All Beautiful Girls Want to Stick with Me

Faced with Mai Sakurajima’s righteous disdain, Utaha Kasumigaoka fought back without yielding:

”Heh, don’t think I didn’t notice that when you were secretly recording Kotomi with your phone earlier, you kept zooming in. Luckily, your phone’s zoom has a limit—otherwise, you would’ve brought that lens so close it’d be like sticking your phone right onto her body.”

”You—you’re judging me with the heart of a villain! I simply thought that going on stage to perform was such a memorable experience. I wasn’t sure if anyone else was recording Kotomi, and if no one did, then when Kotomi wanted to watch a video later to reminisce about her performance but found out there wasn’t one, wouldn’t she feel sad and disappointed? So, even if Kotomi didn’t ask me to, I had to record her shining, captivating appearance on stage—down to every second! It’s a senior’s sacred duty!”

Mai Sakurajima spoke with righteous conviction. Fortunately, there weren’t any paparazzi around—otherwise, tomorrow’s entertainment tabloids would practically write themselves:

’Shocking! Popular actress Mai Sakurajima reveals an unknown side of herself to her junior!’

’Who exactly is this ’Kotomi’ Mai Sakurajima speaks of?’

’Exclusive scoop! The secret love-hate drama between the famous actress Mai Sakurajima and the Izumi family’s eldest daughter, Kotomi Izumi!’

”I truly admire how you can make something like secretly filming Kotomi sound so noble and justified,” Utaha sighed helplessly. Then, moving aside slightly, she gestured toward the binoculars in her hand and asked, ”Wanna take a look together?”

”Do I look like that kind of person?” Mai scoffed, glancing disdainfully at the binoculars.

”Alright, alright, you’re impressive, you’re so noble, so I won’t let you have them then…”

Just as Utaha was about to pull the binoculars back to continue watching Kotomi on stage, she let her guard down for a split second—and Mai Sakurajima darted forward in a flash, her lips curving into a mischievous grin.

”You really do know me well!”

Next, Mai Sakurajima held her phone in one hand to continue recording Kotomi, while the other hand supported the binoculars as she stared intently at the stage—like a sniper locked onto her target, her eyes focused with extreme intensity!

A video recording wasn’t enough. Binoculars were also a must. Only then was her setup complete.

The prelude of ”Liblume” echoed throughout the auditorium. Those who recognized that it was yet another original song had increasingly animated expressions. Many had thought that the earlier ”Re: TrymenT”—with its incredibly high quality—was already their limit, but it turned out that it was merely the beginning.

Even though the singing hadn’t started yet, some who understood music could already tell from the intro alone that this second song was on par with, if not beyond, the first.

”Another original song, and the prelude’s just as catchy…” Hideaki Anno muttered under his breath. The earlier ”Re: TrymenT” had already won his admiration, and now, to have another song follow so seamlessly—one whose opening alone hinted at comparable brilliance—left him somewhat bewildered.

He recalled that the rehearsal and preparation time allotted for a high school cultural festival wasn’t much. How had Kotomi Izumi managed to compose two songs of such high completeness and polish in such a short period? What kind of mind did she have? Was she even human?

He’d collaborated with many composers throughout his career. Even top-tier ones typically needed at least a month to adjust their creative mindset, gather inspiration, and properly prepare before beginning serious work. Completing a single song could take several months—or even years.

Still, Hideaki Anno never thought that was too long. He believed that fine craftsmanship took time. After all, even he took forever to produce a single anime. If a composer spent five years on one song, it would still be possible that by the time they delivered it, Hideaki Anno himself hadn’t even finished writing the pre-production script for his next anime.

”The way senpai looks on stage… she’s truly dazzling,” Iroha Isshiki said, her eyes sparkling like tiny stars, her smile radiant as her gaze remained fixed on Kotomi Izumi.

”As long as my sister wants it,” Aimi Izumi said softly, her expression full of pride, ”she can become the most beloved star in the entire world.”

Beside them, Aimi Izumi noticed Iroha Isshiki’s reaction but didn’t think much of it. She simply assumed that Iroha was showing admiration for her older sister—and that made her happy. Seeing her friend admire her sister so much filled Aimi with both joy and pride.

Akina Izumi held up her phone, snapping continuous photos of Kotomi on stage. Occasionally, she would zoom out slightly to include Yui and Yukino in the same shot.

”Dear, when did Kotomi even learn to play the guitar? Did you teach her?” Akina asked while still aiming her phone at the stage.

Kaneyoshi Izumi chuckled and shook his head. ”I can’t play any instruments. When I saw Kotomi playing the guitar just now, I was stunned for a good while. I actually thought you were the one who taught her. Didn’t you use to teach instruments at Private Sakuragaoka Girls’ High School?”

”The instrument I play is the bass, not the guitar... Dear, you really never seem to tell the difference between the two.”

”Ahaha…”

Kaneyoshi laughed awkwardly as he recalled the first time he saw Akina play bass back in high school.

When Akina was in high school, she loved to play her bass alone on the rooftop. The school they attended didn’t allow students up there—it was always locked—so most students graduated without ever knowing what the rooftop looked like.

But two students had secretly picked the rooftop lock on their very first day of school.

Their names were Kaneyoshi Izumi and Akina Hishinaga.

One day, as usual, Akina Hishinaga was playing her bass on the rooftop when Kaneyoshi pushed open the rooftop door. He had skipped class under the excuse of going to the restroom. He wasn’t in the mood to study that day—no matter how hard he tried, nothing would go into his head—so he simply decided to skip.

The teachers usually turned a blind eye to him. Even if they could tell Kaneyoshi was sneaking out, they didn’t stop him. His grades were excellent, and as long as the class wasn’t too critical, they allowed him to miss one now and then.

The rooftop was one of Kaneyoshi’s favorite places to escape to.

When he opened the door that day and saw Akina sitting on the rooftop, skipping class and playing her bass, he blurted out without thinking:

”Are you playing the guitar?”

Akina froze for a second, then hastily packed her bass into its case, slung it over one shoulder, and jumped down from the rooftop ledge to stand beside him. For the next full hour, she gave Kaneyoshi a detailed lecture on the differences between a bass and a guitar.

When she finally finished her explanation, both of them went silent for a moment—then realized something strange.

How had the other person gotten onto the rooftop in the first place?

Since the two had broken the lock at different times, and both made sure to relock it afterward, each of them had thought they were the only one who could get in.

”Come to think of it, the first time we met, the very first thing we talked about was the difference between a bass and a guitar. I thought three years of high school would be enough for you to finally tell them apart. But now, even after eighteen years of marriage, you still can’t tell the difference.”

Whenever Akina Hishinaga brought up this story, she couldn’t help but sigh emotionally. She truly couldn’t understand how someone as calm, gentle, and intelligent as Kaneyoshi Izumi could still not tell a bass from a guitar.

”Maybe I was just born insensitive to musical instruments,” Kaneyoshi said with a faint smile.

”Ugh, someday I’m going to make sure you finally learn the difference between the two!” Akina declared firmly.

Even after eighteen years of marriage and two daughters, Akina Izumi had never given up her mission to make Kaneyoshi distinguish a bass from a guitar.

”Coming with you to Sobu High’s cultural festival was really the right choice. It’s practically a live concert! Though... I’ve never actually been to one,” said Yukki, turning to the man beside him, Hidari Okumuro.

”Kotomi Izumi... every time you don’t see her for a while, she somehow finds a way to surprise you all over again. I heard both songs she performed today were ones she wrote herself. She’s not only brilliant academically but musically gifted too,” Okumuro said softly.

When she listened to Re: TrymenT earlier, she hadn’t fully grasped the deeper meaning behind the lyrics, but her first impression had been simple—it was beautiful. Both the melody and the words had left her deeply moved.

For a while now, she had buried herself in investigating old cases. After resigning from the Metropolitan Police Department, she had thought she could finally stay away from darkness and bloodshed for a while. But as her pursuit of the unsolved case from Shōwa 31 continued, she had a growing feeling that instead of escaping it, she was actually walking deeper into that same darkness.

After so many days of tension, Re: TrymenT had been like a breath of light to her, giving her mind a rare moment of peace. Just one song, yet it cleared her thoughts, reignited her focus, and gave her the determination to pull an all-nighter investigating Sengetsu Girls’ Academy tonight.

...

At that very moment, Yui Yuigahama’s voice began to fill the stage with Liblume.

”Planted deep within my heart—

Words that truly matter.”

”Like a bud that gently grows—

Wishes keep on changing.”

”Searching for the reason I exist.”

”Born into this world.”

”Even if everything is distorted.”

”Please, let it still be the reason to live.”

As her singing echoed through the hall, the stage lights gradually shifted into a warm glow—like the gentle sunlight of spring, symbolizing the beginning of life.

The melody and lyrics of Liblume evoked a simple, almost unanimous thought from most of the audience—It’s beautiful!

Even the students with musical training felt the same.

There’s a saying: the experts appreciate the technique, the rest enjoy the show.

It hadn’t even reached the chorus yet, so the emotional climax of the song was still ahead—but even so, the feelings within Kotomi and Yukino’s accompaniment, and within Yui’s voice, had already begun to spread through the hall.

Liblume was the opening theme of the gal game Inochi no Spare, telling a poignant story of a love as fleeting and brilliant as falling cherry blossoms. No matter how beautiful love may be, life passes mercilessly, and fairytale miracles never arrive.

And yet, perhaps the miracle itself lies in two hearts that remain faithful until the very end—love that burns until life itself fades away.

”Words overlap again and again.”

”Seasons change without end.”

”Though I know one day life will scatter—”

”Before that day, let my thoughts bloom.”

Layer upon layer, emotion built within the song, and Yui Yuigahama’s singing pushed Liblume ever higher.

”We both understand each other’s hearts—”

”Yet our hands cannot touch.”

”Shards of wishes dyed in crystal blue.”

”This must be the light of life.”

”Like candlelight it flickers softly.”

”And fades away as spring passes.”

The lights on stage, once full of warmth, gradually dimmed into cool tones—like life’s brilliance fading at the edge of time.

When Kotomi Izumi wrote Liblume, there was always one image in her mind: two lovers at the very end of their lives, whispering to each other—I love you. Truly, until death.

Her voice, filled with the sorrow of parting, lingered in the auditorium long after each note faded.

Some in the audience, when they finally came back to themselves, realized that tears had silently streamed down their cheeks. The melody and lyrics had stirred memories—of someone they could never forget, or someone they would never see again.

A singing voice isn’t only judged by skill—it also carries emotion. And even though Yui Yuigahama had never received professional vocal training, her innate talent gave her voice something extraordinary: a sense of story.

Simply put, no matter what kind of song she sang, her voice always made the listener feel as if they were hearing a story unfold.

And as they ”listened to that story,” Yui’s voice would tug gently at their hearts, inspiring each listener to imagine a tale of their own—a story that belonged only to them.

This was why so many writers, when out of inspiration, liked to put on their headphones and take a walk while listening to music. The songs they loved could quietly bring vivid scenes and stories to life in their minds. Even if those fragments weren’t coherent, they still helped spark creativity.

A voice with that kind of storytelling quality was most powerful when singing songs that ignited emotion—especially uplifting or inspiring ones. But when used in slow, sorrowful ballads, that same quality could convey feelings with raw, piercing intensity.

That was exactly what was happening now—Yui Yuigahama’s singing had moved some audience members to tears.

Yukino Yukinoshita had noticed that unique quality in Yui’s voice long ago. During rehearsals, every time she coached Yui on vocal technique, she deliberately guided her toward strengthening that sense of story.

At first, Yukino thought it would be difficult—after all, Yui had never undergone professional music training. No matter how talented she was, mastering that kind of emotional nuance usually took time.

But before Yukino could even devise simpler methods to help Yui understand the concept, she realized that Yui had already grasped it—effortlessly.

Despite always teasing her as a ”clumsy dumpling,” Yui wasn’t truly slow-witted... at least not when it came to singing.

Yui Yuigahama knew perfectly well that no matter how much she practiced, her technical singing ability wouldn’t improve dramatically in less than half a month. True vocal refinement took time, patience, and experience.

So instead, she focused on emotion—on fully using her natural gift for storytelling through song.

She set a simple goal for herself: If I can make most of the audience cry, I’ve succeeded.

—

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