Kazuki had grown used to Aiko's quiet visits, her soft footsteps echoing in the practice room before the door even opened. At first, he didn't mind. She never demanded his attention. She simply sat in the corner, watching him as he played, her presence like a comforting hum in the background, always there but never intrusive.
But something was different now. He couldn't quite pinpoint it, but there was a subtle shift—a pressure he couldn't escape. He tried to push it away, to lose himself in the music, but it was becoming harder. Every time he looked up, Aiko was there, her eyes fixed on him with an intensity he hadn't noticed before.
The door creaked open again, and Kazuki tensed. He didn't look up this time. He didn't have to. Her presence was like a shadow, quietly filling the space.
"Sorry," Aiko's voice floated over to him, as soft and measured as always. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
Kazuki made no move to acknowledge her, his fingers still moving over the keys, the familiar melody flowing beneath his touch. But it wasn't the same. Her voice, the subtle weight of her gaze, it pulled at him, distracting him.
Aiko didn't sit down this time. Instead, she remained standing near the doorway, her arms folded loosely across her chest. She wasn't asking for attention, not directly. But her silence—the way she stood there, just watching him—was louder than any words.
He wanted to ask her to leave, to give him space. But he couldn't. There was something about her that made it impossible to say it out loud. Maybe it was the way she never demanded anything. Maybe it was the way she seemed to understand his music without him having to explain it. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the way she seemed to slip into the cracks of his life without making a sound.
Aiko's voice broke the quiet again, soft but persistent. "Your playing is always so beautiful, Kazuki. I think I could listen to you play forever."
Kazuki's fingers stilled for a brief moment. He didn't respond. He never did. But this time, the silence felt heavy. There was something about her words, something about the way she said them that made his skin prickle, like there was more she wasn't saying.
"You don't have to explain anything to me," she added, her tone quiet but unwavering. "I just... I like being here. Watching you. Listening to you."
Kazuki's heart quickened, but he didn't know why. There was no malice in her words, no pressure. And yet, the air in the room felt thicker, heavier, as if her words were tying him to this moment in a way he couldn't escape.
Her gaze lingered on him, but she said nothing more. She didn't approach. She didn't demand. She simply stood there, watching him, as though waiting for something—something he couldn't name.
Kazuki's hands hovered over the keys, his breath shallow. He didn't know how to respond. Part of him wanted to ask her to leave, to put some distance between them. But a bigger part of him didn't want her to go. He didn't want her to leave him alone with the silence.
Aiko's gaze never wavered. She was so still, so quiet, that Kazuki almost forgot she was there at all, until the subtle shift of her stance reminded him. There was no hurry, no urgency in the way she moved. But there was an underlying tension in her presence—something Kazuki couldn't quite place.
"I'll let you play," Aiko said, breaking the silence at last. "But I'll always be here when you need me, Kazuki. I'll always be here."
Kazuki didn't look up, didn't answer. His fingers moved again, the music filling the room, but the weight of her words lingered in the air like a heavy fog.