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The auditorium was quiet, save for the faint rustle of scripts and the occasional creak of the wooden stage. The El Dorado rehearsals had just wrapped for the day, and most of the girls had trickled out, leaving behind an echo of laughter and chatter. Mahiru Tsuyuzaki lingered near the edge of the stage, her grip tight on her sword as she watched Nana Daiba sitting alone in the front row, staring blankly at the script in her hands.
It had been a rough week for Nana. The fight with Junna had been explosive—words sharp enough to cut through years of trust, leaving behind a jagged wound that everyone could feel but no one dared mention. Mahiru didn’t know the full story, only the fragments she’d pieced together from overheard whispers and Junna’s tight-lipped avoidance. Something about clashing visions. Whatever it was, it had ended with Junna walking away, and Nana retreating into herself.
Mahiru hesitated. She and Nana had never been particularly close—cordial, sure, but their interactions were usually limited to cooking, revue and the occasional shared stage direction. Yet, ever since they’d been paired as leads for El Dorado , something had shifted. There was a quiet understanding in the way Nana delivered her lines, a depth to her performance that resonated with Mahiru’s own. They weren’t friends, not really, but Mahiru couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew Nana, at least a little. And right now, Nana looked like she was drowning.
“Banana-chan?” Mahiru’s voice was soft, tentative, as she stepped closer. Nana didn’t look up, her long fingers tracing the edge of the script absently.
“Mahiru-chan” Nana replied, her tone flat. “You don’t have to stay. I’m fine.”
Mahiru frowned. She’d heard that lie before—had said it herself, once upon a time. She set her sword against a chair and sat down a row behind Nana, keeping a respectful distance. “You don’t look fine,” she said simply. “And… I know what it’s like. When someone you care about walks away.”
Nana’s shoulders stiffened, but she didn’t respond. Mahiru took a breath, her mind drifting back to her own heartbreak—Karen’s bright, unwavering gaze fixed on Hikari, the way Mahiru had faded into the background of their story. It had hurt, sharp and deep, but she’d learned to carry it. She’d had to.
“It was Karen, for me,” Mahiru continued, her voice steady despite the ache the memory still carried. “I thought… well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. She chose Hikari, and I had to figure out how to keep going. It’s not the same as you and Junna-chan, I know, but… I get it. The part where it feels like the stage is collapsing under you.”
Nana finally turned her head, just enough for Mahiru to catch the flicker of something raw in her eyes—pain, maybe, or exhaustion. “Junna didn’t choose someone else,” she said quietly. “She just… chose herself. And I couldn’t follow her there.”
Mahiru nodded, letting the silence settle between them. She didn’t push—didn’t need to. Nana’s words hung heavy in the air, and Mahiru could feel the weight of them, the way they mirrored her own quiet struggles.
The El Dorado script lay open on Nana’s lap, its pages marked with notes in her neat handwriting. Their characters, their chemistry unfolding in sharp dialogue and lingering glances. On stage, it had felt natural, effortless even, despite their distance offstage. Mahiru wondered if Nana felt it too, that spark that wasn’t just acting.
“Do you want to run lines?” Mahiru asked after a moment, gesturing to the script. “It might… take your mind off things.”
Nana hesitated, then gave a small nod. She stood, brushing her hair back, and stepped onto the stage with a grace that belied the storm inside her. Mahiru followed, picking up her sword and slipping into character. They moved through the scene—a confrontation in the heart of El Dorado their words laced with tension and unspoken longing.
The lines blurred, just for a moment, and Mahiru felt her heartbeat quicken. Nana’s gaze held hers, steady and searching, and when she spoke again, it was softer, almost real. “Maybe I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”
The scene ended, but neither of them moved. The air between them felt charged, fragile, like the moment before a revue’s climax. Mahiru swallowed, her sword trembling slightly in her grip. “You’re really good, Banana-chan,” she said, breaking the spell. “I… I like working with you.”
Nana blinked, then offered a faint, tired smile—the first Mahiru had seen from her in days. “You’re not bad yourself, Mahiru-chan. You make it easy.”
They sat together after that, going over the script in quiet companionship. It wasn’t a grand gesture, not a sudden confession or a dramatic shift. But it was something—a thread of connection, woven through shared pain and the strange alchemy of the stage. Mahiru didn’t know if it would grow into more, but for now, it was enough to be there, to offer Nana a hand to hold as the curtains fell on one story and rose on another.
The stage lights had dimmed to a soft glow, casting long shadows across the auditorium. Mahiru and Nana sat side by side on the edge of the stage, their legs dangling over the lip, the El Dorado script resting between them like a fragile bridge. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was heavy—laden with the things neither of them had said yet, the things they weren’t sure how to say.
Mahiru traced the grain of the wooden floor with her fingertip, her thoughts drifting back to that ache she’d buried months ago. Karen’s laughter, Hikari’s quiet resolve—it had all been so vivid, so consuming, until it wasn’t. She’d learned to let go, to find her own light, but the scars lingered, faint but present. Seeing Nana like this, unraveling in the wake of Junna’s departure, stirred those old wounds awake. She wanted to help, but she wasn’t sure she knew how—not when her own heart still felt like a patchwork of mended pieces.
Nana shifted beside her, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. Her usual composure—the cool, unshakable presence that had earned her was gone, replaced by something brittle. “I didn’t think it would hurt this much,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Junna and I… we were supposed to be forever. Not like this.”
Mahiru turned to look at her, catching the way Nana’s voice trembled on the last word. “Forever’s a big promise,” she said gently. “Sometimes people change, and it’s not about you. It’s just… them figuring out who they are.”
Nana let out a hollow laugh, her head tipping back to stare at the ceiling. “That’s the thing, isn’t it? Junna figured it out, and I didn’t. I kept trying to hold onto that first year, that perfect loop we had. She said I was suffocating her, that I couldn’t let go of the past. And she’s right. I can’t.”
Mahiru’s chest tightened. She knew that feeling—clinging to something that was already slipping away, hoping if she held on tight enough, it wouldn’t vanish. “I used to think if I was good enough, Karen would see me,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “Not just as a friend, but… more. I practiced harder, smiled brighter, and stayed close. But it didn’t matter. She didn’t need me to be her star. She had Hikari.”
Nana’s gaze softened, shifting to meet Mahiru’s. “That must’ve been hard. Watching them.”
“It was,” Mahiru said, her throat tight. “But it got easier. Not because I stopped caring, but because I started caring about myself too. I had to find my own stage, you know?”
Nana didn’t reply right away, her fingers tightening around her knees. Mahiru wondered if she’d said too much, if she’d crossed some invisible line. But then Nana spoke, her voice raw and unguarded. “I don’t know how to do that. Everything I am—it’s tied to them. To Junna, to that year we kept repeating. I’m just… empty.”
“You’re not empty,” Mahiru said firmly, surprising even herself with the conviction in her tone. “You’re still here, Banana-chan. You’re still fighting, even if it doesn’t feel like it. I see it—on stage, in the way you move, the way you make every line mean something. You’re more than just the past.”
Nana’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of something—hope, maybe—breaking through the haze of her grief. She looked away quickly, blinking back the shimmer of tears. “You sound so sure.”
“I have to be,” Mahiru said, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at her lips. “If I wasn’t, I’d still be crying over Karen instead of sitting here with you.”
That earned her a faint chuckle from Nana, soft and fleeting but real. It was a sound Mahiru hadn’t realized she’d been waiting for, a crack in the wall Nana had built around herself. They sat there for a moment, the quiet stretching out like a held breath, until Nana reached for the script again.
“Let’s do that scene one more time,” she said, her voice steadier now. Mahiru nodded, standing and offering Nana a hand. She took it, her grip warm and surprisingly firm, and they stepped back into the world of El Dorado . This time, the lines felt different—less like a performance and more like a confession.
“You could stay,” Mahiru said, her voice softening as she improvised beyond the script. “Not to search, but to live. With me.”
Nana froze, her breath catching. For a heartbeat, it wasn’t the character answering—it was Nana, her eyes searching Mahiru’s face as if looking for something she’d lost. “I don’t know if I can,” she whispered, and Mahiru couldn’t tell if it was still the character speaking.
“You don’t have to know yet,” Mahiru replied, stepping closer until their hands brushed. “Just… don’t close the gate.”
The scene ended there, unwritten and unresolved, but the air between them hummed with possibility. Nana didn’t pull away, and Mahiru didn’t let go. They stood like that, caught in the liminal space between stage and reality, between what had been and what could be.
Later, as they packed up their things, Nana paused by the door, glancing back at Mahiru. “Thanks, Mahiru” she said quietly. “For staying.”
“Anytime, Banana-chan,” Mahiru replied, her heart thudding a little too fast. “I mean it.”
Nana smiled—a real one this time, small but bright—and Mahiru felt something shift inside her, a warmth she hadn’t expected. It wasn’t love, not yet, but it was a beginning. A shared spotlight, fragile and flickering, but theirs. And for now, that was enough.