The slow music of a local band drifts through the small bar, the bass thrumming low enough to settle in my chest. The place smells faintly of old wood, spilled beer, and cheap cologne, but it's not unpleasant, more like a blanket of memories from every livehouse I ever set foot in. People are scattered across the dimly lit room, some gathered tight around their tables, others leaning lazily at the bar. The conversations blend into a low hum beneath the music, punctuated now and then by bursts of laughter or the clink of glasses.
I sit hunched over my own drink, tracing the rim of the glass with my fingertip, pretending to be casual while my thoughts chase each other in circles. Every so often, I lift my head to take in the room.
To my left, a group of old biker guys with weathered jackets raise their mugs in a raucous cheer, the kind that sounds more like a war cry than a toast. To my right, a younger crowd sways with the music, eyes half-closed as if the rhythm alone is carrying them somewhere far away.
And then there's her.
Azusa.
The sight of her sends my stomach into freefall.
At first, when I caught a glimpse of her across the bar, I thought it had to be a trick of the light, one of those cruel coincidences where a stranger looks just enough like someone from your past to twist the knife. But then she shifted, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in that precise, almost impatient way of hers, and my heart nearly stopped.
It's really her.
I didn't prepare for this. How could I? What are you supposed to do when your ex-girlfriend from high school shows up in the same bar as you, looking older, sharper, more composed, and yet so painfully familiar you can hardly breathe?
Okay, sure, "ex-girlfriend" feels like a phrase stolen from someone else's life. It's been well over a decade since we were those people, since I was stumbling through adolescence, guitar in hand, desperately trying to impress her with half-baked songs and too much energy. We grew up. Moved on. We had to.
But that doesn't mean what we had disappeared. Not for me.
I grip my glass tighter, cheeks already warming. "Get it together, Yui," I mutter under my breath. "You're not seventeen anymore."
And yet the memories surge up uninvited, the after-school practices, the scolding looks she'd give me when I slacked off, the way her face would soften whenever she thought no one was watching. Back then, loving her felt as natural as breathing. Letting her go felt like trying to unlearn gravity.
Now here she is, in the same room, and all that weight comes crashing back before I can even take another sip.
I force myself to look away, back down at my drink, though my eyes betray me after only a few seconds. They flicker back to her like a magnet I can't pry off the fridge.
She's sitting a couple tables over, angled just enough that I can watch without being too obvious. She's not alone, two people are with her, one chatting animatedly, the other scrolling through their phone, bored. Azusa listens politely, nodding now and then, but her body language tells a different story. Arms folded, posture a little too stiff, eyes wandering between sentences. She looks like someone who's keeping herself there out of obligation, not enjoyment.
Her hair's different. Shorter, like she took scissors to all the length we used to braid and play with after practice. It suits her, though, sleek, neat, a little mature. There's a pair of small silver earrings that catch the bar's dim light whenever she moves. Grown-up touches, subtle but impossible to miss.
I take another sip of my drink, though it does nothing to steady me.
She doesn't laugh the same way she used to, either. Or maybe she does, but I haven't heard it yet. Back then, it used to bubble up out of her, unplanned, the sound of her defenses slipping. Now... now she gives small smiles, quick and polite, the kind you give when you're present in body but not in spirit.
The realization makes my chest ache.
I remember her younger self so vividly, the girl who'd scold me for skipping practice but still sit beside me on the floor afterward, plucking at strings while pretending she wasn't watching me. The one who held her guitar like an extension of herself, eyes blazing whenever music took over. The one I held in my arms, awkward and trembling, the night we both realized "liking" had turned into something much bigger.
And I lost that.
No..- correction. I let go of it. Because life demanded it. Because we were too young, too unprepared, too everything.
And now here she is, flesh and blood, sitting just close enough that I could stand up, walk over, and touch her shoulder like no time had passed.
My leg bounces under the barstool, restless. I grip my glass tighter.
What if she doesn't remember me the way I remember her? What if seeing me now, older, maybe softer around the edges, hair a little too messy just reminds her of everything she wanted to leave behind?
The thought makes me shrink in on myself, shoulders curling, like if I make myself small enough she won't notice me at all.
But I want her to notice me.
God, this is ridiculous. I'm a grown woman, I've played gigs in front of strangers, I've managed a job, bills, rent. I can do adult things. And yet the idea of walking up to Azusa in a bar makes me feel like I'm back in high school, standing outside the practice room door, clutching my guitar like a shield.
The band on stage slides into a slower number, something bluesy, and it fills the silence between my thoughts. My heart doesn't match the rhythm, it pounds too fast, erratic, betraying me.
I sneak another glance.
This time, she's not listening to her friend at all. She's scanning the room, eyes moving from the stage to the bar to the ceiling, restless.
And then, for a second too long, they land on me.
I freeze.
Did she recognize me? Did she just look past me? My hand flies up to my hair instinctively, as if fixing the mess would make me more... presentable.
Her gaze flickers away, but something in my chest stirs.
She did see me.
I debate whether to wave, whether to stand up, whether to do anything at all. My mind runs through scenarios like flashcards. She smiles, she frowns. She comes over, she ignores me. She remembers, she doesn't.
And underneath all those possibilities lies one terrifying truth: I still want her.
Even after all these years, after all the distance and silence, I want her.
I press the cool glass against my cheek, trying to ground myself, but it only makes me shiver.
I don't know what I'll do if she walks over here.
But I don't know what I'll do if she doesn't, either.
My drink is sweating in my hand, the condensation sliding down over my fingers, but I barely notice. My eyes keep darting back to her, like a rubber band snapping no matter how many times I try to look away.
She's... different. Older, of course. More polished, maybe. The kind of woman who probably has her life figured out, or at least knows how to make it look like she does. Her hair catches the bar's dim lighting, a dark brown sheen where it brushes her shoulders. I catch myself staring at her profile, the sharp line of her jaw, the way she leans ever so slightly forward when someone else speaks, like she's listening even when I can tell she's miles away.
She still has that intensity, I think. That quiet seriousness that made her stand out from all of us back then. But it's muted now, like she's learned how to soften it for the world.
Meanwhile, here I am. Same old Yui, messy as ever. I try to imagine how I must look from her side of the room: slouched at the bar, probably pink in the face from one drink too many, fiddling with the glass like it's the only thing keeping me tethered. Not exactly impressive.
I shift in my seat, wiping my palms against my jeans. A thousand possible futures spiral in my head, each one worse than the last. If I go over there, maybe she won't even recognize me. Or maybe she will, and the only thing she'll remember is how we ended.
The thought makes my stomach twist.
I try to focus on the music instead. The band on stage is nothing special, just local guys, probably friends since college, their setlist cobbled together from covers and half-hearted originals. But there's a comfort in their imperfections, a looseness in the way they play. I let my eyes close for a second, trying to let the rhythm calm me, but all it does is drag me back in time.
Practice room afternoons. Ritsu's drums rattling the windows. Mio's voice steadying the chaos. Mugi's fingers dancing effortlessly across the keyboard. And Azusa, always Azusa, correcting my sloppy chords, rolling her eyes at my excuses, forcing me to take music seriously when I wanted to drift away.
She made me better. At guitar. At everything.
My chest tightens again.
I can't just sit here. But I can't move, either. I'm stuck between wanting to run to her and wanting to vanish entirely.
At some point- how long, I don't know, my glass is empty. I don't even remember finishing it. The bartender raises an eyebrow in silent question, and I shake my head quickly. No more. My heart's already racing fast enough.
I risk another glance, careful, like maybe if I move slowly enough I won't get caught.
Her tablemates are laughing about something. Azusa smiles too, but it's faint, automatic. Her eyes flick across the room again, scanning idly, and for one split second, they land near me.
I flinch, head snapping toward the counter like a kid caught cheating on a test. My reflection wobbles faintly in the sheen of the wood, distorted by beer stains and dim light. I can feel my face heating up.
God, I'm pathetic.
Still, the weight of her gaze lingers in my chest, whether it was real or imagined. Did she recognize me? Did she pause? Or was I just another stranger in a crowded room?
I don't know. And the not knowing is worse than anything.
I tap my foot against the rung of the stool, restless. My fingers twitch, wanting something to hold, to strum, to distract me. I wish I'd brought my guitar. I wish I had the courage to just stand up, to let instinct guide me like it always did on stage.
But this isn't a performance. This is real.
And I don't know if I'm ready for it.
The bikers cheer again, louder this time, their laughter booming through the bar. Someone near the stage yells for another song. The chatter rises and falls, weaving through the music like static. And in the middle of it all, Azusa sits steady, quiet, her profile bathed in warm, amber light.
I bite my lip, heart aching with something too big to name.
I thought I'd buried this. I thought time had dulled it into something manageable, something I could keep folded away in the back of my mind like an old setlist. But here it is again, sharp and insistent, pressing into me like the edge of a pick against strings.
I never stopped loving her.
I never stopped.
The realization hits like a chord struck too hard, vibrating through me until I can't ignore it.
I grip the bar tightly, knuckles white, as if I can hold myself together just a little longer.
Maybe she hasn't seen me. Maybe she has. Either way, there's no escaping it now.
Azusa's here.
And suddenly, my whole world feels like it's about to begin again.