Three people looked up when I sat down in the car and closed to the door behind me. Although the driver returned his attention to the road when I closed the door softly, the other two men gave me scrutinizing glances. An awkward silence fell in the car as I struggled to place my crutches in such a way that I wouldn't poke Fuuto's friends on the backseat.
"Fuuto said that you would take me back to Tokyo," I explained in a soft voice, wondering whether they could see the traces of my tears. One of the men gave me a polite yet aloof smile.
"What are you to Asahina?" he asked, his eyes glittering with amusement. My gaze fell on the checkered pattern on his grey tie, which mismatched with his tailored, navy blue suit. Could he be Fuuto's manager?
With a bitter smile, I briefly entertained the thought of saying 'nothing'.
"I'm a friend of his sister," I replied, resting my head against the window, hoping that they wouldn't kick me out of the car. Absentmindedly, I turned the black recorder over in my hands, my fingers slipping over the smooth surface.
"After Yamako has brought us to the concert hall, he'll be happy to take you home," the man with the blue suit said, smiling friendly. The other man nodded once, which was all the acknowledgement he gave me. Both wore expensive suits, had neatly styled hair, and a poised attitude.
More than a bit impressed, I observed the two men who ignored each other pointedly.
Perhaps, Fuuto had two managers who each wanted to be his sole manager? Either way, I shouldn't ask invasive questions. If Fuuto heard that I had meddled with his business, he would have yet another reason to regard me with suspicion and scorn.
At the end of the road, the car turned left, stopping in front of gates which opened for us. Smoothly, the car started moving again, and we drove past the concert hall, eventually coming to a stop in front of two doors. Several trucks were parked around this door, a crew in white shirts running around.
"Good luck on your way back," the man with the grey tie said before leaving the car. The other man didn't look at me, already focused on his next task.
The world of idols wasn't new to me, but this side of it was. I had never seen past the stage, the flashing lights, plastic smiles, and songs.
It was like expecting a shallow creek, but finding a deep lake instead.
However, my first encounter with what happened behind the scenes was brief. After the two men left the car, the driver turned the car and drove away. Suddenly, I was alone with the driver, who didn't appear to be interested in me.
Silently, I watched the landscape as we headed to the expressway.
The yellow lights made me feel drowsy, but every time we stopped at a tollbooth, I woke up again. Therefore, I still didn't know whether Yamako was his first or last name when we changed expressways in Nagoya. All this time, the driver didn't even glance at me, his eyes on the road ahead of us.
A glance at the digital clock above the radio in the car and I learnt that it was well past midnight. I was bound to regret this tomorrow.
Sighing, I wondered why going to the concert had seemed like a good idea. If I had ended up in the festival hall, I wouldn't have been home until well in the morning.
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"Where're we?" I asked, rubbing my eyes with the sleeve of my shirt.
The driver lifted his gaze, looking at me through the rearview mirror.
"We're still at the Tomei Expressway," he said, "Twenty miles south of Tokyo. What's your address?"
Still dazed, I told him my address, which he typed into the GPS-system on the dashboard.
Blinking sluggishly, I looked out of the window. Even in the dark, I could see the silhouettes of factories and office buildings.
In one day – well, a glance at the clock and I knew that technically speaking, I had used two days – I had gone to Osaka and back.
A dazzling distance that made me feel giddy, though I blamed that on sleep deprivation.
Anxiety made it difficult to fall asleep again -a combination of the throbbing pain in my ankle and apprehension over my father's reaction. When we reached my house, I sighed deeply.
"Thank you for bringing me all the way," I said, hoping that he knew how grateful I was. The driver nodded once, driving off as soon as I had closed the door.
I stretched my back, feeling numb after hours of sleeping in a car. Then, knowing that I couldn't prolong this moment anymore, I hobbled to the door.
Unfortunately, my keys had been in my bag, which was most likely still in Osaka. Before I could lift my hand to press the doorbell, my father opened the door, relief, anger, and amusement in his expression.
"Miss [L/N]," he huffed, " on what ground do you believe that I'll let you in?"
"I'm sorry," I said sincerely, though a simple apology wouldn't settle anything.
"Hmm," my dad sighed, stepping aside to let me in. "You'll have to do better than that."
"You haven't even heard the fun part yet," I mentioned, which made him frown.
With a perpetual frown, my dad led me into the living room where I told him about everything, including the conversation that Fuuto had recorded and the thug who stole my bag.
"That wasn't smart," my dad judged after I had finished talking over a cold cup of tea. The recorder and my rail pass were on the table between us.
"I know," I sighed, looking at the murky water in my glass, "I'm sorry about going without telling you anything. You must have been worried mad about me."
"This makes it very difficult for me to be angry with you," my dad sighed. "But did you have to let a robber steal your purse?"
"Aren't you supposed to be angry with me? I mean, I'm fine with the I'm-truly-disappointed-in-you-approach, but..." I shrugged helplessly, uncertain of how to finish my sentence.
"I feel that yelling at you would be pointless, regardless of how badly I want to," my dad said calmly, but he fixed me with a pointed glare nonetheless. "But I'm even angrier with the thug who dared to steal all that expensive stuff. Did you already complain to the staff on the station or report the crime to the police? Oh well, consider that a rhetorical question. I can take a guess. Let's deal with that tomorrow."
I huffed laughter, placing my cup on the table in front of me. Without anything to keep my hands occupied, I picked up the tape-recorder with reverence, which didn't go unnoticed judging my dad's complicated expression.
"Before I start dishing out punishments, I want to think carefully. In the meantime, you should sleep. I'll call the school's secretary to tell them that you have fallen ill."
"Thank you," I said, heading up the stairs to my room with the crutches.
I kept standing in the doorway, my gaze resting on the posters of Asakura Fuuto that I had glued on the ceiling two summers ago. Figurines lined the shelves, acting as bookends for my collection of CD's. Unsettled, I stared at the tape recorder in my hand, hoping that Fuuto would never discover this. The thought was enough to make a nervous giggle bubble up in my throat.
There was no two ways around it; I was utterly obsessed with Fuuto. Asahina or Asakura, it didn't matter – I had long since learnt that the idol on the posters was unlike the real deal. Disappointment had morphed into acceptance when he had shown me a glimmer of kindness. Earlier, I had been so adamant on the difference between Asahina and Asakura, but now my ability to distinguish had fallen away. At some point, I had started caring about Fuuto rather than the fake boy on the stage. When I looked at the posters, the figurines, and CD's; I could only see Fuuto.
I had gone all the way to Osaka to see Fuuto, and I had hardly complained when he had sent me home before I could attend the concert.
Why?
Well, the answer was embarrassingly simple; I had already achieved what I had set out to do. I had apologised, I had argued, and I had found a little bit of kindness.
Pleasing me was way too simple and worst of all was that fact that I didn't even care.
My bedroom looked like a shrine dedicated to Fuuto, the thought of sleeping under the scrutinizing eyes of fifty or so versions of my crush unsettling. However, I reckoned that Fuuto would have a similar sentiment if he knew about my room.
Perhaps it was time to take the posters down, I figured with no small measure of reluctance.
I fell back on my bed, the crutches falling next to me on the covers. Turning the black box in my hands, I looked for the replay-button.
Excitement simmered in my stomach when I finally managed to rewind the tape, waiting impatiently for the tape to start playing.
What I heard, however, stood in stark contrast to my expectations.
Instead of our conversation, I heard singing. Breathlessly, I listened to Fuuto as he sang a song I had never heard before.
This song was the first of a set of unfinished songs, which consisted of Fuuto's vocals with a guitar supporting him. For the first time, I noticed that Fuuto stopped playing the guitar whenever he focused on the lyrics.
When the record switched to our conversation, I rewound the tape to listen to the songs again.
The words 'I love you' were a leaden weight on my tongue and repeated in my mind. Suppressing the urge to bang my head against the wall and congratulate myself for falling for an absolute douchebag who would leave my feelings unrequited, I clicked my tongue to the beat of these unfamiliar songs.
I had CD's and mp3-versions of all his songs, but the songs on the recorder weren't among the ones I possessed. These were songs Fuuto had yet to record, and I was probably the first one to listen to them.
Did Fuuto know what he had given me?
Did he know how much it would hurt my soul to hand this back?
Still, I wanted an official version of this more than anything. Therefore, I would reluctantly return the device when I ran into Fuuto again. Meanwhile, I would listen to these songs on repeat until I knew them by heart.
"You'll regret staying up tomorrow," my dad remarked, leaning against the doorpost, watching me play with the buttons on the tape recorder.
"That's tomorrow," I said matter-of-factly, lifting my head a few inches from my bed to give my dad a deadpan look.
"That attitude is why you're always in trouble, young lady," my dad huffed, but he didn't stop me as I started the tape again.
"You should sleep. It's already past three in the morning."
"I'm sorry," I apologised when I realised that I was the cause of my dad's exhaustion. He shrugged offhandedly in response, but the yawn which he hid behind his hand told another story.
"Goodnight -or morning," my dad said behind a hand before he retreated to his bedroom.
Sighing defeated, I fell back on my bed.
I couldn't sleep – something was wrong with my ankle.
Hopefully, it was a case of over-exertion rather than an actual problem.
Sighing, I closed my aching eyes, drifting off in spite of the constant pain in my ankle. In my hand, I clutched the tape-recorder.
Within the span of a day, I had managed to fall head over heels for someone who disliked me and was planning to use me to woo his stepsister. Nevertheless, I didn't feel a shred of regret, clinging onto the hope that things would look brighter tomorrow. As soon as I had started crying, Fuuto had handed me the recorder.
Today, I had found a huge weak spot in is defences; he couldn't bear to see me cry. And I was determined to find more weaknesses to wiggle a way into his heart. Maybe I was a tad too ambitious, but I preferred biting off more than I could chew over letting Ema have him.
Because against all expectations, I liked Asahina Fuuto even better than Asakura.