Episode 23 — Continued in the Music Room

Perhaps for the first time in my life, I couldn’t wait for after school. I stare out the window at the clear blue sky — the rainy season has lifted — and think something like that.

Of course I’d always looked forward to seeing Kanzaki-san — but this chest-pounding urgency, so close to impatience I could barely stay in my seat, was something I’d never felt before. The clock hands seemed to slow. The lessons seemed to stretch beyond all reason.

In that empty, crawling time, I thought about Kanzaki-san. The beauty she scattered around her, so far beyond ordinary; the overwhelming performance she had put on before all those people.

And then — the coolness of the body temperature I had touched, and the words that burned in contrast to it.

“Today’s performance existed so I could stay with you. With Ogawa-san — with Uta”.

If the continuation of that performance was the time between us, was the after-school hours to come — how wonderful that would be. In that moment on the stage, pouring sound into the hall and holding every heart captive — if I had existed, even a little, somewhere inside Kanzaki-san — how wonderful that would be.

In the far-too-long hours before after school, my head was being filled up, steadily, entirely, with Kanzaki-san. Thoughts I’d begun to distract myself from the impatience, and now I was only burning more for Kanzaki-san and becoming even less able to wait.

Even so, the moment arrived in its own time. Sixth period ended, and the classroom was wrapped for a brief instant in commotion. A little after that, homeroom began, ran its course without incident — and the moment the end-of-day bow was called, I had my bag in hand and was out of the room at a fast walk.

I want to see Kanzaki-san. A longing welling up from somewhere deep in my body — and alongside it, a small anxiety.

What if the situation surrounding Kanzaki-san hadn’t changed — what if I’d only been dreaming of a bright future in that single fleeting moment, and the “see you tomorrow” was not a promise but an unfulfillable wish. I pushed those habitual dark thoughts away and kept walking.

And then, far sooner than I’d expected, my eyes caught what I’d been longing for. The silhouette I’d been searching for appeared so suddenly, so easily, that I stopped short and stared.

From further down the corridor, Kanzaki-san was walking toward me. At the same pace as me, or faster. And when Kanzaki-san noticed me too, her step quickened further still.

I was still fumbling over what to say first when Kanzaki-san reached me — should have reached me — and yet her pace didn’t slow in the least.

And without a sound, without a word — warmth overlapped again. The murmur of those around us, arriving on cue, was instantly painted over by Kanzaki-san’s voice, clear and beautiful as a bell.

“Uta”.

Just those two characters — my name — and Kanzaki-san sank into me, as though confirming something. A sweet scent drifted to my nose, a softness wrapped around me. As always, the closeness of her face made my heart lurch. Close enough that I could easily make out the length and lustre of her lashes. In a way that seemed to laugh at the saying about things hidden in plain sight — even at this distance, Kanzaki-san’s beauty sparkled. Her pale skin gave off a translucent light. My clumsy vocabulary cannot explain how her beauty works. The principle behind Kanzaki-san, who crosses straight to holding me without a step in between, is a mystery — and with only my painfully pounding heart as evidence of the truth, it’s embarrassing.

I threw out words to disguise that pounding.

“K-Kanzaki-san. Everyone’s looking.”

An implicit push to step back. I didn’t want to step back at all — but that was the first thing that came to me, so there was nothing for it.

Kanzaki-san, as though seeing straight through my real intentions, answered without concern:

“They are, aren’t they.”

As if to say: and is there some problem with that? The embrace tightened further. Even tightened, Kanzaki-san’s slender frame and strength were nowhere close to uncomfortable — if anything it felt good — which meant one reason to pull away had quietly disappeared, and I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t looking for reasons to pull away at all, and I wasn’t sure what to do about that either.

Even so, scraping together what little reason I had left. My heartbeat and the heat rising to my face were both at their limit, and I found the next words.

“It’ll get in other people’s way, here…”
“True.”

This time, easily, the warmth separated. It should have been what I’d asked for — and yet it was nothing like what I’d wanted, and I felt the pull of something left behind.

How thoroughly self-contradictory I am. And yet Kanzaki-san — as if by magic — traces my desires so effortlessly. She scatters the beauty of my ideal and plays piano for me. And even now, she says precisely the words I had been longing to hear.

“Then — continued in the music room.”

Said with perfect composure. Those words alone transformed the pull of what I’d lost into anticipation of what was next. And I understood: “see you tomorrow” had become daily life again.

I was too happy to speak. Wherever I go, I cannot tame language.

As if to lead that unreliable creature that I am, a hand was joined to mine. A cool temperature. A small palm. Pure white fingertips with a slightly roughened texture. The mark of Kanzaki-san’s effort. History accumulated.

Someone who had almost certainly spent her time playing music in solitude — and someone who had spent her time weaving words in equal solitude — meeting. Those two lines tangling, connecting. From the joined fingertips, daily life woven into being.

That alone — was simply, entirely, dear to me.

“Thank you.”

Without context, those were the only words that fell from my mouth.

Kanzaki-san answered by squeezing my hand, firmly.

Even without words, even without sound — we were connected. And from that connection, something real was transmitted.