Episode 24 — I’ll Call Your Name

I had only heard it yesterday, and yet I felt a nostalgia for that sound. The return of the daily life we had — it nearly made me cry, without warning. Only now, belatedly, did I understand how hopelessly much I loved the time spent with Kanzaki-san in this place. Tears were close to spilling, and I held them back desperately, knowing full well that the weight of that feeling was far too much to direct at a friend.

And while I held it back, Kanzaki-san’s sound refused to stop. The piece she was playing was a bright, joyful melody that seemed to tremble with delight — and those pure white fingertips danced across the keys with such evident happiness that even that alone was enough to make something rise in me.

I recalled how she had told me, in what seemed like pain, that having sound written into her name was a curse. Had that curse loosened, even a little? Had she become able to enjoy sound, even slightly?

As if to offer an answer to that question, Kanzaki-san swayed and wove the music. Lightly, beautifully, one resonance placed after another.

It was a sunlit sound. Clear and beautiful as the moon, radiating a dazzling light — a sound strong enough to contain that contradiction without effort.

I was sinking into that feeling, absorbed in listening, when the sound particles began to thin — a signal that the final note was approaching — and eventually, as if releasing something gently, the sound vanished from the fingertips pressed into the keys.

I stood without thinking and applauded. Making up for having remained seated yesterday, I clapped with everything I had.

Kanzaki-san rose with her light, easy step and walked from the piano toward me — and then.

Our eyes met, and the beauty before me filled my whole field of vision. The moment I opened my mouth to offer praise — overlapping with it, those pale lips parted slightly, and words were released, slowly.

Her characteristic enigmatic words.

“I’m going to sit, so sit down.”
“Oh — okay.”

Without understanding the intention, I simply did as I was told and sat down in the wooden chair.

And then, just as before, as though it were the most natural thing in the world — the rustle of a skirt grazed my knees, and Kanzaki-san’s weight leaned into me. The lustre of her hair, the sweet scent, the flowing beauty of her impossibly translucent skin — all of it arrived at once.

“K-Kanzaki-san…?”
“It’s been a while.”
“S-so it has.”

Whether she meant this situation, or the after-school hours together, I didn’t know — and nodded blankly either way. My heartbeat, which couldn’t possibly focus on anything else, leapt with joy.

And as if to press further on that already-leaping heart, Kanzaki-san’s words came one after another.

“I worked hard for you, Uta.”

Not knowing what she meant — and yet my chest hurt, and it was inconvenient. Unable to speak, caught in Kanzaki-san’s continued warmth and the sweetness of her voice arriving one after another — she began to explain, as if revealing the answer.

“I asked Mum. The first wish I’ve ever asked for in my life. I told her: if I took the top prize at the next competition, would she let me use an hour of after-school time for Uta.”
“Is — is that so.”
“So I worked hard. I was able to work hard because of you, Uta. And after the competition, Mum said — ‘If the time with Shiko-chan contributes something to your music, then you can be together, and you can even go out to play once a week.’”
“Did she.”

I concealed my surprise behind composure. That Kanzaki-san’s mother would bend that far.

The surprise served as a refuge from a joy too large to face directly. Because that meant —

I held my heart steady to keep it from floating away. And into the centre of that held-down heart, Kanzaki-san’s voice rang.

“I worked hard because I wanted to be with you, Uta. Because I want you to keep watching me, from here on.”

As she said it, Kanzaki-san turned lightly. At the edge of my vision, her skirt swayed. Before me appeared a beauty beyond compare. I was pulled into the glow of those violet-indigo eyes and couldn’t escape. And as if pressing in, as if to hold on — Kanzaki-san put her arms around my neck and leaned her weight into me.

Kanzaki-san’s body was impossibly light — and yet I felt close to suffocating. I wrung out words to escape the feeling.

“K-Kanzaki-san’s words are somehow — heavy, aren’t they.”

That was what I’d meant — that her words always settle so profoundly in my heart, always resonate beyond what I can help. That’s what I’d wanted to convey. Then I noticed it might also sound like a reproach, and hurried to correct myself — when Kanzaki-san murmured quietly, looking straight into my eyes:

“I’ve never had friends before. So I don’t really understand heavy or light. But — I want to learn those things together with you, from here on.”
“Th-that’s genuinely heavy.”
“Is it?”

Kanzaki-san tilted her head with perfect composure. I was in the midst of feeling afresh the terrifying power of someone who could make my heartbeat nearly burst with a gesture like that — when:

“More than that.”

Suddenly, Kanzaki-san’s voice and expression trembled. A small crease between her brows, and into the space where that expression might be answered, a new mystery was inserted.

“I call you Uta.”
“…What?”

As I struggled to grasp her meaning, the words clarified slightly.

“At the shopping mall — you called me Shion.”

And there I understood. That Kanzaki-san had, without my noticing, begun calling me by my given name. And what it was she was asking for.

Understanding it — and still, from my habitual cowardice, taking an unnecessary detour.

“Th-that was because your mother is also Kanzaki-san, and I realised, and so…”

“Won’t you call me?”

But Kanzaki-san’s straight, direct words caught me. The violet-indigo eyes shimmered, longing for something. From that brightness, there was no escaping.

I surrendered. And offered the word, carefully:

“Shion.”

Shion promptly dropped her gaze and murmured:

“That’s embarrassing.”
“Sh-Shion was the one who asked.”

When I couldn’t help but protest —

“But I’m happy. When you call it, somehow — my name feels like something I’m glad to have. When I’m with you, Uta, I feel like music is something I can enjoy. That’s how it is.”

Those words settled in my heart again, beyond all help, with all their weight.

If even my clumsy words can give something to Shion — past shyness, past cowardice — I want to call that name, as many times as it takes.

So I put on a smile I wasn’t used to wearing, and offered something uncharacteristically straight:

“Me too, Shion.”

So that even a little of your curse might lift.