Episode 91: The Place Where Words and Sound Overlap

I cross the open walkway toward the old school building. The cold carried on the wind has begun to carry the scent of winter, and the day of parting from Shion is almost here. There are only a handful of days left when we can gather like this after school. Sharing the same time isn’t something to be taken for granted.

That’s why I wrote a poem — words to cross the distance. So that even far apart, we’ll stay connected. So that words and sound won’t come apart. So that Shion won’t be tormented by loneliness in the place she flies to. Wishes woven into it, every line.

Will it reach her. I hope it reaches her. I let the thought slip quietly into the sound of my footsteps on the landing, and follow it.

Then, as though guided by the wishing, I open the door of the old music room.

My gaze overtakes my thoughts in an instant and finds Shion immediately. My whole field of vision fills with silver-white beauty. Silver hair reaching her shoulders, porcelain-white skin. Even from the door to the piano, my entire vision is full of Shion — and then, as if to sharpen the resolution further, Shion notices me and comes running.

“Uta…!”

The bell-like sound travels through my eardrums and shakes my heartbeat. Beautiful in appearance and beautiful in voice — what kind of design is that, I wonder. That her music is beautiful goes without saying; truly a child loved by beauty. I find myself sensing that afresh.

Sensation is an extension of reality — perhaps that’s why, from the premonition of her absence, I’m trying to capture Shion’s beauty even more sharply than before. That movement in my heart. If I arrive at the simple conclusion of lonely, I think I might cry — so I cover it over with logic by force. Shallowness like that.

And as if to shatter all of it in an instant, Shion throws herself against me with not a shred of hesitation.

“Uta, good morning.”
“Shion, good morning… it’s afternoon, though.”
“But from when I meet you — that’s when my day begins for me.”
“Is that so… but even then that doesn’t quite work. We’ve already met today. Every break between classes too.”
“Is that bad…?”
“It’s not bad, but…”

Just the surrounding glances that sting. Shion considers clinging, sitting in laps, the same as breathing — and sometimes even tries to kiss me without a moment’s warning, so there’s no room for carelessness. And yet, some part of me thinks: if I said something against it and Shion stopped being physically close, I wouldn’t want that either — so in the end I had no choice but to keep my mouth shut.

Then, as if reading that cut-off answer, Shion presses even closer and leans into me sweetly.

“Yay. I love you, Uta!”

And buries her face childishly against the side of my neck. Like a kitten. I stroke her head and run my fingers through that silver-bright hair and think:

Helplessly dear to me. I want to protect Shion from sadness and anxiety.

So I was glad I’d written the poem.

“Shion — the lyrics. They’re finished.”
“Really?”

Shion lifts her face at my words, and at this same height the violet-indigo eyes are right in front of me, shimmering with anticipation. My heartbeat shimmers with them.

“Yes.”
“Show me…!”

At Shion’s request I take out my phone, open the note app where I’ve written the lyrics, and hold it out toward her — fingers trembling, newly overtaken by anxiety and embarrassment.

“…Here.”
“Thank you.”

Shion murmurs it and takes the phone in both hands, gripping it tight in her small palms, staring at the screen as though drinking it in.

This is unbearable. What was I thinking.

Come to think of it — Shion knows I write novels, but her actually reading something I’ve written is the first time. On top of that it’s lyrics I’m not used to writing, and the anxiety was more than I could manage.

I watch Shion with a heart that feels close to bursting. The gaze dropped to the screen emphasises the length of her lashes; Shion asserts beauty in every motion. And Shion is reading words I wrote about Shion. The silence presses against my skin. Time that feels like eternity. If it really were eternity, I could be with Shion forever — I was thinking that, when Shion suddenly lifted her face.

And then she hugged me again. And whispered at my ear.

“I love your words. I really do.”
“Th — thank you… Were there any strange parts?”
“None. Everything felt like your words, and I was so happy.”
“Then I’m relieved…”

And at that relief, my heartbeat immediately rose again because Shion was pressed against me, and I really, truly couldn’t do anything about any of it.

To look away from that fact, I murmured:

“The song is finished now, isn’t it.”
“Not yet.”
“Eh?”
“We still have to record it.”
“Oh — you’re right…”

I’d been so consumed with writing the lyrics that I hadn’t thought that far. Of course — for the two of us to be able to listen to the song we made together, someone has to sing it.

Leaving my realisation behind her, Shion said:

“Well then, shall we record it?”

And took my hand and walked purposefully toward the piano.

I hurried after her.

“Wait — Shion. Who’s singing?”
“You, of course. I’ll play piano, so you sing.”

She said it as naturally as breathing.

“I’m not mentally prepared for—”

Just as I murmured it, we arrived at the piano, and Shion turned to face me.

“It’s all right. You’re always good at karaoke.”
“That’s different from—”

Singing lyrics I wrote myself, in front of the very person I wrote them about — the embarrassment of that was significant. Of course I wanted to do it for Shion, to keep her from feeling lonely — but I needed more time to prepare, I hesitated, took a half step back — and then:

Scattering all that hesitation, Shion’s voice rang out.

“I love your voice. So sing for me. Give your voice and your words to me.”

She said it reaching her hand toward me from in front of the piano. A mirror image of the beginning — and yet words to make sure it doesn’t end.

Because I want to be together even across the distance, because I want to keep the promise — I said:

“All right. I’ll sing. I promised, didn’t I. That I’d give everything I have to you, Shion.”

And took the hand Shion held out to me. Fingers interlacing. Of course, little fingers too. Another promise, added to the rest.

“Thank you.”

Shion whispered it softly, and let the fingers go reluctantly. She walked a short way, leaned her phone against the wooden chair and pressed record. As she did, our matching book-shaped straps swayed, and rang out softly — and then she walked to the piano and sat in the solid black chair. And from there, turned to look at me, standing just behind and to the side.

“Ready?”

I opened the note with the lyrics on my phone and nodded. Above my field of vision, the matching music-note strap swayed too.

And then, as Shion’s fingers sank into the keys, I released the words.

No microphone. The bare, exposed voice trembled — and yet Shion’s piano sounded beside it, as if softly drawing close. Shion turned toward me, those violet-indigo eyes looking at me, and smiled. At the brightness of those eyes I remembered the moment we met, and in that smile I felt with piercing clarity the preciousness of everything we had accumulated since. Hesitating at a meeting, being touched by joy, sinking into sadness, flinching from farewell — and still exchanging tenderness. One by one, what lay at the end of accumulation is now. I sing the lyrics that trace that arc — the words for Shion — giving them voice.

So Shion won’t be sad. So she won’t be lonely. So that beautiful music can take flight.

Shion looks straight at the keys, as though embodying my wishes. As if to show that it will be all right, she weaves sound unbearably beautiful.

And then I’m the one who becomes lonely, and that feeling becomes words and overflows. At the silver-bright hair, at that profile, I cry out:

“I’m lonely — but don’t look back.”

My voice trembles. Shion’s back trembles too, faintly. I can see a single tear tracing down her cheek, and I can’t wipe it away right now — so instead I offer words. The honest feeling inside me that I can’t gloss over no matter how embarrassed I am.

“I love you — from the moment it began, you have been my reason.”

So from now on I’ll go on living for you, Shion. I’ll live to become your equal, to be with you always.

Feelings exactly my size. Just like that, I release the final phrase with everything I have:

“I love you — until the moment it ends, I offer my words to your music.”

All of my life, from beginning to end — all of it for Shion. That wish was where the song should have ended.

But Shion’s piano refused to stop, as though reluctant to part. The chorus phrase repeated. Came again.

Shion extends the melody past the final note, past the barline, into the place without barlines. As if to begin again, new, from the place without barlines.

And then, filling the blank left by words that had run out, a transparent voice like a bell rang through the room.

“lalalala~”

A voice like the humming we sang when we played Twinkle Twinkle Little Star together. The most beautiful voice in the world. The song was made so Shion wouldn’t be alone — so I raise my voice too. Two voices mingle, guided by the piano melody, and dissolve into each other.

In the place where words and sound overlap, it was just the two of us. Only this moment, for now. But someday — when I can fly at the same height as Shion — then.

Shion’s fingers sink into the keys. I follow, as if guided, as if speaking, and offer the feeling that bursts from my chest:

“Let’s look at the sea from the same place — holding hands.”