Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

[I]

“I can’t do this anymore, Jo. I’m just… I’m so tired.”

​His voice dropped into a hollow, dead whisper, his eyes leaving Jo’s face to fixate on the grain of the floorboards.

​Jo’s hand remained on his cheek, his fingers turning cold. "I’m tired too, Nakakita Yuma. That’s why... can’t you just please listen to me, if you love me?"

​The silence that followed was long, absolute, and agonizingly quiet. The only sound in the Yanaka apartment was the steady, rhythmic patter of the winter rain against the glass.

​Yuma closed his eyes. "Let's break up."

​He said it with tears streaming down his chin, but there was no hesitation left in the syllables. The line was straight. The decision was made.

​Jo didn't fight it. He didn't drop to his knees; he didn't shout. He looked at Yuma’s hollow, exhausted eyes and realized, with the devastating clarity of the artist he was, that his own love, his own possessiveness, had become the weapon destroying the very person he worshiped. To hold on any tighter would be an act of murder.

​He slowly pulled his hand back from Yuma’s cheek, letting it drop to his side.

​"Okay," Jo whispered into the quiet room. "Let's break up, Yuu-kun."

​

“Yuu-kun!”

​Jo jumps from his sleep, his breath hitching as his eyes snap wide open in the dark. He pulls his hand up, pressing it flat against his sweaty, feverish forehead. Another nightmare.

​The phantom warmth of Yuma's skin still seemed to linger against his palm, cruel and ghost-like. Jo sits up in the quiet dark, dragging a hand down his face as the harsh reality of the calendar hits him. Today is Sunday, December 22, 2019—exactly one year after that rainy night. It’s been a full year, or perhaps it’s still just a year. Time felt entirely fractured. A year felt too short to have endured this much agony, yet desperately long enough to have carved hollows into his chest.

He stares up at the ceiling, the memory of Yuma’s voice bleeding into the silence. At twenty-one, Jo had been ruled by a suffocating, possessive jealousy. He had been cursed with an inability to communicate his deep-seated fears in composure and a stubborn demand for absolute certainty. When Yuma joined the Tokyo Philharmonic and faced an exhausting, relentless touring schedule, Jo couldn't handle the distance. He had let his insecurity morph into a toxic demand—he had asked Yuma to choose between his dream job and their relationship. And Yuma, emotionally drained by Jo’s suffocating grip, had finally broken under the weight and called for the breakup. Yuma chose himself.

And ​Jo deserved it. That was the bitter pill he swallowed every single morning. He had driven away the only person he ever loved.

​​-

Yesterday

Tokyo, Saturday, December 21, 2019.

​The acoustics of the concert hall in Tokyo were mathematically perfect, designed to carry even the faintest sigh of a violin to the very back row. But from his seat in the upper balcony—the farthest, darkest corner of the auditorium where the shadows pooled thickest—Jo didn't care about the strings.

​He was listening for the heartbeat.

​When the orchestral swell crested and broke, the sharp, thunderous crack of a snare drum cut through the air with a violent, breathtaking precision. Jo’s chest tightened, his fingers instinctively curling into the fabric of his heavy wool coat.

​There he was.

​Even from fifty yards away, framed by the warm stage lights that made his sweat glisten like crushed diamonds, Yuma looked magnificent. His shoulders were squared, his head tilted back slightly in that familiar, trance-like focus he only ever possessed when he was drowning in music. He looked a bit different in the span of a year. The raw, desperate exhaustion that had defined his face on the night they broke up had smoothed into something more stoic. He looked a bit more composed.

​He looked whole. He looked entirely out of reach.

​Jo closed his eyes, letting the vibrations of Yuma's drums thrum straight through the soles of his shoes, settling deep into his bones. This was his secret ritual. His private torment. It was only his second time secretly attending Yuma's concert. The first time had been months ago, on September 28, 2019.

​Starting that day, Jo had made a quiet vow to himself; whenever the Philharmonic had a concert in Tokyo, Jo would buy a single ticket under a fake name. He would sit in the back, blend into the shadows, and watch the man he loved live out his dreams from a safe, untouchable distance.

​Yuma never knew. Yuma wasn't supposed to know.

​When the final crescendo faded and the auditorium erupted into deafening applause, Jo didn't stand up. He watched Yuma bow, a bright, breathless smile breaking across his beautiful face as he clapped his fellow percussionists on the shoulder. That smile used to belong to Jo. It used to be pressed against Jo's collarbone in the quiet, narrow bedroom of their Yanaka apartment, muffled by late-night laughter and the scent of laundry detergent.

​After a good, agonizing look at him, Jo finally stood up, slipping out through the heavy velvet doors. He walked quietly to the front reception desk, carrying a carefully prepared bundle he had hidden under his coat.

​Today’s bouquet was an arrangement of White Camellia, meticulously wrapped in deep, structured packaging. It was carefully curated with a specific Hanakotoba—Language Flower, to express his unspoken devotion, marking one full year since their breakup date—December 22, 2018. The pristine white camellia blooming in the freezing winter air mirrored Jo’s quiet resolve—he was willing to wait as long as it took, anchoring himself to the hope of a second chance.

​Leaving the bouquet with the front desk receptionist with strict instructions to deliver it backstage under an anonymous sender, Jo lingered outside until he saw a staff member hand the flowers over to Yuma. Only after making sure that Yuma had received them did Jo turn around and walk home to the empty Yanaka apartment.

​The memory of that routine brought a bittersweet ache to his chest. It reminded him of September 28, 2019—the very first concert Jo had secretly attended after nine months of complete, radio-silent separation. The grief of the breakup back then had been a raw, open wound. He remembered leaving a deep purple bouquet of Gentians, a quiet confession to the dark auditorium that while he was grieving in absolute sorrow, his love hadn't faded even a fraction.

​-

Today

Tokyo, Sunday, December 22, 2019.

​Jo still lay down flat in his bed, staring into the darkness, completely unable to bring himself to go back to sleep. The digital clock on his nightstand glowed with an unforgiving, neon blue light; 3:42 AM.

​He turns his head, taking a quick, sweeping look around his room. Nothing changed. Absolutely nothing.

​He was twenty-two now, officially stepping out into the world with his fine arts degree, but his physical world was frozen in amber. He still lived in the exact same apartment he and Yuma rented together since their university days at Geidai. Rather than running away from the ghosts of his own making, Jo deliberately chose to stay. He wanted the reminders. He needed the friction of his own regret to keep him sharp, to keep him honest.

He keeps Yuma’s old studio space completely empty, stripped of all major instruments and important belongings—the drum kit, the cymbals, and the heavy gear are all gone, packed away when Yuma moves out. Yet, Jo refuses to alter the room itself. He leaves the raised wooden platform untouched and the walls bare, refusing to shift a single remaining detail. Only small, forgotten remnants are left behind; a stray, worn-out guitar pick tucked into the edge of the baseboard, from when Yuma used to jam out on his electric guitar, and a single, snapped bass string coiled like a silver spring in the corner of the closet. 

The lingering scent of old laundry detergent, faint turpentine, and the ghost of drumstick wood wax is still deeply embedded in the tatami mats. Jo keeps everything in their used-to-be-shared sanctuary exactly the same way, clinging to the phantom memories from his other half that had walked out the door.

He didn't want to forget how much it hurt, because the pain was ‘the’ proof that he was changing. Through the tears that had soaked his pillows over the past twelve months, Jo had slowly learned how to shatter his own shell. He was learning how to speak his fears out loud calmly instead of letting them curdle into furious jealousy.

​He was remodeling himself from the ground up, brick by painful brick, building a version of himself worthy of the love of his life who had walked away.

​Jo closes his eyes again in the cold stillness of the apartment, pulling the heavy blanket tight around his shoulders. The moon outside cuts a sharp, silvery crescent through the windowpane, washing over the empty space beside him.

​Just wait, Yuu-kun, Jo whispers silently into the empty room, his heart aching with a steady, quiet rhythm. I'm getting better. I'm learning how to love you right.

[II]

As a quiet person by nature, Jo had never possessed a sprawling circle of friends. His closest ties belonged exclusively to the Geidai7 circle—the tight-knit group of university peers who had survived the grueling trenches from Student Exchange at Seoul National University to the rest of study at Tokyo University of the Arts together. But even among them, Jo had always lingered on the edge. While they functioned as a cohesive, chaotic unit during full group gatherings, Jo rarely engaged in the smaller group’ hangouts, let alone the one-on-one hangouts.

​When graduation scattered them, and the oldest members plunged headfirst into the demanding currents of the professional art world, the group naturally drifted. But for Jo, the distance was entirely deliberate.

​Ever since the breakup, Jo had intentionally walled himself off from the group chat. He hadn't left—abandoning it entirely would draw unnecessary questions and raise alarms—but he had muted the group chat notifications, quarantined it away in the darkest corner of his phone. Whenever Yuma's name dropped into the chat, or whenever someone tagged Yuma in a chat, Jo forced his fingers to curl into his palms, holding himself back from clicking in. He would wait a full week, sometimes longer, before scrolling through the missed messages just to catch a silent glimpse of Yuma’s life. He’s still there. He’s still safe, Jo would tell himself, consuming the updates like a starving man rationing crumbs.

​Everyone in the Geidai7 circle knew about the breakup, of course. Word travels fast when a couple as intertwined as Jo and Yuma suddenly shatter. Thankfully, out of a quiet, unspoken respect or perhaps a fragile pity, no one ever brought it up in the group chat. They let Jo keep his silent vigil.

​Right after graduation, Jo threw himself into work with the relentless drive of a machine. He was solely focused on executing his established five-year plan, no matter the personal cost. He didn't hang out for fun; he didn't seek out distractions. When he wasn’t hunched over a drafting table sketching spatial concepts, he was either locked in the silence of the Yanaka apartment or packing a small bag to go home to his parents’ house.

​As a side effect of the breakup, Jo had grown remarkably closer to his parents. It wasn't born out of a desire to lean on them as a crutch or play the part of a privileged freeloader; rather, Jo recognized his own shortcomings and sought to master them from his parents. Both of his parents were heavyweights in the visual creative industry—his father leaning into the pure, uncompromising discipline of fine arts, while his commercial director mother commanded massive, fast-paced production sets. Together, they represented the perfect balance of aesthetic depth and pragmatic execution, the exact source of knowledge Jo needed to become the well-established, steady adult he desperately wanted to be, for Yuma.

​Which was why, stumbling out of the bed after the suffocating nightmare of 191222, Jo packed a single bag and took the earliest train to his parents’ home in Kanagawa.

​The familiar wooden floorboards creaked under his shoes as he slipped off his shoes in the genkan.

​“I’m home,” Jo announced, his voice flat and weary.

​His mother stepped out from the hallway, wiping her hands on a small cloth. She froze for a fraction of a second, taking in the pale hollows beneath Jo’s eyes and the heavy droop of his shoulders.

​“Hi, Jo,” she asked softly, stepping closer and gently gesturing for him to sit beside her on the living room sofa. “Did mom miss your message? I don't remember you telling me you’re going home today.”

​“Well, unplanned visit, mom. I just… you know. It’s December.” Jo murmured, dropping his gaze to his hands as he nodded slightly.

​And his mother knew. She knew with an aching, intuitive certainty how deeply her son was bleeding inside. She had wept for them, too, when the news first broke. During the two and half years Jo and Yuma had dated, Jo had fundamentally changed—he had softened, learned how to laugh without guarding his edges, and become far more expressive. Whenever Yuma visited the Asakura household, the entire atmosphere seemed to brighten, imbued with Yuma’s bright, grounding energy. She could still vividly remember the raw, agonizing shock of the first time Jo had come home just days after the Christmas holiday last year, locking himself in his old bedroom and sobbing until he lost his voice.

​“Come here, my baby,” his mother murmured, opening her arms and offering the shelter he wouldn't dare ask for.

​Jo didn't hesitate. He leaned forward, burying his face against his mother’s shoulder. They didn't say a word. There was no need for explanations; both of them knew precisely why Jo was unraveling today. Because he had already cried out his hollows in the dark of his own bedroom the night before, his eyes were dry now, burning and hot against the fabric of her sweater, but the silent tremors running through his frame told her everything she needed to know.

​After a long minute, Jo pulled back, clearing his throat and rubbing his eyes. Just as he sat up, his father emerged quietly from the study down the hall. He had actually watched the entire quiet exchange from the doorway, giving them space because he knew Jo needed his mother’s immediate comfort first.

​“Jo, you’re home early, son,” his father greeted, walking over to plant a firm, grounding hand on Jo’s shoulder, squeezing lightly before taking a seat in the single armchair opposite them.

​“Yeah. I think I’m gonna stay for a week,” Jo said, his voice raspy.

​His mother blinked, tilting her head. “Oh? Have nothing to work on right now, son?”

​“Well, I’m going back to work next year,” Jo answered, staring blankly at the coffee table.

​His father raised an eyebrow, a faint, dry smirk touching his lips. “Well, son, 'next year' is coming in exactly nine days.”

​“I know. I'm going to start a project in the second week of January, right in time for the upcoming spring exhibition prep.”

​His father let out a soft huff of amusement. “That’s it? That’s your entire upcoming schedule for work?”

​Jo offered a tired, microscopic nod.

​Seeing the heavy, grey cloud lingering over her son, Jo’s mother leaned forward, her eyes catching the spark of a professional opportunity. “How about you join my upcoming project, then?”

​Jo looked up, blinking through his fatigue. “What project, Mom?”

​“It’s a luxury brand commercial. I need a dedicated assistant for prop design and spatial staging. How is it? Are you in?”

​Jo immediately shook his head, a flicker of pride surfacing through his misery. “Mom, if you're worried that I lack cash or that I'm rotting away, you really don’t have to manufacture work for me. You know I have savings from my past exhibitions.”

​“What? No, absolutely not!” she protested, waving a hand dismissively. “I wouldn't insult your portfolio like that. I literally just read the creative brief before you walked through the door, and I immediately thought you’d be the absolute best choice for the structural framing we’re going for. Please say yes, so I can cross off the casting and crew headache from my list.”

​She knew Jo possessed a rare, immaculate eye for spatial geometry, structural balance, and dramatic lighting. Because of that, she occasionally hired him for freelance prop styling or set design on her commercial shoots, treating him like any other professional collaborator on set.

​Jo stared at her for a long moment, watching the genuine expectation in her eyes. The heavy fog in his chest shifted just a fraction. He needed an anchor. He needed something to force him out of the bed.

​“Fine,” Jo answered, his voice steadying slightly. “Give me the briefing then, Mrs. Director.”

.

​Later that night, the house was entirely wrapped in a blanket of deep silence. The clock on the wall ticked heavily, reading past two in the morning.

​Jo was still wide awake.

​Unable to find sleep, he sat alone in the dark kitchen of his parents’ house, a single pale beam of moonlight cutting across the polished wooden dining table. He stared at the empty chair to his left, and a sharp, violent wave of memory crashed over him.

​He could see it so clearly—how lively this exact dining table used to be when Yuma had joined his family for dinner during their university years or during Yuma’s concert stop in Kanagawa just last year. He remembered the sound of Yuma’s bright laughter echoing off the kitchen tiles, effortlessly melting the stiff, perfectionist tension that usually governed the Asakura household. Yuma had brought a golden, unearned warmth into Jo’s life, making him feel secure enough to lean on his parents without feeling like his pride was fracturing. And now, sitting here in the freezing dark, that warmth felt like a ghost story.

​As a heavy sigh tore from his throat, the prickle of tears returned. It felt as though he had exhausted his tear ducts over the past year, crying an entire lifetime's worth of sorrow into his pillows, yet the well never ran dry. Every time he thought the grief had settled, a stray memory would stir the silt at the bottom of his heart, sending tears spilling over all over again.

​He pulled his knees up to his chest, burying his face in his arms as he wept in absolute, suffocating silence.

​“Wanna talk, son?”

​A soft, familiar voice broke through the dark. Jo blinked hard, lifting his head to see his father pulling out the chair opposite him, sitting down without turning on the overhead light.

​Jo swallowed hard, wiping his damp cheeks with the back of his sleeve. “I don’t know what to say anymore, Otou-san. I'm just… I’m feeling everything. I’m sad, I’m mad, I feel entirely broken. I miss him so damn much.”

​His father shifted closer, reaching out to gently, steadily stroke Jo’s back. The touch was grounding, anchoring Jo to the physical world. “It’s okay to feel that way. I know, we all know how much you love him.”

​“I love him so much it physically hurts,” Jo choked out, his voice cracking as fresh tears spilled over his lower lashes. “Why couldn't I fight for him? Why did I let him go so easily that night? But at the same time… how could I hold onto him, when I knew deep down that I was the one destroying him? I thought we were going to last forever. I genuinely believed I’d be the one standing by his side, making him happy for the rest of our lives. Do you think… do you think he’s actually happy without me, Otou-san? Do you think I’ll never get a second chance?”

​The questions tumbled out of him, desperate and unstructured, born from a year of solitary rumination.

​His father listened patiently, letting the raw confessions hang in the quiet air of the kitchen. When Jo finally fell silent, breathing heavily through his tears, his father sighed softly, his hand resting firmly on his son's shaking shoulder.

​“Jo. I know it is hard. You love him with the whole of you. I won’t tell you to forget him or let your love for him go. It’s okay to be upset. But…” His father paused, letting the silence stretch before his voice dropped into a firmer, heavier register.

​“...if you are going to carry a love that heavy, Jo, you cannot afford to break under it.

​Your mother tells me you've been sitting in that dark apartment for months, staring at the walls like the world ended when the door closed. Maybe it did. When I was your age, before I married your mother, I was just like you—stubborn, terrified of losing what mattered, and entirely convinced that if I didn't hold onto something with both fists tightly, it would slip through my fingers. I pushed her away because I didn't know how to love without suffocating. I thought intensity was enough. It isn’t.

​When she left, I thought my life was over, too. And for a long time, I drowned in it, just like you're doing now.

​I’m not going to tell you to move on, because I know you won't. You inherited my stubborn streak; once you've decided someone is your home, you'd rather freeze outside in the snow than live comfortably anywhere else. But let me tell you something about the moon, son. You can stand on the ground and scream at the sky until your throat bleeds, wishing it were closer, but it won't move an inch for your tears.

​If you want something that far away, you don't break your heart wishing it fell into your lap. You spend every waking hour building a ladder high enough to reach it.

​You’ve got my stubbornness, Jo. Don’t waste it on self-pity. If you love him enough to ruin yourself over him, then use that exact same fire to fix yourself. Build your career. Learn how to listen. Learn how to be a man who doesn't need to cage what he loves to keep it safe.

​He’s out there living his dream, and you are sitting here letting yours rot in the dark. If you want a second chance with a man like that, you can't just be the boy he left behind. You have to become someone he looks at years from now and realizes he was a fool to ever walk away from.

​Cry tonight. Mourn what you broke. But tomorrow, you pick yourself up, open your sketchbooks, and you make yourself undeniable. If you're going to reach for the impossible, you better make damn sure you're strong enough to hold it when you finally get there. You get what I mean, son?”

​Jo sat in absolute stillness, the steady rhythm of his father's words washing over him, sinking deep into the marrow of his bones.

​Sometimes, in the dead of night, he truly believed he should have fought harder, screamed louder, refused to let Yuma walk out that door. But looking back with the brutal clarity his father forced upon him, Jo knew the truth; holding onto Yuma back then with his toxic, possessive grip would have only destroyed them both. They had loved each other with a fierce, blinding intensity, but they had been the right people caught in the absolute wrong time, crushed under the weight of Jo's immaturity and the relentless demands of the world.

​If so... does Jo have a chance to get the right time with Yuma as his right person in the future?

​The thought bloomed in his chest, fragile yet terrifyingly bright.

​As his father’s words took root, the internal shift settled over Jo like a cold, bracing splash of water. He could no longer afford to drown in self-pity. If fate ever dared to cross their paths again, he couldn't afford to be the broken, insecure boy he was today—he couldn't risk blowing the possibility of a second chance because he was still too weak to stand beside Yuma.

​If he needed to cry for the moon, then let him cry. But from this moment on, he would cry with a spine of steel. He would build his ladder, refine his soul, and wait for the sky to clear.

[III]

[ Tokyo, January 2020 ]

The second week of January 2020 arrived with the crisp, biting cold typical of a Tokyo winter. True to his word, Jo had thrown himself back into structural planning for the upcoming spring art exhibition, burying his hands in drafting tools, ink, and spatial geometry at his studio desk. But as Jo had agreed during last month's visit to Jo’s mom's offer in favor of a commercial set, Jo found himself stepping away from his blueprints and into the roaring, fast-paced environment of a luxury lifestyle brand photoshoot.

​It was mid-afternoon on set, and chaos had suddenly erupted near the primary backdrop.

​Jo stood a few feet away, entirely absorbed in checking lighting angles and measuring the spatial distance between a towering concrete pillar and the brand’s flagship products. Across the sprawling studio, voices were raised in tense, muffled whispers. The director and the client representative were locked in a heated dispute, frantically gesturing toward the styling racks.

​The reason for the panic soon became clear; the client had abruptly rejected the second main male model.

​"He lacks the necessary presence," the lead representative argued, crossing his arms with a sharp frown as he looked at the polaroids. "The garments we are featuring are architectural, heavy, and avant-garde. We need someone tall, structural, mysterious—someone with an aloof, commanding aura who looks like he belongs in an art gallery, not a teen magazine. This model looks entirely out of place."

​Jo’s mother, standing at the center of the frantic production crew, pinched the bridge of her nose as a wave of panic washed over her. Delaying the photoshoot to source a replacement model was simply out of the question; the luxury brand had a tight release schedule, and the studio rental alone was burning through thousands of yen by the minute.

​At that exact moment, Jo happened to step backward, adjusting his heavy-rimmed glasses while sighting down a line to check a light test frame. He drifted straight into the center of the stark white backdrop, bathed in the sharp, directional wash of the overhead softboxes.

​Perched behind his heavy tripod, the veteran photographer suddenly froze. Through the viewfinder, the lens framed Jo effortlessly; towering height, sharp, clean-cut bone structure, an intense, natural quietness, and an accidental, deeply melancholic gaze that carried a quiet weight no professional actor could easily fake.

​The photographer lowered his camera, blinked, and immediately motioned frantically for Jo’s mother.

​She hurried over, looking down at the digital display the photographer pointed toward. Her eyes widened, a flicker of professional realization dawning across her features. She looked from the screen back to her son, who was still entirely oblivious, muttering to himself about shadow ratios and lux levels.

​She marched over, tapping Jo lightly on the shoulder. "Jo. Stop pacing for a second."

​Jo blinked, pulling his gaze away from his notebook. "What is it, Mom? If it's about the backdrop angle, I already calculated the—”

​"Just do me a little favor," she interrupted gently, a knowing, slightly desperate smile tugging at her lips. "Can you stand by that pillar for ten seconds?"

​Jo hesitated, thoroughly confused and feeling entirely out of his depth. "Mom, I'm working on the spatial setup. Why would I—"

​"Just ten seconds. Do it for your mother's sanity," she pleaded, nudging him gently toward the marked tape on the floor.

​Sighing and assuming he was merely serving as a live-action dummy to test the exposure and shadows for the actual models, Jo walked over. He leaned his shoulder casually against the pillar, his hands sliding into the pockets of his dark work trousers, his expression naturally flat, distant, and unbothered.

​The photographer didn't hesitate. He raised his camera, framing the shot, and pressed the shutter.

​Click.

​The shooting sound echoed through the studio. A second later, the atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. The crew members who had been arguing a moment ago fell completely silent, turning their heads toward the monitor. The test shot displayed on the screen stopped the entire room in its tracks. It was cinematic, striking, and possessed an effortless, magnetic melancholy.

​They had found their solution.

​"Jo," his mother said, rushing over with an expression that pleaded for mercy. "Help me out. Be the model for today, please? I can't delay this production any longer, and the client is about to walk away."

​Jo stared at her, his brows knitting together in immediate resistance. "Mom, no. I’m an artist and a spatial designer, not a model. You know my work is behind the scenes."

​"Please," she begged, gripping his arm with both hands. "Only for today. Just step in as a placeholder for this single shoot. I promise you in my career, I will never ask you to do anything this unexpected again."

​Jo looked around the massive studio. Dozens of staff members were staring at him with a mix of awe and desperate hope. He knew how chaotic the fallout would be if he flatly refused his mother right in front of her entire crew. Besides, despite his reserved nature, Jo wasn't camera-shy; he was simply indifferent to the vanity of it all. And in a strange way, after a year of agonizing sorrow and stagnant air in the Yanaka apartment, maybe doing something completely out of character wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

​With a heavy, reluctant sigh, Jo nodded. "Fine. But only for today."

​A collective sigh of relief swept through the production team. Before Jo could change his mind, a swarm of hair and wardrobe stylists swarming upon him, ushering him away from the set and into the private green room.

​The transition from a quiet drafting desk to the brightly lit, chaotic dressing room left Jo feeling a bit uncomfortable and entirely out of his element. He sat stiffly in front of the illuminated mirror as a stylist fussed over his hair, muttering under her breath about his natural bone structure while applying a light layer of foundation base to his skin.

​Inside the green room, the primary male model for the campaign was already seated near the opposite rack, undergoing final touch-ups on his jacket.

​As Jo shifted uncomfortably in his chair, the other model caught his reflection in the mirror and turned around.

​It was Koga Yudai.

​An established figure in Tokyo's high-fashion and performance-direction scene, Yudai possessed an effortless, charismatic charm. Taking in Jo’s stiff, stoic posture and the faint shadows lingering beneath his eyes, Yudai immediately recognized that the man sitting beside him wasn't a seasoned professional model, but rather a reluctant outsider dragged into the chaos.

​Yudai smirked, standing up and walking over with an easygoing stride. He leaned casually against the styling rack, resting his weight on one hip. "First time?" he asked, his tone laced with a light, teasing amusement. "Because judging by the way you're gripping that armrest, you look like you're about to be executed, not photographed."

​Jo stiffened slightly, instantly pulling his shoulders back and adjusting the collar of his simple black shirt. He offered a cool, measured look. "I'm just a spatial assistant. My mom is the director. I was drafted in as a placeholder at the last minute."

​Yudai let out a low, genuine chuckle, reaching out to straighten Jo’s lapel with practiced, confident ease. "Well, placeholder, the camera is definitely going to love you. Judging by how fast the crew scrambled to throw you into the wardrobe, your face just saved this entire production. Take it easy. It's not as intimidating as it looks. I’ll help you through it."

​Yudai extended a hand with a warm, disarming smile. "I’m Yudai, by the way."

​Jo looked down at the extended hand for a brief second before taking it, his grip firm. "I’m Jo."

​"Alright, Jo-san. Let's go show them what you've got," Yudai said cheerfully.

​Minutes later, fully styled in architectural, dark-toned high-fashion garments that seemed custom-built for Jo's lean proportions, both men walked out onto the center of the studio floor. The lead photographer immediately launched into a rapid-fire briefing. Yudai, entirely in his element, nodded along smoothly, while Jo listened with the intense focus of someone treating a design brief, committing every required angle and posture to memory.

​The photoshoot began.

​Under the blinding flash of the strobes, Yudai moved with fluid, practiced perfection, shifting effortlessly between poses that commanded the room. Jo, on the other hand, felt entirely awkward at first. While he wasn't paralyzed by stage fright, posing for a high-fashion camera was light-years away from sketching floor plans.

​As the shutter clicked repeatedly, a sudden, unwanted memory flashed through Jo’s mind. He remembered when Yuma used to demand that Jo stand still so he could take endless pictures of him on his digital camera. Yuma had always insisted that he needed to capture every single angle of Jo to look at when they were separated by long distance.

​Ah... Jo thought bitterly, his jaw tightening. Everything in my life always ends up revolving back to Yuma.

​Sensing Jo’s sudden distraction and the stiffening of his posture, Yudai smoothly stepped closer during a dual-frame setup. Without breaking character or letting the crew notice, Yudai leaned in just enough to murmur under his breath, his eyes fixed forward.

​"Relax your jaw, Jo-san," Yudai whispered quietly. "Stop thinking about the camera. Think about someone you miss... and just look straight into the lens."

​Thinking about someone I miss? Jo thought, a bitter, self-deprecating ghost of a smile touching the corner of his lips. That’s the easiest thing in the world. Because there is never a single second when I am not missing him.

​Instead of trying to fake a model's cheerful or arrogant expression, Jo let go. He stopped trying to perform. He let the heavy, hollow ache in his chest rise to the surface, channeling every ounce of his grief, his longing, and his deep artistic melancholy straight into his eyes. He stared directly into the camera lens with a piercing, brooding intensity that felt less like modeling and more like an open confession.

​Yudai caught the sudden, dramatic shift in Jo's aura. Instantly recognizing the raw, genuine depth and sorrow hiding behind Jo’s quiet facade, Yudai adjusted his own posture, playing off Jo's cold, melancholic energy with effortless brilliance. The resulting dual-shots were nothing short of iconic—a masterclass in contrast between Yudai's sharp, charismatic presence and Jo's devastating, untouchable sorrow.

​The remainder of the photoshoot moved forward with seamless precision until the final frame was captured and the director called it a wrap.

​A collective cheer went up around the studio. Exhausted but relieved, Jo exhaled a long breath he felt like he’d been holding for hours, making his way back to the green room alongside Yudai to change back into his own clothes.

​As Jo buttoned up his shirt, Yudai tossed his designer jacket over a chair and turned to him with genuine admiration in his eyes.

​"You've got an aura people pay millions of yen to fake, Jo-san," Yudai praised, leaning against the vanity table. "I've worked with hundreds of professional models, and none of them can pull off that kind of tragic, quiet intensity without looking forced. You were incredible out there."

​Jo offered a small, tired, but genuinely grateful grin. "Thank you for the guidance today, Yudai-san. Honestly, I'm just relieved it went well and didn't completely blow up my mother's production schedule."

​Yudai chuckled, pulling out his smartphone and tapping the screen open. "Hey, before you rush off back to your artistic blueprints... Do you mind if we exchange contacts?"

​Jo froze slightly. His natural, introverted hesitation flared up, his fingers pausing on the zipper of his bag. He had spent the last year deliberately shrinking his social circle, keeping everyone at arm's length to protect his fragile routine.

​Noticing the momentary wall go up, Yudai quickly continued with an easy, non-threatening smile, "Relax, I'm not trying to trap you into a full-time modeling career—unless you want the real money, in which case my agency would sign you in a heartbeat. But aside from that... I also work as a performance and stage director. Sometimes, when I design experimental sets, I find myself desperately needing someone with a genuine artistic, spatial design background. I’d love to know how to reach you if a project like that ever comes up."

​Yudai paused, his expression softening into something warmer. "Or... simply put, to gain a new friend. I think you're an interesting guy, Jo-san. I think we could actually have some real conversations."

​Jo stared at Yudai for a quiet moment. He saw no hidden agendas, no pity—just genuine professional respect and an open hand. Slowly, Jo pulled out his own phone, unlocking the screen and bringing up his contact code.

​"Alright," Jo murmured, trading devices with the other man. "Just don't expect me to be running down any runways every week."

​"Deal," Yudai laughed, saving the number.

​As Jo stepped out of the studio later that evening into the freezing January wind, pulling his coat tight around his shoulders, he couldn't help but look back at the brightly lit building. He had walked into that studio that morning purely to escape his own head for a few hours, never imagining that a sudden twist of fate would accidentally plant the very first brick of a new, unexpected chapter in his life.

[IV]

[ Tokyo, December 19, 2020 ]

The biting chill of late December 2020 settled deep into the marrow of Tokyo, carrying the crisp, slate-gray promise of winter across the concrete sprawl of the city.

​Eleven months had passed since that unexpected commercial photoshoot had thrown Jo into the blinding glare of studio strobes. What had started as an unexpected favor for his mother had quietly morphed into a permanent fixture of his professional life. Alongside his primary job as a spatial designer, fine artist, and exhibition curator, Jo had slowly become one of the most recognizable rising faces in Tokyo’s avant-garde modelling and editorial art scenes.

​His face—sharp-boned, striking, and perpetually shadowed by an arresting, melancholic intensity—stared down from massive billboards in Shibuya and graced the glossy pages of high-end design magazines. In stark contrast, Yuma was conquering international stages, touring overseas with the prestigious orchestra and performing under dazzling lights on global music platforms. Both young men were rapidly carving out prominent, respected figures in their respective worlds, growing into the exact definitions of success.

​Yet, fame was never the destination. Jo didn't care about the flashing cameras, the brand deals, or the steady influx of high-paying contracts. Modeling was merely an instrument—a high-yield, time-efficient tool that fed his bank account, accelerated his five-year financial plan, and bought him the autonomy he desperately needed. More importantly, it had introduced him to something he hadn't realized he was missing; an anchor outside of his solitary Yanaka apartment.

​By now, Koga Yudai had quietly entrenched himself as Jo’s most reliable lifeline.

​Yudai was everything Jo needed in a friend—older, fiercely mature, and possessing an effortless grasp of how the chaotic world worked. He offered Jo a fresh space to breathe in a city that still felt haunted by ghosts, and crucially, Yudai never once judged Jo for his relentless, quiet yearning for Yuma.

​He didn't judge, but he certainly loved to tease.

​"Get ready to stalk your favorite idol, Mr. Stalker?" Yudai called out across the dressing room, leaning back in his chair with an amused smirk as Jo frantically gathered his belongings into his bag.

​It was late afternoon, and the duo had just wrapped up a joint editorial gig for a winter menswear line.

​Jo paused and shot Yudai an exhausted, level glare. "I am not a stalker, Yudai-kun. How many times do we have to go over this?"

​"Then what do you call it? A secret admirer?" Yudai laughed, rolling his eyes as he stood up, mimicking a dramatic stage actress. "Ugh, gross. You're twenty-three years old, Jo. You're far too old to be playing the lead in some tragic, high-teen drama."

​"Can you please not?" Jo muttered, side-eyeing his friend with a flat expression while zipping his bag shut.

​Yudai chuckled, walking over and leaning against the vanity table, his tone softening into something lighter. "Alright, alright. So, what kind of masterpiece are we delivering tonight? Which Hanakotoba do we learn today?"

​Without a word, Jo reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his smartphone, and slid it across the table.

​Yudai picked it up, staring down at the high-resolution photo displayed on the screen. It captured a meticulously styled, flower bouquet featuring an asymmetrical, cascading arrangement of pale cream and blush-tipped Christmas roses—hellebores—with delicate, nodding stems. They were beautifully mixed with winter foliage, thick pine sprigs, and frosted ferns, giving the entire piece a rustic, deeply poetic woodland feel. The whole thing was wrapped snugly in thick, natural brown kraft paper and tied off with a rich, deep forest-green velvet ribbon. It captured an undeniable sense of rustic, quiet tranquility, blending the harsh, biting edge of winter weather with an unexpected, steady warmth.

​Yudai tilted his head, squinting at the screen with absolute confusion. As an artist of performance and staging, Yudai understood visual aesthetics, but flower language remained entirely outside his realm of comprehension. "Okay, it's pretty. It looks expensive. But what on earth is this, and what's the deeply hidden meaning this time?"

​"It's called Christmas Rose," Jo explained quietly, stepping closer to take his phone back. "The Hanakotoba translates to 'Relieve My Anxiety,' 'Quiet Tranquility,' and 'Affection.'"

​Jo looked down at the screen, his thumb tracing the edge of the glass. "Watching him from afar brings me a strange, anchoring peace, but it also fills me with a quiet, persistent anxiety. I want him to have absolute peace in his heart... even if I'm standing here every single day, wondering if he will ever look back at me. After everything I'm trying to build, every milestone I've crossed—when the time finally comes, will he even look at me?"

​For nearly two years now, Jo had anchored his entire existence to his five-year plan. He was systematically dismantling every flaw, every toxic insecurity and possessive demand that had driven Yuma away. He was building a bulletproof career as a fine artist and a respected commercial presence, hammering away at his own rough edges so that by 2023, he could stand before Yuma not as a desperate, clinging boy, but as a mature, unshakeable partner.

​Yudai crossed his arms, leaning back against the counter. "Let's review your resume, then. On September, it was the Blue Hydrangea."

​"Blue Hydrangea," Jo echoed smoothly, reciting the lessons he had carved into his memory. "It means 'Patient Love,' 'Deep Understanding,' and 'Earnest Apology.'"

​Jo let out a slow breath. "Almost two years in... I’ve spent years picking apart my past behavior, my possessive jealousy, my childish demands. The blue hydrangea represented my personal growth. I finally understood why Yuma had to walk away to save himself, and I wanted to offer him a patient, non-demanding love to replace my past selfishness."

​Yudai let out a long whistle, staring at Jo with a mix of awe and mild exasperation. "If this flower encyclopedia entry of yours continues all the way until 2023, why don't you just drop the artistic career and become a florist? Honestly, Jo, I don't understand the way your brain works. Why don't you just try talking to him? Why hide behind anonymous flower bouquets at reception desks?"

​Jo’s expression tightened, the shadow of his eternal self-doubt flickering across his eyes. "I don't know. I can't. Maybe I'm still doubting myself. I don't think I'm ready enough yet. I don't think I've changed enough from the version of the boy he walked away from."

​He paused, his jaw clenching slightly. "Besides... Call it occupational illness, but I'm an artist. I'd love to leave him my charcoal sketches, but that would be a loud, obvious announcement of my identity. I can’t overwhelm him with my feelings. I agreed to the breakup. I can't let him see me lingering like a ghost, burdening him with a clinginess that would kill the very freedom he fought so hard to find when he walked out that door."

​Yudai watched him quietly, his eyes carrying the weight of unsaid truths. "Have you ever considered the possibility that he’s moved on? That he has someone new? It’s been two full years, Jo."

​The question hung in the heavy, sterile air of the dressing room, sharp and ringing hard.

​Jo went completely silent. The color seemed to drain just a fraction from his face, his fingers curling tightly around the strap of his bag.

​"I know," Jo whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the overhead vents. "I know the risks. But I'm a lone wolf. And sometimes... it’s okay to cry for the moon."

​Yudai scoffed gently, shaking his head. "Tch. Such a hopeless romantic wrapped in an artist's shell. Get out of here before you're late for your little moon-gazing mission."

​As Jo turned on his heel and proceeded toward the exit, Yudai’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

​"Hey, Jo."

​Jo paused, his hand resting on the metal door handle, turning his head slightly over his shoulder.

​Yudai looked at him with an expression of pure sincerity, stripping away all the teasing. "If you ever get tired of being a lone wolf who spends his nights crying for the moon... remember that you don't have to carry the whole sky by yourself. Sometimes, being a puppy with an owner who actually loves him is a hell of a lot warmer than being a freezing, strong lone wolf. If you get what I mean."

​Jo didn't offer a verbal reply. He just held Yudai’s gaze for a quiet, lingering second, offered a small, appreciative nod, and slipped out into the freezing Tokyo evening.

​An hour later, the familiar sights and sounds of the concert hall swallowed him whole.

​Jo navigated the evening ritual with the blind, instinctive muscle memory of a man walking through his own home. He bypassed the main entrance, secured his anonymous ticket under a fabricated name, and slipped quietly into the upper balcony—finding his sanctuary in the absolute farthest, darkest corner where the shadows pooled thickest.

​Sitting alone in the velvet-lined seat, Jo closed his eyes as the orchestra began to tune, letting the familiar acoustics wash over him.

​To cry for the moon.

​The idiom played on loop in his mind, heavy and profound. It was the absolute definition of asking for something nearly impossible—holding onto an unreachable, distant wish in the dead of night. It was wanting something so exalted, so magnificent, and so utterly out of reach that to anyone else, pursuing it seemed absurd, tragic, or outright foolish. Like a man standing in an open field, lifting his bare hands toward the night sky, desperately trying to catch the silvery sphere of the moon.

​For two years, he had been desiring Yuma with an ache that defied logic. Yuma was physically, professionally, and emotionally separated from him by an ocean of time and space, yet Jo stubbornly refused to give up on that desire, no matter how impossible the odds seemed.

​To the rest of the world, Jo clinging to a rigid, five-year timeline for a past lover who had vanished into the orchestral tour circuit looked like the epitome of madness—a hopeless, tragic wish. It was the equivalent of a lonely wolf howling at the sky, making an appeal to a cosmos that stubbornly refused to alter its course.

​And yet, to Jo, the metaphor remained absolute.

​Yuma was the moon, his moon. Brilliant, breathtaking, suspended in a distant, untouchable orbit, glowing radiantly in the warm focus of stage lights while Jo sat quietly in the dark corners of the auditorium, breathing in his rhythm, silently craving his return.

​When the orchestral swell finally crested and broke, the sharp, thunderous crack of the snare drum pierced the air. Jo’s eyes snapped open. Down on the stage, framed by the golden wash of the lights, Yuma sat behind his drum kit—focused, powerful, and completely transcendent.

​Jo didn't flinch. He didn't look away. He gripped the edge of his coat, letting the vibrational thrum of the music vibrate straight through the floorboards and into his chest.

​Keep playing, Yuu-kun, Jo thought, his eyes shining with a quiet, unyielding fire in the dark. I'm building the ladder. Just wait for me.

[V]

​[ Tokyo, September 25, 2021 ]

​The sharp, crisp edge of autumn had settled firmly over Tokyo, turning the dusk into a canvas of bruised purples and cold greys. Jo walked the familiar path toward the concert hall with a quiet, practiced precision. One of his hands was buried deep in the pockets of his coat, while the other firmly held on the delicate paper wrapping of a flower bouquet.

​Every autumn and winter, for three years now, this venue has served as his silent shrine. It was the one place where he allowed his carefully guarded reality to overlap with the ghost of his past. The grand lobby smelled of aged lacquer, damp wool, expensive perfume, and the subtle, metallic tang of brass instruments being warmed up backstage. It was a sensory environment that always made Jo’s throat feel tight, yet he sought it out like an addict seeking a fix.

He took his usual seat in the upper balcony—the farthest, darkest corner of the auditorium where the shadows pooled thickest—but also a spot that offered an unobstructed view of the far-left corner of the stage. The corner reserved for the percussion section. The corner where his universe centered.

To anyone passing by, he was simply a stunning young man with sharp features, quiet elegance, and a distant, brooding aura. But beneath the exterior visual, his pulse was racing. His entire five-year plan—the painstaking ladder he was building brick by brick through his career, personal discipline, and emotional isolation—was built upon the bedrock of these biannual glimpses. He didn't need to speak to Yuma. He didn't need Yuma to know he was sitting in the dark. He just needed to see him, to prove to his aching heart that the man he loved was still out there, existing, breathing, and creating beautiful noise under the golden spotlight—still living his dream.

​The lights dimmed into a warm twilight. A polite hush fell over the audience as the musicians filed onto the stage in a solemn procession of black suits and evening gowns.

​Jo leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes fixed entirely on the back corner.

​First came the string players, then the woodwinds, followed by the heavy brass. Finally, the percussionists moved to their posts.

​Jo’s breath caught in his throat.

​Behind the sleek, polished drum kit, an unfamiliar man sat down, adjusting his music stand with quiet efficiency.

​Jo blinked. Once. Twice. He shifted in his seat, his eyes darting frantically across the percussion setup, searching the snaredrum stations, the timpani, the marimba.

​Yuma wasn't there.

​A sudden, icy drop of cold sweat broke out along Jo’s spine. The air in the room felt abruptly thin, suffocating, as if the oxygen had been pulled right out of the auditorium. Panic—raw and blinding—surged through his veins like poison.

​Where is he? Why isn't he there? Is he sick? Did he swap shifts?

​With trembling fingers, Jo reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the concert program pamphlet. He opened it hastily, the crisp paper rustling loudly in the quiet hall. His eyes scanned the guest roster, the ensemble list, the percussion section—row by row, name by name.

Yuma’s name was gone. 

Not misspelled, not listed under substitute players—simply, utterly missing, as though he had never existed in the orchestra's universe at all. The silence of the empty drum kit roared louder than any symphony could ever hope to.

​A majestic, sweeping symphony of the orchestra swelled through the hall, but to Jo, it sounded like a hollow, distorted static ringing in his ears. The music couldn't penetrate the sudden void that had opened up in his chest. He sat frozen through the entire two-hour performance, a stone statue drowning in a sea of applause he couldn't hear.

​When the performance finally concluded and the lights surged back on, Jo rose immediately. He didn't wait for the applause to die down completely. He drifted toward the front reception desk on absolute autopilot. It was a ritual born of devotion, a bittersweet tradition he maintained with quiet desperation.

A young staff member looked up, offering a polite, practiced smile.

​​"Excuse me," Jo asked, his voice rasping slightly, dry as bone. "Can I ask for a favor to deliver this flower bouquet to a player?"

​"Yes, of course," she replied smoothly, pulling a logbook forward. "The receiver's name is?"

​"Nakakita Yuma, from the percussion section."

​The receptionist checked the internal roster, her fingers tapping against the keyboard before freezing. She paused, frowning slightly at her screen before looking through the physical roster sheet resting on the marble counter. "I’m sorry, Sir. But" she said, her voice dropping into a tone of gentle, professional regret. "But I’m afraid that Mr. Nakakita Yuma isn’t playing for tonight’s show."

​​Jo felt his knees go weak, his fingers tightening so hard around the flower wrapping that the paper crinkled loudly. "May I know the reason?"

​"I’m sorry, Sir," the receptionist replied with an apologetic bow. "We are just administrative staff. We don't really know about the players' personal situations, schedule changes, or contract details."

​"Okay. Thank you."

​Jo turned away before she could see the hollow, shattered expression taking over his face.

​He walked out into the chilly Tokyo night, navigating the crowded streets like a ghost wandering among the living. When he finally reached his Yanaka apartment, he unlocked the door and stepped into the absolute darkness of his home. He didn't bother turning on the light. He simply stumbled forward and dropped himself heavily onto the sofa, the dark room swallowing him whole.

​Outside the window, the faint glow of Tokyo’s skyline cast shadows across the floor. Jo sat in silence, his eyes dull as he looked down at the coffee table where he had laid the bouquet.

​Star of Bethlehem—Oonisogaramu.

​In the quiet language of flowers, it meant Guidance, Purity, and Hope.

​Jo had walked into the concert hall hours ago holding tightly onto the bright, glowing hope of his five-year plan coming closer to realization. He was almost halfway there. He was working hard, building his portfolio, refining himself into someone worthy, someone capable of standing by Yuma’s side without burdening him. He had planned to leave this star-shaped white flower at the reception as a silent, anonymous beacon of hope—a subtle promise to the universe that he was still holding on.

​Only to sit in the audience and realize Yuma was missing from the drum kit for the very first time since they had parted ways.

​​Where are you, Yuu-kun? Jo thought, burying his face in his hands. 

Where did you go? Why did you leave the one place I knew how to find you?

​The silence of the Yanaka apartment offered no answers. It only reflected his own loneliness back at him, cold and vast.

-

​In the days and weeks that followed, Jo’s life devolved into a quiet, obsessive madness.

​Every night, after long hours of modeling shoots and spatial design sketching, Jo sat in the dark glow of his phone screen. He created fake accounts, burner profiles with zero followers and generic profile pictures, using them to search Yuma’s name across every social media he knew—he searched them all until his eyes burned and his thumb grew numb.

​Nothing.

​Yuma’s main accounts were like ghost towns. The last visible update was from last summer—a single, warm photograph of Yuma standing alongside his family on a sunny beach, smiling softly at the camera under a clear blue sky. Jo assumed it was a family vacation. That was the last digital footprint Yuma had left behind. July 2021. 

​Desperate for any shred of information, Jo opened the LINE group chat—the Geidai7 group chat that had once been the vibrant center of his social universe.

The chat was a living tomb. Ever since the Maknaez had graduated from TUA last spring, the group had gradually fallen quiet, strangled by the creeping responsibilities of adult life and shifting careers. The last message before Jo’s inquiry was a mundane congratulations on a graduation from over a year ago. 

​Every clue Jo possessed came to end in the summer of 2021.

-

​By October, Jo was drowning in his own frustration. A frantic voice in the back of his mind urged him to go directly to the Tokyo Philharmonic office, to track down Yuma’s co-worker, to demand answers from anyone who might have worked with him. But his sanity held him back by a thread. He couldn't risk the possibility of being exposed to Yuma. He couldn't let Yuma find out that he was still lingering, still hunting for him like a desperate phantom. What if Yuma had moved on? What if Yuma had intentionally hidden himself to get away from the memory of Jo?

​The fear of being hated by Yuma was the only thing stronger than his desire to find him.

​Actually, by his second year apart from Yuma, Jo had intentionally built a wall around his heart. He had stopped obsessively checking Yuma’s digital footprint as he used to in the beginning. He had convinced himself that limiting his exposure to Yuma was necessary for his own survival—so he wouldn't remember the agony of December 2018 too clearly, so he wouldn't break down in the middle of work, so he could focus entirely on grinding through his five-year plan.

​His logic had been simple; He doesn't need to be in my daily life right now. I just need to know he's playing his music. I will see him at the concert hall every autumn and winter. That is enough to keep me alive.

​It was a delicate, tragic compromise he had made with his own soul. But now, with Yuma’s sudden, total disappearance from the orchestra, that compromise was shattered. The thin wire holding his sanity together snapped.

​Yuu-kun... I miss you so much it's killing me. Please, just give me a sign that you're still doing fine. Just let me know you're okay.

-

[ Tokyo, December 18, 2021 ]

​Winter arrived in Tokyo with a bitter, unforgiving fury. Snow fell in thin, icy flakes, melting the moment they touched the freezing asphalt.

​Holding onto the absolute last string of belief, Jo stood outside the Tokyo Philharmonic hall once more for the annual Winter Concert. He pulled his scarf tighter around his neck, his breath blooming in white clouds against the night air.

​He was praying. For the first time in years, Jo—who believed only in hard work and strict planning—was begging whatever cosmic force governed the universe to show mercy. He hoped against hope that Yuma’s absence in September had just been a temporary leave, a brief absence, a personal emergency that had now passed. He prayed his moon would return to his dark night sky.

​Jo walked inside, taking his usual seat. He intentionally avoided looking at the program pamphlet this time. He deliberately refused to look at any paper roster. He couldn't bear to read the absence before seeing it with his own eyes. He wanted to hold onto the illusion for just a few more minutes.

​The lights dimmed. The orchestra took the stage.

​Jo’s eyes darted instantly to the percussion section.

​The same unfamiliar drummer took his seat behind the drum kit. The timpani was manned by someone else. The back left corner remained cold, alien, and completely devoid of Nakakita Yuma.

​A sharp, physical pain shot through Jo’s chest, so severe that he doubled over slightly in his seat, pressing his palm hard against his heart. It felt as though a pair of invisible hands had reached into his body and violently torn his heart out.

​Yuma wasn’t there. Yuma wasn't back. He wasn't coming back.

​Sitting in the dark auditorium, while classical music swirled around him, Jo pulled out his phone beneath the shadow of his coat. With trembling fingers, he searched Yuma’s name one last time on social media.

​Still silent. No posts, no tagged photos, no updates.

​The realization settled deep into Jo’s bones, cold and heavy; He resigned. He left the orchestra.

​Jo had officially lost his very last tether to Yuma’s whereabouts. The autumn and winter concerts—his twice-a-year lifeline, his quiet reason for enduring the loneliness—were gone forever.

​When the concert ended, a haunting sense of déjà-vu washed over Jo. Like a broken machine programmed to execute a single task, he walked to the front reception desk once more, carrying a small, delicate arrangement of flowers.

​"Excuse me, can I ask for a favor to deliver this flower bouquet to a player?" Jo asked. His voice was hollow, devoid of any pitch or emotion.

​"Yes, of course. The receiver's name is?"

​"Nakakita Yuma, from the percussion section."

​The receptionist checked her monitor, giving him the exact same look of polite, distant pity he had received three months ago. "I’m sorry, Sir. But I’m afraid that Mr. Nakakita Yuma isn’t playing at tonight’s show."

​Jo didn't ask why. He no longer had the breath, the energy, or the spirit to inquire.

​"I see. Thank you," he murmured weakly.

​He turned on his heel and walked out into the biting winter street. He made it two blocks toward the subway station before his legs simply gave out on him. He stopped under the harsh light of a street lamp, staring blankly at the dark street. He couldn't go back to the Yanaka apartment tonight. If he went back to that empty, quiet room right now, he knew he would choke on his own silence.

​With hands that shook violently from cold and grief, Jo dialed a familiar number on his phone.

​The line rang three times before picking up.

​"Hello? Jo?" Yudai’s warm, steady voice answered.

​"Yudai-kun..." Jo’s voice sounded small, pathetic, like a lost child. "Can you accompany me to drink tonight?"

​There was a brief pause on the other end, followed by a soft, regretful sigh. "Ah, Jo. I’m so sorry, man... but I can’t leave my wife alone tonight."

​Jo’s mind lagged for a second before reality caught up. Ah, right. Hikari was already six months pregnant. She was experiencing severe morning sickness and exhaustion. It was completely selfish and unreasonable for Jo to demand a sudden, late-night drinking session from a man building a family.

​"Ah... I'm sorry, Yudai-kun," Jo stammered quickly, embarrassment flushing through his cold cheeks. "I forgot. I'm sorry for calling so late—"

​"Hey, wait, Jo, don't hang up," Yudai interrupted gently. "Listen. Do you want to come drink at my house instead? I can ask permission from Hikari. I believe she won't mind having you here at all. How about that?"

​Jo squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Okay... I’m on my way."

.

​Twenty minutes later, Jo arrived at Yudai’s apartment complex in Shibuya. He rode the elevator up and pressed the doorbell.

​The door opened almost instantly, revealing Yudai wearing comfortable clothes. "Come in, Jo. It's freezing out there."

​Jo stepped inside, trailing quietly behind Yudai as they walked down the warm lit hallway toward the living room.

​Sitting on the main couch, wrapped in a plush cream-colored blanket, was Yudai’s wife.

​"Oh, Hikari Nee-san," Jo said, bowing his head slightly, his tone laced with deep guilt. "You haven't slept yet?"

​Hikari offered him a sweet, motherly smile, waving her hand dismissively. "I was waiting for you to come, Jo, so my hubby won’t be waiting alone. But now that you're here, I’ll leave you two alone." She slowly began to push herself up from the couch.

​"Thank you for letting me crash here tonight, Nee-san," Jo murmured softly. "I'm sorry for sudden visit."

​"It’s fine, silly. You are just like our real little brother, Jo. You are always welcome here," Hikari said softly, reaching out to give Jo’s arm a warm, reassuring pat. She turned toward Yudai, her eyes softening. "Be a good companion to our little brother, Yu-chan."

​Yudai’s expression softened instantly. He stepped forward, putting a steady arm around Hikari’s waist to support her weight. "Let me walk you into the bedroom first, my love."

​Hikari giggled, leaning into his side. "It's just a few meters, Yu-chan. I can easily jump there myself."

​"You can’t bounce my baby in there," Yudai replied with a stubborn, teasing tone, tapping her gently on the nose. "He isn’t ready for extreme amusement park rides yet." He turned his head to glance over his shoulder at Jo. "Jo, wait a minute, okay? Need to tuck my queen into bed first."

​"Yu-chan!" Hikari smacked Yudai lightly on the chest, her face flushing red with affection.

​The two walked down the quiet hallway, whispering sweet nonsense to each other until the master bedroom door clicked softly shut.

​Jo stood alone in the center of the living room, frozen to the spot.

​Yu-chan

​The pet name echoed over and over inside Jo’s mind like a sharp blade slicing through fresh skin.

​In the span of his two-year friendship with Koga Yudai, Jo had never once shortened his name. He always addressed him fully, respectfully, as Yudai-kun. He never called him Yu-kun. He never let the syllable Yu slip past his lips when looking at Yudai.

​Because in Jo’s world, that name was sacred. The only person he had ever called Yuu, the only person he would ever want to call Yuu, was Nakakita Yuma.

​Standing in the middle of this warm, beautiful home—a home filled with love, a growing family, and effortless domestic warmth—Jo felt more painfully, acutely isolated than he ever had in his entire life. The contrast between Yudai’s fulfilled reality and his own hollow existence was unbearable. Here he was, a broken twenty-four-year-old man, standing in someone else's living room, desperate to cry out for a ghost. Ready to weep for his lost little Yuu while staring at the happy life of the older Yu.

​When Yudai returned to the living room a few minutes later, Jo had already collapsed onto the sofa.

​Yudai stopped in his tracks, his heart breaking at the sight before him. Resting on the low coffee table was the small bouquet of flowers Jo had brought with him, sitting alongside four unopened cans of beer. Jo had already cracked one open and finished half of it in the five minutes Yudai had been gone.

​Yudai had known since September that Yuma was missing from the orchestra. He had watched Jo silently spiral, watched him spend hours staring at his phone, watched the dark circles under his eyes grow darker. But whenever Yudai or Hikari had offered to use their connections to help search for Yuma, Jo had adamantly, fiercely refused. Jo was terrified of pushing Yuma further away.

​So the newlyweds had done the only thing they could do; act as an unbreakable mental safety net. Whenever Jo felt like he was on the verge of a complete psychological breakdown, if he couldn't run back to his parents' house in Kanagawa due to his work, he would either wander the streets with Yudai or crash on the sofa in the Koga household.

​Yudai walked over quietly and sat down beside Jo on the couch.

​"So," Yudai began softly, his voice low and heavy. "The flower bouquet failed to meet its owner again tonight?"

​Jo didn't look up. He simply nodded, his chin trembling slightly.

​A long, suffocating silence stretched between them.

​"Just spit it out, Jo," Yudai added gently, placing a hand on his knee. "I’m all ears. You don't have to hold it in here."

​"I don’t know, Yudai-kun..." Jo’s voice broke, the words clipping short as his chest heaved. "I feel... so pathetic."

​His eyes drifted down to the table, staring blindly at the white petals resting against the dark wood.

​White Anemone—Shiroi Anemone.

​Its meaning was ‘Sincerity’, ‘Fading Hope’, and ‘Waiting in Despair’.

​Driven by pure desperation after September’s empty seat, Jo had returned in December praying for a miracle. He had chosen white anemones—a flower representing a delicate, trembling expectation, a desperate plea for sincerity. But now, with Yuma failing to appear a second time and his name completely erased from the roster, the white anemone had turned into a tragic, undeniable symbol of Jo losing his only way to track the man he loved. It was the formal mark of his failure, plunging him into a dark, terrifying future where Yuma no longer existed.

​"Am I really losing him?" Jo whispered, a tear finally escaping his eye and splashing onto his lap. "Is it... is it really over now?"

​Then, the floodgates broke. Jo covered his face with his large hands and began to sob heavily, his broad shoulders shaking violently with every gasp of air.

​Inside his head, the memory loop of December 22, 2018—the day they had parted ways—played over and over again like a broken film reel. Just three days from now, it would officially mark three full years since that day. Three full years of cold beds and quiet rooms in the Yanaka Apartment. Three full years without Yuma by his side.

​Yudai didn't offer empty words of comfort. He knew better than to say 'Everything will be okay' or 'You'll find someone else'. Instead, Yudai simply reached out and placed a firm, steady hand on Jo’s back, rubbing slow circles as the younger man wept.

​The beer cans sat untouched on the table. Alcohol couldn't touch this level of grief. Jo was entirely shattered by the reality of losing Yuma forever—crushed under the weight of a cruel idiom he had tried so hard to defy.

​Cry for the moon. To demand the impossible. To reach out one's hands toward a glowing, beautiful light in the night sky, foolishly believing that if you just build a high enough ladder, if you just wait long enough, the moon will come down to meet you.

​Jo’s ladder had just collapsed into dust. And that night, in the quiet warmth of his friend's living room, Jo cried for his moon until he had no tears left to give.

-

[ Tokyo, April 2022 ]

​When April arrived, bringing with it soft spring breezes and pale pink cherry blossoms, it dragged back a violent tide of vivid memories.

​April 2016. Six years ago. The spring when nineteen-year-old Jo and twenty-year-old Yuma had gone on their very first date in Lake Seokcho, Seoul during their TUA-SNU student exchange program period. Jo could still remember the soft pink petals catching in Yuma’s dark hair, the day Jo’s sprout first blossomed.

The contrast between that sweet, innocent spring and his current, desolate reality hurt Jo on a physical level. Every blooming cherry tree he passed on the streets of Tokyo felt like a slap in the face.

​For seven agonizing months—from September 2021 to April 2022—Jo lived in sheer despair. The Yanaka apartment felt less like a home and more like a tomb preserving the corpse of his youth. Jo continued executing his five-year plan out of pure muscle memory. He woke up, he sketched, he attended modeling shoots, he had meetings with clients, and he went home to sit in the dark. His heart was completely broken. He lived in constant fear that his ambitious five-year plan, his desperate attempt to cry for the moon, had been nothing more than the arrogant delusion of a foolish boy.

​-

It was Monday, April 11, 2022.

​Jo had been booked as the lead runway model for a major high-fashion brand’s spring collection—a massive career milestone directed and choreographed by Yudai himself. Today was scheduled as their very first full-dress rehearsal at a grand production studio in Harajuku.

​Inside the bustling backstage dressing room, clothes racks clattered and hair stylists buzzed around models. Jo stood in front of a full-length mirror, adjusting the delicate lapels of a pastel-toned silk blazer.

His face was striking, his jawline sharp, his proportions breathtaking. But behind his dark eyes lay a deep, unbreakable melancholy—an aura of quiet, tragic maturity that had made him one of the most sought-after editorial models in Tokyo over the past year. He looked older than his twenty-five years. He looked like a man who carried a heavy secret.

​Yudai walked up behind him, resting a hand on Jo’s shoulder. He looked at Jo’s reflection in the mirror, noticing how much his friend had grown, how calm and restrained he had become, even while carrying that invisible, crushing weight.

​"You look incredible, Jo," Yudai said quietly, his voice filled with genuine pride. "The outfit suits you perfectly. You’ve grown up so much."

​Jo offered a small, faint smile in the mirror—a polite gesture that didn't reach his eyes. "Thanks, Yudai-kun. Thanks for giving me this opportunity."

​"You earned it yourself. Now go out there and own the stage."

​Jo nodded. He took a deep breath, centered his posture, and stepped out from behind the heavy backstage curtain onto the runway platform.

​The main studio space was vast, dark, and freezing cold. The runway set was minimalist—a long, polished black floor illuminated only by dramatic, sharp overhead spotlights that cut through a thin layer of artificial stage fog. To elevate the artistic concept of the show, live musical accompaniment had been commissioned to play alongside the models' walk.

​Jo walked with slow, powerful grace to his starting position at the top of the runway, waiting for his lighting cue. The studio fell silent.

​Ready in three... two...

​Suddenly, a sound shattered the quiet air.

​Thump-tap-tap, crack-snap.

​The heavy, resonant rhythm of a snare drum cut through the studio space. It was a rhythm so distinct, so sharp, so deeply ingrained into the very fabric of Jo’s soul, that his breath hitched instantly in his chest. His knees locked.

​That tempo. That specific, precise accent on the third beat.

​Jo’s head snapped toward the live band pit tucked away in the shadowy corner of the main stage.

​The dark pit was bathed in a low, cool wash of blue spotlight. Sitting behind a sleek, matte-black drum kit, holding a pair of worn drumsticks, was a man in a simple black shirt.

​Dark hair. Focused, sharp eyes. Broad shoulders.

​Nakakita Yuma.

​Jo’s heart slammed against his ribs with the force of a battering ram. The breath left his lungs in a sharp gasp.

​As if sensing the intense gaze locked onto him, Yuma paused his warm-up drum roll. He slowly raised his head, his eyes traveling across the dark studio floor until they met Jo’s.

​Their eyes locked across the studio.

​In an instant, three years of suffocating solitude, secret concert visits, anonymous flower bouquets, silent tears in empty apartments, personal growth, and agonizing, unbearable silence collapsed into a single, breathtaking second. The heavy walls Jo had built around his heart crumbled into dust. The cold, dead numbness that had encased his soul for seven months melted under the heat of a single glance.

​Jo stood frozen on the runway, his pulse roaring in his ears like a tidal wave.

​His five-year plan hadn't failed. His ladder hadn't broken. He hadn't been screaming into an empty sky.

​Spring had finally returned. And with it, the universe had delivered his second chance.

​For years, Jo had reached out into the dark, weeping for something impossibly out of reach, consumed by the agonizing terror of a foolish dream. But as the low blue light bathed Yuma’s silhouette, the distant, unreachable sky suddenly felt within arms' reach.

​For once in a blue moon, the impossible was breathing right in front of him—and Jo knew, with absolute, terrifying certainty, that his right time with his right person was finally about to begin.