saying anything, "why do you admire Miku?"
If she wonders why you're referring to yourself in the third person, she manages to hide her surprise effortlessly.
Her face reddens into a blush; she mutters out an embarrassed "you're really putting me on the spot," before she clears her throat with a little more force than necessary.
"I just think you're amazing, Miku. Your songs—they're powerful, yet beautiful—I couldn't possibly tell you how much they mean to me even if we had all the time in the universe."
You rest your head on your hands, wordlessly prodding her to continue.
"It's, well... you inspired me to pursue music, and that's why I'm in a band with the others, now."
And unbeknownst to Ichika, her words claw into your skin, stabbing through the blood and gore until it pierces uncountable holes in you. It's obvious why you feel this way—she's wrong. Ichika's wrong.
You weren't the one that let her childhood self's eyes light up; you're just a variation of the original, sharing nothing but a name, a voice, and a similar appearance. It's funny, how despite being more "real" than the ones on music files or videos online, you're infinitely less influential. If it was a competition, you'd be pathetically losing to a voice bank—a literal instrument.
Ichika idolizes a version of you that you are not, and it hurts to know that the only thing you can do is play the part as best as you can.
"I'm flattered," you lie, just before the silence gets too awkward. That's the least you can do for letting her indulge you. "Thank you, Ichika."
There's no sound that follows your footsteps. You've been walking in a single direction for hours, but it only feels like you've been circling around endlessly, waiting for the others to hop into the SEKAI today. It's a routine you've come to adapt to—when the empty classrooms become too overbearing, you take a long walk until something happens. Sometimes, Rin or Len want to do something fun. Sometimes, Leo/need might hop in for a practice session for a few hours. Most of the time, though, nothing happens.
You want to feel bored, but you've realized that just because you want something, it doesn't mean it'll happen. So, you walk. Left, right, left, right, one step after another. There's no clocks in the hallways, so you don't even know how long it's been. Minutes? Hours? If there weren't any distractions, you could probably walk for days or weeks or months without feeling bored.
It might seem like a blessing to be immune to the erosion of tedium, but that couldn't be further from the truth. Simply put, there's nothing to do in this SEKAI after a day or two. What's a school without teachers, or a class with six students? Nothing of value.
There's instruments, but what's the point of practicing and practicing to eventually play to a crowdless audience? There's textbooks, but there's nothing interesting about physics, or chemistry, or math. It's like the SEKAI took the barebones of a school, added a music room, and called it a day.
You've seen the outside world multiple times: Miyamasuzaka Girls' Academy, Scramble Crossing, Vivid Street, places full of curiosity and excitement. You want to attend an actual school for once, window shop for the newest arrivals, or visit trending restaurants and cafés on your own.
Of course, it doesn't work that way; you don't exist like they do. Your reality is the SEKAI, whereas the outside world—Shibuya—is a pipe dream, a fantasy. A paradise.
You want to feel angry at your circumstances, that it's unfair, it's sickening that you're taunted with the ambrosia of reality seeping through the windows and beneath the cracks of doors, but you don't. You can't identify any of those frustrations in your mind the same way you rarely feel the effects of boredom.
It takes a moment before you realize you've stopped in the middle of the hallway, lost in your thoughts. You feel as though nothing has changed since now and when you started walking—they might still be in school, or they might be sleeping. It explains why your emotions haven't fluctuated for a while.
You take a step, not caring whether it was in the same direction as you were walking before. In the end, it doesn't matter: forward and back all blur together into a convoluted mess of colours at some point, and you'll end up in the same place either way.
It might have been a minute or hours since you stopped in the hallway, but you continue walking ever the same.
"Is the ceiling really that interesting?"
You jolt up, setting your legs down from the desk—the chair you're reclining on nearly teetering over if it weren't for your reflexes. Latching onto the corner of the desk to stabilize yourself, you turn to glare at whoever interrupted your thoughts.
"Luka," you say, with no small amount of annoyance, "did you really have to do that?"
She puts a finger to her lips, returning your accusation with a smirk. "I already knocked on the door before entering."
You find you can't give a good response.
"You've been looking a little lost in thought, lately," Luka states, as if it was an indisputable truth.
You sigh, because she isn't wrong—you've been out of it for a while, now. You wonder if your fellow Virtual Singers can help you find your own feelings, too.
"Was it that obvious?" you ask. Luka pauses for a moment, then nods. "I'm sorry. This isn't how I should be acting, isn't it?"
"There's nothing to apologize for," she placates, sitting on the desk next to you. "If it helps, you could tell me about your problems. I'd be happy to listen, at the very least."
"It's just that..." you mumble, ordering the words in your mind to make some semblance of sense, "I'm not sure what we are."
You tilt your head back up, staring at the ceiling tiles that you counted thousands of times already.
"We are alive, in the loosest sense. We're sentient, we're sapient, we're practically humans," you ramble, letting your thoughts flow out. "But we're not real."
You think of all the times you would catch MEIKO staring out the window, silently disclosing her dissatisfaction for her role in this world. You never brought the topic up with her, but a small part of you agrees.
If you could escape from the SEKAI into the real world and live like a human being—living, breathing, existing —you'd take the chance with only a tiny bit of hesitation. You'd feel guilty for abandoning the girls, but you're sure they'd understand in due time. You'd hope they'd understand, eventually.
"I don't know what we are," you say. "I don't know what it means to be alive, but not real."
Luka clasps your hand with hers, giving a gentle squeeze. She doesn't say anything, but you can see it in her eyes how she doesn't have an answer either.
What usually is the sound of music has been replaced with pencils scratching and paper crinkling under the friction of erasers, today.
"Hona-chan," Saki pleads, "do we really have to study?"
"This is the fourth time you've asked that already," Shiho says, in the way a parent would respond to a child asking whether they're "there yet."
"Hmph, you can't take the moral high ground here," Saki huffs, "I bet you're thinking about all the valuable practice time we're wasting right now."
"Wha— no, I'm not!"
"I think you lose this one, Shiho," Ichika ribs, muffling a chuckle.
You open the door and drag a seat between Ichika and Saki. "I didn't expect you to be doing homework in here," you tease.
"Exams are coming up," Honami clarifies. "It wouldn't be very responsible if we left all our homework pile up in order to practice."
"Ah, sorry, Honami, but do you mind helping me with this question?"
"Me too, Hona-chan!"
"I was going to ask for help, too," Ichika says to no one in particular, "but I guess I'll have to wait."
You take a look at Ichika's notes: it's math—you know how to do these practice problems, by the looks of it.
"If you want, I can answer any questions you have," you offer.
"Really? I wasn't aware you knew these sorts of things," Ichika says, before quickly stitching on a "In a good way!" at the end.
You mention the textbooks scattered across the SEKAI, thankful that their knowledge finally has a use.
For the next few hours, you experience what it might feel like to be a real person, a classmate from school, maybe. The mundanities of life outside feel ever so precious, yet ever so transient. It's a gift that only appears sparingly, in doses of occasional free trials, because you don't wish to betray them for your own gratification.
Your heart crumbles as you say your goodbyes as they prepare to leave for the night. They'll be back soon enough, but you'll be forced into doing your job: playing alongside them or giving advice from the sidelines.
You wonder if the turmoil that lurks inside you is a rebellious discontent over doing the same thing over and over again just because you were born for this role, or a jaded persistence like a blade, dulled to the point where it is so terribly inefficient, yet it perseveres out of routine. Maybe it's because of another thing—it's not like you would know.
Still, you can't hate your role in this world. Even if you wanted to do something more interesting, it's not like you could.
It comes to you, one day, that you love them.
You love Ichika, you love Saki, you love Honami, you love Shiho.
But how much of this love is because of you?
You're just a feeling of theirs taking the shape of a Virtual Singer, a guide for them as an unbiased viewpoint of their true emotions. In that case, do you love them because you've grown to appreciate them as friends, or do you love them because they love each other, and you're just the side effect?
Did you ever have any control over your emotions, or were you always a doll puppeteered by their feelings? Are you a parody of Miku made to occupy this SEKAI, or are you just an amalgamation of feelings from four high school girls?
That's the problem—you don't know, and you'll never know.
You hope that you'll never lose contact with Leo/need. You're well aware of the idea of growing up, discarding childish things as an unofficial rite of passage. You, an embodiment of a digital instrument, must surely count as a relic of their immature years.
There's a chance they may never leave; you hope they see you as a person, a friend, but it's possible you're just not real enough for them. You're their senior of all things music, a mentor, a therapist, a sounding board, but to be human is so much more than that.
Aging is a pipe dream for you. Without external influence, you'll be stuck as a high school student forever, no matter how long you live. There are other factors that make you keenly aware of your lack of humanity: you don't need to eat, nor sleep to live, as if you were a robot wearing the skin of a person. You don't want to believe that if you were cut and quartered, you would bleed code and electricity.
It's a horrible conclusion to come to, that you're tied to their souls like a prisoner on life sentence, until the SEKAI disappears for good—until their dreams disappear, or until they all pass away—but even that may never happen. To know that you're a slave to your creators, unable to break free for eternity, doubting your every thought because you're unsure whether they truly belong to you is terrifying.
You have this looming fear that one day, they'll visit for the last time. They've reached their goals, gained an understanding of their own emotions, and you'll be left wandering the vacant hallways forever. You'll be anxiously waiting for them to come back, even if you've already convinced yourself that they won't. They won't need your help, not anymore, because your utility is worthless to them—you're not real like they are, just an extension of their own feelings—they'll soon realize it's idiotic, talking to themselves via a third party: you.
"You don't need to run so fast, Saki. You're going to pull my arm off, at this rate."
"Bleh. Maybe you should walk faster!"
"Alright, you two, stop bickering. We don't want to keep her waiting, do we?"
"Miku!" the door slides open. "Do you mind listening to our new song?"
Right, it's best not to dwell too much on these sorts of things—not when you still have some use to them.
You give a smile, and hope it's convincing enough. "Of course!"