Chapter Text
It was a warm, sunny day in Rini Kiichigo’s strawberry-filled, impossibly cozy apartment. Sunlight streamed past the curtain in sharp streaks, bouncing off the strawberry pillows, the patterned carpet beneath the couch, and the half-full mug of jasmine tea on the nearby table. Rini sat next to her younger cousin, Mei, showing her how to press down on the strings of the guitar. Mei’s fingers contorted awkwardly, straining against the frets as though her hands had minds of their own.
“Rini… I don’t think my fingers are physically capable of doing this chord,” Mei groaned, her knuckles white from pressing too hard.
Rini chuckled, brushing a stray lock of hair from her eyes. “It’ll stretch eventually,” she said, gently guiding Mei’s fingers into position. “I promise, your fingers can do it. You just have to trust them.
Mei’s hands wobbled. Rini suppressed a smile, remembering herself at seventeen. She had been too soft, too tired to spend nights cramming equations, too easily overwhelmed by a world full of expectations.
It had been ten years since Rini was that 17-year-old girl who felt out of place in a public science high school. Back then, everyone around her thrived on endless studying, late-night cram sessions, and perfect grades. She struggled just to pass, and she didn’t want to stay up all night or push herself to keep up with their pace. She liked to sleep. She liked peace. She didn’t want the pressure of high expectations weighing on her every day. Looking back now, she couldn’t help but feel grateful that she’d survived those years, and she hoped she’d grown into someone stronger, calmer, and wiser.
Rini remembered one particular day in high school when her teacher asked everyone to announce their scores on a recent exam. One by one, the class proudly recited numbers in the high nineties, their voices confident and almost gleeful. When it came to her turn, she quietly slipped out of her chair, hands fidgeting at her sides, and whispered her score to the teacher. The number was low, embarrassingly low, but she avoided looking at anyone as she returned to her seat, cheeks warm. She didn’t feel shame so much as a quiet fatigue, the same exhaustion that had followed her through every test, every project, every day she tried to keep up with a world that moved faster than she could.
When she graduated, Rini didn’t follow her parents’ plan of studying medicine and becoming a doctor. At first, the choice made her nervous, even terrified, but she knew she would rather face the short-term fear than spend her life trapped doing something she didn’t want. Instead, she pursued music, eventually becoming a guitar instructor at a small, cozy indie shop. The air smelled faintly of wood and old vinyls, a quiet, comforting kind of nostalgia that seemed to wrap around her like a blanket. On the side, she did freelance musician work and took on art commissions, and even when the hours were long, she felt a warmth in knowing that she was doing what she loved and maybe, just maybe, making someone smile along the way.
When she turned 21, she decided to get a Korean pixie cut. It wasn’t just because it was more convenient, although that was one of the main reasons. It was because she finally felt free from the expectations of other people. Her parents and relatives were disappointed to see her long, dark brown hair now barely touching her neck, but she was content. She was happy.
Rini had never gotten over her fixation on strawberries. She even got a small tattoo of them on her collarbone. It had hurt more than she expected, but now, whenever she caught sight of it in the mirror, she felt a quiet pride and comfort, as if it were a reminder to keep being herself no matter how tough the world got. Sometimes she would trace the tiny inked fruits with her fingers, smiling at the memory of why she’d chosen them. As a teenager, she had been something you might call a “pathetic girlfailure.” But now, she felt less like that. She remembered helping a student figure out a tricky chord on the guitar, seeing the spark of understanding in their eyes, and feeling a strange mix of kindness and confidence swell inside her. She was still soft, still a little anxious, still taking her medication, but she had learned to manage her mental health. And for the most part, she liked who she had become. Hopefully, that would never change.
In short, Rini’s life had settled into a rhythm as soft and familiar as the worn-down strings she taught her students to replace.
Meanwhile, Shiori Fujimoto was living on the edge of a silent cliff, and didn’t know it was time to jump.
Shiori was never the loudest in the room, but somehow people always noticed her, even if they did not understand why. While everyone else laughed at jokes she did not get, she felt like she was waving through a window, close enough to see but always outside. She kept her headphones on during lunch and read books while her classmates gossiped, scribbling thoughts about society and purpose in her notebook even when the assignment was only to “describe your weekend.” Her teachers called her mature, her classmates called her weird, and she simply called it being honest. She did not want to be rebellious, but she refused to fold herself into shapes that were not hers. It made her lonely at times, but it also meant that when she finally did click with someone, it would be real. Even now, as an adult, she still struggled to make friends easily, but at least she was herself.
She never quite grew out of that phase. Even as an adult, her writing often left people puzzled, their eyes glazing over when she tried to explain her ideas. She did not mind too much. She found joy in her hobbies, sketching outfits for dresses she had yet to sew, rearranging fabrics and colors on her worktable, imagining how they would look when brought to life. It was grounding, a way to create something that belonged entirely to her. She was happy while doing it, though not completely fulfilled. Still, it was her rhythm, and it was enough. For now…
She had always felt a quiet distance between herself and the rest of the world, like she was tuned to a different frequency that few around her could hear. She didn't mind standing out, though. If anything, she wore her difference like armor. Tattoos traced her skin like stories, silver glinted along her ears from multiple piercings, words were stitched into her notebooks and clothes. She couldn’t imagine giving any of it up just to blend in. To her, real connection had to come from honesty, being unapologetically yourself and finding others who did the same. That was all she ever looked for: people who didn’t play by the rules, who lived outside the mold.
One day, she decided she wanted a guitar. At first, she hesitated. The instrument was expensive, and she worried about committing to something new, but the idea of learning something honest and grounding pulled her forward, tugging at a curiosity she had not felt in a long time. She imagined herself strumming the strings, the sound resonating under her fingers, and it made her chest feel lighter and more focused than usual. After a few moments of indecision, she opened her laptop and began scrolling through online listings for secondhand guitars. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she examined each image, comparing scratches, wear on the fretboards, and price tags, imagining how each instrument might feel in her hands. She read seller notes carefully, sometimes clicking back to check reviews or measurements, trying to make a decision that felt both practical and meaningful. Each listing felt like a small window into a possible new life, one where she could create something tangible, something all her own.
She opened her laptop and began searching, squinting at the screen despite her glasses, scrolling through options with good reviews and locations nearby. It felt methodical, almost practical, until she found a local workshop that seemed promising. After a few moments of hesitation, she decided to go in person. She grabbed her bag, tucked her notebook inside, and headed out, catching the bus that would take her across town. The rhythmic hum of the engine, the occasional chatter of passengers, and the shifting sunlight through the windows gave her a strange mix of calm and anticipation. Her hands fidgeted lightly in her lap, but underneath it all, a quiet excitement was building because she had finally committed to taking lessons.
When she arrived, she pushed open the door to the indie music shop and a small bell jingled above her head. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and old vinyl, a comforting mix that immediately put her slightly nervous heart at ease. Sunlight filtered through the front windows, casting soft patterns on the worn wooden floor, and the walls were lined with guitars, their polished bodies gleaming in muted colors. Posters of local bands and hand-painted signs gave the space an alternative, lived-in vibe, as if it had been curated by someone who cared more about feeling than perfection. Shiori’s fingers lingered on the straps of a few guitars as she walked past them, excitement bubbling beneath her usual calm. At the counter, a friendly staff member greeted her and helped her fill out the paperwork for lessons. It felt official and a little surreal. She had finally taken the step she had been thinking about for weeks. As she looked around at the cozy chaos of instruments, amps, and stacks of sheet music, a quiet thrill ran through her. She felt an odd pull, a quiet nudge she didn’t understand, as if the room itself was asking her to stay.
She had no idea that this small decision would be the start of meeting someone impossible to ignore.
