What an unforgivable bastard.
Watching Gotō Hitori sitting across from her, unable to stop crying, Yamada Ryō frowned deeply—then, in the end, could only let out a helpless sigh.
Kind, gentle Bocchi would absolutely take all the blame onto herself. Narumi knew that perfectly well—and yet he still wrote something that could only deepen her sense of guilt.
Or was that, in fact, part of his intention too…?
Yamada rubbed her forehead weakly. If not for the boy's final request, she would never have wanted to involve herself in something that could only end in everyone hurting each other.
His departure still felt like a dream, to be honest. If she hadn't stayed up several nights in a row, wrecking her schedule, and rushed to the memorial in a daze, she probably still wouldn't have any real sense of it now.
"Bocchi, you don't need to blame yourself so much. Just like he said, none of this was your fault."
In the end, that was all she could offer—words so thin they barely counted as comfort.
"I hesitated over whether I should tell you the truth at all… but since this was his final wish, I thought you had the right to know."
"Y-yeah…"
The pink-haired girl raised her sleeve and wiped at her reddened eyes. The pitiful way she kept sniffling was especially heart-wrenching.
Without a word, Yamada Ryō handed her a pack of tissues. Though she never made a point of showing it, she was actually very good at tending to other people's emotions.
"So… what are you planning to do next?"
She tilted her head slightly, trying to encourage Bocchi to pull herself out of the gloom.
"I..."
Gotō Hitori lowered her head. From beneath the bangs that hid her eyes, her expression couldn't be seen.
She clenched the fabric of her pink sweatpants so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
"I… will keep living properly. Just like before."
As if not wanting Yamada to worry, she forced out a small smile—yet her reddened eyes darted away guiltily.
"You d-don't need to worry too much about me, Ryō-senpai…"
"Bocchi…"
She's absolutely forcing herself.
"I… I don't think this is all my fault, so I won't suddenly do something stupid. You can rest assured about that… Besides, I think Narumi-kun wouldn't want to see me sinking into self-blame forever."
Bocchi wiped away her tears, though the skin around her eyes was still red.
"He said he wanted to see me become a shining guitarist, didn't he?"
"So now… I just need to carry one more person's dream with me."
"Bocchi…"
The conversation ended in a way Yamada Ryō hadn't anticipated at all.
The Bocchi she'd expected to break down completely steadied herself far more quickly than expected. On the way home, she didn't cry or make a fuss—and before parting, she even forced another smile at Yamada.
Yamada could tell that behind that smile was nothing but a desperate attempt not to worry her.
At this rate, Bocchi would probably never truly move on from this for the rest of her life.
For some reason, that thought surfaced unbidden in her mind.
But at this point, there was nothing more she could say. All she could do was silently watch as Bocchi opened her front door and disappeared behind it with a soft click.
After that incident, the atmosphere within Kessoku Band grew noticeably subdued. The reason was obvious enough: the death of a certain boy had cast a long shadow over all of them.
Even without knowing the full truth, Nijika and Ikuyo—still saddened by his passing—often drifted off during practice. Yamada was about to tell them to pull themselves together when something unexpected happened.
Bocchi, who usually hated drawing attention to herself, would suddenly speak up, snapping Nijika and Ikuyo back to focus and pushing the rehearsal forward.
During breaks, Bocchi practiced.
During regular rehearsal time, she never skipped.
After that experience, her songwriting seemed to pour out effortlessly—lyrics so striking that even Ijichi Seika would pause to take notice.
By the time she reached her second year of high school, her already excellent guitar skills had advanced by leaps and bounds. She gradually became less afraid of people, and even on large stages she no longer froze—winning over audiences with outstanding technique and deeply infectious lyrics.
In her third year, her live videos began going viral on YouTube. Tens of thousands of views steadily climbed into the millions—a true breakout for an underground band.
After graduating high school came her most active period. More and more media outlets and influencer creators began to notice this guitarist, rich in both compositional talent and performance skill.
Just as she had promised, Bocchi no longer hid herself inside a hedgehog's shell like before. She didn't give up or sink into herself—instead, she stepped completely out of her comfort zone in pursuit of her dream.
But the more she changed, and the greater her achievements became, the more unease grew in Yamada Ryō's heart as she watched from her side.
At this pace, Bocchi would sooner or later leave the rest of the band far behind.
And more importantly—she was nowhere near as strong as she appeared on the surface.
From then on, whether in her lyrics or the atmosphere of her performances, Yamada could feel that Bocchi had never truly moved past that experience.
And yet, paradoxically, the more openly that gloom clung to Bocchi, the stronger her aura as an artist became—allowing her to create even better work, and to draw in audiences captivated by that very quality.
Artists brimming with emotion often create masterpieces people can't stop praising, leaving others utterly entranced. These were heights the carefree Bocchi of the past—who only agonized over everyday trivialities—could never have reached.
Heavy lies the crown. Throughout history, most people capable of producing world-renowned works have had deeply troubled mental states. Perhaps it was precisely because their psychological defenses stood on the brink of collapse that such extraordinary talent could be unleashed.
In the end, only a rare few—like Yamada—truly cared about the mental well-being of these creators.
Finally, during her university years, Bocchi—now just one spark away from explosive fame—received an interview from a long-established television network. It was the same station that had once interviewed the guitarist who had so profoundly influenced her in childhood.
"It's hard to believe a musical talent of your caliber is only in your early twenties. And yet you've written so many lyrics that deeply explore life, death, and existentialism. May I ask where your creative inspiration comes from?"
On the television screen, dazzling camera flashes went off nonstop. At the very center of it all, the pink-haired girl—once shy and evasive of the media—now faced the barrage of microphones with practiced calm.
"It comes from someone I once knew… someone very important to me. Most of my songs are actually written around him. Because… he monopolized one possible path my life could have taken."
On this side of the screen, Yamada Ryō said nothing.
She knew the words Bocchi hadn't spoken.
When she spoke of love, she thought of him.
When she spoke of death, she still thought of him.
Only now did Yamada Ryō truly understand why Narumi had asked her to deliver that letter—the one capable of utterly reshaping Bocchi's very being.
It was a "gift" he left her.
A gift destined to bring her success—and inevitable pain.
Using his own death to pave Bocchi's path upward, and ensuring she would reach the gate of her dream, he injected her with a brutal shot of resolve through the most extreme means possible.
A double-edged sword woven from "pain" and "inspiration," one that destroyed her—and granted her rebirth.
"…Did you think you were some kind of god, judging other people's fates?"
Yamada Ryō scoffed and shook her head. But she wasn't mocking that self-righteous fool.
She was mocking herself—who had watched everything unfold, powerless to change a thing.
Because she knew she could never truly bring herself to hate him.
As for why…
She turned off the TV and returned to her practice room. Taking her bass from its case, she plugged it in, then rummaged through the cluttered desk for the sheet music she needed for today's performance.
And placed in the cleanest, most spacious spot on that desk was a photo frame.
Inside wasn't a group picture or anything like that.
It was a carefully mounted letter.
A secret Yamada Ryō had never told anyone about—not even Nijika.