*Title: The Song Left Unplayed*
Blaike gripped the strap of his guitar case so hard his knuckles went white. First day of high school. Junior year. It should’ve been fine. But standing in front of the school gate, his stomach flipped for no reason at all.
He was a musician. A nerd. The kind who hid shoujo manga inside his textbooks and actually believed people could fall in love under cherry blossoms, or after sharing an umbrella, or because of one song. He wanted that. God, he wanted that kind of story.
He slipped into his classroom and took the back row, because that’s where people like him belonged. The seat beside him was already taken by a boy with thick glasses and a textbook held way too high to be natural. When the teacher turned to the board, the boy lowered the textbook half an inch. Under it was a manga. _Kimi ni Todoke_.
Blaike grinned before he could stop himself. The boy noticed, went red, and hissed, “You saw nothing.”
“Name’s Blaike,” he whispered.
“…Deere,” the boy whispered back.
Just like that, Blaike had a friend.
A month passed. No love story. No umbrella moment. No one to pass notes to. Just band practice, manga, and Deere calling him an idiot with affection.
One afternoon, Blaike was in the practice room alone, running scales because his bandmates were late. Through the window, a dizzling light flickered from the rooftop. He squinted. A boy was sitting there, legs dangling, writing something in a notebook. Curious, Blaike took the stairs two at a time.
By the time he reached the roof, the boy looked up, startled, and left without a word.
“Who even was that?” Blaike muttered.
“Alvaren Kris. Senior. Stay away from him,” one of his bandmates said later. “Cold to everyone. Only talks to his two friends. Rumor is he’s failing something.”
But the next afternoon, Kris was in the doorway of the practice room. Blaike was in the middle of a new song. One about having friends, having music, having a normal, joyful life… and still feeling like there was a hole in his chest he couldn’t name.
When he finished, the room was too quiet. Kris was just standing there, doing nothing. It made Blaike’s skin itch.
“What are you doing here, Senior?” Blaike finally said.
Kris blinked, like he was waking up. “I was just passing by. Then I heard you sing and ended up here.” A pause. “Why does your song seem sad?”
Blaike’s pick almost slipped out of his hand. “It’s just… I sing what I’m feeling. By the way, what’s your name, Senior?”
“Uh. My name is Kris. What about you?”
“I’m Blaike. Junior.”
Awkward silence. The kind that makes your ears ring.
Then Kris said, “You should continue singing. I like your music.”
Blaike’s brain short-circuited. “T-thank you, Senior Kris.” And like an idiot, he did. He sang every song he’d ever composed. Kris didn’t clap. Didn’t smile. But he didn’t leave until the last chord died out.
He came back the next day. And the next. He never said they were friends. He just appeared, leaned on the doorframe, and listened. Sometimes he’d mutter, “The second verse is weak,” or “Play it again, but slower.” Blaike always did.
Deere started calling him “Cold Senior” and then, after a while, just “your Senior” with a stupid smirk.
Blaike didn’t have a name for what it was. Kris would bring two coffee cans and set one by Blaike’s foot without comment. Blaike started leaving a copy of his newest lyrics on the chair Kris always used. Kris would return it with notes in sharp handwriting: _This line is real. Keep it. This one’s lying. Cut it._
They never touched. Not even accidentally. But when Kris had a coughing fit one rainy afternoon, Blaike’s hand was on his back before he could think. Kris went rigid, then relaxed, just for a second. That night Blaike wrote a song called _Don’t Leave_ and couldn’t play it for anyone.
Winter. Kris got thinner. Paler. He started missing school. When he came back, he was meaner. “Stop looking at me like that, Junior. Tune your G string.”
Then he collapsed. Right there in the practice room, mid-song.
The hospital was white and cold. Blaike asked the doctor with shaking hands. “Is he— will he be okay?”
The doctor looked at him, pity already in his eyes. “This kid is aware of his own illness. He has cancer. Diagnosed a while ago. His life won’t last long.”
The floor dropped out. Blaike fainted.
When he woke up, Deere was there. Kris wasn’t.
“Where is he?” Blaike croaked.
Deere wouldn’t answer for a long time. Finally: “He was hospitalized a while ago, man. After the first time he collapsed. It’s… it’s bad, Blaike.”
_Oh._ That’s why Kris stopped coming. Why he snapped, “Don’t wait for me.” Why he kept saying, “Your songs are getting better. Don’t stop,” like he was handing something over.
Graduation was in one week.
Blaike went to the hospital every day after school. He brought his guitar. He played with it unplugged so the nurses wouldn’t yell. Sometimes Kris was awake. He never opened his eyes, but his fingers would tap on the blanket to the beat. They never said _I love you_. They didn’t have to. When Blaike played _Don’t Leave_, Kris’s hand slid under the blanket and held his wrist. Tight.
Blaike begged the doctor in the hallway. “Will he be cured? Please. He’s supposed to graduate.”
The doctor was exhausted. He gave Blaike the only thing he could. “He’s responding to treatment. There’s hope.”
Blaike chose to believe it. He wrote a new song for three days straight. A confession. A promise. He titled it _For When You Come Back_. He left the sheet music on Kris’s bedside table.
Kris was awake that time. He read the title. A real smile, small and broken and beautiful, crossed his face. “I will come,” he whispered. His voice was sandpaper. “I promise, Blaike.”
Graduation day. Blaike sat in the auditorium, not hearing a single speech. He kept checking the doors.
“And finally, our valedictorian, Kris Alvaren…”
Blaike stood up so fast his chair screeched. On the stage, the principal was holding a framed photo. Kris in his uniform. No smile, but his eyes weren’t cold in the picture. A black ribbon was tied to the corner of the frame.
No.
No no no—
Blaike ran. Deere grabbed his arm at the exit. “Buddy. It’s too late.”
“LET GO!” He ripped away and sprinted. He didn’t feel his legs. He didn’t feel anything until he hit the hospital.
Room 412 was empty. Bed stripped. Clean. Like no one had ever been there.
On the nightstand was a single folded letter. _Blaike_ on the front. The handwriting shook.
His hands shook worse as he opened it.
_Blaike,_
_If you’re reading this, then I’m sorry. I broke my promise. I’m sorry I was a coward. I’m sorry I was cold when all I wanted was to be warm for you._
_I found you because of your song. I was on the roof that day counting how many sunsets I had left. Then I heard you. You sang about being empty even though your life was full. I knew that feeling. I’d been living in it since the doctor said ‘six months’ two years ago._
_I came back the next day because you were the only thing in this school that didn’t sound like a ticking clock. I fell in love with you in pieces. The way you hide manga in your math book. The way you tune your guitar like you’re calming a wild animal. The way you looked at me like I wasn’t dying, just… late to practice._
_I didn’t tell you because shoujo manga doesn’t end with the sick boy. He’s not supposed to be the love interest. He’s the tragedy that makes the musician write better songs. I didn’t want to be your tragedy, Blaike. I wanted to be your chorus._
_I was slipping through your fingers from the second we met. I thought if I didn’t say it, if I didn’t let you say it, maybe it wouldn’t hurt when I went. Stupid, right? You held me anyway. Every day you played, you were holding me._
_Don’t write sad songs for me. Not anymore. Play _For When You Come Back_. Play it so loud the kids in the back row with manga in their textbooks hear it. Play it for the ones who think they’re empty. That’s how you keep me here._
_I was cold because I was scared. You were the only person who ever made me want to stay. That’s why I had to go. So you wouldn’t have to watch._
_Thank you for letting me be your first love. I’m sorry I can’t be your last._
_—Kris_
_P.S. The bridge really is better in A minor. I told you. Don’t change it back._
The letter fell. Blaike’s knees hit the floor. He cried until his throat was as raw as the day he sang _Don’t Leave_. He cried for the song he wrote to confess. For being too late.
“Sorry, Senior,” he choked into the empty room. “I was too late…”
Days. Weeks. Months. A year. The practice room stayed locked. Deere didn’t try to open it. He just sat outside with Blaike sometimes, reading manga in silence.
But Blaike eventually picked up his guitar again. Because the last line of the letter wouldn’t leave him alone.
He got into music school. He got signed. His first album was called _A Minor_. Track three was _For When You Come Back_. It won awards. He didn’t care about those.
At his first stadium concert, under dizzling lights that looked like the rooftop that day, he stepped to the mic before the last song.
He looked up.
“Thank you for everything, Senior. I was too late to tell you then, so I’m telling you now. I hope you like my song dedicated to you… who made me this successful. Because I know you always listen to my songs up there in heaven, together with God.”
Then he played.
And for the first time since Room 412, his music didn’t sound empty at all.
