All Beautiful Girls Want to Stick with Me

As the curtain rose, the lights across the entire auditorium went dark in an instant. Only the spotlights gathered on the stage, forming a single pillar of light. The brightness had been carefully adjusted by the backstage crew—just enough to illuminate the performers, leaving everything else in darkness.

A sharp contrast of black and white.

In darkness, the human eye instinctively seeks light.

Even those in the audience who had little interest in musical performances found themselves, almost involuntarily, turning their eyes toward the stage.

In that vast hall without a single other source of light, the only glow came from the stage.

At first, people could only see faint white outlines traced by the beam. But as their eyes adjusted, the view became clear—and the hall erupted.

”Kotomi—!!!”

Before a single note had been played, cheers filled the air. When the curtain fully lifted, the excitement only grew louder.

The reason for the outpouring of enthusiasm was obvious: Kotomi Izumi.

Her popularity at Sobu High was unparalleled. Among the many nicknames people had given her, the most famous by far was—”A once-in-a-century beauty.”

When word spread that Kotomi would perform in the cultural festival—and that it would be a musical ensemble—few expected much in terms of technical musical skill. After all, Kotomi wasn’t from the music department. Nobody thought she’d be that good.

Her grades were already top-tier, and she was stunningly beautiful. If she also excelled in music, wouldn’t that be too unfair to the rest of the girls?

Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—Kotomi’s beauty and charm transcended envy. To most girls, she wasn’t a rival but a kind of divine existence. Instead of jealousy, some found themselves wondering, How can I marry someone like Kotomi Izumi?

Of course, Kotomi also had another, far less flattering nickname—”The womanizer of Class 1-F, a heartbreaker who’s two-timing a hundred girls.”

The ”heartbreaker” part... well, Kotomi couldn’t completely deny that.

But the hundred girls part? That was pure nonsense! When she’d first heard the rumor, she had nearly blown a fuse. How did it escalate from two-timing to a hundred? She didn’t even know a hundred girls yet!

In short, most of the audience wasn’t here expecting a musical masterpiece—they just wanted to see Kotomi Izumi on stage.

But then came a surprise.

Everyone assumed she would take the center position as the lead vocalist. Yet, when the curtain opened—Kotomi stood to the side, holding a guitar.

Not singing... but playing.

A soft guitar melody intertwined with the sound of the keyboard, flowing like a calm river. Then, as the intro ended, Yui Yuigahama opened her mouth and began to sing.

The audience blinked in confusion. Why isn’t Kotomi the one singing? But within moments, all such thoughts vanished. The instant Yui’s voice spread through the hall, everyone was drawn in completely.

In a heartbeat—no, in a breath—they were submerged. Their minds were whisked away, helplessly carried into the depth of that graceful, melodic current.

The first song—”Re: TrymenT.”

”A heart burdened by memories past.”

”A soul weighed with quiet sorrow.”

”Unaware of what it’s lost.”

”A heart, cold as frozen glass.”

”Faith clings to what remains.”

”And strangers pass as once they knew.”

Hideaki Anno—who had collaborated with several world-renowned musicians—had come specifically to Sobu High today to witness Kotomi Izumi’s musical ensemble firsthand. His expectations were high. He wanted to see for himself whether Kotomi’s composition skills were truly capable of creating music worthy of EVA.

Neon Genesis Evangelion had consumed half of Hideaki Anno’s life. For him, every element—storyline, visuals, and especially music—had to meet his exacting standards.

Kotomi’s lyrical and compositional style suited his taste perfectly. But until now, she had only released one song, ”Fly Me to the Star.” He wanted to hear more—to truly measure her potential.

Even with his notoriously critical ear, Anno had to admit—this song caught him immediately.

”Beautiful,” he murmured under his breath, voice low but full of conviction.

”I’ve never heard this song before,” Moyoco Anno whispered. ”But both the melody and lyrics... they’re the kind that captivate you from the very first note. The short-haired white-haired girl playing the guitar on stage—is that the Kotomi Izumi you told me about?”

Hideaki Anno nodded. ”Yeah, that’s her. I’d heard from Merii Hizuki that she had white short hair, but this is my first time actually seeing her. The song’s incredible—such poetic lyrics. Even some professional composers would struggle to write something this elegant. When the performance ends, I have to ask her what the title is.”

”The girl singing is pretty impressive too,” Moyoco added thoughtfully. ”If you listen carefully... it’s obvious she’s never had professional vocal training. But her natural talent is so high that even without it, her voice is this beautiful.”

She sighed softly. Having been close friends with many singers over the years, she knew more than most about the intricacies of vocal skill.

”What a shame,” she said. ”With talent like that, if she’d received proper training as a child, she could’ve easily become one of Japan’s youngest diva-level singers by now.”

Most people in the audience didn’t know Yui Yuigahama personally, nor did they understand just how deeply she loved singing—or how much hard work she had poured into rehearsing the two songs Kotomi had written.

So when Yui sang her first line, it struck the crowd like a surge of electricity—sharp, sudden, and overwhelming.

”And yet,”

”And yet when we met again,”

”The strings played what my heart could not,”

”Their sound spoke the words yours could not.”

”Only then did I understand.”

From that moment on, the song ascended to a new height.

The audience could feel it—the lyrics and melody were spiraling upward, step by step, like climbing a staircase that led to the heavens.

Yukino Yukinoshita maintained perfect composure throughout, her fingers flowing across the piano keys with precision and grace. Her performance was as flawless as ever, harmonizing seamlessly with Kotomi’s guitar. Even when she glanced toward her two partners, her rhythm never faltered for a second.

Kotomi met Yukino’s eyes briefly and smiled. Yukino’s expression immediately sharpened—her silent message was clear: Focus. Stay serious.

Kotomi’s fingers danced confidently across the strings, the rhythm building toward the chorus. Yukino’s piano followed tightly, the two instruments intertwining like strands of a single unbreakable rope. And at the end of that rope—Yui Yuigahama’s voice.

Her voice didn’t just follow the music—it lifted it, gave it life, and carried it beyond the realm of ordinary performance. The sound of their trio spread its wings and soared, reaching higher and higher.

When Yui launched into the chorus, the entire hall fell silent in awe.

”Tonight’s moon mirrors yesterday.”

”Your heart touches mine.”

”Ripples shimmer upon the pond.”

”Desires leap within the chest.”

”What is this thing called love?”

”My heart now understands.”

Every spectator was left breathless, eyes wide with astonishment.

They had assumed Kotomi Izumi would be the sole star of the performance—but now it was clear: there were three stars.

The vocals, the guitar, the piano—each element was brilliant in its own right, yet together they formed something transcendent.

The poetic lyrics, the emotional voice, the dreamlike harmony—everything blended perfectly, creating a beauty that felt almost unreal.

Just like the line in the song said—

”The strings played my feelings; the sound spoke to your heart.”

After the chorus of ”Re: TrymenT” ended, the melody softened once more, drifting into a calm, graceful rhythm.

Inside the auditorium, many of the students who had already performed exchanged wide-eyed looks. Some even gasped aloud.

Before this, a few performers had felt a lingering sense of dissatisfaction about Kotomi Izumi’s ensemble being chosen as the finale act. Naturally, everyone wanted to believe their own performance was the best one.

But now—after witnessing Kotomi, Yukino Yukinoshita, and Yui Yuigahama’s performance—every ounce of that resentment dissolved. Completely.

They had been utterly, undeniably outclassed.

The best answer to doubt was always the same—overwhelming strength that silenced every voice of criticism.

”Amazing!”

”Compared to the earlier acts, Kotomi’s performance is on another level—it’s like she’s performing in a different dimension!”

”Ha, the drama club president was bragging earlier about how they’d steal the spotlight this year. She even popped a bottle of champagne before her performance!”

”Well, to be fair, this year’s drama club did work hard on the script and stage setup. But most of the cast are first-years, and no matter how much they rehearse, they’re still too proud to properly coordinate with others. Compared to the second-year members, they’re still pretty green.”

”Forget that—did you see the president’s face just now? She went from smug indifference to total awe in like, three seconds. Even France didn’t surrender that fast. She looked less like a club president and more like Kotomi Izumi’s devoted fangirl.”

”Yeah, the coordination between the three of them—Kotomi, Yui, and Yukino—it’s insane. Their timing is perfect.”

”The girl singing—Yui Yuigahama, right? I’m in the music program too, but I’ve never seen her before.”

”Yeah, she’s not a music student. Just a regular one.”

”What? You’re kidding! With a voice like that, she could’ve easily gone for the music track!”

”Maybe she doesn’t need to. That’s the kind of confidence geniuses have~”

”I finally get why Ms. Ami Koishi looked so regretful earlier—like she just lost a fortune.”

On stage, the song was now entering its closing phase. The melody of ”Re: TrymenT” had softened again, flowing like a calm river.

Kotomi Izumi’s guitar, Yukino Yukinoshita’s piano, and Yui Yuigahama’s voice blended together perfectly to the very end.

The sound was mesmerizing.

”Miles and miles of winding road.”

”With gentle steps I walk.”

”Each word a letter, each note a prayer.”

”All for you, I write my heart.”

As the final notes spread through the hall, the soft harmony of the guitar and piano filled the space completely.

Every listener—students, teachers, even other performers—felt the same thing.

It was flawless.

From the first line to the last, the performance held its spell unbroken. By the time the audience snapped back to awareness, they realized their skin was covered in goosebumps.

It was difficult to describe. The song felt like a love story told through music—poetic, tragic, and achingly beautiful.

No one could say what kind of story lay hidden beneath the lyrics and melody. Even if the composer herself gave an official explanation, it wouldn’t stop the audience from imagining their own versions—each one unique, each one deeply personal.

And that—was the true power of music.

”Alright, I give up,” Ms. Ami Koishi said with a bitter laugh, raising both hands above her head. ”From now on, even if Kotomi Izumi plays games during my class, I won’t stop her. In fact, I’ll buy her a premium controller myself.”

If she’d had a white flag in hand, she would’ve waved it with pride.

Her feelings were complicated. When she had first lent the second music room to Kotomi’s group, it had only been because Momoka Mito asked her to. She hadn’t expected much from them.

When Ami Koishi first saw how seriously the girls practiced, her attitude began to soften. Still, her main job was teaching music majors, and with several classes each day, she rarely had the time to watch Kotomi Izumi and her group’s full rehearsals.

Even when she tried to sneak a peek from outside the room, the most she could do was watch—the music itself was barely audible. After all, Sobu High’s music rooms had decent soundproofing.

Not perfect, but good enough.

Every time Ami pressed herself against the door like Spider-Man trying to eavesdrop, she could only catch fragments—muffled sounds that faded in and out. Nothing clear.

Which was precisely why their live performance today hit her so hard. When the melody of ”Re: TrymenT” began, she froze—her scalp tingled, her body stiffened.

It was too good.

Heavenly. Absolute perfection.

Damn it! Why didn’t they join the music department?! she thought furiously. Why didn’t they take the talent track?!

While the audience was still lost in the poetic elegance of ”Re: TrymenT,” the trio on stage made a few quick adjustments—and began their second song: ”Liblume.”

Compared to ”Re: TrymenT,” the opening melody of ”Liblume” carried a deep, sorrowful tone—a sense of tragic romance.

The audience gasped in disbelief.

”What?! Another one? Is this one original too? Is Kotomi Izumi really a high school student? I’d believe it if you told me she was a top composer for some major label!”

”There’s another song?! Awesome!”

Mai Sakurajima, recording the performance on her phone, smiled brightly. ”If you’re going to compete, go all out—don’t hold anything back. Crush your opponents so completely they can’t even stand up afterward. Why didn’t I realize before that Kotomi-chan is such a bold little lioness? So cute and fierce at the same time. Hey—Kisara, Utaha, aren’t your arms tired? You’ve been holding those binoculars since the first song! Stop obsessing over them already!”

”You don’t get it,” Utaha Kasumigaoka replied smugly. ”This is called multi-angle appreciation of Kotomi’s art~”

After saying that, she flashed Mai a triumphant grin, her eyes practically saying, Jealous? You should be—I’ve got the best seat in the house.

”In kendo,” Kisara Tendo added calmly, nodding in agreement, ”a swordsman’s sight and hearing are both weapons of victory.”

She had known Kotomi would be performing today—so before leaving home that morning, she’d packed two binoculars in her bag.

”Pfft! You two call that ’appreciating Kotomi-chan’s music’? Please. I’m embarrassed for you,” Mai said, crossing her arms with righteous indignation. ”If you’re really here for the music, then try taking your eyes off her skirt for even one second.”

The main reason she could speak so self-righteously? There were only two binoculars—Kisara had one, and Utaha had snatched the other before Mai could grab it.

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