CHAPTER 11 The Echo Left Behind

Chapter 11: The Echo Left Behind
The music room was quiet again. Too quiet.
Yui didn’t come that afternoon.
Ren sat on the piano bench, alone. The sun had already begun its descent, casting long shadows across the floor. His violin rested in its case, unopened. He didn’t play. Not even a note.
The misunderstanding still burned in his chest like a wound reopened. Words said in the wrong tone. A misheard confession. A moment twisted by insecurity.
It had been three days since that argument. And every hour since then felt like holding his breath.

---
Three days earlier.
Yui had been quiet after their performance. Not in a withdrawn way, but thoughtful. Ren had caught her looking at her phone more than once, brows furrowed.
Finally, she’d told him.
“There’s a scholarship audition coming up. In Kyoto.”
He blinked. “You didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t know how. It’s... prestigious. And far. I wasn’t sure I’d even apply.”
Ren nodded slowly, but something inside him faltered.
She hesitated. “Ren... what if I left?”
“You’re going to?”
“No. I don’t know. I just... I needed to ask. Would you be okay?”
Ren had looked away. He wanted to say yes. But what came out was colder:
“Do what you want.”
Yui had stared at him. “That’s not what I needed to hear.”
And just like that, the air changed.

---
Back in the music room, Ren stood slowly, fingers brushing the edge of the piano. He stared at the chair where she used to sit, humming half-written lyrics.
He pulled out his notebook. Wrote one line.
> I miss the silence we shared.


Then crossed it out.

---
Yui, meanwhile, walked the riverside path near her home. Her lyric journal was zipped in her bag, untouched since the fight. She had written so many drafts of an apology. Torn all of them.
She wasn’t angry at Ren. Not truly. Just... hurt. He had shut her out when she’d been afraid. When she needed him to tell her she wasn’t alone in this decision.
But maybe he was scared too.
Yui sat on a bench overlooking the water. The breeze tugged gently at her hair. In her pocket, the scholarship form rustled. She still hadn’t submitted it.
She pulled out her phone.
No messages.
She typed: "I’m sorry."
Deleted it.
Typed again: "Can we talk?"
Then locked the screen without sending.

---
At school, their classmates noticed the difference. No more music drifting from the old practice room. No Yui waving goodbye to Ren at the gates. No Ren lingering in the corridors.
Even Mr. Sakamoto noticed. He found Ren one afternoon, hunched over the piano but not playing.
“You two had a falling out?”
Ren said nothing.
“Whatever it was,” the teacher continued, “if it came from fear, that’s normal. But if you let fear keep you silent, you’ll regret it longer than you think.”
Ren stared at the keys. Then nodded.

---
That evening, he opened his violin case again.
He played alone, for the first time in days.
The melody was fractured at first. Hesitant. But as he closed his eyes, he remembered her voice, her lyrics, the way she smiled when a line clicked.
He played what he felt.
And in the last note, he found a message.
> "I’m still here. Even if I can’t say it right."



---
Yui stood outside the music room the next day. Her hand hovered over the doorknob.
Inside, she heard a single note.
Then silence.
Then the violin.
Her breath caught.
She didn’t open the door.
But she listened.
And the echo between them softened, just a little.