๐๐ฟ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ธ ๐ฌ๐ฌ โข ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ญ๐ฑ, ๐ช ๐ฏ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ด๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฃ๐ฐ๐ฅ๐บ!
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it was keijiโs fifth โpacing aroundโ cycle, in a futile attempt to get a break from writing and letting his brain cool down. however, the difference between his reality and one of a successful musician was the words on the paper: which, in his case, were nonexistent. his hand fidgeted with his black-ink pen as blank pages stared at him in disbelief, as if to say โwow, so much for being a musician, huh?โ in the most mocking way they could.
the deafening silence, the absence of the ink โ an ink he hoped to run down the cheap printer paper, filling it with poetry โ burdened him like no other. it was as if heโd stopped on his track, like he was the poorest excuse of a composer there ever could be. in truth, he was never that awesome at writing songs: heโd always counted with the help of his manager and friend, ichika watanabe. bokutoโs girlfriend really is an angel, the blue-eyed man thought.
his apartment, on the other hand, was everything but empty. walking in on a pile of clothes scattered carelessly across the floor was nothing like staring at invisible stanzas, and that made keiji mad. he knew he needed to make his bed, clean his floor, open his windows, but nothing came to him. much like gazing at his lack of lyrics, it bothered him to the furthest extent that his mind was so engrossed in writing that he hadnโt even left his room, let alone cleaned it. although he knew his roommate and best friend โ bokuto koutarouโ wouldnโt mind the mess (he was quite the messy one himself, after all), akaashi knew he had to do something about it. he knew, yet he couldnโt.
running his long fingers through his disarranged hair, akaashi sat on his deskโs creaking chair, which cried out loud when he plopped himself down on it. muttering some sort of all-over-the-place melody, the struggling musician reached for his phone in an act of pure impulse, wanting to call his manager and ask for help once more. but koutarou did say they were on a date... i donโt want to bother.
as he gave up on dialing ichikaโs number and pleading for help, keiji realized he could turn to someone else. a long glance at his computer screen gave the man the idea to ask the one place on which he swore never to depend for help: the internet. typing โwriting forumsโ on the browser tab, akaashi laid his fingertips on the keyboard restlessly, silently hoping for great ideas to pop up. he clicked on the website entitled โwrite with usโ, created an account, and began to digitize his concerns:
from: @akaashikeiji
hey! i donโt expect any of you to answer this, but can someone help me with songwriting? iโve been struggling lately...
sent from tokyo, japan
he wondered if that request had been worded well enough. after all, he did struggle with phrasing what he felt. as his hands mimicked a beat heโd heard before on the gray computer, his blue eyes noticed that one notification pop-up on the upper right corner of his screen. @musicalities sent you a reply! immediately after seeing the notification, keiji could feel his eyes glistening as they anxiously watched the user @musicalitiesโs response to his request. much to his dismay, however, it didnโt contain song lyrics. what it did contain was an odd answer:
from: @musicalities
can you send me your address? i donโt trust the net with my lyrics, and iโd rather send my ideas through letters...
sent from unknown
wow, this person really doesnโt like being identified on the internet. even their address is hidden. in reality, the man had no idea what to reply. slender fingers danced on the keyboard, longing for his response, as if his hands had been detached from his mind, wanting to type an answer of themselves. another notification.
from: @musicalities
donโt worry, iโm not a creep :)
sent from unknown
said like true creep, he thought. even though that smiley face made him uneasy, akaashi had a gut feeling telling him he could trust this person with his issues. in the end, it wasnโt like he was confiding in them with his greatest secret, just a struggle hovering over him like a hungry eagle, in which he was the prey.
he clicked on the userโs link, and saw nothing but a landscape photo of a sunrise behind a mall, but no street signs that could tell him where they were. their header was also absent, and so were their posts. nothing other than a profile picture and a short description saying โjust another japanese writerโ. well, at least theyโre from japan. the blue-eyed man clicked on the โprivate messageโ button and sent the person a reply with his address. now all it was left for him was to wait.
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