Jiro
She didn’t ask for anything. Everyone asked.
Everyone wanted—performance, proximity, proof they’d been close to something that mattered.
She just was.
He’d written a hundred songs, chased inspiration across three continents. He hadn’t been caught off guard like this in years.
Bold and soft.
She’d told him about betrayal, about being small in a supply closet, about a man who worshipped love songs while treating her heart like a joke.
No tears for effect. No anger for sympathy. Just truth.
She was a chord progression he’d never heard before.
He had to get it down before it faded.
The song came fast. He didn’t look up.
“A verdict,” he’d told her. He typed until his thumbs ached.
Cupcake is the one who’s moving on.
The line settled. It was done.
Jiro lifted his head, eager to share it with her.
But he was in a different room now. The light had changed, softer, amber instead of white. A green room, maybe. Or a hallway backstage.
She was gone.
He must have been moved.
Jiro looked at the finished song on his phone. The hallway felt longer than it should have.
Voices thinned at the far end. A door clicked shut somewhere out of sight.
He hadn’t stayed present.
He saved the file.
Then he slipped the phone into his pocket and started walking.
Not toward the stage.
Toward wherever she'd gone.