All Beautiful Girls Want to Stick with Me

From a professional standpoint, Mai Sakurajima had to admit—she hadn’t expected Kotomi Izumi’s second song to take such a unique perspective.

Having practiced singing since childhood, Mai’s own vocal skills were quite good. In fact, she had sung both the opening and ending themes of a suspense drama she starred in, and the show’s success had led to unexpectedly high music sales as well.

Originally, there hadn’t been any plans to release a physical album—it was only available digitally on major streaming platforms. But the number of paid downloads skyrocketed, and with fans clamoring for a physical version, the Phantom Sea Agency had no choice but to rush production.

The first batch was small—only 5,000 copies. After all, suspense dramas rarely released physical albums. Most of the time, the soundtrack would simply stay online. The agency figured that keeping production under 10,000 copies would minimize losses even if sales were low.

But to their surprise, the first batch sold out within a week. Two reprints followed—and still couldn’t meet demand.

When Mai Sakurajima’s mother, Shiori Sakurajima, saw the commercial success, she even began to seriously consider whether her daughter should transition into a singing career.

However, after giving it some thought, Shiori decided against it. She understood that the album’s sales owed far more to Mai’s fame than to her singing ability. Roughly ninety percent of buyers were Mai’s fans—most of them purchased the album the same way one would buy a piece of merchandise from a favorite actress.

In fact, many of them probably never even opened it. Some might not have removed the plastic wrap at all—just placed it on a shelf as a collector’s item.

Mai’s singing ability was solid, but every craft has its masters. Even though she had trained as a singer when she was young, her skills were still far from those of true professionals. She had a pleasant voice, yes, and she never sang off-key—but she lacked that spark, that ability to leave listeners truly amazed.

Her popularity came from acting, not singing. If she really tried to shift careers, she might sustain that success for two or three albums at most before her popularity declined. After all, her fans loved watching her perform on screen—not hearing her songs.

In Japan’s entertainment industry, many actors tried becoming singers, and many singers tried becoming actors. Yet only a handful managed to maintain high popularity after transitioning.

Returning to the present—though Mai hadn’t become a professional singer, she had released an album before. That alone gave her more experience than Yui Yuigahama. Combined with her years of formal vocal training as a child, she understood singing technique and theory quite well.

Originally, Mai wanted to analyze Yui’s performance of Re: TrymenT and Liblume through conventional logic—to pinpoint what made her singing so captivating.

But soon, she realized she couldn’t put it into words.

Simply put, she could tell from the very first note of each prelude that there was something special—but what that was, she couldn’t describe.

It was only when a specific moment came—when that particular part of the song arrived—that her heart would suddenly stir, and she’d think: Ah, this is it. This is the magic.

For instance, during Liblume, when Yui sang the line ”We both understand each other’s hearts”—the first point where the melody truly lifted—Mai instantly recognized it.

That was the song’s special moment.

In Mai’s view, that line didn’t explode with emotion; instead, it struck like the flare of a single match—small, yet powerful. That spark ignited all the feelings built up in the preceding verses, and the flames of emotion spread through every listener’s heart.

When it came to songs of tragic love, two words mattered most: sorrow and love.

Even if the lovers’ days together were fleeting, they still chose to love—steadfastly, passionately, until the very end.

Some songs aren’t meant to be listened to while thinking too deeply—or in certain emotional states.

Liblume is one of those songs.

It doesn’t have to be about literal life and death. Even when two lovers must part ways for practical reasons—heading to different cities, watching each other depart at train stations or airports—when one tries to stay strong, telling themselves not to let sorrow hold them back, yet still can’t forget that person in their heart... listening to Liblume or Re: TrymenT again in that moment is nothing short of emotional self-torture.

But people are, in a way, a little masochistic—they can’t help but indulge in pain.

That’s why so many people, the sadder they feel, the more they crave sorrowful songs—especially at night, when the world is silent. They listen until the emotion overflows, then open the comment section and leave behind a message: sometimes a raw, heartfelt confession; other times, a story they’ve made up.

Most of these comments get only a handful of likes before being buried beneath newer ones. Later, when the writer wants to find it again, they have to go to their profile page and search through their own comment history.

But sometimes, a single comment touches countless hearts—earning thousands of likes, becoming the top comment under the song. Others, drawn in by its emotion, reply beneath it with a simple line: ”Here because of this.”

It has even happened before—a single comment made an entire song go viral.

”I didn’t expect the junior from the Izumi family to be this talented at composition,” Mai Sakurajima remarked with a smile, her gaze fixed on the stage. ”The melody and lyrics are both top-tier. The girl singing is amazing too—she captures emotion perfectly in both songs. And that girl on the keyboard... her piano level is incredible. You can tell she’s practiced since childhood. She’s using a music keyboard instead of a grand piano? The coordination between those three—it’s flawless. Looks like we’ve found the winners of this year’s cultural festival.”

Though her words were an even assessment of Kotomi, Yui, and Yukino, her eyes reflected only one person—Kotomi Izumi. Mai loved watching Kotomi shine so beautifully on stage, yet part of her secretly wished she were the only one in the audience.

”Like paper flowers, our bonds remain.”

”Etched into memory.”

”The wish to stay by your side.”

”Never reaching your heart.”

”Pain repeats again and again.”

”The world keeps turning.”

”I know when I will fade away.”

”I only wish you’d stay with me.”

Even without knowing the lyrics beforehand, as the melody and voice climbed once more toward its emotional peak, every listener felt the same thing stirring in their hearts—

It’s coming!

The auditorium fell into a momentary silence. Everyone waited in breathless anticipation for Liblume’s second emotional crescendo—like two people, in the final moments of their lives, letting their love bloom like cherry blossoms: dazzlingly beautiful, fleetingly brief.

In that inevitable, miracle-less passage of time, they guarded their own small miracle.

Their love was the miracle—the only one.

And so it would continue... until the end.

Yukino Yukinoshita’s slender fingers danced gracefully across the keys, weaving a mournful yet gentle harmony—like cherry blossoms falling in the wind. And just as the rain of blossoms eventually stops and the rainbow returns, her notes painted color onto the gray and fading world, even if that beauty would last only a moment.

”Like this, you keep drawing closer to me.”

”Until the very last moment of my life.”

”Just the two of us.”

”Feeling each other’s presence.”

”Each day repeating, leaving its scars.”

”But I wish you’d stay by my side, holding me.”

”In the fading of this pain.”

”I entrust my hope to prayer.”

”No matter what, the two of us—”

”Will wander here once more.”

”There will surely come a day when we meet again.”

Each note Yukino struck flowed seamlessly into the next, her piano carrying the melody while Kotomi’s guitar gently supported it—like warm hands cradling sound itself, letting the notes drift toward Yui’s voice.

It was like walking barefoot along a sunset beach—scooping a handful of sand only to feel it slip through one’s fingers. The tighter you tried to hold on, the faster it fell away. But then you open your hand, letting the sand fall softly back to the earth, glowing gold beneath the crimson twilight.

As the final sorrowful movement approached, Yui Yuigahama’s lips parted, and she sang the closing words of the ensemble’s last song:

”Just like this—”

”Like in a dream, we keep drawing close.”

”In the end, by your side—”

”I quietly whisper, ’I love you.’”

”Meeting you was the happiest thing in my life.”

”I want you to know—”

”Please, always... stay with me.”

The music rose softly—then drifted away.

And as the final note fell, silence returned to the hall.

Kotomi Izumi’s fingers came to a stop on her guitar strings. With a gentle smile, she turned to look at Yukino Yukinoshita and Yui Yuigahama beside her, as if she had just accomplished a small goal.

And indeed, she had. The two songs of their musical ensemble had been completed, and in terms of performance, Kotomi was deeply satisfied. Both she and her partners—Yukino and Yui—had given their all on stage.

Especially Yui Yuigahama. When she sang Liblume just moments ago, both Kotomi and Yukino had been stunned—not because Yui made a mistake, but because she had unconsciously surpassed her own limits, reaching a level she had never achieved before.

Her voice in the second half of the song was like a pair of invisible hands, gently knocking on the door to every listener’s heart.

One second, two seconds, three seconds...

Time passed, yet the audience remained lost in the emotions of the two songs, unable to pull themselves free.

Then, breaking the silence, Megumi Kato, Iroha Isshiki, Mashiro Shiina, Aimi Izumi, Utaha Kasumigaoka, Mai Sakurajima, Kisara Tendo, and Ruriya Hojo began to applaud. Though they hadn’t coordinated it beforehand, they somehow all started clapping at the same moment.

The spotlight illuminated Kotomi Izumi’s face—radiant, gentle, and full of quiet brilliance. Looking toward Megumi and the others, Kotomi suddenly felt the urge to rush down the stage and hug them all.

One by one—hug Megumi, then Iroha, then Mashiro, and so on...

Following their lead, the applause quickly spread like a wave, filling the entire auditorium with thunderous sound.

”Were both of those songs original compositions by Kotomi Izumi? That’s incredible!”

”I really want to know what the titles of those two songs are!”

”The second song seriously made me cry.”

”Cry? You don’t even have a girlfriend!”

”I was thinking about my phone that got confiscated by the disciplinary officer.”

”Damn it, I shouldn’t have responded to you—you completely ruined my mood!”

”It’s been so long since I’ve heard songs this heartfelt. Were they both originals? The vocals and instrumentals were such a perfect match—amazing! Are high school students really this talented now?”

”Sigh... I don’t even know why, but my nose started to sting halfway through. It reminded me of my youth. We were so young and thought love would last forever...”

”It’s been ages since a song moved me to tears like this. These two songs were truly beautiful. Now I finally understand why they were saved for the finale—they earned it!”

Everyone present instinctively offered their praise and applause to the three on stage.

Among them, Ruriya Hojo stood out—she hadn’t even had time to change out of her maid café uniform before rushing to the auditorium. In her hands, she held up a glowing sign she had prepared in advance, bearing four large, bold words: Kotomi is the Best!!!

Ruriya waved her sign high and shouted at the top of her lungs:

”Kotomi, you’re the best!!!”

Just as she had promised the night before, once Kotomi finished performing, she would be the loudest to cheer for her.

Not far away, Usa Saion watched her friend waving the sign and shouting, her expression slowly darkening.

”They were amazing. Yui Yuigahama’s singing, Yukino Yukinoshita’s piano, Kotomi Izumi’s guitar—all perfectly in sync. I had no idea Kotomi wasn’t just good at academics but also at music,” Akira Hiyama said softly as she clapped.

That afternoon, the maid café hadn’t reopened. Once the cheerleading club members learned Kotomi would be performing, they all went to Akira Hiyama to ask for leave. Dressed in their cheer uniforms, they wanted to attend the performance to cheer for Kotomi afterward.

Seeing the number of leave requests pile up, Akira simply waved her hand and said,

”Fine, we’ll close for the afternoon. Anyone who wants to go watch the performance, come with me. The rest of you can do whatever you like!”

Almost every girl who had played the role of a maid joined them. After all, Kotomi Izumi’s popularity among the female students was sky-high. Even those who couldn’t leave their class activities to come had already...

Some girls who couldn’t make it to the auditorium had even paid other classmates to record Kotomi’s performance from start to finish.

Usa Saion’s appearance at the event wasn’t a coincidence—she too had signed up to perform at the cultural festival, her program being a guitar and vocal solo.

Yes... quite the coincidence. Usa had chosen the same instrument as Kotomi: the guitar.

Competitive by nature, Usa Saion practiced tirelessly every day, staying up late into the night rehearsing both her guitar and vocals for today’s performance. On stage, she was always wound tight with focus—as if even a single mistake would be an unbearable humiliation.

Akira Hiyama, knowing Usa’s personality well, couldn’t help but glance at her the moment she saw Kotomi step onto the stage with a guitar in hand.

Usa, at first, was surprised—but quickly followed it with a faint, mocking smirk. She knew Kotomi couldn’t have possibly copied her choice of instrument, and though she irrationally disliked Kotomi Izumi, she wasn’t the type to blame others for every small frustration.

To be honest, Kotomi barely remembered who Usa Saion even was. Even if someone mentioned the name directly, Kotomi would probably need several minutes to recall—and might still fail to connect it to a face.

It wasn’t that Kotomi had trouble remembering names. On the contrary, if she had ever exchanged contact information with a girl, she could recall that person’s name, age, and number perfectly.

Give her any name, and if they had once swapped contacts, Kotomi could instantly recite the matching details.

So the reason she didn’t remember Usa Saion was simple—she had never exchanged contact info with her.

Kotomi rarely initiated such exchanges; she preferred to wait until others approached her first. That way, if her friends like Megumi ever saw her Line friend list or phone contacts, she could explain herself easily: ”They asked me first—I couldn’t exactly say no.”

Usa’s prideful nature made her assume that Kotomi was merely posing with the guitar on stage, acting as a decoration rather than a real performer.

But the moment Kotomi’s fingers began to play—those clear, elegant tones that flowed like a heavenly melody—Usa felt as if an invisible hand had just slapped her across the face. Her self-confidence from her own performance shattered instantly.

”Usa...?” Akira Hiyama looked at her worriedly.

Usa clenched her fists tightly, her jaw stiff.

”...”

”Usa?” Akira asked again, her voice soft.

”Shut up,” Usa hissed, her eyes locked on the stage.

Kotomi Izumi shone so brightly up there—like a pure white swan dancing across a sacred lake. Compared to that brilliance, everything else seemed like mere dust.

”Even if you’re good at playing guitar,” Usa muttered under her breath, ”you can’t sing and play at the same time like I can. That takes more than just skill with an instrument—it takes real vocal control too.”

After whispering those words, she felt only slightly better, as if convincing herself she hadn’t completely lost.

On stage, Kotomi turned toward Yui Yuigahama and Yukino Yukinoshita with a smile. ”Good job, you two.”

”Haa... I’m so nervous,” Yui exhaled, clutching her microphone with trembling hands. ”Funny thing is, I wasn’t nervous at all while singing, but now that it’s over, I feel like I might faint. I’m so lame.”

”Kotomi,” Yukino said quietly, looking at her. ”Would you say this performance has become a precious memory for the three of us?”

”Of course! And we’ll make many more wonderful memories together from now on!” Kotomi replied with a bright grin.

Hearing that, Yukino smiled softly—rarely, but genuinely. ”As they say, there’s no such thing as the best memory—only better ones. So yes, this cultural festival is just the start. We’ll make even greater memories together.”

Kotomi and Yui both froze for a second, then gasped in playful amazement.

”Whoa, Yukino, you actually smiled!”

”Yuki-chan, you look so pretty when you smile! You should do it more often!”

Realizing she had lost composure, Yukino quickly cleared her throat, pretending to stay calm—though her cheeks were still faintly red. ”O-of course I smile... Ahem. Anyway, Yui and I will head off first. It’s time for your solo performance, Kotomi. Adding an extra song at the last minute was reckless, but since you’ve decided to do it, compose yourself. Don’t just match the last performance—surpass it. Make everyone fall in love with your third song. I’ll be cheering for you from the audience.”

”And when it comes to cheering, I won’t lose to anyone!” Yui declared energetically.

Her competitive spirit was suddenly ignited. Seeing so many girls cheering for Kotomi—some she knew, others she didn’t—made her feel just a bit jealous. As Kotomi’s loyal ”puppy,” Yui puffed her cheeks slightly and looked at Kotomi with a pout that seemed to say:

You don’t have another puppy, do you?

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