I lost my music when I was in my third year of junior high. The musicians I loved disappeared, and I felt betrayed by everything. The music I admired and the words of the people who played it became nothing more than lies to me.
After that, I tried my best to get involved in things that had nothing to do with music. But none of it lasted long. One of the things I tried was becoming manager of the soccer team. That was probably the one that lasted the longest.
I got to enjoy sports games and watch the boys work hard to win tournaments. It was decently fun, and it kept me busy. Having the team members rely on me felt pretty good, too.
A few of the guys asked me out, but I always evaded their invitations with the same vague line: “Sorry, but I don’t really get romance.” I said it to keep them off my back, but it was true that I didn’t have a good understanding of love. I’d spent my whole life immersed in music and hadn’t ever paid much attention to romance.
I spent a year as the team’s manager and was equally nice to everyone, never getting too close to anyone in particular.
I felt like I was doing a good job living. Even though I’d lost everyone important to me and my music all at once—everything that made me who I was—I felt like I was getting by. I thought I could keep interacting with others on a surface level by pasting on a smile and keeping the world at arm’s length.
Then, I began my second year of high school, and a new crop of freshmen joined the soccer team…including Sousuke Andou.
I didn’t know he’d be going to the same school as me, so I was really surprised…and a little irritated. He knew I used to be in a band.
Misuzu had invited him to one of our concerts to help meet our ticket quota to cover the cost of the show. If we couldn’t bring in enough guests, the band members had to split the remaining cost.
At first, he didn’t seem interested. I got the impression he’d only come along because a friend had invited him. So I was surprised when he became obsessed with my music. After the concert, he came up to me, eyes sparkling, and asked for my autograph. I was just there having fun; I hadn’t come up with a signature or anything, so I refused. But from then on out, he asked for my autograph at every concert, and it became a routine for me to refuse him.
Back then, I found his behavior cute. I had no reason to be upset with someone for complimenting my playing. But when we ended up in the same club, I wasn’t sure how to interact with him, since he only knew the old me. Being around him put me on edge.
At first, it seemed like he was just as unsure of how to act around me. But as we spent more time together through the team, I could see that he was gradually getting used to how I’d changed.
I was surprised that he never brought up my music. And honestly, I was grateful. After all, there was nothing for me to talk about. My past was full of things I didn’t want to share.
I was relieved that Andou didn’t try to compare my current self to who I was in the past, and it meant I had no reason to keep my distance. So I started interacting with him the same way I did with everyone else.
But now and then, he’d shoot me a meaningful look—like there was something unspoken on his mind—and that bothered me. Whenever he looked at me like that, I’d refuse to meet his gaze. He never said anything and simply turned his focus back to practice, seeming a little sad.
He was really devoted to soccer—a lot more than the other guys. He spent tons of time working on the fundamentals, something first-years tended to underestimate and neglect, and he treated practice matches like the real thing, playing like his life depended on it.
He always went all out—and, one day, he pushed himself a little too hard and fell during practice. In the end, he had to be taken to the hospital.
The next day, I asked him what happened, and he told me he tore his right calf muscle. He had to sit out from practice for a while after that. He could only observe the others practicing and do strength training with his arms.
Still, he showed up every day and lifted weights while he watched the others play. Once it stopped hurting as much, he secretly began doing squats, even though the doctor told him not to. One day, I went to the club room during practice to restock the sports drinks and saw him at it. He looked a little embarrassed for a moment, but then just shrugged and continued.
It reminded me of how absorbed I’d been in playing the bass, and I felt like it was my responsibility to stop him.
“You need to make sure you heal properly if you want to keep playing soccer,” I said. “Mess up your muscles now, and you might have to sit out of practice for even longer.”
He didn’t say anything. He just continued doing squats, a determined look on his face. “I need to keep building up my muscle strength, or I’ll fall behind everyone else.”
“You’re still a first-year. There’s no need to rush,” I said, trying to be helpful.
He continued squatting and ignored me. It irritated me a little.
“You know, when I used to play bass, I practiced way too much and ended up getting tendonitis. I kept practicing through the pain, and the doctor finally ordered me to stop. I couldn’t touch a bass for over a month. I got so rusty, I almost forgot how to play.”
Before I knew it, I was talking about the past. I thought maybe if I gave him a specific example, I could stop him. Looking back on it now, I still don’t know why I was so desperate. Andou complicating his injury had nothing to do with me.
“I understand wanting to get better,” I said, “but right now you should focus on healing properly. Otherwise, you’ll lose even more time in the long run.”
He finally stopped squatting.
I thought I’d managed to convince him, but my relief didn’t last long. It was when he turned back to look at me that I realized I’d messed up.
He was giving me that look again. And then, before I could escape, he finally said it.