A Photo That Didn't Line Up

The rehearsal studio wasn’t nearly as glamorous as the name “Arclight Productions” suggested.

The walls were padded, the lights harsh, and the faint scent of burnt coffee clung to the air like a ghost.

No pastel banners, no fans, no flashing cameras. Just real, honest work.

Rin stood at the center, mic in hand, her reflection caught in the glass of the recording booth.

Yoru sat cross-legged on a stool beside her, humming the melody under her breath, spinning a pen between her fingers.

The two of them looked like they belonged to different worlds—Rin in her tidy rehearsal outfit, hair tied neatly, posture ruler-straight; Yoru in her oversized hoodie and platform sneakers, legs dangling, mischief in her expression.

And me?

I was crouched in the corner, camera ready, trying not to look like I was intruding on a divine ritual.

Kato-san, the sound engineer, spoke through the monitor, his voice muffled by static.

“Okay, girls. Song title: Parallel Lights. I want bright energy, speed, and chemistry. Think: two lights racing side by side.”

“Got it!” Yoru said, flashing a peace sign toward the booth window.

Rin nodded once, professional as ever. “Understood.”

Her tone was calm, but there was a stiffness there—a kind of extra weight on every word.

“Rin-san,” I said quietly from behind the console, “you look like you’re preparing for war.”

She gave a faint, polite smile. “Every song deserves respect.”

Was that how she channelled respect? By glaring at the lyrics?

Still, something was off. She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Nevertheless, the girls prepared, and I warmed up my camera. Sugawara-san the director had explicitly told me to just take behind the scenes pictures. No glam, no buzz, just honest footage.

The track started—a bright, pulsing beat with synths glittering like starlight.

Yoru jumped straight in,

Two lights running through the dark,

never crossing, but never apart—

Her voice was sharp, confident, bursting with color.

Then Rin followed,

In the flash of a beat, we shine,

your rhythm, your dream, your line with mine—

Click.

Click.

Perfect.

Almost too perfect.

Even from behind the camera, I could tell she was holding her breath between every phrase, pushing every note until her voice trembled just slightly.

“Good!” said Kato. “Let’s go from bar sixteen again, same energy!”

Rin inhaled, smiled, nodded.

Then she missed the harmony. Barely a second off, but enough for her to notice.

She froze, just long enough for Yoru to look over.

“Sorry,” Rin said quickly. “Again, please.”

Yoru waved a hand, laughing softly. “Relax, senpai! It’s rehearsal, not the live show.”

Rin smiled back, but her jaw was tight.

“Practice or not, people remember mistakes.”

That line stayed with me. I lowered my camera for a moment.

Another take.

Same line. Another small slip.

Rin’s voice faltered, just once, before she steadied herself again.

“Okay,” said Kato. “Rin-san, one more from—”

“I can do it,” she said suddenly. “Just… one more try, Kato-san.”

She was trying too hard now. I’d seen it before—photographers tightening their shots until they blurred.

Yoru noticed too; she stopped bouncing her foot and glanced over with quiet curiosity.

“Hey, Rin-senpai,” she said lightly, “want me to take the higher harmony instead?”

Rin turned to her, still smiling, but it wasn’t gratitude—it was defense.

“No need. I can handle it.”

I adjusted the lens, focusing through the booth glass. Her reflection looked like a perfect idol—but her eyes were tired.

In between takes, she exhaled, shoulders sagging a little. I leaned into view a little.

“Rin-san,” I said gently, “take a breather. You know uh…”

How do I phrase this?

“Even light bulbs burn out if you don’t let them cool, you know.”

She blinked, turning to me. For a second, she almost smiled—almost.

But then Yoru started humming again, and Rin turned sharply back to her sheet.

The track restarted.

I clicked away on my camera, watching them sing it out once more. They were doing well before—

The notes came sharp, too sharp—Rin’s pitch trembling on the last line:

Two lights running… never crossing… but never apart…

The line cracked slightly on apart. The silence that followed hit like a drumbeat.

“Rin-san,” Kato said through the monitor, gentler now, “let’s take five, okay?”

She nodded, lowering her mic slowly. Her knuckles were white.

Yoru stood, stretching her arms. “I’m grabbing a drink,” she said, throwing Rin a smile. “You’ll kill it next take, senpai. Don’t you worry.”

“Mm,” Rin replied, too soft to sound convinced.

The door closed behind Yoru, leaving just me, Rin, and the looping instrumental hum of Parallel Lights.

I lowered my camera, stepping closer to the booth glass.

She didn’t look at me—just stared at the lyric sheet like it had betrayed her.

“Hey it’s not that big a deal, you know.” I stretched and sat across from her, “Mistakes happen all the time.”

She didn’t turn to look at me. Her eyes were distant. There definitely WAS something going on here.

“Rin-san… did something happen?”

“No.”

Her reply was fast, almost robotic. Like she didn’t even entertain the notion of there being something wrong about her.

“Uh-huh…” I scratched my cheek. It was like talking to a wall.

“Hey,” I said quietly. “You don’t have to be perfect every take. You already sound amazing.”

Her fingers tightened around the paper.

“You don’t understand, Hajime-san…”

Her voice was trembling, small, but sharp enough to sting.

I shrinked back.

“Hey, sorry I just—“

Before I could defuse the situation, she cut me off.

“You take photos and think you see everything, but you don’t know what any of this feels like! You think you know! But— you don’t!”

The room froze. For a moment it felt like even the speakers had stopped humming.

She realized it the second it left her mouth, eyes wide, lips parting in regret.

Huh, so that’s how it was.

Her gaze lifted up towards me, but her eyes didn’t look like Rin Tsukishiro anymore. Not the idol, nor the friend.

She just looked… bitter. Tired. Almost disappointed.

Her expression shifted immediately, probably only now realizing what she had said.

“Hajime-san I—“

“Nah, I get it.” I sighed, grabbing my bag, “Or I guess I don’t. Nevertheless, it’s fine.”

I mustered up a smile. Probably the same kind of fake smile Rin gave at interviews. Not perfect of course. Just there for show.

I picked up my camera, slinging the strap over my shoulder.

Technically I had already gotten the snaps Sugawara-san had asked for me so, if I wasn’t needed here I could be gone any second.

“You’re right. I don’t understand.”

There was no point staying where I wasn’t welcome.

Her hand stretched out instinctively but I had already gotten up from my seat. And before she could say another word, I stepped out of the booth.

The door clicked shut behind me, sealing her inside the small, silent room.

Through the glass, I saw her set the lyric sheet down and cover her face with both hands.

The track looped quietly again—

Two lights running through the dark,

never crossing, but never apart…

“Mikazuki?”

Just outside the door stood Nakahara Saya. Her brow was raised at me, clipboard always in hand.

“Oh, Nakahara-san…”

“Is something the matter with Rin-san? I heard she had trouble with the rehearsal.”

I thought for a second, before I gave my reply.

“I think she’s fine. Just a little… on edge.”

I couldn’t very well say she had snapped at me.

“Hm.” Saya assessed my answer, and nodded, “Very well. I’ll take it from here.”

She turned back to me, eyebrows creasing.

“Are you leaving already?”

“Ah, yeah…” I scratched the back of my head, “I already snapped the pictures Sugawara-san asked of me.”

“Very well, we’ll be in touch.”

I sighed as the door closed behind her. Then without another word, I left the studio.

Rin’s words had cut deeper than I thought they would. And just when I was sure we were starting to really understand each other too…