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The first time Aki saw Shiho, she didn’t yet know the singer’s name.
And neither did the rest of the world.
Fluorescent strip lights buzzed steadily overhead, emitting a cool wash of color over the interior of the small convenience store, contrasted against the warm day that beamed outside the large ad-plastered windows. Aside from the cashier who was idly stationed at the register, it was just the four of them roaming inside.
Several aisles away, Aki heard the shuffling of shoes, the rustling of plastic bags, the muffled thump of snacks dropping in shopping baskets. Alongside that were three familiar voices engaged in passionate discussion. She supposed her fellow bandmates were debating over what items to stock up on for their study session snack pile today, but their voices blurred and distorted into the distance as she strolled along the length of a magazine rack, thumbing at the edges absentmindedly.
There was one that piqued her interest—a small issue centered around music in the area. She began flipping through it. Local events and news and the like. New artists to watch out for. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Aki wondered if that would ever be her; truthfully, she wondered if she even wanted it to be.
But those thoughts soon dissipated, nothing but fine mist meeting the morning light. There, near the center of the issue, was where Aki saw it.
It was a full page feature. A local up-and-coming band Aki hadn’t heard of. Three figures stood posed against a plain background, coordinated in black and white clothing, all three appearing quite young—perhaps merely around Aki’s own age if she had to guess. There was a subtle tinge of endearing amateurism about the photo, in the synchronization of the poses, the photography, the fashion. But it had personality, there was no doubt about that. Two girls were in the back, turned slightly to the sides, one shorter with light brown hair and one much taller with deep purple hair. However, the one that captured Aki’s attention was the one in the middle.
Striking indigo hair and eyes to match. A bright ribbon that held up a side ponytail. Sharp gaze directed straight into the camera. A hint of a smile on her lips, edging into a smirk—confident and assured, like she knew whoever gazed upon it wouldn’t be able to look away.
And she’d be correct.
Aki was spellbound, everything else around her devolving to static.
There was a pulse that Aki couldn’t place, but it reverberated from the girl with something magnetic. Blue fire, dark and alluring. Aki wanted to know what it’d feel like to be in the presence of such a hypnotic pull, to let it swallow her whole.
Who is she?
It was only after a few minutes that Aki snapped out of the trance and noticed the word “Laureley” imprinted above the three figures in large bold typography, and at the bottom of the page the date and location for what seemed to be an upcoming indie concert nearby. Aki began to peer closer at the details when—
“What are you looking at?” Yori peered over her shoulder and Aki felt her surroundings rush back to her. “We’ve got everything already.”
Behind Yori, Aki saw Kaori and Mari—each holding plastic bags nearly bursting with a variety of snacks and beverages, clearly much more than they had originally agreed upon—gazing expectantly at her.
“Was there something else you wanted?” Yori asked, eyeing the magazine in her hand.
“Ah—” Aki took one last glance at the page amidst her moment of hesitation before closing the issue and returning it to the rack. “It’s nothing. Let’s go!”
The second time was several years later, during college. So was the third and fourth and hundredth time.
It was unmistakable, the moment Aki saw her face again in articles and interviews, on billboards and advertisements, on clothing and merchandise.
Laureley was nothing short of a budding phenomenon at this point, and taking center stage was the lead singer that Aki first noticed in that magazine all that time ago. Now her name was in headlines, under lights, on millions of people’s tongues, and Aki felt like she was sixteen again, under the low ceiling and flickering fluorescence of that convenience store. She had even heard her younger sister, Miki, mention the band’s music on occasion.
Laureley’s rise to stardom wasn’t a big surprise; after all, Aki had seen it when she was nameless. That burning glow, luminescent and transfixing. Even years ago, on that magazine page buried beneath all the others, Aki had seen something in her, and now everyone else did too. To have someone from her hometown make it this big was also a point of pride, even if it had nothing to do with Aki herself. The fact that such an extraordinary talent grew up just blocks from her was an unbelievable thought. Was it possible they had unknowingly crossed paths before?
On second thought—no, Aki would’ve definitely remembered such a face if they had.
Laureley had started with a few individual original songs here and there, growing them eventually into an extended play, and finally releasing their awaited debut album which had been a massive success. It was a fresh sound with evocative songwriting, woven with a different kind of texture and soul than a lot of the popular music that topped the charts nowadays. Fans congregated quickly and soon their lyrics were populating social media profiles, burned between ears, etched into skin. The critics were notoriously hard to please, and even they were raving.
“Powerfully yet delicately real,” they wrote. “A potent display of artistry for such young talents.”
“For a debut album, Laureley shows immense promise. If this is where they started, it’s riveting to see where they could go next.”
“Don’t forget this name—Izumi Shiho is the new it girl.”
They were right.
Somehow, leading up to their anticipated sophomore album, Laureley gained even more prominence than before. It was difficult to find a soul in her generation—or even beyond—that had never heard the name Laureley or Izumi Shiho by this time.
On this particular day, the name floated quietly in Aki’s mind for some reason as she navigated the unusually packed campus. She was tightly flanked by a few of her college friends, feet sore from walking for hours, weaving through the bustling mob of students that flooded out the building doors and onto the school grounds for their annual festival. Tents and booths were set up along the paths, full of various activities and snacks, with waves of excited chatter rippling through the horde so loudly she could barely hear her own thoughts.
The crowd seemed to be pushing in a certain direction, so Aki let herself be carried by the current until she noticed an outdoor stage set up in the large clearing ahead, looming tall with rows of showlights. A black curtain was drawn in front, hiding the stage, while the rest of the space around it was filled with staff rushing to do final equipment checks. A sizable crowd had already settled in front of the stage in bustling anticipation.
“Do you think we’re getting band performances again?” Aki heard one of her friends speculate excitedly.
Another responded, “Most of the students that were in bands last year have already graduated. Do we even have anyone left to?”
Aki, meanwhile, was unrooted from the conversation around her, the ground under her lifting her up into the air. As if she was the one on that pedestal, as if she could look to her right and see Yori by the microphone, Kaori on keyboard, Mari on drums. Yori would shoot her a smile back as the lights dimmed and the music started and she’d exist nowhere but in that single present moment, and everything would feel simple and right. But then the scene recedes like water forgetting the shore, and she feels the pavement rush up to her once again.
“—ki. Aki!” her friend was calling, appearing concerned. “You okay? You zoned out for a minute.”
“Ah.” Aki snapped out of it as she felt a tap on her shoulder and returned a reassuring smile. “Yeah, all good. I was just wondering who it could be.”
As if on cue, the crowd fell into a sudden hush. Aki looked up over the rows of heads and saw their principal standing downstage center, speaking into a microphone in front of the black curtain.
“Is everyone having a good time?” A short cheer went up in response as the attendees whooped and hollered. “Glad to hear. To end this year’s festival, we have a few very special guests who so graciously agreed to give a performance for us. On behalf of our entire institution, I’d like to thank and welcome them today. They need no introduction—” the principal announced, looking nearly as giddy as some of the students in the audience as she gestured to the drapery that had finally begun to part. Aki’s heart lodged itself in her throat and threatened to spill out. “Laureley!”
The scream that ensued from the crowd was positively deafening.
The curtains split and there they were in the flesh—Satomiya Momoka and Amasawa Hajime in the back on their respective instruments, and Izumi Shiho front and center with a sleek black guitar strung over her shoulders. Aki didn’t think humans were capable of producing a collective sound any louder but somehow it happened. The decibels emitted from their coordinates at that moment must have unknowingly broken a scientific record.
Aki, meanwhile, couldn’t do anything but remain still and silent as the beaming stage lights concentrated on the stage, as the music started booming, as she saw Shiho lean into the microphone. She vaguely registered her friend on one side grabbing her arm and jumping up and down, and the one on the other side covering her own mouth as if she could burst into tears at any moment. In fact, half the crowd seemed to be in a similar state of emotions. Hands were in the air. Cell phones were up snapping photos and videos. The ground was thrumming with a magnitude of raw energy. However, the sound inside of Aki was thundering louder than anything around her, like she would split apart at the seams if she didn’t look away. Yet, she physically couldn’t.
It was overwhelming, and Aki understood yet again.
Why the world clamored for them. For her.
The way Shiho moved onstage, the way she wielded that guitar like a weapon, the way her voice resonated throughout the entire clearing, impaling right into Aki’s skin and bones—it was as if she was born into it, more natural than breathing. It was like witnessing a celestial object come into being. More than talent or skill, there was also a deeper current running beneath all three of them, a neon coursing and branching through their veins, a refined intensity present in their every action. She knew there was something within them that she herself never had on the flimsy stages she used to grace.
And Aki was free falling with no parachute, no safety net. She anticipated the ground. In fact, she wanted it. Wanted the impact, the crash landing, and she wanted it to be brutal. She wanted this euphonious voice to cut right through her, permanently inscribe itself into every surface of her being so she’s left altered, a physical manifestation of what she’s felt ever since that day.
The set list consisted of five songs, a few of which Aki loosely recalled hearing somewhere before but one or two of which she didn’t. They transitioned smoothly from one to the next until finally ending on their most well-known chart topper hit that had the whole crowd enthusiastically singing along, including Aki’s friends beside her who were at this point threatening to irrevocably damage her hearing. Reaching the climax of the song and performance, Shiho unleashed an exhilarating guitar solo as the audience continued carrying the words.
Still, Aki was unable to speak, heartbeat palpitating in tune to the flashing strobe lights.
Before long, the final note rang out clear and sonorous, piercing the bright early-spring sky. Shiho, skin glistening from perspiration, hair and clothes now slightly disheveled, took a second to catch her breath before looking out directly into the crowd of spectators once more.
“We were Laureley. Thank you.”
And then the curtains closed.
Uproarious ovations exploded from the mass of festival goers and didn’t die down for quite some time.
The exuberance lasted long after Laureley exited the stage, after the crowd reluctantly started to thin out and disperse, as if they could soak up some more of that infectious energy if they remained in place. There was an animated vibration about the whole place afterwards, as if the performance had imbued a buoyancy into the very atmosphere that wasn’t there before. Ecstatic dialogues about the unexpected event continued floating amidst the throng of people even as Aki and her friends headed down the path back to the school building.
Aki excused herself from the group to use the restroom, agreeing to meet back up with them later. Instead, she wandered against the flow in the opposite direction, outside the perimeter of the campus in a weightless daze, hearing the buzz of people die down in the distance behind her and finally feeling like she was drifting back down to earth.
She was just about to use this chance to whip out her phone and tell her sister and high school friends about the crazy thing that just happened when she looked up and—
No way.
There she stood, a mere few meters away. A few of Laureley’s staff were standing a distance away near a trailer bus and a few lustrous black cars, but miraculously, no one else was nearby. The familiar indigo hair that Aki’s seen countless times on prints and screens all over the vicinity and beyond, now in front of her and even more stunning in person. It was almost surreal seeing Laureley’s lead singer—the real entity of that unreal image—right there, as if Aki wasn’t certain she actually had a physical vessel before this and was merely an ethereal mirage conjured through sheer musical talent.
Aki felt like she was floating, heart rapidly drumming in her ears as she tentatively took a few steps forward and opened her mouth to speak, but her well of vocabulary had dried up and nothing could muster itself out. Thankfully, Shiho caught her eye and spoke first.
“Hey there.” The singer gave a small wave with one hand. “Did you want a photo?”
“Ah, n-no, I just wanted…” Aki stammered. Now that they were face to face, Aki’s brain was wiped blank at record speed and she felt her boldness quickly deflating. What did she even want? How dare a commoner such as her have the gall to waste Izumi Shiho’s time like this? “I just wanted… to tell you your performance was amazing,” she finished lamely.
“Naturally,” Shiho said with a nonchalant flick of her hair, although a tinge of a lighthearted smile graced her face. “But thank you.”
Aki wished she felt even a tenth of that nonchalance at the moment. What do I say? Oh my god, what do I say?
“Izumi—” she started.
“Just Shiho,” the singer remedied with a casual wave of her hand. “I don’t like bothering with all that. Too formal.”
“S-Shiho,” Aki repeated, mouth suddenly feeling dry as the two syllables left her lips tasting like honey. Aki never thought of herself as the type to get starstruck like this—every time her classmates were fawning over the latest young idol to grace the screen, she would tease them about it while still feeling her own feet firmly planted. But somehow this star was unlike any Aki’s seen before. “I think I was as shocked as everyone else when I saw you guys appear onstage. I didn’t think you’d perform at some college. I mean, I’ve admittedly never actually seen a concert of yours before this, but I assume this isn’t your usual kind of venue.”
“It’s not. But this is the local college in our hometown and Haji’s family has some connections to the administration here, so we came here as a favor,” Shiho explained. Aki assumed she meant Hajime, Laureley’s drummer. “Plus, we’ve got a long international tour coming up and we wanted to stop by while we’re still in town.”
“An international tour? That’s so exciting,” Aki marveled, and subsequently wanted to slap herself with these vapid questions she was parroting. Of course they’d be touring all over the world by now, with how much their influence had spread beyond the country. She wondered where they would go, imagining the glamorous stadiums of America or perhaps the majestic backdrop of England. It was an experience Aki herself—who’s never traveled beyond the local train’s furthest destination—couldn’t even conceive of, as if the two of them were split into separate worlds despite standing a mere few feet apart and breathing the same air.
Right. They were practically breathing the same air.
Somehow it must not have contained enough oxygen, because Aki felt like fainting.
“For our upcoming album. In fact, we just played one of our new songs here that we haven’t even performed anywhere else yet,” Shiho explained, sensing that Aki likely didn’t know a lot about the band, and then with a playful twinkle in her eye, added, “We’re starting right around here for our first concert, and following with some other nearby cities. You should check it out.”
“Definitely! I’d love to see you again,” Aki declared, then quickly realized the implications of her statement as a blush crept onto her face. “I-I mean, as in, see you guys perform live again, not…” She made a mental note about looking into getting tour tickets, or at least, as much as possible considering her mental capacity was operating at its limit just trying to form cohesive sentences right now.
If Shiho thought Aki was a complete idiot by now, she was diplomatic enough to not let it show.
“Actually,” Aki hurried to change the topic, “I was in a band in high school, with a few of my friends. There were moments where I thought about pursuing it further, maybe, but I was never that good. I could never do anything like what you do. I can’t describe it but… I’ve never heard anything quite like yours. It’s something akin to magic. I've never felt anything like what I did when you were performing up there.”
Shiho fell silent for a beat, considering Aki’s words. “What happened to it?” she asked.
Aki was startled out of the trance she was starting to slip in. “Huh?”
“That band you were in,” Shiho clarified.
“Oh, it wasn’t anything serious. We just played to enjoy ourselves, really,” Aki said. “We had to disband after high school because we all went off on our own ways and it got too hard to keep meeting up regularly. Then life got busy and… I suppose I haven’t picked up an instrument since.”
Shiho hummed, face unreadable. “Do you think you would again?”
“I… don’t know, truthfully. It was a lot of fun, one of the best things I’ve ever done. I just don’t know if it’s what I’m meant to do. There’s still a lot I feel like I’m trying to figure out,” Aki expressed in a moment of honesty. She realized she was going on about herself for too long, and decided to confess a bit bashfully, “You know, I actually first saw you in a magazine. Not the ones you’ve done lately; years ago, before Laureley became what it is now. It was an advertisement for a local indie concert you were holding around here, I remember, although I didn’t get a chance to catch the details. The photo was just the three of you against a white background.”
“Ah, I think I know which one you’re talking about,” Shiho recalled, the realization hitting her. “I still remember—that was the first independent concert we ever did as Laureley, before we were signed. We barely had any of our own songs back then, so we mostly did covers as part of our set list, and not that many people showed up. I’m surprised you knew about that.”
“I stumbled upon it by chance while I was in a store,” Aki went on. “I wanted to go, really. I just didn’t get a chance to look into it more that day. But I still remember seeing you then and feeling… mesmerized. You looked incredible, of course, but it was more than that. There was something rare in you, something I’ve never seen in anyone else, I could tell even just through a photo. I know Laureley back then wasn’t anything like what it’s become now, but even then, I’m sure you had inspired people all the same. I certainly never forgot it.”
Shiho stared back wordlessly with wide eyes and Aki felt her face heat up again as her brain finally caught up to the words that had escaped her filter of reason.
What the actual hell was she saying right now? God, she probably sounded like such a weirdo.
Mortification settling in, Aki exclaimed, “I-I didn’t mean to go on for so long! I’m sorry, I know you’re probably super busy and I’ve just been keeping you—”
“Don’t sweat it, I wouldn’t have stayed if I didn’t want to. I do have to go now though, or else they’re going to get on my case for being late again,” Shiho mumbled, half to herself as she glanced away at the trailer. She looked back at Aki and her eyes shone in a way that could’ve rocked the night sky off its hinges. “Hey, I’m glad you enjoyed the show.”
“Of course! And it was so nice meeting you,” Aki hastily told her as Shiho turned to leave.
But before she did, Shiho halted and looked back. “What’s your name?”
“Eh?” Caught off-guard, Aki summoned all her scarcely remaining brain cells to congregate and conjure up her own name. “O-Oh, it’s Aki.”
“Aki,” Shiho repeated once, and if Aki’s heart had somehow continued functioning throughout that exchange, it had certainly stopped now. Then the singer shot a wide smile back over her shoulder, more dazzling than any stage lights Aki’s ever seen. “Nice to meet you too.”
“You met Izumi Shiho?!”
The chorus of voices came in a harmony of incredulousness from her phone speaker. Three faces were staring back at Aki with wide eyes through the cramped window of the video call.
Hours later, Aki still felt like she was perched up on a cloud. She must’ve replayed it in her head until the record broke, the way Shiho smiled at her. Blinding. Electric. God, she’s never seen anything like it. It almost nullified all the bizarre tangents and remarks she managed to utter during that conversation.
It was no surprise how the singer effortlessly commanded crowds of tens of thousands—even after the instruments died down and the stage emptied out, when all Shiho did was stand there and give her a few words, Aki was still left paralyzed by her radiance.
“Laureley did a surprise performance at my school festival and I ran into Shiho as she was leaving afterwards. Luckily she had a bit of time, so I got to talk with her,” Aki recounted dreamily, then sheepishly added, “Or, I guess, it was more like I talked at her by the end.”
Kaori clapped her hands together and squealed, “Oh my gosh, lucky!” as Mari asked, “Did you get a photo?”
“Aw man, I didn’t,” Aki realized aloud. Now she’s thinking that maybe she should’ve gone for that photo instead of making a fool of herself in front of the star during the most nerve-wracking five minutes of her life. “But I swear it happened!”
“What was she like?” Yori inquired curiously.
“She was…” Aki subconsciously smiled to herself as she recalled the interaction for the thousandth time. “A bit different than I expected, to be honest. But not in a bad way! She was obviously super cool and talented, but when we were talking, she was also really… cute. In a way you wouldn’t expect from someone like her at first. She even asked my name at the end and—”
She heard a whistle from the other end of the video call.
“Aw, does somebody have a little crush?” Kaori chirped, beaming with jovial amusement. Aki groaned and rolled her eyes. She was sure this was payback for all the times she teased her friends about their love lives back when they were in school together. Now she somehow became the designated single friend.
“You and millions of others, so you’ve got a lot of competition there,” Mari remarked wryly. “I suppose with how popular she is right now, there has to be something about her.”
They were right. This was just some insignificant celebrity crush, if Aki had to call it something. Nothing out of the ordinary. Juvenile, even. In fact, the shallow and minimal level in which she knew Shiho through sporadic small talk was no more than anyone who got a few seconds of her polite attention on the street or at a meet-and-greet. She was just some faceless nobody among the inconceivably large crowds that Shiho likely met at concerts, people that could recite all of Laureley’s songs by heart and followed the singer’s every move. She couldn’t even call herself a fan before this, since this was the first time she had really listened to the band’s music, aside from a few of their chart topper songs that would occasionally play on the radio or in a store. If she had to compete with these other fans on her objective knowledge of Shiho, there was no doubt she would lose. Those lunatics probably had her exact location at all times by longitude and latitude.
“I didn’t even know you were a fan of Laureley,” Yori mused.
“I wasn’t before,” Aki admitted. “I mean, I knew of them like everyone else, of course. But this was the first time I heard their music properly, and now I definitely am.”
“Maybe you should go buy their tour tickets just so you can try running into Izumi Shiho after the concert ends again,” Mari said teasingly. “I heard it’ll cost you, though.”
“Didn’t their last tour sell out in a day?” Yori recalled.
“Within a couple hours, every single location. So many people were on the website that it crashed. It was a whole thing back then, tickets were almost impossible to get,” Mari answered. “Sorry, Mizuguchi Aki. I’m sure you’ll be able to find someone else one day.”
“All right, all right.” Aki waved her hands in mock exasperation.
To Aki’s relief, the conversation soon shifted to other topics—catching up about school and life and things that happened in their days apart—before they later said their goodbyes and turned in for the night. Aki closed the call and proceeded to open her browser, searching for Laureley’s upcoming tour. The first result that popped up was their official website, the title announcing their international tour. It was happening in several months, and they’d be gone for nearly a year.
Her finger hovered over the link.
Maybe I should…
She tapped it, and a glaringly blank white page assaulted her eyes in her dark dorm room. The page was stuck loading for so long that Aki almost wondered if her internet was down. After what felt like forever, the contents finally came into view—and so did the big red letters on top.
Sold out.
Every single date nearby—all sold out.
Aki fell backwards onto her bed and sighed. That was the end of that, then.
Despite having to give up on being able to see them live again, Aki found herself listening to Laureley’s music increasingly over the weeks after that encounter. It wasn’t exactly what she’d usually listen to—it was a bit rougher, a bit more gritty, with a few more edges than the kind of music that typically populated her playlist, or the kind that she used to play during her time in a band. But it was thrilling, it was new, and somehow it was comforting all at once.
There was an aura about Shiho. Despite the meticulously trimmed image common among idols that was also present in Laureley, she contained a certain authenticity about the way she talked and carried herself. Something raw, something scarce to see. It peeked through the cracks and fractures where normally there’d only be seamless polish.
Aki found herself—for lack of a better term—infatuated.
She soon had every single one of Laureley’s songs in her playlist and knew each word by heart. It was Shiho’s voice that sang Aki to sleep every night, woke her up every morning, accompanied her on the walks to campus and the study sessions and the slow days at her temporary part-time job.
There were select appearances where either one or both of the other members accompanied her, but for a good portion of them, Shiho seemed to be involved most heavily in shaping the band’s public image, appearing in interviews, talk shows, advertisements, collaborations with other celebrities and brands and such. Aki scrolled down the list of videos that answered her search for Shiho’s name, seeing thumbnails with different images of the singer glide by, and ultimately clicked on the most recent one.
The video opened with a wide shot of a sterile-looking white studio. Two figures sat opposite each other.
“We’re here with the lead singer of Laureley and Japan’s beloved rising star, Izumi Shiho!” the interviewer, a young bright-faced man, announced. “Shiho, thanks so much for joining us today. How are you doing?”
The camera cuts from the interviewer to a shot of said singer lounging on a chair on the other side of the table, her signature ribbon in her hair and a dark makeup look around her eyes that matched her black outfit.
“Good. Busy, but that’s always a good thing,” Shiho answers with a small practiced smile, adjusting the microphone’s position by her face. “We’ve been working nonstop on this new album and it’s quite a different direction from what we’ve done before, so—”
They talked about the upcoming album, the creative process, occasionally dropping teasers about new songs. They talked about the other two members of Laureley, although they weren’t there personally this time. Expectedly, the interviewer attempted to slide in prompts here and there about Shiho’s personal life, which the singer skillfully redirected for the most part. Somehow Aki watched a good hour of this and didn’t realize the time that had passed.
“—that why you started? This desire to be the best since you were young? These standards you feel like you’ve set for yourself?” the interviewer was asking.
“I started because I wanted to do something I could look back on and be proud of. Music was always something I chased—it was my first love in many ways, still is. I feel like everyone’s searching for that place where they feel like they’re truly themselves, where they belong, whether that place exists physically or not. Getting to express myself through songs is mine. Being on that stage, there’s nothing else like it,” Shiho answered, and paused briefly. “Kyou was also a big reason why.”
“Ah, Amasawa’s sister, right? She was so young. My condolences to you all,” the interviewer said with an earnest expression. “I think she’d be extremely proud to see how far you three have come now.”
Shiho gave a short hum, gazing off to the side. “I wouldn’t be here talking with you if it weren’t for her,” was all she said, and didn’t comment further.
Luckily, the interviewer sensed the tonal change and pivoted the subject. “So, everyone’s buzzing about that new drama you’re in! Tell us about how that experience was. Did you ever imagine yourself doing an acting role?”
“No, truthfully. I’ve never had an acting background or anything,” Shiho replied. “But I got the opportunity to try something new—”
For the most part, the rest of the questions were quite shallow and sanitized. Clearly there were topics that were allowed and encouraged which their teams had agreed upon beforehand, which primarily steered in the direction of drumming up anticipation for Laureley’s prospective album and Shiho’s personal projects. She talked with rehearsed ease, but Aki could tell she was doing it primarily out of obligation and was coached on what questions to expect. None of these exchanges were engaging the spark that Aki was looking for, that Aki knew Shiho contained.
Aki decided to search the star’s name on social media instead, which might hopefully give her insight from a different perspective. It didn’t take long to find forums and communities full of people talking about her, people with profile pictures of her and screen names relating to her. There was a specific thread of Izumies—which, Aki had discovered then, was what Laureley listeners who were specifically fans of Shiho called themselves—talking about meeting the singer.
@izumieee1016 · 12h
LOOK WHO I RAN INTO ASHAJKDH I WILL NEVER GET OVER THIS
Underneath the text was a photo with thousands of likes of a girl posing with Shiho herself, smiling so wide her face looked like it was about to crack open. Shiho, meanwhile, had a practiced cool smile beside her as she looked into the phone camera, leaning slightly into the fan but not quite touching. Even on what appeared to be a random personal outing, Shiho was dressed in Laureley’s signature image.
Replying to @izumieee1016 — @i_s_4evr · 12h
GOD WHEN IS IT MY TURN
Replying to @izumieee1016 — @laurlaurley · 12h
Sooo lucky omg how did it go?
Replying to @laurlaurley — @izumieee1016 · 11h
she was so ethereal in person i wanted to cry!!! i managed to get a photo and an autograph, i could barely speak i just told her i loved her sm and laureley’s music saved me and she thanked me but i only got a few minutes before she had to go
Replying to @izumieee1016 — @laurlaurley · 10h
I would frame that photo immediately
Replying to @laurlaurley — @izumieee1016 · 10h
i already made it my wallpaper on everything i think im gonna build a shrine next
Replying to @izumieee1016 — @indig0s0ng · 8h
I met her last year at the tour and we talked for a bit and she shook my hand and istg I didn’t wash it for MONTHS afterwards. I hope she knows how much she means to all of us <3
Aki perused through the various threads, seeing others talking about the best day of their life when they briefly met Shiho at a meet-and-greet or dreaming of the day they could, typing in similar spastic fashions. Some also speculated on the new album release and what they were hoping from the songs. Some were viciously fighting against fans of some other band for reasons Aki couldn’t comprehend. One thread was having heated discourse on whether she was secretly in a relationship with the co-star she was in a new drama with—one fan supplied “evidence” in a chain of photos depicting the two of them standing somewhat close together and looking in each other’s general direction, while another fan refuted that claim, saying that such a thing was impossible because Shiho had to be dating one of her bandmates instead.
Aki suddenly imagined how exhausting it must be to be under such constant scrutiny. She wondered if Shiho ever browsed these comments about herself, praying for her own sake that she didn’t.
She thought back to the first thread she browsed, of the fan who met Shiho by chance on the street. How many countless others had Shiho run into by now and given the same cookie cutter pleasantries? People who saw her with stars brimming their eyes, who thought the universe of her, who told her that her voice, her words, were their savior and solace. Aki must have been just another faceless passerby, a mere speck in her day, a vapid exchange that dissolved into the current shortly after.
Suddenly, Aki felt an icy grip seize her and twist from the inside, and then immediately she felt even worse for having the nerve to feel that way in the first place. She would usually turn on Laureley’s music to remedy any sour mood but she knew it would only have the opposite effect in this case.
Foolish. What was she even expecting?
Aki instead glanced over at the pile of papers stacked on her desk, growing taller by the day, and felt a headache coming on. The lecture notes, the exam materials, the job applications, all the burdensome thoughts she’s shoved aside and left to collect dust for too long. Her gaze then followed along the length of the wall to the bass guitar leaning against the corner of her small room, still in its black case that hasn’t been opened since high school. For a moment, she thought she heard a song from years ago.
Then she got up and moved the instrument out of view.
Winter was shedding its coat.
A faint lingering chill still frosted the air as buds peeked out from the hiding place they cocooned in for months. Aki was strolling along the sidewalk among the river of others, flanked by buildings that reached up high into the low gray sky, watching the people around her hurry to go places or find places to go. She saw cars fall in line at red lights and then fly forward at green, and wondered if they all had a destination.
She wasn’t sure if she did, if she ever did. Especially not on this day. It was her free day, and no one else she knew was available—understandably so, as Aki herself shouldn’t have been either, with all the assignments and tasks she was currently neglecting. She supposed some shopping would brighten her up like it usually did, but after over an hour of roaming the malls and stores around town, she still remained empty-handed.
Overcome with fatigue but wanting to postpone her journey home to the inevitable confrontation of her responsibilities, Aki spontaneously swerved into a cozy-looking café that was tucked between other shops on the side of the road.
A melodic chime sounded as she opened the door and stepped in. It wasn’t busy inside, only a few other people were scattered across the space. Aki was about to look towards the menu board and pick up a coffee to energize herself when something in her periphery caught her attention.
A shorter figure stood off to the side near the back of the store, seemingly waiting for an order, a ways away from the handful of other customers sprinkled around the shop. The brim of her hat was low over her eyes, paired with a casual jacket that was quite different from her typical style and a scarf that hid the bottom of her face, but Aki would recognize that sliver of indigo hair peeking out anywhere. It was unmistakably her.
Aki found herself frozen in place, mind racing with conflicting thoughts and emotions. The singer was clearly attempting to be incognito and enjoy a peaceful day out; it’d surely be rude to bother her or draw attention to her by calling out. But she was already standing here, a mere few feet away, and some miraculous alignment of the universe, some intervention of a higher power or serendipitous accident, allowed this to occur, or so she wanted to convince herself. This could be once in a lifetime. What if this chance never happened again?
Just as Aki stepped forward and opened her mouth without a single shred of plan in mind, the singer looked up and locked eyes with her. Seemed like this was becoming a repeated occurrence.
“Ah.” A second passed and Aki was about to just apologize and scamper away. But recognition lit up Shiho’s eyes and she said, “Aki, right?”
Aki was quite sure she needed to be resuscitated, cause of death being a certain someone that she somehow hasn’t been able to get off her mind, that somehow was standing right in front of her.
“You… You remember my name?” Aki breathed out incredulously.
“So I was right.” Shiho glanced down at Aki’s empty hands. “Were you going to get anything?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I didn’t…” Aki was starting to forget why she walked in here in the first place other than the possibility that she was pulled by some unseen thread of fate.
“I was going to stay here a while,” Shiho continued. She paused for a moment before pushing on, “Do you like sweet things? I’ll recommend you something—trust me, it’ll be the best thing you’ve tasted. Join me.” It was posed less like a question and more like a statement.
What in the world was happening?
Aki felt like her internal processing was lagging behind current events. She had the urge to pinch herself, and then did. It hurt.
“What?” Aki blurted. “As in, join you right here, right now—”
“Don’t act like I’m keeping you prisoner.” Shiho crossed her arms and looked pointedly at Aki. “Only if you want.”
“No, I didn’t mean it like—I’d love to!” Aki remedied a bit too loudly, hoping her hesitance hadn’t come across as reluctance. “Really, I would. And I’d love to try anything you recommend.”
Before Aki could even react, Shiho strolled back up to the counter and placed a few more orders of something inaudible. The young barista who diligently started working on it was either one of the miniscule fraction of the population who didn’t recognize Shiho or was being polite enough to not disrupt her.
“Izumi—” Aki began, then quickly corrected herself, not accustomed to being able to utter this word casually. She dropped her voice low. “I mean, Shiho—”
“Don’t worry, it’s my treat,” Shiho cut in, her back still turned to Aki. She picked up the orders after a minute and led them to a two-seater table in the back.
Aki was only able to walk purely because of muscle memory. She had to manually tell herself to inhale and exhale so she didn’t pass out.
She saw Shiho place two delicately crafted slices of cake down that looked like they belonged in an art gallery more than a streetside café, along with two hot drinks, then proceeded to slide into one of the chairs. Aki lowered herself into the remaining one, still working on coming down from a delirious state of disbelief.
“So… what brings you here?” Aki opened with, and then proceeded to stab her fork into her piece of cake to fill her mouth with something other than the dumbest words imaginable. The cream melted on her tongue and balanced out the soft sponginess of the cake, and as it lingered on her taste buds, a delicate dance of deeper flavors emerged. It was a remarkable concoction; Shiho had good taste when it came to desserts, it turned out. Aki would have to come back and buy more of this sometime.
“I have some time to kill between tour prep.” Shiho took a sip of her drink and then sighed in satisfaction. “I also just felt like giving myself a break. It’s been a lot lately.”
“I can’t imagine. It’s been a lot for me too, honestly, so I came here to catch my breath.” Aki held her own cup of beverage to warm her hands. “Ah! Nothing compared to what’s on your plate, I’m sure. Just… college and future stuff.” Before this could turn into an impromptu therapy session, Aki decided to say something else that probably didn’t go through enough rounds of thinking before coming out, “You know, after that day you performed at my school, I started listening to Laureley more. I’m bummed I didn’t start sooner. But still, I meant everything I said that day—when you were singing, it… it spoke to me in a way I’ve never experienced before.”
Shiho twirled her dessert fork between her fingers and it was only then that Aki noticed the other girl’s cake was almost gone, with nothing but a small piece and a few crumbs littered on her plate as evidence of its full existence at one point. How on earth did she eat so fast? Practicing until perfection and playing intense shows and doing public appearances all the time must be exhausting, Aki figured.
“That magazine you mentioned when we met last time, the one you first saw me in—I was thinking about it after we talked that day.” Aki didn’t even get a chance to consider the implications of the fact that Shiho had been thinking about their conversation even afterwards when the indigo-haired girl continued, “I hadn’t thought about it in quite a while up until you said it. We were just beginning to get our bearings as a band when we did that shoot. Didn’t have much money, saved up for a full-page spot in the local magazine to promote our first major gig. We didn’t have anything left to hire professional photographers or stylists after that so we did almost everything ourselves using our part-time job money.” Shiho swallowed the last bite of her cake. “Right here, actually. I worked in this café.”
“Wait, you worked here?” Aki couldn’t help but exclaim, then hushing herself before she attracted unwanted attention. For some reason it was difficult to imagine Izumi Shiho the megastar as a simple barista behind a counter, wearing an apron and taking orders in a corner café, although she figured everyone had to start somewhere. She supposed not many people knew about this, or else the place would be swarming with people wanting to step foot into the very spot where the renowned Shiho had her humble beginnings.
“What, hard to picture?” Shiho asked, amused at Aki’s incredulous expression. “I did for a while, when we were first starting out. I actually came here today because I haven’t been back in a long time and I was hoping the shop would still be here.” She glances around and says wistfully, “The place hasn’t changed much, and neither has the menu. Although the people I used to work here with have all moved on.”
She’s only known of Shiho up on pedestals, cloaked in showlights, so distant and removed from the world Aki herself existed in. This might be the first time Aki truly saw Shiho, as a human being. Somehow it was just as breathtaking—no, even more so. Even more spectacular than any poster depicting her could capture, like all the rough crevices beneath her onstage façade were still filled with liquid gold.
“This place is special to you, huh?” Aki inquired, noticing the way Shiho was gazing around the space.
Shiho looked to her side, beyond the other mostly-empty tables and out the storefront window at the passersby. “It’s less so this particular café and more what it represented to me at the time. It’s like a time capsule being back here.” When Aki silently encouraged her to continue with rapt attention, Shiho went on, “I used to work part-time and put almost all of what I earned into booking studios, buying equipment and upgrades, promoting ourselves. It was just Haji, Momo, and I at the time. No fancy labels, no big contracts, no manicured image. Laureley was just about us three pursuing a dream and honoring an old friend.”
“Kyou, was it?” Aki asked tentatively. “I heard about her in one of your interviews. Oh—sorry if you didn’t want me to bring that up.”
Shiho nodded, still only half-present. “It’s fine, it’s been a long time. And in many ways, Laureley is an extension of her more so than it is of me.” She doesn’t expand on it further, choosing instead to sip her drink, and so Aki lets the subject fade away into the rivulet of the café ambience.
“But that aside—I’m sure everyone’s heard enough about me by now,” Shiho maneuvered the topic. “How are things with you? Have you figured anything out since last time?”
Redirecting another wave of shock that Shiho somehow remembered more details of their brief conversation from a month ago, Aki gave a weak laugh, saying, “Honestly, I… I’m still not sure. I thought I would by now since I’m about to graduate, but I feel like I’m still just getting swept along by what I think I have to do.”
Shiho cocks her head slightly to the side, looking straight at Aki with a sharp intensity that makes the latter feel weak. “And what do you think you have to do?”
“All this,” Aki gestured vaguely around her, though clearly not directed at her immediate physical surroundings. “Go to college, find a job, work some nine-to-five for decades—I don’t know. I never thought about this stuff beyond just wanting to do something I enjoyed. That’s all that’s ever driven me. But I know that’s not realistic most of the time. And before I knew it, it seemed like everyone had their directions except me.” She admitted with a melancholic smile, “I’m quite envious of you, actually. Not even about the fame or success or anything, just… the fact that you’re doing something so interesting, something you truly love, something you’re certain you want. How much possibility there is.”
Shiho exhaled before speaking. “It’s not always like that. Don’t get me wrong, there are a lot of good things about this life. I’m glad to have gotten this far. But it’s not always the dream people might think it is. There are things I miss about… before all this.”
“Like being able to go to a café on a day off without some annoying fan interrupting you,” Aki joked with a sheepish smile.
The singer let out a genuine laugh at that, and Aki felt something inside of her flutter and take flight at such a beautiful sound. “Technically, I interrupted you first.”
“What do you miss?” Aki prompted softly.
Shiho was pensive for a moment. “Truthfully, the fulfillment of it all. Not to say it’s not fulfilling now; performing onstage to so many people who know all the words to our songs is a feeling nothing else can replace. But there was a difference about it back then, and I suppose I only knew the difference after that time was over,” she said wistfully. “I was so hellbent on having Laureley take off into something serious that I didn’t even allow myself to revel in it back then—getting together to practice every week at a small studio that we saved up for, fussing over all these minor imperfections as we strived to improve, putting up posters around town that we made ourselves, posting our videos online for some measly views. There was something… gratifying about the uphill.”
And even though Aki wasn’t anywhere close to the position Shiho was in—not even in the same galaxy—she thought back to her golden, carefree band days with her friends by her side, and understood from a tangentially related angle.
“Now they’ve got me in all these dumb commercials and shows and brand deals, all to boost our image. It’s not me at all,” Shiho grumbled and sighed, not entirely directed towards Aki anymore. She cleared her throat and seemed to remember who she was speaking to. “My point is, Aki, everyone’s doing this for the first time. All this. There’s no path readily laid out for anyone to follow; there certainly wasn’t when I decided to do this. You don’t need to be certain yet. You might not be doing the same thing as what you see around you but who cares? People will have their own ideas of what they think a fulfilling life is but this one is yours.”
“Shiho…” Aki felt the string lights around her wink like it was Christmas in spring. She wondered if any of the other café goers felt the glow emanating in the room, but they seemed to be engaged in their own conversations without notice.
“It seems to me like you already know more about yourself than you think,” Shiho reassured. “So just, uh… believe in yourself and don’t give up. Or something.” She trailed off into an almost inaudible mumble by the end.
Aki couldn’t help but chuckle mirthfully. “Believe in myself and don’t give up, huh?”
“Shut up, I said a lot of other things too.” Shiho looked away with furrowed brows, an adorable flush rising on her face.
Aki involuntarily smiled against her cup, feeling warmth rise inside her like a gently swirling steam escaping through a lid left ajar. She wasn’t sure if it was from the hot beverage settling in her stomach or something else. “You’re actually quite nice to talk to, you know?”
“Gee, thanks,” Shiho said drily, although not in an unfriendly tone.
“Not that I didn’t think you would be! I just meant—” Aki backtracked, eyes widening.
“Relax, I’m just playing,” Shiho said, waving her off. “I actually don’t get many chances to just sit and talk about other things with someone like this. Even on that day when we first met, I was surprised. It’s rare that someone wants to just have a conversation with me. So this is… nice.”
The last word was soft, softer than anything Aki’s heard from Shiho up until now, and Aki suddenly noticed the warm lights on the ceiling cascading over her dark hair like a halo. Aki couldn’t be sure if she was merely imagining that Shiho’s cheeks were tinged pink as the dark-haired girl glanced away and burrowed her face a bit deeper into her scarf. She felt her own heart rate pick up beneath her skin, thrumming giddily between her bones and threatening to fill her head with frivolous thoughts that would surely lead to her undoing.
“Ah, right. Did you end up getting tickets?” Shiho said, suddenly remembering. “To the tour. If you decided you wanted to go, that is.”
“Oh, I… I tried,” Aki admitted, if the definition of “tried” was that she searched up said tour only to instantly be denied access and once again reminded of how untouchable of a parallel dimension Shiho existed in. “But it had sold out almost immediately. I didn’t even stand a chance by then.”
Shiho hummed in thought, head tilted as she rested her cheek on a palm. “Our first concert is close by, just a couple weeks from now. You should come. Bring your friends too, whoever you want.”
“Huh? But I couldn’t get any tickets—” Aki started.
Shiho stared directly at her. “I’m inviting you personally, moron.”
Aki’s organs were suspended in midair, unmoving, held in place in their cavity by some invisible string, her body a hollow statue in which flowers might soon begin blooming. All she manages out after what feels like an excruciatingly long time is a soft, “Oh.”
She didn’t dare to hope what she deeply wanted to, because the mere hope that occupied her mind was absurd, fantastical. It was likely the same hope that millions of others have had, the kind of hope anyone would rightfully be called delusional for. But as Shiho talked to her like a friend, looked at her like something even more tender, sitting right across not as the specter conjured by the world’s veiled perception but the real person underneath, she might have almost been able to delude herself into believing it. That maybe, just maybe…
“Shiho, I—”
“Give me your phone,” Shiho suddenly demanded.
What?
As if possessed, Aki wordlessly unlocked her phone and slid it over the wooden table, like Shiho could say anything and she was only programmed to follow. On second thought, the puppet strings could be severed and there’d be no difference; she was quite sure she would already do anything if Shiho simply said the word.
She saw Shiho tap on something and type for a few seconds before sliding the phone back over to Aki face-down.
Before Aki got the chance to check what it was that Shiho did, the dark-haired girl was pushing her chair back and standing up, picking up her now-empty cup and tossing it into a bin nearby.
“I’ve gotta run now,” Shiho announced, tucking her chin back under her scarf and pulling the brim of her hat down lower to hide her eyes. “But I… enjoyed this. Thanks for keeping me company, Aki.”
An adorably rosy blush colored Shiho’s cheeks even as she tried to conceal her face under her clothes. This time Aki was sure it couldn’t merely be the heat of the drink.
“Are you kidding? Thank you,” Aki emphasized, “for taking the time to listen to me. For everything. I feel a lot better now, really.”
“You’ll figure it out.” Shiho sounded more confident than Aki herself was, but in that melodic voice, that statement somehow felt easier for Aki to believe. “Did you enjoy the cake?”
“The cake?” Aki forgot the premise of why they even sat down together in the first place. “Oh, yeah! You were right, it was the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“Told you so.” Shiho grinned, a wide and real and unabashed one this time, a kind Aki had never seen from her before—not in any photoshoot or interview, and god knows she’s sifted through a lot of those; different, even, from the first time they met. Aki knew she was past the point of return. Perhaps she always was, from the moment she saw Shiho on that glossy page.
With a final wave and one last glance back, Shiho turned and walked away.
Aki watched as Shiho’s figure exited out the doors, past oblivious new customers filtering in, steadily growing smaller in the distance as the lights seemed to dim all around her once again, until she realized—
Crap, I forgot to ask for a picture again. Aki groaned internally, already imagining how her next call with Yori, Mari, and Kaori would go if she brought this up.
Aki could already picture Mari saying with the most deadpan expression, “Let me get this straight—you ran into the Izumi Shiho in a coffee shop, who bought you cake, gave you life advice, and then invited you to her next concert for free?”
“Are you sure you were awake, Mizuguchi?” Yori might ask concernedly.
“Or maybe you’re getting your real life mixed up with all those romance stories you’re reading,” Kaori would add with a sheepish smile.
I also didn’t get to ask her more about the concert, Aki realized, about to run out the doors after Shiho, then quickly deflated. Ah… she was probably just inviting me to be polite. I’m so dumb.
Aki sighed and buried her face into her hands, looking back down at the remaining bit of beverage she still had in her cup through the gaps between her fingers. It had surely gone cold by now.
It was true—she had no souvenir for this chance encounter except the mental album of snapshots she branded into her memory. And even in her own mind, it felt surreal. Now that she was sitting alone at this booth in the back, facing nothing but an empty chair, she started to wonder if maybe imaginary-Kaori, imaginary-Mari, and imaginary-Yori were right. That this was all some elaborate dream fueled by some delusional fantasy scenario extracted from one of the many fictional stories she’d indulge in, and that she’d be startled awake from it any moment now by the obnoxiously familiar sound of her alarm.
She sat there for a while in silence, feeling her face against her palms, the heat of her skin, the loud rhythm in her veins. The quickening of her heart rate when she thought of Shiho’s proximity to her mere minutes ago, and the strange calm when she replayed Shiho’s words. It all felt undeniably real, but perhaps that was merely evidence that Aki was truly far gone, so much that her brain was materializing her anxieties into an absurd situation with her favorite idol.
Reluctantly, Aki heaved herself up out of the booth, not wanting to take up a table for too long as the shop started getting busy. Perhaps her path in the further future was hers to determine, but her path in the near foreseeable future led to final exams that she couldn’t afford to not pass.
Aki opened her phone, wondering if she should tell her friends about this at all, simultaneously knowing she would eventually be unable not to. Glancing down at the device, she found that her contacts list was left on screen.
Strange, she didn’t remember opening that. She almost exited out when—
There, at the bottom of the screen, she saw it. Her eyes widened and her heart stopped in place for what must have been the tenth time that day.
A new number was saved under the name “Free Tickets.”
This time they really aren’t going to believe me.