Work Text:
The radiant sun brightened the luscious scenery unfolding through the train’s window. April to May was always the farming season for most of the crops in Japan, painting the rice and wheat fields with their golden, ripe color. Despite this beautiful sight that nature had offered, Yuutenji Nyamu’s face was filled with gloom and exhaustion. The reason was an email she received a few days ago from her manager, Fukuokoji, informing her that she hadn’t passed the audition she applied for again, and offering empty comfort that her next effort would surely succeed.
Nyamu sighed. She was supposed to be informing her family of a success at dinner when she arrived. Yet the competition in Tokyo was ruthless. Getting used to being rejected wasn't a mindset she could afford, especially for a country girl like her who had staked her life on changing her fate against the cruel, cold Tokyo asphalt.
That was the hard pill she’d been reluctant to swallow. Sometimes you were born with inferior academic skills and lacked the money to improve yourselves, and sometimes you were born with effortless talent that crushed your opponents, along with abundant resources that made others kneel before you—even though you didn't want any of it.
Nonetheless, she had to set aside that negativity for now. Nobody wants to see an independent child who traveled thousands of kilometers arrive with a disheartened expression, bearing bad news. Painful memories and anxiety for the future should stay in Tokyo; recharging in the peace of Kumamoto was the top priority to recoup all those wasted efforts.
But the little brilliant cucumber sleeping beside her was going to make this trip complicated. Wakaba Mutsumi, the one she despised and yet couldn't look away from—from her sheer brilliance—was making cute, but uneven soft sleeping noises.
Seriously, why does she want to come to my home…? Nyamu ran through every possible scenario for Mutsumi's decision to accompany her, but found nothing that made sense. In the end, she returned to watching the passing scenery, simply to kill time.
...
“With that, today’s meeting is over. Thanks to everyone’s hard work, our performances have been critically acclaimed and have had almost zero technical difficulties. Please have a good rest during Golden Week, because our next rehearsal will be practicing the new songs that are currently being finalized.”
In WinWing Production’s meeting room, Togawa Sakiko concluded the final performance reviews after several exhausting shows. Exhausting was an understatement; the recent schedule included the infamous two-day live concerts, spanning eighteen songs in two hours without any interludes or long breaks. This decision made Nyamu suspect that the young Togawa heir was actively trying to kill her on stage before she even reached Japan’s age of consent.
“Especially you, Yuutenji. Please rest your body well and avoid practicing the drums next week. Everyone panicked when you passed out after that live.” Sakiko turned her gaze to Nyamu, a worrying look plastered all over her face.
“Okay~ I’ll refrain myself from doing excessive workloads~ Thank you for your consideration.” Nyamu raised her hands in a gesture of exaggerated defeat.
When Nyamu first joined Ave Mujica, she considered herself an entry-level drummer with a slight flair for improvisation, thanks to her ambidextrous gift. But the ridiculous, professional demands from her bandleader, Togawa Sakiko, forced her to work exponentially harder just to keep up. Although she received praise from other drummers like MASKING from RAISE A SUILEN, she didn’t feel good enough. She was stunned to see Misumi Uika, the vocalist who had been singing nonstop compared to Nyamu, who had time to rest in Symbol III: ▽, still looking relaxed even with a slightly sore voice. Perhaps this band was made up of monsters Sakiko had handpicked, causing Nyamu to perpetually underestimate herself.
“You all can be dismissed now. I have to call the management first.” Sakiko bowed and left the room. Mutsumi was lightly strumming her guitar while Umiri was holding her tablet, preparing the members' schedules after Golden Week. Nyamu then approached Uika, who was typing on her phone with rapid speed.
“Uiko, what are you planning to do for Golden Week?” Nyamu asked.
“Me? W–well, I don’t have any plans, so probably just relaxing in the apartment,” Uika replied, a slight hint of shock in her voice from being pulled away from her typing focus.
“Hee… I thought you would take a holiday at Shodoshima or something, considering you were taking a break there when you went missing that one time.” Nyamu hummed.
“Things… are complicated at Shodoshima, but I’ll give it a thought later.” Uika was clearly hesitating, and Nyamu decided not to push.
“What about you, Nyamuko?” Umiri joined the conversation without looking up from her tablet.
“Me? I’m going to spend it at Kumamoto, of course. I missed my mom and my family!” Nyamu turned to face Umiri, speaking with proud excitement.
Mutsumi’s quiet session paused. She stared at Nyamu talking proudly about her family. She saw Uika offer an awkward laugh and Umiri tease Nyamu, who responded with a gentle rebuttal. Mutsumi quietly resumed her strumming, still listening.
“Anyway, have a happy holiday, Yuutenji-san. I have to leave early for a personal matter.” Umiri quickly packed her things and departed.
After Sakiko finished her call, she returned for a small chat with Uika while Nyamu retreated into her web-surfing mode. Sakiko and Uika took their leave later, receiving a nod from Mutsumi and a casual wave from Nyamu. The room soon became deafeningly silent as their next activities were still far off.
“Nyamu, are you going to Kumamoto?”
A moment later, Nyamu glanced at Mutsumi, who was standing right next to her. It was a rare occurrence for someone as taciturn as Wakaba Mutsumi to initiate a conversation.
“Yes, I’m planning to go to Kumamoto. Why?” Nyamu answered, questioning her at the same time.
“What is Kumamoto like?” Mutsumi ignored her question, bombarding her with another.
“There is nothing interesting there for someone of your caliber. Only farms, forests, and mountains,” Nyamu answered dismissively, which seemed to make Mutsumi ponder.
“Nyamu, I want to visit Kumamoto,” Mutsumi said, as simply as stating, ‘I want eggplants for dinner.’
“Eh, no way. I don’t want you to ruin my well-earned vacation.” Nyamu refused the ridiculous, out-of-nowhere request.
“I want to see the farm. Nyamu, I want to go to Kumamoto.” Mutsumi kept pressing.
“Like I said, there is nothing interesting there! A city girl like you would die of boredom! Besides, don’t you have anything better to do? Someone else who can entertain you better?” Nyamu kept rejecting her, raising her voice.
“Please…?” Mutsumi’s face moved closer to Nyamu’s. Her golden eyes widened slightly, as if pleading.
With a face that anyone would agree was adorable, Mutsumi breached Nyamu's strong mental defenses with effortless ease, or rather, there were no mental defenses when it came to confronting her. Nyamu lamented the fact that such a complex person could possess such an adorable face.
“Fine. I’ll let you come, but I’m not willing to accompany you if you don’t have your parents' consent.” Nyamu finally accepted defeat.
“Minami-chan and Taa-kun won’t be at home during Golden Week. And even if they are, I’m sure they will be glad not to have me around.”
“Ah… still, at least inform them first, okay? I don’t want them calling me and giving me headaches. I’ll message you what necessities you should bring later.”
“Mhm.” Mutsumi’s reply was soft, but Nyamu saw a hint of anticipation flicker behind her otherwise expressionless golden eyes.
After leaving the building, Nyamu stopped at the convenience store near her apartment. She bought a large-sized latte and a simple bento for dinner. Along the way, the cold night breeze did little to calm her chaotic heart, consumed by the thought that the person she couldn't look away from would be following her into her most personal space.
I’ll never understand her… Nyamu's thought echoed as she walked through the bustling, sleepless Tokyo night.
...
On a stage, a stark spotlight cut the darkness where Wakaba Mutsumi sat, practicing the guitar. For Wakaba Mutsumi, she must not make any mistake, because the guitar was the only thing in this world that truly belonged to her. Every string was played meticulously with a swift pick stroke.
Snap.
The pink guitar pick broke. As this happened, one of the Wakaba Mutsumis died, immediately replaced by a new pick and a new Wakaba Mutsumi who would not make the previous one’s mistake. Each time she made a mistake, a new Wakaba Mutsumi was born, and the previous one died and remained in the audience seating. This process repeated until one Wakaba Mutsumi was able to perfectly play the guitar. This flawless version would eventually take over as the main Wakaba Mutsumi, throwing away her other talents like a computer cleaning its unnecessary programs because she didn’t need anything else in the world.
The spotlight eventually widened to reveal four other members on the stage—her old bandmates. The vocalist unleashed her inner voice, touching the hearts of the audience. The drummer and the bassist served as the rhythmic foundation, enchanting the vocalist’s melody. And the keyboardist played a gentle tune, making the song harmonious.
Then there was Wakaba Mutsumi, who simply played what others wanted, perfectly. Without mistakes, without problems. Every other member had a strong self that defined them, but Wakaba Mutsumi did not have one.
Even though she played the guitar perfectly, every other member started to disappear. First Tomori, accompanied by Taki. Then Soyo slowly faded, and finally Sakiko left, leaving Wakaba Mutsumi utterly alone. The string that controls this Wakaba Mutsumi eventually snapped and killed her, replaced by a new Wakaba Mutsumi who had to control this chaotic mess.
“What did I do wrong?” Wakaba Mutsumi never understood why everyone around her started to vanish. Even Mortis, who was supposed to be one of her alters, left the stage. All the audience members—who were actually the other Wakaba Mutsumis—just stared at her, doing nothing. She looked into every corner, every shadow, to find someone, anyone who would still be in this world.
And then she found one. The purple-haired girl who looked far more mature than her age should have allowed. She looked at her from the audience seat with pity, and yet still with an envious look for everything she possessed.
“Nyamu!”
Mutsumi dropped the guitar, stood up, and rushed through the audience to chase Nyamu. But no matter how hard she ran, she couldn’t reach her. The audience seating stretched further and further. Then she realized she was being grabbed by the sacrificed Wakaba Mutsumis, forcing her back to play the guitar like she was supposed to.
“No… No!!!”
Mutsumi slowly opened her eyes. She was still sitting on the train on the way to Kumamoto. She glanced to the right and saw Nyamu, still staring out at the countryside view. Her chaotic heartbeat gradually calmed, and her golden eyes returned to the still calm of a lake.
“Are you awake?” Nyamu asked, still looking outside.
“Mhm.”
“Do you want to eat something?”
Mutsumi just shook her head, knowing Nyamu would notice the movement even without looking at her, the gesture she knew because she can see Nyamu’s eyes reflected on the window.The solemn sound of the train engine helped make the atmosphere less awkward for them, yet a tension persisted as they both tried to avoid talking. At least Mutsumi knew that Nyamu would look at her, even if the emotion behind the gaze was uncertain—a fact that gave her a sense of relief.
Wakaba Mutsumi knew that her existence was the antithesis of Yuutenji Nyamu. An ambitious country girl who came to Tokyo to change her life had realized that her lifetime efforts would never be enough compared to what Mutsumi had possessed since birth. But still, Nyamu wasn't running away anymore; she even worked up whenever Mutsumi was around.
It was like a purple cat staring non-stop at a motionless cucumber, and then jumping the moment the wind made it move. At least when nobody else was around, Nyamu could actually be considerate to her.
But Mutsumi still wanted to understand her. In her mental space, Wakaba Mutsumi was watching the recorded VHS of the day where Amoris confessed to Mortis. This was the final gift from Mortis for the rest of the Wakaba Mutsumis. Wakaba Mutsumi wanted to understand what Nyamu meant by the “I love you” she said there. When she confronted Nyamu, she had answered, “It’s just that I love your talent, nothing else!”
Was it really all about her talent, though? Because whenever Mutsumi’s face was closer to Nyamu’s, she became flustered and quickly moved away.
Without realizing it, Mutsumi had agreed to accompany her in acting practice, done improvisation during performances just to get a good look at Nyamu, and even secretly watched her videos on her Nyamuchi channel.
She wanted to know more about Yuutenji Nyamu.
...
“Welcome home, Nya-chan. How was the train?”
“It was okay, Mom. There were no delays, and we arrived safely.”
Mrs. Yuutenji greeted Nyamu as she took off her shoes at the front door. Wakaba Mutsumi, still outside, gazed at the decently sized, two-floor Yuutenji house. The old exterior was proof that the house had survived at least two generations of the family. The smell of nature carried by the faint wind, the lush greenery from the mountains and forests, and the soft sound of birds chirping—these were the images of what the countryside was supposed to be.
“And this is… Muuko you mentioned?” Mrs. Yuutenji stepped outside to approach Mutsumi, who was still processing the new world around her.
“Ah, yes! I’m Wakaba Mutsumi. Thank you for allowing me to stay at Nyamu’s house, Mrs. Yuutenji!”
“Just call me Auntie if you want. Did Nya-chan take good care of you during the trip?”
“Yes, Nyamu has been taking care of me very well on the way, in fact…”
In just a few sentences, Mutsumi managed to completely charm Nyamu’s mother, speaking nonchalantly as if she were talking to a TV interviewer. Nyamu watched them go inside together, seeing the shadow of her younger self talking to her mom. Unlike Mortis, who disgustingly pretended to be Wakaba Mutsumi back on RiNG this Wakaba Mutsumi was able to flawlessly act as a sociable high school girl.
You really can play any role, huh? Nyamu thought. She headed to her room to unpack the luggage. Since all of the Yuutenji family were home during Golden Week, she and Mutsumi were sharing the room. She could hear the chatter from Mutsumi and Mrs. Yuutenji below in the TV room.
In the afternoon, the rest of the Yuutenji family and Mutsumi gathered in the TV room while Nyamu helped her mother prepare dinner. The atmosphere was lively and full of laughter, thanks to Wakaba Mutsumi doing Wakaba Takafumi’s comedy skits that even made the stern Mr. Yuutenji laugh loudly. The younger siblings asked Mutsumi what Tokyo was like, and the older siblings happily watched Mutsumi getting along with everyone.The dinner was nothing fancy, just a nabe hotpot made from their farm's crops and some proteins. But it held a warmth that filled Nyamu’s heart after her struggles in Tokyo. Mutsumi stared at Nyamu, who sat next to her, talking about her job with her mother. Their distance was close, yet it felt like they were gradually drifting further apart, alienated by the string that connected Nyamu to her mother.
It was late at night. Mutsumi was forced to sleep in the bed after Mrs. Yuutenji insisted, while Nyamu, as the host, had to sleep in a futon spread out on the floor. Since they arrived home, Nyamu hadn't spoken to Mutsumi, making their usual awkward atmosphere even more annoying to Nyamu.
“Do you want to see the farm tomorrow?” Nyamu finally broke the silence while adjusting her position on the futon for comfort.
“It’s up to Nyamu.”
“Hmm… Okay then.”
The simple reply irritated Nyamu so much that she gave up talking more for the night. Maybe bringing Mutsumi here had been a mistake if she was just going to leave everything up to her. She decided to open her phone and surf the internet until she fell asleep.
Mutsumi was hesitant to look at Nyamu, so she just stared at the cloudy night through the house’s window. Outside, the rain’s droplets finally made the atmosphere less tense, leaving the silence more bearable for them both.
...
The next day, Yuutenji Nyamu led Wakaba Mutsumi out to her family’s fields. Mutsumi wore a modest dress suitable for spring and a borrowed straw hat from Mrs. Yuutenji to shield her from the sun. Nyamu, by contrast, was dressed for combat. She wore a long-sleeved shirt, jeans, and heavy gloves. Her hat featured a protective neck flap, and then she wore a mask, topped by large sunglasses. It was exactly the level of precaution expected from a beauty influencer fiercely protective of her image that made Mutsumi couldn't help but cover her mouth, suppressing a silent laugh.
“What was that?” Nyamu noticed the muffled sound escaping Mutsumi.
“Nothing.” Mutsumi snapped back to her habitual taciturn attitude so swiftly it was a blur.
They walked deeper into the acreage. Nyamu pointed out the rotation of crops: eggplant, sweet potatoes, tomatoes, cucumbers, and more. She patiently explained the ripening cycles and the essential care each crop required. Mutsumi listened, her attention absolute, and even interjected with quiet, precise corrections to a few of Nyamu’s less accurate explanations.
“I didn’t know you were so knowledgeable about planting vegetables.” Nyamu was genuinely surprised to find the young actress possessed such practical agricultural knowledge.
“I joined a gardening club,” Mutsumi replied. “Talking to plants is nice because they don’t talk back.” She squatted, staring intently at the cucumber plants nestled in the soil.
“Hee, city girls have weird hobbies.” Nyamu chuckled at the image of Mutsumi carrying on a non-stop monologue to a cucumber vine. “Well, not that it’s my problem.”
“Nyamu doesn’t like gardening?”
“Gardening is fine, but farming is not,” Nyamu corrected, her tone hardening slightly. “The workload is heavy, you're constantly exposed to the sun, and sometimes one bad weather event can wipe out everything. Definitely not for someone like me.”
“But when I am here, I have to help. Thankfully, my older siblings are around right now, so I don't have to take over their full responsibilities.” Nyamu stretched her arms, letting the tension fall away, and turned from the fields. “You should see Pochi, too; she’s a very gentle dog.”
As they walked, Mutsumi’s eyes caught a small cluster of color—a flowerbed. Its vibrant violet bloom, nestled among the uniform green of the surrounding foliage, made it look like a jewel or an oasis in the vastness.
“Nyamu, what is that?” Mutsumi gently tugged Nyamu’s sleeve, pointing at the flowers with the wide-eyed curiosity of a child.
“Ah, that’s the clematis flowerbed I planted years ago.” Nyamu paused, gazing at the blooms before approaching, Mutsumi close behind. “It was a beautiful color and looked pretty, so I put them here.”
“They still look vibrant; Nyamu must have taken great care of them,” Mutsumi praised, lightly touching one of the petals.
“That was mostly Mom’s effort, though. I stopped looking after them a long time ago.”
“Why?”
“Just… forgot, I guess?” Nyamu shrugged, a flash of her earlier frustration returning. “People’s interests change as they grow up, not to mention I got completely swamped with other things, like acting practice and recording videos.”
Mutsumi continued to stare at the clematis for a long moment, lost in thought, as if she were viewing a memory from her own past. She kept gently rubbing the flower’s stalk. Nyamu finally ran out of patience. “Hey, you. Are you done? Let’s go.”
“Nyamu, can I take some to Tokyo?”
“Eh? Sure, I don’t mind.”
“But if you want to preserve it for a long time, you should ask my mom for the dried ones. She’s been using this clematis for ikebana,” Nyamu suggested.
“Mhm, okay.” Mutsumi nodded.
After securing Nyamu's permission, they departed from the flowerbed. Even as the wind passed over them, the fragile petals remained intact—proof that with consistent care, even the most delicate things can endure the test of time. When faced with Pochi, a friendly Shiba Inu, Mutsumi immediately sought refuge, hiding herself behind Nyamu. Nyamu laughed, trying to reassure her that Pochi was well-behaved and wouldn't bite. However, a memory—one that shouldn’t have been there, involving a stair and a golden retriever dog—forced Mutsumi to instinctively avoid approaching Pochi. Not wanting to press her companion, Nyamu finally suggested they head back to the house, as it was already late afternoon.
The rest of the day followed the same pattern: a hearty communal dinner, lively chatter with the family, and the persistent, awkward distance between Mutsumi and Nyamu. That evening, however, Nyamu softened slightly, sharing some of Mutsumi’s funnier observations from the day with her family, which earned her a sharp, playful poke to the waist from Mutsumi in retaliation.
“Want to travel around the town tomorrow?” Nyamu asked as she settled onto the futon on the floor.
“Sure.” Mutsumi's reply was still simple, but this time, Nyamu heard a distinct warmth in the single word, as if the layer of ice between them was finally beginning to melt.
...
The next morning, Yuutenji Nyamu and Wakaba Mutsumi had to wake up early for their lengthy trip. Today, they wore simple but complete disguises, as Nyamu suggested the town was often crowded. Mutsumi tied her hair in a ponytail and wore a mask, a casual t-shirt covered by a jacket, and a long skirt. Nyamu, by stark contrast, was clad in a full parka and jeans, an outfit more suited for mountaineering than masking her identity.
“Alright, let’s go.” Nyamu presented Mutsumi with a borrowed small scooter and helmet while she mounted her own. A long, expectant silence followed as Mutsumi remained motionless, simply staring at the pink scooter Nyamu had offered.
“What’s wrong?” Nyamu asked.
“I… can’t ride a bike.”
“Hahh… of course you can’t.” Nyamu sighed, her tone dripping with familiarity. “Just so you know, I ain’t going to ride a bicycle to travel around because it’s too tiring.”
“I can’t ride a bicycle either…”
“Really… Are all rich city girls like this? I can teach—” Nyamu complained and almost offered instruction, but the immediate image of Togawa Sakiko, Mori Minami, and Wakaba Takafumi descending upon her—beating the life out of her for covering Mutsumi in bruises from cycling practice—made her physically shake the disastrous idea out of her head.
“What’s wrong?” Mutsumi noticed Nyamu’s complaint was abruptly cut short.
“Nothing. Sit on my back. You’re slender, so I think it will be fine.” Nyamu put on her helmet and tapped a distinct spot on the back of the scooter seat to indicate where Mutsumi should sit.
The scooter’s engine started. Nyamu settled into a forward position, leaving Mutsumi space, and waited. Mutsumi was hesitant, but finally secured her helmet and situated herself behind Nyamu.
Even though the scooter traveled slowly at 20 mph, Mutsumi still grasped Nyamu’s waist firmly, as if terrified of falling.
“She smells nice…” Nyamu unconsciously basked in the warmth radiating from the small cucumber behind her. Along the way, she idly speculated on Mutsumi’s perfume brand, unable to reconcile the meticulous fragrance with the girl’s apparent apathy toward personal choices. Was it her maids who selected the products, allowing Mutsumi only the choice of which scent she preferred? Or was it simply a collaboration product handed to her by her manager?
Mutsumi felt comfort leaning her head against Nyamu’s broad shoulder. It provided a sense of security unlike anything else. Nyamu, typically drawn to bolder, more intense fragrances, was wearing a noticeably lighter one today. Mutsumi surmised Nyamu might have been considerate of her family, choosing not to bring her stronger perfumes home to Kumamoto. Nonetheless, unlike their usual strained silence, this one, buffered by the pleasant, cozy morning air, made the trip enjoyable for both Mutsumi and Nyamu.
Nyamu led her through Kumamoto’s tourist spots, pointing out the Monkey D. Luffy statue, Kumamoto Castle, and the Kumamon statues at the Yatsushiro Port. She mentioned she’d already documented most of these places in her vlogs back in middle school to raise money for her move to Tokyo.
“You’ve been streaming since middle school?” Mutsumi asked as she watched the sea at the port.
“Mhm, I was pushing myself back then so I could leave and earn a chance to go to Tokyo. In fact, I managed to get accepted at Geijitsu Academy through my efforts alone,” Nyamu proudly proclaimed.
“But your family are all kind; why did you go to Tokyo?” Mutsumi wondered aloud, unable to comprehend why Nyamu, surrounded by such familial warmth, would subject herself to the unforgiving environment of Tokyo.
“Why, huh?” Nyamu stared at the sky, a flicker of deep melancholy crossing her face.
“Let’s go have lunch first. After that, there is one more place I have to show you.” Feeling their stop at the port was long enough, Nyamu started the scooter, followed by a silent, nodding Mutsumi.
They had lunch featuring the local specialized ramen. Nyamu ordered the spicy version while Mutsumi chose the mild one. Even without heat, the flavor was intense for Mutsumi, so she ate slowly, taking her time. In the restaurant, both deliberately slowed their pace before continuing their journey.
“We’ve arrived.”
Mutsumi stared at the school building where they stopped, which she correctly assumed was Nyamu’s middle school. It was closed for Golden Week, but Nyamu had arranged for a school staff member to grant them entry. Nyamu introduced the staff member to Mutsumi as one of her subscribers back then, who had been supporting her channel ever since.
Nyamu led Mutsumi deeper into one of the classrooms. The room was immaculate, and the tables were neatly arranged. Nyamu then approached a specific seat in the second row near the window. She carefully wiped the desk surface, though it was already spotless. An old memory resurfaced. The image of this desk being stained with multiple unpleasant words, the memories of her uniform wet after going to the school’s bathroom, the helplessness of her acting lesson books being stolen. As if an old, festering wound had reopened, she smiled bitterly.
“Do you want to know why I went to Tokyo?” Nyamu spoke up to Mutsumi, who stood nearby the classroom door.
“It’s because I hate Kumamoto. Living here sucks. Everything here was boring. I hate farming, and I hate having to help my parents with their job, but I feel obligated to support my family. Maybe you could say I ran away from my family’s responsibility, but I’m serious when I say I want to be a multi-talented artist.”
Nyamu looked at her with the most raw, pained expression Mutsumi had ever witnessed. Mutsumi sensed the acid bitter tone in Nyamu’s words but silently allowed her to continue.
“Lately, I’ve been thinking I’m not cut out to be an actress. I hate the fact that you can so easily grab anyone's attention without effort. I hate that you can effortlessly play any role as if the world was your script. I hate that no matter how hard I practiced, I can’t achieve your level of brilliance. I hate that everything I struggle against is something you do unconsciously. It’s like your existence is specifically meant to crush me.”
Nyamu delivered these words as if performing a tragic one-person play: the country bumpkin accusing fate of her inadequacies. And the God, who stood silently in front of her, could only watch the country bumpkin die without changing anything.
That’s not true… Mutsumi tried to say these words, but they caught in her throat like a painful thorn. She was terrified of making things worse with any utterance. She simply lowered her head, like a child being scolded.
“Sorry for lashing out. I was angry at things I couldn't do anything about. Let’s go home.”
Both of them left the classroom with heavy legs and heavier hearts. Their trip home was filled with tense, anxious silence. Even the cool, breezing wind could not soothe the agitated hearts between them: one ashamed for revealing her deepest pain, and the other angry at herself for being unable to offer any solace or a single right word.
...
On the fourth day, the eldest siblings had already left Kumamoto, leaving Yuutenji Nyamu to help Mr. Yuutenji with the farm work, including the rice and wheat harvests. When Wakaba Mutsumi offered to help them, both Nyamu and her father immediately refused, firmly stating she was their guest. Mutsumi quietly settled on the veranda of the house, watching them toil in the sun while the younger siblings played nearby.
Though Mutsumi’s face remained as still as a river, a deep-seated anxiety churned in her heart. The familiar, hateful feeling of total inaction returned. It reminded her of past failures: the Mutsumi who failed to give Sakiko an umbrella; the one unable to defend herself under Sakiko's blame; the one who couldn't prevent Ave Mujica’s dissolution; and now, the inability to offer Nyamu any genuine comfort during her exhaustion.
“Sorry that everyone is so busy today,” Mrs. Yuutenji said, bringing out slices of watermelon and sitting down next to Mutsumi. “I know we don’t have much, but I hope this little bit of peace is comfortable for you.”
“It’s perfectly fine, Auntie! I’ve been very happy ever since I arrived here.” Mutsumi replied, seamlessly maintaining her social mask.
Mrs. Yuutenji’s gaze lingered, then softened with an unexpected insight. She took a slow, deliberate breath.
“Is there something wrong?”
Mutsumi’s perfect composure shattered. That single, simple question broke through the facade.
“W–what do you mean, Auntie?” Mutsumi tried to deny it and quickly regain control, but her body betrayed her, tensing rigidly.
“Did Nya-chan say something mean to you? Because your expression right now is exactly like hers when she used to hide that she was being bullied.”
“She was… bullied?” Mutsumi’s eyes widened, the revelation hitting her with force.
“Ah, Nya-chan didn’t tell you?” Mrs. Yuutenji sighed, glancing affectionately at Nyamu, who was cheerfully complaining to her father while shouldering a heavy bundle of harvested rice.
“Nya-chan didn’t have a happy school life here. She was very pretty and popular, which made many girls her age hate her and bully her—splashing water in the bathroom stall, staining her desk, stealing her things. She had enough and wanted to leave for Tokyo as soon as possible. We were initially against it, but she proved independent enough to earn her own way through her streaming, so we let her go.”
Mutsumi listened, riveted. Her mind began to paint a clear, painful picture: the image of a young Nyamu, retreating from school, crying, and then painstakingly crafting a glamorous persona online—a desperate fight for survival and opportunity. The struggling artist, the relentless worker, was rooted in a deeper, more desperate history.
“When Nya-chan told me ‘Muuko’ would be staying, I was overjoyed. Nya-chan never brought anyone home. I thought my daughter finally had a friend.” Mrs. Yuutenji’s voice cracked with emotion, and she quickly wiped away a gathering tear.
“But Nyamu hates me…” Mutsumi murmured, the polished performance dissolving entirely. Her voice was flat, laced with genuine sadness.
Wakaba Mutsumi then confessed what she knew to Mrs. Yuutenji, explaining the friction between her and Nyamu, her longing to understand Nyamu (though sparing the details of her confession back when Ave Mujica reformed), and the sting of Nyamu's accusations.
“Nyamu feels she has struggled so hard in Tokyo because of me. She’s practiced ruthlessly to chase something that I was just… born with.” Mutsumi finished, surprised she had spoken so truthfully and extensively to someone she barely knew.
“But I truly don’t think Nya-chan hates you, though?” Mrs. Yuutenji tilted her head, confused by Mutsumi’s interpretation.
“Eh?”
“Nya-chan talks about you constantly when she calls. She goes on about how excellent your acting is, how you grab everyone’s attention with just a few words, and how dazzling you are on stage. And that time you did the guitar spin? She told me how incredibly cool you were in that live.” Mrs. Yuutenji smiled, gently rubbing Mutsumi’s shoulder for comfort.
“B–but…” Mutsumi stammered, unable to argue. The rush of Nyamu's high regard—delivered through her mother—sent a wave of heat to her face, turning it red like a ripe apple.
“Does someone who praises you that much in private truly hate you?” Mrs. Yuutenji asked, her voice quiet and steady.
“...What should I do? I’m afraid that anything I say will only hurt her more,” Mutsumi finally asked, desperate for direction.
“Why don’t you try talking it out first? Nyamu is actually a gentle and considerate person beneath that rough attitude,” Mrs. Yuutenji advised.
Mutsumi nodded, processing the advice. She finally took the slice of watermelon. Nyamu soon finished her farm work and came over, waving cheerfully. She took a slice of watermelon and ate it alongside them. The fruit's taste was initially bland, as the season wasn't quite right. But a subtle sweetness followed, a small measure of sustenance that helped refuel both Mutsumi and Nyamu after the day's physical and emotional exhaustion.
...
Even with her mind made up, Mutsumi could not find the courage to speak. Inside her head, a frantic conference of her various selves argued over the timing. One version of her suggested the fields, but the presence of Mr. Yuutenji made it impossible; another suggested the mountains, but the sun had already surrendered to the horizon. By the time the internal debate reached a stalemate, the day had vanished. Before she knew it, only less than forty-eight hours remained before they had to return to the cold, concrete reality of Tokyo.
Despite the house being emptier now that the older sibling already left, the two girls remained shared in Nyamu’s room because it was inconvenient to move their things. Nyamu lay on her futon, a dark silhouette on the floor, while Mutsumi occupied the bed above.Outside, the rain began as a whisper before growing into a constant, rhythmic drumming against the roof. The moon was a ghost behind the clouds, leaving the room in a thick, suffocating darkness. The air was cool, yet it offered no comfort—only a reminder of the distance growing between them, a gap that felt like it was widening with every drop of rain.
Mutsumi lay paralyzed, replaying Nyamu’s recent kindnesses against the backdrop of their history in Tokyo. She blamed herself for prying into Nyamu’s past, for touching a wound that had clearly never healed. She wondered what it would be like to be an ordinary girl, only to realize that if she weren't the "brilliant" Wakaba Mutsumi, she wouldn't be here at all.
“Have you ever wondered… Why did I take off everyone’s mask at Budokan?”
Nyamu’s voice shattered the silence like a stone through a window into the heart of Wakaba Mutsumi. The suddenness of it sent a jolt through Mutsumi, her stomach churning with a sudden, sharp anxiety.
“I feel like I have to tell you,” Nyamu continued, her back still turned against Mutsumi. “Since you were the one who was affected the most from it.”
“Sakiko recruited me for Ave Mujica because of my looks and my numbers. For the first time, I felt like I actually was someone. I was being acknowledged by my peers who had ambitions I’ve never had before; I was in a professional band, filled with people sharing similar passions. I’m not going to lie—I was using you. I was using all of you to get the leverage and connections I needed to survive that city.”
Nyamu let out a jagged, self-deprecating laugh. “But Sakiko never used my looks and numbers. My career hit a wall while I was drowning in rehearsals and struggling to master those impossible songs. The ‘connection’ I wanted never happened because the masks were always in the way. I was so angry when she said we’d unmask at the ‘right place and time.’ As if Budokan wasn’t the peak. As if we were supposed to keep hiding our true selves forever.”
“So, I forced the issue. Uiko was an idol; she stood to gain from the fame. Umiko was already a seasoned professional, exposure wasn’t an issue for her. Sakiko always carried herself like she was ready to face the public and answer all their questions since I met her. And then there was you—the daughter of a famous actress and a famous comedian. You have been in front of cameras your whole life back then. I thought unmasking would be a walk in the park for you. I never imagined you’d be the one who couldn't handle the pressure.”
Nyamu sighed, her voice dropping an octave. “I don’t regret doing it. But lately, I’ve realized how stupid I was. I’m the one being punished for it now—haunted by your genius every time I pick up the sticks or take the acting books. Don’t you ever think about despising me for it? It would make things so much easier if you just hated me.”
“No, Nyamu,” Mutsumi whispered. She sat up, her feet light and hesitant as she crossed the floor toward the futon. “It was my fault for being unprepared for the world.”
“Don’t ya dare say that!” Nyamu’s voice flared, her Kumamoto accent slipping through her polished Tokyo mask. “Ya know I was the one who—”
She was cut short as a pair of arms wrapped tightly around her from behind. Nyamu gasped, her heart hammering against her ribs. “H–hey, what are you—”
“I know why you did it. Your mother told me,” Mutsumi’s voice was a soft vibration against Nyamu’s ear. “You were desperate. You were carrying the weight of your family on your shoulders, and you were terrified of having to come back here as a failure. And then the failing auditions… it just made the pressure unbearable.”
“It’s not… it’s not that bad, I get to know you better…” Nyamu murmured, her posture finally softening.
“Nyamu… I hate you.”
The words felt like a physical blow. Nyamu’s body went rigid. She had expected hatred, but not like this—not while being held with such desperate strength. She tried to pull away, but Mutsumi only clung tighter.
“I hate that you have everything I’ve ever wanted,” Mutsumi sobbed, the words tumbling out in a frantic rush. “I hate that your family is so kind. I hate that in just a few days, your mother gave me more warmth than Minami-chan has in sixteen years…”
Nyamu felt the girl behind her begin to tremble violently. She couldn't wrap her head around it. Out of everything Mutsumi possessed—the fame, the wealth, the effortless talent—the thing she envied most was a simple, rural family.
“Nyamu-chan, I hate you! Why does Mi– Mother avoid me? Why does Ta– Father act like I’m not there? We do everything they say perfectly, yet they only get further away. Saki is keeping her distance now, too. Soyo, Umiri, Uika, Taki, Tomori… they all look at me, but they don't see us. And Nyamu… you stopped calling us ‘Muuko’ after the band reformed. Why? Does Nyamu think We– I’m just an actress playing Wakaba Mutsumi? What is a ‘Wakaba Mutsumi’? We– I don’t understand! Where did I go wrong…?”
The outburst was incoherent, a "system crash" of every persona Mutsumi had ever built. It felt like they were trying to let out their pain they had holding back for their last sixteen years. Nyamu remembered Mori Minami calling her own daughter a monster. But the girl weeping into her back wasn't a monster. She was just a young girl who had been alienated by her own brilliance. Nyamu’s heart ached with a familiar pain—the sting of her own middle-school isolation. But at least she had a home to flee to and get the warmth she needed. Mutsumi was a refugee in her own house, never having that warmth at all. Nyamu realized with a surge of guilt that in her drive to succeed, she had been just as avoidant as everyone else. She had become one of the bullies that haunted her Kumamoto school days.
“Wakaba Mutsumi.”
Nyamu reached back and gently pried Mutsumi’s hands loose, turning around to face her in the dark. Before Mutsumi could retreat, Nyamu pulled her into a fierce embrace, burying Mutsumi’s face in her shoulder.
“I don’t know where you went wrong, but I know you’ve always done your best,” Nyamu whispered, her fingers tracing the silkiness of Mutsumi’s green hair. “Whether it’s acting, playing guitar, or just being the ‘perfect’ daughter… you’ve done it all so well. I know, because I’ve never been able to take my eyes off you.”
“I don't know what the others are thinking. But if there’s a distance between you and the rest of the world, I’ll be the one to bridge it. I’ll give you the home you’ve never had.” Nyamu’s hand continued its steady, soothing rhythm.
“You are always welcomed here.”
Because I love you, after all. The words burned in her throat, but she wasn't brave enough to say them yet. Perhaps one day, when she was no longer afraid of love, she would let them out and say to the untainted brilliance in front of her.
Mutsumi’s body was a wire of tension that finally snapped, going limp against Nyamu. The dam broke completely. She clung to Nyamu as if she were a life raft, her sobs racking her small frame as she soaked Nyamu’s shoulder with tears. As if the clouds themselves were keeping their secret, the rain intensified, the downpour creating a wall of sound that shielded them from the rest of the world. In the heart of the storm, the two of them remained—fragile, honest, and finally, for the first time, close.
...
On their last day before the return to Tokyo, a quiet stillness settled over the Yuutenji household. Mr. Yuutenji had already departed for the city to deliver the final harvest, and Mrs. Yuutenji was occupied in the back room, sewing handmade clothes as parting gifts. She had firmly shooed the girls away, refusing to let her guests work on their final day. Finding themselves with nothing but time, Nyamu and Mutsumi decided to take a slow, final stroll through the fields. They walked in silence, trying to commit the landscape to memory—the rich scent of damp earth, the rustle of the wind through the farm, and the profound, heavy peace that only exists far from the city. They knew this serenity would have to sustain them once they were back on the cold, unrelenting asphalt of Tokyo.
“Are you sure this is all you want to do?” Nyamu asked, glancing at the girl beside her. “I can take you anywhere today, you know.” She reached out and took Mutsumi’s hand, guiding her over a patch of uneven soil to ensure she didn't trip.
“Mhm.”
Unlike the previous overcast mornings, Kumamoto was bathed in a brilliant, warm spring sun. It felt as though the sky itself was reflecting the shift in their hearts—the clouds had finally broken, leaving behind a clear, open horizon.
Eventually, they paused near the edge of the property. Nyamu leaned against a fence post to check her phone, her thumbs flying as she replied to a string of LINE messages from a certain person. Mutsumi, meanwhile, crouched low to the ground, her attention once again fixed on the clematis flowerbed. Nyamu looked up from her screen and watched her. Mutsumi was lost in a trance, her fingers tracing the delicate stems with that same rhythmic, meditative grace.
Deep down, Nyamu knew the old resentment hadn't vanished completely. Mutsumi still represented the "monster"—the effortless genius that Nyamu would likely spend her whole life trying to outrun. But as she watched Mutsumi today, the "monster" looked remarkably small. Mutsumi’s eyes weren’t the blank, hollow voids they had been on their first day here. They were filled with a soft, aching melancholy—a transparent wish that this moment, and this place, could last forever. She looked human. She looked like the girl Nyamu had known before the band disbanded and reformed.
Driven by a sudden, professional instinct, Nyamu opened her camera app. With the practiced eye of a content creator who had spent years capturing the world for audiences, she meticulously lined up the shot. She adjusted for the golden backlighting and the way the violet petals framed Mutsumi’s face. When the composition was perfect, she whispered the one word she knew would break the spell.
“Muuko.”
Snap.
The old nickname, unspoken for months, made Mutsumi snap her head toward the phone’s lens. Her face was a sudden, chaotic collision of emotions: confusion, shock, and a flash of raw, unfiltered joy. Nyamu’s finger captured the frame at the exact micro-second the mask fell. Nyamu stared at the image on her screen. It was messy, the expression was "unsightly" by Mutsumi’s standards, and Mutsumi’s hair was windswept. But for Nyamu, it was the best photo she had ever taken. It was the only version of Wakaba Mutsumi that belonged entirely to herself.
Perfect, Nyamu thought, a satisfied, genuine smile spreading across her lips. She tucked the phone into her pocket and began walking back toward the house. Mutsumi, her taciturn mask rushing back into place, hurried to catch up.
“Nyamu. Delete it.”
“No way. Don’t worry, I’m not posting it anywhere. It's for my private collections.”
“Nyamu.”
Mutsumi began to poke Nyamu’s waist relentlessly. At first, Nyamu tried to laugh it off, quickening her pace, but Mutsumi was persistent. The pokes became more aggressive and targeted, turning Nyamu’s hearty laughter into a series of playful, high-pitched yelps.
“Ow! Ow, ow, ow! Stop it! I’m never deleting it, Muuko! Never!!”
...
The day of departure arrived with a sudden, bittersweet weight. Nyamu was upstairs, wrestling her belongings back into her suitcase, when a chaotic symphony of wailing broke out in the entryway below. Her youngest siblings had finally realized that "Mutsumi-oneechan" was actually leaving. When Nyamu hurried downstairs, she found an amusingly tragic scene. Mutsumi stood frozen in the hallway, surrounded by sobbing siblings. She was clearly trying to offer comfort, but her habitual terseness was failing her; her stiff posture and short, awkward sentences only seemed to convince the children that this was a final goodbye. In a rare moment of visible distress, Mutsumi’s golden eyes darted around, searching for an escape or a lifeline.
“Don’t worry, Mutsumi-oneechan will visit again during the next holiday,” Nyamu intervened, stepping in to gently pat her youngest sibling’s head.
“Really?!” the child sniffled, looking up with wide, tear-rimmed eyes.
“Yes.” Mutsumi nodded firmly, her expression softening. She allowed a small, fleeting curve of her lips—a rare, genuine smile—to reassure them. The children, easily swayed by the promise, finally let go of her sleeves and scampered off.
“I hope you actually mean that,” Nyamu said, crossing her arms and raising a skeptical eyebrow. “They are going to keep asking me on the phone.”
“Mhm. Nyamu did say I could come here anytime,” Mutsumi replied simply. Her face returned to its usual stoic mask as she picked up her luggage, but there was a new lightness in her step as she walked toward the door.
Before they left, Mrs. Yuutenji showered them both with parting gifts. For Mutsumi, there was a carefully preserved clematis ikebana and a hand-knitted violet cap for the coming winter. For Nyamu, a new, heavy sweater and a generous supply of her favorite Kumamoto instant ramen—the humble comfort food she always missed in the city. On the train, Nyamu leaned her head against the window, watching the lush, green patchwork of the fields begin to accelerate into a blur. Yesterday, she would tell anyone who would listen how much she hated Kumamoto—how it was a boring, stagnant place she had to escape.
Yet, as the mountains faded into the distance, she felt a strange, hollow ache in her chest. Maybe she had grown soft, or maybe she had finally realized that Kumamoto was the only place where she didn't have to be "Nyamuchi" or “Amoris”. Here, she wasn't the bold, glamorous, and playful content creator or drummer the world expected her to be. She was just Yuutenji Nyamu, the country girl from Kumamoto.
She shifted her gaze to the girl sleeping in the seat beside her. Unlike their trip to the countryside, where Mutsumi had been plagued by restless, mumbling nightmares, she looked entirely at peace.Her breathing was slow and rhythmic, her snores as faint as a spring breeze. Nyamu watched her for a long time, noting the effortless grace that seemed to follow Mutsumi even into sleep. The old envy was still there, flickering in the back of Nyamu’s mind, but it had lost its jagged, destructive edge. It was no longer a poison; it was a spark.
She no longer felt like she was being crushed by Mutsumi’s brilliance. Instead, she felt a quiet, stubborn determination to keep up. The "small brilliant cucumber" was no longer a monster to be feared, but a person to be protected—and a rival to be respected.
The train sped toward the cold, gray asphalt of Tokyo, but for the first time in a long time, Nyamu wasn't arriving empty-handed. She was bringing a piece of home back with her, and a friend who finally knew the girl behind the mask, sharing the similar pain.
They arrived at Tokyo Station in the golden haze of the late afternoon. The transition was jarring; the humid, earthy air of Kumamoto had been replaced by the sterile, temperature-controlled draft of the city. Wakaba’s family driver was already waiting in the parking lot, while Nyamu had thoughts about hailing a taxi to her small apartment. Mutsumi quietly offered a ride, but Nyamu declined with a soft shake of her head. She felt it was important to return to her reality on her own terms, preserving the fragile equality they had built over the last few days.
“Well, I guess this is it,” Nyamu said, walking Mutsumi toward the main lobby.
The sunset bled through the station’s massive glass panes, reflecting off Nyamu’s sunglasses. She reached up to adjust her white round hat—a nervous, habitual gesture. She found herself wanting to stall, to somehow pause the clock before the city’s gravity pulled them back into their separate roles. Beside her, Mutsumi’s face was hidden behind her surgical mask, but her eyes held that same lingering, reluctant gaze.
Mutsumi reached into her pocket. Her fingers fumbled for a moment before she pulled out a worn, snapped pink guitar pick. She stared at the broken wooden piece for a long beat, her chest rising with a sharp intake of breath as she mustered her courage. She turned fully to Nyamu and held it out.
“Nyamu. I want you to have this.”
“Huh? Why?” Nyamu asked, blinking in surprise as the jagged piece of wood was pressed into her palm.
“Nyamu and Nyamu’s family... were so kind to me. Very kind,” Mutsumi whispered, her gaze dropping to her shoes. “I feel like I have to repay you. I wouldn't be able to rest if I didn't.”
“...Okay? But why a guitar pick? It’s broken too, Muuko.” Nyamu turned the fragment of pink over in her hand, feeling the rough, fractured edge.
“It’s the only thing ‘I’ have that actually belongs to ‘me’,” Mutsumi explained, her voice trembling slightly as she tried to find the words. “It’s the proof of ‘our’ hard work—and proof of the existence of the ‘other’ Mutsumis. The ones I want Nyamu, and only Nyamu, to know about.”
Nyamu went silent. She was slightly confused by the fragmented phrasing—but she remembered the disoriented Wakaba Mutsumi she witnessed in that rainy-night confession. Looking at Mutsumi, she sensed the gravity of the gesture and decided to get along with it. “I... I see. Then I’ll graciously accept it.”
The Wakaba family car pulled up to the curb, and the driver efficiently stowed Mutsumi’s luggage. Before stepping into the darkened interior of the car, Mutsumi reached up and pulled down her mask.
“Nyamu. See you tomorrow.”
Mutsumi offered a smile—the most radiant, gentle, and unburdened expression Nyamu had ever seen. The sunset caught the gold in her eyes and the softness of her features, creating a scene so picturesque it felt as if she were the director of this world, controlling the very lighting of the world to create a perfect scene. It was an otherworldly sight that made Nyamu’s heart skip a beat.
“Yeah. See you tomorrow, Muuko.”
Nyamu returned the smile, though hers was different now—sincere, quiet, and stripped of her usual "playful cat" smiles. Mutsumi waved one last time before the car door closed, and Nyamu stood on the sidewalk, watching the vehicle merge into the river of Tokyo traffic.
The sunset was dazzlingly bright, even through her sunglasses. As the warmth of the fading light hit her skin, Nyamu wondered if Tokyo was truly the cold, unforgiving place she had remembered. It didn't feel that way anymore. With a newfound lightness in her step, she reached for her phone to order a taxi, the broken pink pick tucked safely in her pocket.
...
Yuutenji Nyamu flicked the light switch in her apartment, and her Tokyo life flooded back in an instant. The air was thick with the artificial fragrance of expensive perfumes and chemical beauty products—a sharp, sterile contrast to the scent of damp earth and greenery she had left behind. She stepped inside, her eyes instinctively scanning her apartment to see if there are any changes in her room.
Nothing had changed. The desk was still a curated battleground of high-end cameras and microphones for her streaming; the vanity was an organized chaos of skincare and cosmetics; the bookshelf groaned under the weight of dog-eared acting lesson books. In the corner, her secondhand electronic drum kit stood silent, flanked by a small container of snapped, splintered drumsticks.
The three identities that fought for dominance in her Tokyo life were all present, waiting for her to step back into their skin and fight for tomorrow. There was ‘Yuutenji Nyamu’, the girl from Kumamoto who poured her soul into failed auditions in hopes of becoming a real actress. There was ‘Nyamuchi’, the digital persona who fought a daily war for views, trends, and relevance. And finally, there was ‘Amoris’, the playful, ambidextrous drummer of Ave Mujica who charmed audiences with a wink and a drumstick.
Night had already settled over the city by the time she arrived in the apartment. Thankfully, she had picked up a convenience store bento and a latte on the walk from the convenience store nearby—the fuel of a lonely urbanite. She slid the meal into the microwave and collapsed onto her sofa. As she waited for the timer to count down, the physical and emotional exhaustion of the trip finally settled into her bones.
“See you tomorrow, Nyamu.”
She still couldn't believe how much weight those four simple words carried. She lay there, staring at the ceiling, unable to suppress a dumbfounded, genuine grin. For a moment, the crushing pressure of Tokyo felt distant, almost trivial. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the broken pink guitar pick, turning it over in her fingers. She thought of Mutsumi—how the "genius" had practiced until the wood snapped, just as Nyamu had shattered her own sticks in a desperate bid to survive.
Her fighting spirit, which had been flickering like a dying candle before the trip, roared back to life. She found a small display case and carefully placed the pink broken pick inside. She set it right next to her own broken drumsticks—trophies of her own relentless labor. It was a silent acknowledgement: they were both survivors of this cruel town.
Nyamu took a photo of the two items together. She saved it to her private collection folder, placing it next to the ethereal shot of Mutsumi in the clematis field. She decided she would send it to Mutsumi the next morning, as she was deeply satisfied with the way their two struggles looked when paired together.
“I’m gonna catch up to ya, no matter what,” Nyamu whispered, her Kumamoto accent thick and unpolished in the quiet room.
The microwave beeped, a sharp return to reality. She ate her dinner to the muffled, constant roar of Tokyo traffic—the sound of a city that was always moving, always thriving, and always indifferent to those within it. On the surface, nothing had changed. Tomorrow would bring the same grueling rehearsals, the same cold audition rooms, and the same desperate search for content to keep her channel alive. The uncertainty of her future remained as vast as the city itself.
However, as she glanced at the broken pick on her shelf, Nyamu felt a quiet, unfamiliar sense of security. She wasn't just a girl lost in the crowd anymore. She had someone waiting for her tomorrow, and the day after that. And for the first time, that was enough to keep the darkness at bay.
...
Wakaba Mutsumi closed the heavy door, severing the connection between the blinding, performative light of the Wakaba mansion and the solemn sanctuary of Wakaba Mutsumi’s room. To her, the cold and the darkness were far more honest than the rest of the house, which felt built on layers of curated deceit. She stood still for a moment, scanning the room.
It was exactly as she had left it—a landscape of her own fractured history. There was the sprawling, luxurious bed that felt far too large for one person. There was the vanity mirror, its glass spider-webbed with a crack—a silent souvenir from a past collision between "Mutsumi-chan" and "Mortis." Dolls and books lay scattered across the floor; no matter how often the maid tidied them, they were always found in disarray upon her return—a physical manifestation of the disjointed dissociation between her and her many selves. Finally, there was the comforting darkness, which some described as the feelings of ‘death’, but to her, it was simply peace, pierced only by the thin silver of moonlight through the window.
This "serene chaos" was what truly defined ‘Wakaba Mutsumi’. There was the Mutsumi who played guitar to drown out the world; the Mutsumi who acted as a shield against the crushing expectations of the public; and the quiet Mutsumi who cleaned up the emotional wreckage left behind by these Wakaba Mutsumis. She was a silent ensemble, an internal crowd where most of the voices never reached the light.
The mansion was quiet. Most of the staff had left for their own hometowns, with only a few crew remaining. A maid had offered to prepare a proper, high-class dinner, but Mutsumi had declined. Instead, she had brought home a paper bag from McDonald’s—a salty, "unnutritious" rebellion purchased in the shadows of Tokyo. She sat on the edge of her bed, her dinner resting on the vanity next that has no cosmetics. As she finally relaxed in the only place in Tokyo that offered her a sense of security, the heavy exhaustion of the Kumamoto trip settled over her.
“You are always welcomed here.”
Nyamu’s words acted like a tether, pulling Mutsumi back from her usual state of detachment. How long had it been since she had slept without the weight of the world on her chest? For the first time since the day CRYCHIC disbanded, she found herself genuinely anticipating the days to come.
She opened her luggage and carefully transferred the clematis ikebana into a vase that her maid brought before entering the room. She placed it on her study desk—a living, breathing reminder of a family that had finally made her feel seen. She took out her phone to take a photo, but her hands were clumsy; the result was slightly blurred and poorly framed. Yet, she stared at it with pride. It was a photo taken by her own hand, without the "help" of any of her other selves.
If I send this to Nyamu later, would she be happy? Doubt flickered. A few of the Mutsumis inside her whispered warnings, reminding her how her previous selves attempt at showing effort had been rejected by those she cared about. But she pushed the thoughts aside. She chose to trust what Nyamu’s mother had told her: that Nyamu, beneath all her jagged edges, was a gentle soul.
Her stomach growled, a quiet demand in the silent room. She decided to wait until tomorrow to send the photo, as her energy was spent. Sitting before the mirror, she began to eat. Even with "junk food," her Tsukinomori education took over; she moved with practiced, elegant etiquette, even as she chewed with her cheeks full like a small hamster.
The burger tasted consistent, standardized, and predictable—much like the old Wakaba Mutsumi, who could play every note of a song perfectly but was unable to make the guitar truly sing. But she refused to linger on those shadows tonight. Lingering only made the future feel heavy, and she didn't want to worry her friends. She finished her meal slowly, savoring the simple, salty comfort of it.
On the surface, nothing had changed. Tomorrow would still bring the bombardment of Ave Mujica rehearsals, the endless magazine shoots, the hollow interviews, and the suffocating curiosity of her classmates. The world would demand the "brilliant" Wakaba Mutsumi, and the pressure would not slow down.
However, as she looked at the clematis ikebana, Mutsumi felt a soft, unfamiliar warmth. She had a determination now that she lacked before—a reason to keep moving forward. She had found her true home, and as she looked at the flowers, she began to count the days until she could return to the fields of Kumamoto.