After parting ways with Erina-chan, I returned home. To immediately try out recording, I clipped my smartphone into the tripod, turned the screen toward me, and launched the in-camera (apparently short for inner camera).
My reflection on the screen looked somewhat dazed, and I was exasperated with myself.
‘Amane-chan, what are you singing for?’
It was a shock.
The fact that Erina-chan had poked me where it hurt was certainly part of it, but more than anything, I was appalled at myself for being unable to answer such a simple question immediately.
After all, back when we first met, I was the one who asked Konuma-kun that very thing.
‘Konuma-kun, do you want to *do* music? Or do you want to do *something* with music?’
If that question from that day were thrown at me now, how would I answer?
‘I don’t just want to do music; I want to deliver my words to someone through music. Right now, I can’t sing my own words, but I have so many things I want to convey.’
Yes, that’s what I said back then.
‘Whether it’s about amane or it being a fake, none of that matters. Konuma-kun, what do you want to turn into music?’
What do I want to do with music now? What do I want to turn into music?
Do I even have anything I want to sing about anymore?
I meet the eyes of my reflection in the screen.
“Hey, is there even a song you want to sing?”
At the same time I asked, it was only natural, but—
‘Hey, is there even a song you want to sing?’
The “me” inside the screen asked me back.
“A song I want to sing, huh...”
I looked up at the sky.
“...I don't even know anymore.”
A sulky voice, like a child’s, leaked out.
“I thought I was singing the songs I wanted to sing. I thought this was the only way. ...But, it wasn’t my voice. There are voices in this world that can deliver the same song to even more people. And I’m sure it’s not just one, but many.”
The version of me in the screen gave a bitter smile at my words.
“In that case, no matter how much I want to sing, doesn't it make it meaningless?”
‘Meaning?’
“No, of course, I don’t think everything up until now was meaningless. I think it had meaning. Konuma-kun became able to say he writes his own songs, Yuri became able to write lyrics under her own name, Sako-san was able to play the bass again... and it became a trigger for everyone to spread their wings. That’s exactly why amane’s role ends here.”
‘Was amane just a stepping stone for everyone to debut? Are you saying there’s no point in continuing because the songs didn't sell?’
“That’s right? Because we’re doing this to deliver music...”
‘Really?’
“It’s true. That was Konuma-kun’s dream too, and even I wanted a song that could change someone again...”
‘Did you really think that from the very beginning?’
“That’s...”
For the first time, I faltered.
The day I sang the first song I ever made myself.
And surely.
The day Konuma-kun made his first song.
The day Yuri wrote her first lyrics.
The day Sako-san played the bass for the first time.
We weren’t thinking about making a major debut from the start.
It wasn't about becoming professionals or anything like that... it was much simpler.
—We just tried it because music was fun... because it looked fun.
‘Hey, let’s try singing just one more time.’
“But...”
‘It’s okay. It’s just like the day we started. No one is listening.’
At those words, I took a deep... breath.
C.
G.
C.
Before I knew it, that sound was ringing out.
My fingers were playing a chord progression I hadn't played in a long time—one I had stopped playing without realizing it.
‘I want to seal this away for a bit.’
‘You see, this time, we’re talking about aiming for a debut through the normal route as the band amane, right? So, I thought using amane’s songs from when I was a singer-songwriter would be... kind of different.’
That day, I had sealed the song away while saying something that sounded plausible.
Half of it was true, but half of it was a lie.
...The real, honest truth was because it hurt.
I made my debut with this song, and I retired with this song.
This song was the one that first made my dream come true.
—And at the same time, this song was my unfulfilled dream itself.
Despite saying it was precious, every time I sang that phrase, every time I heard it, it felt like it pricked somewhere in my chest.
Still, I let the words out.
“Hey, is there even one thing in this world that only I can do?”
I sang that much.
...And just like that day, it felt like my voice was going to fail.
But the voice that used to drown out my anxiety is no longer here.
That’s fine. I was all alone at the start, anyway.
So, I’ll continue to sing freely, in my own way now.
Taking another breath.
C.
G.
C.
* * *
‘Watashi no Uta’
Hey, is there even one thing that only I can do?
In the corner of the classroom, sitting silently, just a good little girl.
Hey, is there even one irreplaceable existence?
I might never get to know my person of fate who lives in a distant town.
I have nothing, so I have no confidence.
Because I have no confidence, I have no courage.
I can’t even say something like “Stay by my side.”
If I walk while avoiding pain and wounds,
Before I knew it, I distanced myself from the things I treasure.
That’s surely because, in the real, honest truth, I want to be there.
With nothing but painful things, with nothing but things I can’t reach,
There are days when I want to throw it all away,
But for me, who is just one out of seven billion and can’t become anyone special,
I might someday meet someone who will tell me, “I’m glad you’re here.”
* * *
While playing and singing, each memory floated up.
Performing ‘Weekdays’ at the first Lock-on.
Re-weaving ‘Boat’ at the training camp,
‘Kyousou’ being born at the school festival,
And entrusting the feelings I could only convey through song to ‘Anata no Uta’.
Tying ‘Omamori’ for Erina-chan,
Shouting out my selfishness in ‘Start Line’,
And then putting my feelings back into ‘Kyousou’ once more,
Making a vow in ‘Song of Tomorrow’.
Everything was guided by this song.
So, the meaning of my existence was right there.
The meaning of creating this song was right there.
That was enough.
I can think so now—that it was truly something only I could do.
—I can think that, and yet.
‘No, that’s not it.’
Before the final chorus, the “me” shook her head.
* * *
Hey, is there even one thing that only I can do?
In truth, I’m sure that kind of thing didn't really matter.
* * *
I realized it while singing.
...I see.
Meaning or whatever, it didn’t matter. It wasn't about whether it led to something or not.
The time spent with amane and everyone was, in itself, unbearably special to me. That time itself was irreplaceable.
Sparkling and bright, making my chest ache, bittersweet, yet so dear—my weekdays that were flat and ordinary, yet not peaceful at all.
Meaning, significance, reasons—none of that was needed there.
Even if there wasn't a single achievement, even if no results remained, that was fine.
That day.
In a dark room, all alone, even though I didn’t know how, I carefully created each sound, one by one. Each word, one by one.
A dream seen all alone.
And from that day on, it stopped being a dream for just one person and became everyone’s dream.
That alone was enough.
No. There isn’t even a need to put it in the past tense.
That alone is enough.
Why was I so obsessed with a debut or becoming a professional?
Self-produced, amateur, indie, anything is fine.
As long as it was amane, anything was fine.
* * *
If, because I am standing here,
Because I breathed, because I laughed, because I cried, because I sang,
Something was born,
It doesn’t matter how small that thing is.
Like a medal, like pride,
I’ll live while holding it up with my best smile.
* * *
“This is—”
My chest tightened at that point, and my voice stopped coming out.
Tears spilled over. Sobs spilled over.
What is this, come on.
The truly important thing, I had known it from the very, very beginning.
There was only one answer.
“I... my—”
I started to say it, then closed my mouth.
After all, for the answer I finally reached after agonizing to death to be this cliché and ordinary.
In fact, if I said this out loud, it might look like I’m running away.
It might look like I’m just settling.
But that’s not it—.
I became unbearably restless; I absolutely wanted to convey this one thing, so I reached for my smartphone.
“...Thank you.”
When I waved at the “me” inside the smartphone, she gave a little smile and waved back.
I stopped the camera and made a call.
The voice answered after about two rings.
‘Ichikawa, what’s up?’
That slightly husky voice was cool, and my heart felt full once again.
“Hey, Konuma-kun.”
‘Hmm?’
“You see—”
My throat tightened.
Ah, I really am an idiot.
Who was it that called someone like me a genius?
So foolish, going around the same spot so many times.
Falling seven times, falling eight times. Taking three steps back, taking two steps back.
How much of a detour did I take just to say this much?
How much of a long way around did I go until I could say this much?
But you know, saying this really, really takes a lot of courage.
Because it’s self-centered, unsuitable, and self-conscious.
But even so, it’s fine now.
“I... I—”
Because she taught me that once before.
“I love my own songs.”
“...!”
“The numbers don't follow, and they might not be trendy. They’re awkward, eccentric, stubborn, yet timid and lacking confidence... but,”
That alone was enough.
“I want me to sing them. I want to hear my songs more.”
“So, you see...”
On the other end of the phone, I could hear a sound like him holding something back.
“I've been telling you that from the very start...!”
At Konuma-kun’s words, the tears flowed once more.
I sang the words I couldn't finish singing earlier, carefully this time, a cappella.
The precious phrase I finally found was something that had been right here all along.
“This is, Watashi no Uta.”