The presentation room was lit with warm lights, carefully aimed at the small stage where Akari Tanabe stood. Before her, the executives of Ko‑Ei Productions, a few managers, and members of the technical team watched in silence. The microphone felt heavier than ever, and her hands, though trained, trembled slightly.
The murmur of her thoughts was louder than any external sound. What if I'm not enough? What if my voice doesn't convey anything?
Then, like a whisper sliding through her nerves, she remembered the moments she'd sung with her companions: Ri‑chan's laughter, Ren's advice, Kurohane's serene gaze. She recalled how, in the middle of practice, her voice blended with theirs, and for a moment everything made sense.
She drew a deep breath.
The music began.
Akari closed her eyes and let the melody envelop her. She didn't think about the executives or the millions of yen that could be lost. She thought about the lyrics, about the author who wrote them, about what that song had meant to her when she first sang it in her room. Her voice flowed with technique, yes, but also with soul. Every note was a confession, every pause a caress.
When she finished, the silence was absolute. Then, a firm round of applause broke the tension. One of the executives leaned forward.
"Your interpretation was honest. Not perfect, but profoundly human. That… that's what touches hearts."
Another manager added, "Akari, what you did today is what many strive for over years. Welcome."
Akari bowed her head, grateful. In that instant, Kurohane's words returned to her like a revelation: "Acting isn't being fake. It's showing the part of you others want to see. And that is still part of you."
*
That afternoon's group rehearsal felt different. Akari moved with more ease, more confidence. She still made mistakes — a misstep, a late entrance — but this time she wasn't ashamed. When she stumbled slightly and nearly bumped into Haruto, Ri‑chan burst into laughter.
"Akari‑chan, you're going to take the stage down before the debut!"
"Sorry!" she replied, laughing and swept up by the group's energy.
From the back, Ren smiled. "You're improving. You can tell you're not singing alone anymore."
Akari felt something settle inside her. She wasn't perfect, but she was growing. And that was enough.
*
When everyone left, she stayed a few minutes longer in the rehearsal room. She took out her music notebook — the one she always carried — and wrote in firm handwriting:
"Acting isn't being fake. It's showing your best side to others. And that is part of me."
She smiled. This time, she felt it.
But when she looked up, she noticed the hallway door was ajar. Through the crack she saw Kurohane standing before one of the managers. Her posture, normally upright and elegant, was hunched. Her gaze was downcast. Her expression… sad. Deeply sad.
"The executives want more expressiveness," the second manager said. "Something that hits the heart more. They say Akari achieved that. That you should… evolve like her."
Akari froze. Kurohane? The woman who had taught her to open up now had to become like her?
Kurohane did not answer. She only nodded faintly, hugging herself as if trying to hold together something breaking inside. Then she walked away slowly, shoulders slumped, shame etched into every step.
Akari said nothing. She simply watched her disappear down the corridor, sensing that something new — something unsettling — had just begun.
That night, the Ko‑Ei Productions building was calm. The corridor lights had dimmed, and the group members rested in their rooms after an intense day. Akari, still clutching her notebook, settled into bed with a quiet smile. For the first time, she felt she was in the right place.
But elsewhere in the building, Kurohane walked alone down the hallway, her steps slow and her gaze fixed on the floor. Her silhouette, usually poised and graceful, seemed shrunken under an invisible weight. When she reached one of the lobby mirrors, she stopped and stared in silence.
Then, like an echo that asks no permission, the voices returned.
"You're still useless. You must try harder."
"It's still not enough. You need to be perfect."
"As a child I too thought I was perfect… and life humiliated me. You must be truly perfect, foolish girl."
Kurohane closed her eyes — not to deny them, but because she knew they were still there. They weren't new. They were old. They were hers.
She hugged herself, as if trying to contain the cracks beginning to open. Because now, for the first time, she was not the one teaching. She was the one who had to learn. And that… hurt more than she was willing to admit.
The reflection in the mirror offered no consolation. It only watched, motionless, as if waiting for her to finally dare to break.