Part 1 – Childhood Prayers
The shrine sat at the edge of the mountain, quiet and ancient, its stone steps worn smooth by centuries of pilgrim feet. Every summer, my family returned to it like clockwork. And every summer, it felt heavier.
The cicadas screamed, filling the humid air with their endless drone, a noise that made the silence between us feel even sharper. My mother's hands were clasped in front of her chest, white-knuckled. My father muttered low prayers, the kind that sounded less like hope and more like a bargain. My uncle and aunt—Xiarya's parents—were the most broken of all. Auntie's face had thinned with grief, her lips moving around the same words she whispered year after year: bring her back, please, let her be safe.
It had been nearly eight years since Xiarya went missing. Eight years since the chaos at the hospital, since the family feud spiraled out of control and my cousin—more like my sister—was gone.
Every year, this was the ritual. The trek up the steps, the incense, the candles, the desperate prayers. And every year, I suffocated a little more under the weight of their grief.
I was only ten. I didn't know how to carry that much sorrow.
So, like always, I slipped away.
I waited until their eyes were closed, their chants thick with desperation. Then I edged toward the side path, where the paper fortunes fluttered on their strings and the wooden ema boards clattered in the breeze. The smoke was too heavy, the chants too loud, the grief too much.
I just needed air.
And that's when I saw her.
She was standing near the back steps of the shrine, broom in hand. The thing was taller than she was, the bristles dragging clumsily across the stones as she tried to sweep. She had her hair pulled back with a strip of plain cloth, her white sleeves rolled carefully to her elbows.
When she looked up, I froze.
Her eyes weren't like other kids' eyes. They were wide, calm, and so impossibly old—like she carried something heavy that had nothing to do with the broom in her hands.
"You shouldn't be here," she said softly.
I bristled. "Why not?"
"Because you're supposed to be praying."
I looked back at the hall, at the flickering candles and the bowed heads, then back at her. "I can't breathe in there."
She tilted her head, studied me like she could see straight through my skin, then nodded once. "Then breathe."
I did. Just one deep inhale, shaky, awkward. It felt strange, being told something so obvious. But somehow, it helped.
The cicadas roared. She went back to sweeping. I just stood there, watching her.
Finally, I asked, "What's your name?"
She hesitated, her hands tightening on the broom. Then, in a voice soft as the bell that hung in the shrine's rafters, she said: "June."
"Adra," I answered automatically.
Something flickered in her eyes—recognition, maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to believe she recognized me.
She leaned her broom against the stone wall and reached into her sleeve. From it, she pulled out a small flask of water, the kind shrine maidens carried for long afternoons in the heat. She held it out to me without a word.
I took it, gulped too fast, and ended up coughing until my eyes watered. She laughed. A clear, light sound that cut through the incense and the grief and the suffocating prayers.
For a second, I forgot everything.
Then my uncle's voice boomed across the courtyard, sharp and urgent, calling my name. I jerked like I'd been caught stealing.
I shoved the flask back into her hands, muttered something clumsy like "thanks," and ran.
By the time I dared to glance over my shoulder, she was gone.
But the next year, when we came back, she was there again. Sweeping the same steps, her broom still too tall, her eyes still too old.
And the year after that.
And the year after that.
Always the same, like she belonged to the shrine itself.
And always, when I slipped away from the prayers, she looked up at me and said something simple that made me breathe again.
I didn't know then that her presence would anchor me for the rest of my life. I didn't know she was more than a fleeting summer memory.
I only knew that in the middle of grief, when everyone else was begging the gods to bring back what we lost, June was the one thing that made me feel like I hadn't lost everything.
Part 2 – The Broken Voice
The shrine hadn't changed.
The same stone steps curved upward through the mountain forest, moss clinging to the edges, cicadas buzzing loud enough to drown my thoughts. Lanterns swayed faintly in the evening wind, and the smell of incense wrapped around me as I climbed. Ten years had passed since the first time I'd wandered away from my family's annual prayers, but the air was exactly the same: heavy, ancient, expectant.
And so was I.
No—worse. I was broken.
I'd come here because my voice—the thing that defined me, that made Sudden Music climb higher than we'd ever dreamed—was failing. Doctors said the injury might never fully heal. Every appointment blurred into the same clinical words: rest, therapy, possible surgery. Every attempt at singing ended in fire clawing my throat, in notes cracking like broken glass. I wasn't just losing my career. I was losing myself.
And I couldn't let the others see me like this. Not Gelo, who held the band together like gravity. Not Steve, who laughed like nothing could break him. Not Mark, who filled every silence with too many words. And not Xiarya—no, not even her, though she carried my mask when I couldn't.
I was supposed to be the anchor. The untouchable. The one who didn't waver.
But inside, I was drowning.
That's why I ran. Not to Seoul, not to the stage, but here—to the place where prayers always seemed louder than answers. I didn't know what I was searching for. Peace? Forgiveness? Or maybe just a corner of the world where no one expected me to sing.
I reached the top step, chest tight, and stopped.
Because she was there.
She stood beneath the shrine's great bell, its rope swaying gently behind her, its bronze face glowing faintly in the lantern light. She wore the red hakama and white kimono of a shrine maiden, her long black hair brushing her waist. Her hands rested lightly on a broom, but she wasn't sweeping. She was watching me.
And when her eyes met mine, it was like no time had passed.
"Adra," she said softly, as though my name had been waiting in her mouth all these years.
My chest clenched. "You... remember me?"
Her lips curved faintly, but her gaze stayed steady. "Of course. You came here once. When you couldn't breathe."
A bitter laugh clawed out of me. "I still can't."
She tilted her head, studying me the way one might study a wounded bird. Then she leaned her broom against the stone wall and slipped a hand into her sleeve.
When she withdrew it, a small paper charm rested in her palm, the ink still fresh. She stepped closer, close enough that I could see how the lantern glow turned her hair into strands of fire. She pressed the charm into my hand.
"Then hold this," she whispered. "Not because it's magic. But because someone gave it to you."
The paper was warm from her touch, edges soft against my palm. My throat ached—not with pain this time, but with something heavier, sharper. I swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "I don't... believe in these things."
"I know." Her smile was almost mischievous. "But you'll still keep it."
And she was right.
For a moment, silence stretched between us, filled only by the whisper of the trees and the distant chant of someone's prayers. I wanted to tell her everything—that my voice was gone, that the band might fall apart, that I didn't know who I was without music. But the words tangled, choking me.
Instead, I asked the one question I could manage. "Do you... still live here?"
She nodded, folding her hands neatly in front of her. "I never left. My family keeps me here. Tradition, duty. The shrine needs a daughter to serve, so here I am."
The resignation in her voice twisted something inside me.
"You're trapped," I said quietly.
Her smile flickered, almost sad. "Maybe."
"Don't you want to leave?"
Her eyes lingered on mine, as if weighing whether I could bear the truth. Then, softly: "Yes. But wanting doesn't change what's expected of me."
The words lodged in my chest like stones. Because wasn't I the same? Bound by contracts, by fans, by expectations so high they crushed me every time I failed to reach them? Music wasn't supposed to feel like a cage, but lately, that's all it was.
We were the same. Two prisoners—hers bound by tradition, mine by fame.
"Why are you here, Adra?" she asked finally.
The question undid me. My throat tightened, my chest squeezed, and I almost dropped the charm.
"Because," I rasped, voice rough and breaking, "I don't know if I can sing again. And if I can't... I don't know if there's anything left of me."
Her expression didn't falter. She didn't pity me, didn't flinch from my brokenness. She just stepped closer, her voice steady.
"Then be more than your voice."
The simplicity of it rattled me.
"No one else says that," I whispered. "Everyone just... wants me to get better. To fix it. To go back."
"I'm not everyone," she said.
Her hand brushed mine briefly, steadying the paper charm. The touch was small, fleeting, but it burned through me like fire.
I wanted to say more. To ask her to keep talking, to keep me here, to remind me what it felt like to breathe. But her name caught in my throat, fragile as glass.
"June..."
She tilted her head, eyes wide, calm. "Yes?"
I shook my head. "Nothing."
Because what could I say? That in a single moment, she made the weight lighter? That for the first time in months, I wasn't just the broken singer? That maybe, just maybe, she was the only reason I hadn't collapsed entirely?
No. Not yet.
She stepped back, reclaiming her broom. "Go home, Adra. Rest. You'll find your song again."
Her voice carried no doubt. And for some reason, I believed her more than I'd believed any doctor.
When I finally turned to leave, the paper charm was still warm in my palm.
And for the first time in a long time, I thought maybe I could breathe.
Part 3 – The Shrine Maiden / The Festival
The Alcantara University cultural festival was chaos.
The air shimmered with the smell of grilled yakitori, roasted chestnuts, and sweet pancakes dripping with syrup. Lanterns strung across the courtyard flickered against the late summer dusk, and laughter echoed from every direction. Music blasted from the main stage, booths called out deals, and students darted around in a blur of colors.
For most, it was just another festival—another excuse to eat, sing, laugh, and flirt.
For me, it was a job.
Sudden Music had been asked to perform as part of the evening lineup. A publicity gig, Monique had explained. Boost the university's prestige. Keep our name tied to the school. Easy money, easy press.
On stage, under the glare of lights, it should've been simple. We'd done bigger venues. Stadiums. Arenas packed with twenty thousand fans screaming until their throats tore. Compared to that, this was child's play.
But when I lifted my head between songs, scanning the sea of faces, my heart stopped.
Because I saw her.
June.
Not in white robes this time. Not sweeping stone steps under the hum of cicadas. No—she stood in the crowd in a pale summer dress, her hair pinned loosely at her neck, strands curling against her cheeks. The festival light painted her skin golden, and her eyes—those impossibly old eyes—were softer now, shimmering with something I couldn't name.
For a moment, I forgot where I was. My mic hovered uselessly at my lips. The crowd screamed, expecting my next line, but I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
It was Steve's voice that saved me, sliding effortlessly into my part, covering the missed line with a cocky grin. The fans thought it was planned. Mark smirked. Gelo shot me a sharp look, but I barely registered it.
All I could see was her.
June.
When the set ended, the others hustled backstage, laughing about the crowd, joking about autographs. I didn't follow. I slipped out through the side, heart pounding, and hunted for her among the lantern stalls.
And then, I found her.
She was standing near a booth selling paper fans, her fingers trailing over painted designs of cranes and cherry blossoms. When she looked up and saw me, she froze.
"June." My voice cracked.
Her lips parted, but no words came. Then, softly: "Adra."
The sound of my name on her lips after all these years sent heat rushing through me.
"You... you're here," I said, stupidly. "How?"
She glanced down at the fan in her hands, then back at me. "The shrine allowed me to attend. Just for the festival. One night."
"One night?"
She nodded, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "It's... rare. I begged. They said yes."
Her voice carried something wistful, something fragile. Like this was a dream she expected to wake from.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to speak past the storm in my chest. "You look—" I stopped, then started again. "Different."
Her smile widened just a little. "So do you."
We drifted away from the booths, away from the noise, to a quieter stretch near the lantern-lit riverbank. Children tossed paper boats into the water, their candles glowing as they floated downstream.
She stood beside me, arms folded loosely, eyes reflecting the lanterns. "You're famous now."
The words weren't accusing, just... observant.
"Yeah," I muttered. "Sometimes I wish I wasn't."
She tilted her head. "Do you hate it?"
I thought of the screaming fans, the suffocating schedules, the contracts inked in blood. Of the way my voice still ached at the edges of every note. And then I thought of the faces in the crowd, the energy, the fire.
"I don't hate it," I said finally. "But it doesn't always feel like mine anymore."
Her eyes lingered on me, searching, weighing. "You're still the boy who couldn't breathe, aren't you?"
The words cut straight through me.
I wanted to deny it. To say I was stronger now, untouchable. But instead, I found myself whispering, "Yeah."
Silence stretched, broken only by the laughter of children and the gentle rush of the river.
"Do you ever think about leaving?" I asked suddenly.
She laughed softly, a sound tinged with sadness. "Every day. But where would I go? The shrine is all I've ever known. My parents say my duty is here. If I leave..." She trailed off, shaking her head.
"If you leave, what?"
Her eyes flickered with something sharp. "If I leave, then I betray everything they sacrificed for me. Everything I was raised to be."
Her voice cracked, just slightly, and it shattered something inside me.
"June..." I reached out before I could stop myself, my fingers brushing hers. She stiffened, startled, but didn't pull away.
The fireworks exploded above us then, bursting in a storm of gold and red. The crowd roared, gasping at the spectacle. For a heartbeat, the world lit up—her face illuminated, her eyes wide, her lips parted.
And in that fragile, blinding moment, I knew I couldn't lose her again.
But when the fireworks faded and the smoke drifted away, so did she.
By the time I turned, the space beside me was empty.
June's POV
I shouldn't have gone.
The shrine had allowed me one night, one single taste of the world beyond the gates. A reward, they'd called it, for years of service. But I knew the truth. It was pity. They saw how thin I'd grown, how hollow my eyes had become. They wanted me to taste freedom, then return willingly to my prison.
But then I saw him.
Adra.
The boy who had once stumbled behind the shrine steps, breathless with grief. The boy who had whispered my name like a secret. Now taller, older, famous—but still with those same eyes. Eyes that saw me.
When he looked at me on that stage, I thought my heart would stop. When he spoke my name, I thought I'd shatter.
And when he touched my hand at the riverbank, I wanted to stay.
But I couldn't.
Because if I stayed, I might never go back.
So I ran, back to the shrine, back to the life that was crumbling around me. And as the fireworks faded behind me, I whispered his name into the night like a prayer I wasn't allowed to keep.
Adra's POV
I searched for her for hours. Through the stalls, through the crowd, even into the shadows of the empty streets. But she was gone.
When the others found me, Steve laughed it off—"Bro, fans leave all the time, you'll see her again." Mark teased, Gelo frowned, Xiarya watched quietly.
But none of them understood.
Because this wasn't just a fan.
This was June.
The girl who had taught me to breathe.
The girl I wasn't allowed to lose.
Part 4 – Separation & Withering
Adra's POV
Time blurred.
The band's rise was meteoric. We left the festival gig in the dust, catapulted into arenas, then stadiums, then world tours. There were interviews in Tokyo, photoshoots in Paris, magazine covers in New York. "Sudden Music" wasn't just a band anymore — we were a brand, an empire, a machine that chewed through days and spit out accolades.
But behind every spotlight, there was a shadow I couldn't shake.
June.
The way her fingers had trembled when I touched her hand. The way her eyes had flickered with longing and restraint, like a candle burning behind glass. The way she had slipped away under the fireworks, vanishing like smoke.
Every night, when the crowd screamed my name, part of me listened for hers instead.
And when I sang — when my voice climbed into those fragile high notes that had once threatened to break me — I imagined her listening. Somewhere. Anywhere.
But when the lights cut out and the hotel doors locked behind me, silence settled. And in the silence, her absence was louder than any roar.
I tried to forget. God, I tried. There were women who wanted me, who whispered promises in smoky clubs and sent messages through managers. There were fans who cried at my touch, who tattooed my lyrics onto their skin. But none of them were June. None of them had eyes that carried centuries. None of them had given me air when I couldn't breathe.
Fame fed me. But it didn't fill me.
And every year, like clockwork, my family still returned to the shrine to pray for Xiarya — the cousin we had lost nearly a decade ago. I never told them that when I bowed my head, my prayers weren't only for her. They were for June, too. The girl still trapped behind those same cedar walls.
June's POV
For me, time didn't blur. It dragged.
The shrine was silence and duty, repetition and suffocation. Dawn bells, morning sweeps, chants that rattled like chains. The world outside shifted — cars louder, phones brighter, the internet sneaking even into sacred places — but inside the shrine, nothing changed. Nothing was allowed to.
I grew taller, my hands steadier on the broom. My robes fit differently, my reflection sharper, but my eyes — my eyes stayed hollow.
Because every day, I remembered the riverbank. The fireworks. The warmth of his hand brushing mine.
Adra.
I saw him even when I didn't want to. He was everywhere. His music played from the radios of visitors. His face flashed across magazines left behind by careless tourists. His name trended in places I'd never step foot.
He was a ghost I couldn't escape — but he wasn't dead. He was alive, radiant, burning across the sky while I withered in the shadows.
At first, I convinced myself it was enough. That watching from afar was safer. That I had my duty, my vows, my family's honor. But with every year, the shrine walls closed tighter.
My parents noticed. My mother pressed me to smile harder, bow deeper. My father muttered about "commitment" and "sacrifice." But no amount of obedience could mask the truth: I was fading.
The villagers whispered about the maiden who never laughed, the girl whose beauty was like a porcelain doll — perfect, but lifeless.
And my parents... they began to see it too.
One night, after a long ceremony, I overheard them arguing. My father's voice was sharp: "She will dishonor us if she continues like this."
My mother's voice cracked: "She is wasting away. Can't you see?"
They fell silent when they noticed me listening. But a week later, their verdict came.
"You are no longer bound to this shrine," my father said simply.
I blinked. "What?"
My mother's hands trembled as she folded my robes, placing them gently in a wooden chest. "Five years, June. Five years of duty, of withering. If you continue here, you will vanish. We can't let that happen."
My father's jaw tightened. "If you won't live for us, then live for yourself. Find what you slipped past. Find... who you slipped past."
I knew who he meant. Even if he couldn't say it.
They packed me a small suitcase. A few clothes. A handful of charms I'd written in secret. And then they opened the gate and told me not to return until I had found life again.
I stepped out into the world like a newborn, blinking against the lights, trembling at the noise. I had no idea how to survive. But for the first time, the air didn't taste like ashes.
It tasted like possibility.
Adra's POV
Five years.
That's how long it had been since the festival. Since the riverbank. Since her hand slipped from mine.
In those years, I lived a thousand lives.
On stage, I was unstoppable. In interviews, I was clever, charming, untouchable. In films, I was a different person altogether, my face plastered across theaters worldwide.
But when the lights cut out, I was still Adra. The boy who had whispered with a shrine maiden under the cicadas, the man who had touched her hand beneath fireworks.
Every city blurred together. Tokyo. Paris. Manila. New York. I learned to sleep on planes, to smile through exhaustion, to answer questions I didn't care about.
But I never stopped looking.
Every shrine I passed on tour, I glanced at the steps, half-expecting her to appear with her broom. Every festival crowd, I searched for her eyes. Every quiet night, I prayed—not for my voice, not for fame, but for her.
And sometimes, when the world was too loud, I'd unfold the old paper charm she had once pressed into my hand at twenty. The ink had faded, the edges frayed, but her handwriting was still there. Still steady. Still hers.
It was my anchor. My reminder that somewhere, she still breathed.
June's POV
The world was terrifying.
I stumbled through it clumsily, like a bird pushed from its nest too late. Supermarkets overwhelmed me. Trains confused me. Crowds suffocated me.
But I survived.
I worked small jobs—tea houses, craft stalls, tutoring children. I slept in cramped apartments that smelled of mildew, ate cheap meals of rice and eggs, and learned how to stretch coins into weeks.
And slowly, painfully, I grew.
I laughed again. First quietly, then louder. I cried too, but not from suffocation—from freedom. From fear of the unknown. From the ache of searching for something I couldn't yet name.
But no matter how far I traveled, no matter what job I took, one truth remained.
Every time I heard his voice — in a shop, on a stranger's phone, in a passing car — I stopped. My chest tightened. My eyes blurred.
Adra.
I hadn't seen him in years. But he was still everywhere.
And in my heart, he was still mine.
Part 5 – The ReunionAdra's POV
Kyoto in spring was supposed to be healing.
That's what everyone told me — managers, doctors, even Gelo. "Go. Take a retreat. You've earned it."
The cherry blossoms had just started to fall, pale pink petals carried by a soft wind. The city buzzed with tourists, with camera shutters, with laughter. But I wasn't there to laugh.
I was 27 now. Older. Sharper. A global name. My voice had returned, scarred but whole. The band thrived, I had films in the works, sponsors, headlines — all of it.
But none of it silenced the hollow place in my chest.
So I wandered. Alone.
I found myself at the edge of the city, where the streets thinned into small shops. Lanterns swayed gently in the breeze. The air smelled of tea, faintly bitter, faintly sweet.
And then I saw her.
June.
She was standing behind the counter of a small tea house, dressed simply in a pale blouse and long skirt. Her hair, darker and longer than I remembered, was braided neatly over her shoulder. She was serving tea to a group of tourists, her movements graceful, precise, like a ritual even here among the ordinary.
The tray in her hands wobbled when her eyes lifted and landed on me. Tea nearly spilled over the rim, but she steadied it, set it down with care.
For a second, I thought I was hallucinating. That the silence and exhaustion had finally cracked me open.
But then her lips parted. And one word slipped out:
"Adra."
The sound of my name in her voice shattered me.
I crossed the room before I knew it, ignoring the stares of customers, ignoring the murmur of the shopkeeper. My hands trembled. My breath came short.
"June," I whispered.
Her eyes filled instantly, glistening with unshed tears. "I thought... I thought I'd never see you again."
I shook my head, fiercely. "You should've known. You should've known I'd find you."
And then — she laughed. A small, broken laugh that cracked into a sob halfway through. She pressed her hands to her mouth like she could hold the sound in, but it escaped anyway, trembling into the air.
I pulled her into my arms. For the first time, I didn't let her slip away.
June's POV
The world narrowed to him.
For five years, I'd wandered without direction, carrying nothing but paper charms and memories. For five years, I'd told myself he belonged to the world now — to the lights, the stages, the screaming fans. I was just a shadow of the girl he once knew.
But here he was.
His hair shorter, his shoulders stronger, his eyes lined with exhaustion I didn't remember — but still him. Always him.
When his arms closed around me, I couldn't breathe. Not because I couldn't, but because for the first time in years, I finally could.
I buried my face against his shoulder. He smelled of cedar and cologne and faint travel dust. Not incense, not shrine smoke — something freer.
And in that moment, I knew: I was alive again.
Later that Evening
We walked together through the quiet streets, petals gathering in soft drifts along the stones. The sun bled gold into the sky, shadows stretching long and gentle.
"I've thought of you every day," he said, voice raw. "Every concert. Every city. I looked for you. Always."
I pressed my hands together, fingers trembling. "And I heard you. Even when I wanted not to. Your voice reached the shrine, the tea houses, the radios, the strangers on trains. You never left me."
His jaw tightened. "I should have come sooner."
"You couldn't," I said softly. "You had to carry them. And I... I had to wither before I could leave."
He stopped walking. His hand brushed mine, tentative, like he was afraid I'd vanish again. "But you left. You're here. And I'm not letting you go this time."
I turned to him fully, my eyes burning. "And if I'm not enough for you? If the world wants more than I can ever give?"
His hands closed around mine, steady, grounding. "The world can scream all it wants. When the lights cut out, when the cameras stop, it's you I want standing beside me. Just you."
My tears spilled over. He brushed them away with his thumb, his own eyes shimmering.
And under the drifting blossoms, he kissed me.
Not desperate. Not rushed. Just certain. Like something written long before either of us knew how to read it.
Adra's POV
The next weeks blurred in a different way.
June moved in with me — not into the luxury hotels or tour apartments, but into a small rented flat in Kyoto where no one knew us. She insisted on working part-time still, saying she wanted to stand on her own. I didn't fight it. I just watched her laugh with strangers, watched her bloom in freedom she'd been denied for so long.
At night, we'd sit on the balcony, drinking tea, listening to the cicadas. She told me about the years in the shrine — the suffocation, the loneliness, the way her parents finally let her go. I told her about the world tours, the exhaustion, the paper charm I still carried.
And every night ended the same: her head resting on my shoulder, my arm wrapped around her, both of us finally breathing.
The band found out soon enough.
Steve smirked the second I brought her around. "So this is the girl?"
Ariela elbowed him, rolling her eyes. "Be nice."
Mark grinned. "Took you long enough, bro."
Clara leaned on his arm, smiling knowingly.
Monique hugged June so tightly she squeaked. "Finally, someone who can handle him."
David chuckled from behind his glass. "And here I thought he'd marry his guitar."
Even Gelo, with Xiarya at his side, just gave me a nod that said everything: You did it. You found her.
June fit. Seamlessly. Not as a fan. Not as a shadow. Just as herself.
June's POV
There were nights I woke and thought it was a dream. That I was still in the shrine, still bound by vows, still waiting for air. But then I'd turn, and he'd be there — breathing steady, his hand resting over mine.
And I knew it was real.
Of course, the world didn't know. The fans still screamed for Adra, untouchable, radiant. To them, I was invisible. But I didn't need the world.
I had him.
And he had me.
Part 6 – A Love that Blooms
Adra's POV
The wedding hall glittered with string lights and champagne flutes, with the kind of laughter that came easy after years of scars. Sudden Music wasn't just a band anymore; we were family, and Monique's wedding to David was proof of it.
I was supposed to play a melody tonight — just one song, acoustic, stripped down — but my hands kept straying to the crowd.
Because she was here.
June.
She wasn't in shrine robes, not anymore. She wore a simple pale-blue dress, her long hair loose for once, catching the glow of the lights. She didn't try to stand in the spotlight. She lingered at the back, near the rows of candles. Quiet. Luminous. Watching.
And still, she stole all my air.
The band noticed, of course. Steve elbowed me before the ceremony, grinning like the devil. "So the mystery girl finally shows up, huh?"
Ariela smacked his arm, whispering, "Behave."
Mark caught my eye, then June's, and raised his glass in silent approval. Clara rolled her eyes but smiled anyway.
Gelo gave me a nod. Xiarya squeezed my shoulder. No words, just warmth.
They all knew. And none of them questioned it.
The Ceremony
Monique walked down the aisle like she owned it — which, knowing her, she probably did. David looked like a man caught between pride and terror, which made sense.
Her vows made the room laugh, then cry, then laugh again. "I promise to let you carry the heavy things and to admit when I am the heavy thing," she said, and all the moms nodded in agreement. David's vows were steadier, gentler, but no less true.
And then they kissed, and the hall erupted with applause.
I glanced back, just once.
June was smiling, her eyes shining like candlelight.
The Reception
The boys played their roles like it was another concert, just with champagne instead of spotlights.
Gelo emceed like a CEO who accidentally cared too much, his jokes corny but heartfelt.
Steve filed a fake motion to extend the dance hour, then dragged Ariela onto the floor like he'd been practicing all year.
Mark attempted a toast that somehow turned into a ten-slide deck on "Compound Interest: Why My Best Friend's Love Is the Best Investment." Clara unplugged the projector mid-sentence, and everyone cheered.
And me? I played.
A quiet melody, fingerpicked, just enough to hush the room. The kind of song that carried memory, not just notes.
Half the hall cried. The other half swayed.
But my eyes never left the back, where June stood — hands folded, cheeks glowing, beaming like she'd been waiting all her life just to see me here.
June's POV
For years, I had stood in shadows. Shrines. Tea houses. The back of festivals. Always on the edges of other people's lives, never in the center.
But tonight, it was different.
No one knew me here — not the guests, not the fans who might've snuck in. To them, I was just another face in the crowd. But to Adra, I was something more. I could feel it in every note he played, every glance he risked toward me.
When his music filled the room, I felt it thread through me like it always had. A lifeline. A confession. A promise.
And for the first time, I didn't shrink. I stood tall. I let the light touch me.
Because maybe, just maybe, I wasn't a shadow anymore.
Later That Night
The party wound down slowly — half the guests drunk, the other half glowing with joy. I stepped outside into the cool air, needing space to breathe. The night smelled of flowers and wine and rain waiting to fall.
Then the door opened, and he followed.
Adra.
He walked toward me, no guitar now, no stage between us. Just him.
"You looked beautiful tonight," he said simply.
Heat rushed to my face. "I wasn't trying to."
"I know." He smiled faintly. "That's what made it worse."
I laughed, soft and shaky. "You're ridiculous."
"Maybe." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "But I meant it. Every note I played tonight — it was for you."
My chest tightened. "People will notice if you keep looking at me like that."
"Let them." His eyes burned steady. "I've spent years letting the world own me. But this — you — this is mine."
I swallowed hard, my heart racing. "And if I can't give you what the world expects?"
"You don't have to," he whispered. "You've already given me everything I ever needed."
And then his lips brushed mine, tender but certain.
Adra's POV
By the time the night ended, I knew.
It wasn't just longing anymore. Wasn't just fate.
It was choice.
I chose her.
Not the shrine maiden bound by vows. Not the shadow at the back of the hall.
June Laurette. The girl who gave me a charm when I couldn't breathe. The woman who taught me that love doesn't always need stages — sometimes it just needs time.
Epilogue
The months that followed wove her into my life seamlessly. She moved between Kyoto and to my place, between rehearsals and quiet afternoons. The band accepted her without question. The family did, too.
The fans never knew the full truth, and they didn't need to. To them, I was still theirs, untouchable, a name on magazines. But when the lights cut out and the doors shut, June was there.
One night, beneath a sky scattered with stars, I took her hand.
"I wasted years," I said softly. "Years chasing voices, chasing stages, chasing what I thought mattered. But all I ever wanted was this. You."
Her eyes filled with tears, but her voice was steady. "And all I ever wanted was for you to find me."
And when I kissed her this time, it wasn't tentative. It wasn't fleeting.
It was certain.
Because a love that had withered, endured, and waited — finally, fully, bloomed.