(Giyuu's POV)

A loud crash was heard from the Butterfly Mansion, startling the people peacefully strolling outside. Even the unbearable shouting echoed through the air. Genya, one of the remaining Hashira, tried to stop Tomioka from destroying everything in sight.

Tomioka Giyuu—known to be aloof and stoic, rarely showing his emotions—was now losing himself in a whirlwind of pain. After the intense battle with the demon lord Muzan Kibutsuji, only half of the Demon Slayers had survived. The rest of the Hashira, the other slayers, and even their Master... had fallen.

"GIYUU-SAN, STOP IT ALREADY!" Genya ordered, but he didn’t listen.

The room was a disaster. A broken door, ripped flooring, shattered glass... and Giyuu himself—just as ruined.

“Why did you have to die... Why you...”

Suddenly, footsteps echoed from the hallway, making him stop from wrecking what little was left. It was the rest of the surviving slayers, all looking concerned at the broken Water Pillar.

The said Hashira stood up and slowly walked out of the room. He told them not to follow him—to let him be alone.

His lifeless body wandered through the mansion until he reached the open courtyard. It was nighttime. The sky was painfully clear, and the perfect shape of the moon caught his eyes. A sharp pain stirred in his chest. He hadn’t felt this devastated since Sabito’s death.

The moon reminded him of a woman he secretly loved. The one who always challenged him, insulted him, smiled like she was hiding a thousand secrets. The times they spent together, the moments filled with sarcasm and quiet understanding. It reminded him of her.

“If you only knew how much impact you’ve brought into my life…”

A flood of regret welled up in his heart. He regretted not spending more time with her. Not telling her how much he loved her. Not showing affection. Not being there before she was killed by that heartless demon. As his thoughts spiraled, a small purple butterfly landed quietly on his knee—reminding him of her even more.

He quietly bawled in pain, his cries silent but heavy. Begging Kami-sama to let him see her one last time. He gripped his haori tight, longing just to hear her voice again.

“Will you come back to me... and say it again one last time?..”

The silence that followed was deafening. The night air wrapped around him like a shroud. He let out a broken laugh, mocking himself for such an impossible request. He was losing hope. No—he was losing the will to live. He needed her. He needed his beloved. But he knew... only a miracle could bring her back.

“That’s so weird of you, Tomioka-san.”

A soft, familiar voice echoed beside him. His eyes widened. Slowly, he looked up—and his heart stilled. There she was.

Shinobu.

Standing there with that same knowing smile, her eyes warm and gentle. His breath hitched, and tears spilled down his cheeks once more.

“Shinobu-san…”

The Insect Hashira sat beside him and hugged his arm tightly.

“You really are hopeless,” she said playfully. “Crying in the middle of the courtyard like a lost puppy…”

He said nothing. Just stared at her, hands trembling. His voice cracked as he finally spoke.

“I... couldn’t save you.”

Shinobu shook her head, smile never fading.

“You did enough, Giyuu-san. You’ve always done enough.”

He gritted his teeth, fists clenching.

“I should’ve told you… how much I—”

Her hand reached out to his, barely touching. Her fingers felt light—almost not there at all.

“I knew,” she whispered. “Even without words. The way you looked at me, the way you stood by me… I heard all the things you never said.”

A breeze passed between them. A purple butterfly fluttered upward, dancing in the air. Shinobu followed it with her gaze, her expression softening.

“I can’t stay for long,” she whispered, her voice thinner now. “I just came to see you. One last time.”

“No... please—don’t go. Not again,” he pleaded, voice breaking.

She stood slowly, her figure beginning to blur into the silver light of the moon. The night itself seemed to swallow her little by little.

“Thank you, Giyuu-san. For loving me—even in silence.”

She paused, looked over her shoulder with a teasing smile, just like old times.

“One last thing,” she said, voice light as wind. “I love you too. You annoying, quiet man.”

And just like that, she smiled... and vanished. No sound. No farewell. Just the wind, and the moon. Giyuu was left alone once more. But this time, there was something different in the stillness. The ache remained—but something in his chest loosened. He sat quietly, his eyes never leaving the sky.

A final purple butterfly circled above before disappearing into the darkness. And for the first time in a long time... he allowed himself to breathe.

Maybe the universe heard us.

The quiet prayers we whispered into the night, the aching silence between words we never said but always meant. Maybe they reached the stars—maybe they listened.

I’ve been carrying your name like a quiet echo in my chest. Even in the days we’ve spent apart, even when the world felt too loud or too still, I could still feel you—woven into every quiet moment I wished you were there.

Time has stretched between us, but my heart never let go. Not once. And somehow, even across all the miles and the maybes, I know you’ve felt it too. That quiet pull. That invisible thread. We’ve never truly lost each other.

I think love like ours doesn’t vanish. It lingers. It stays. It waits.

I’ve found comfort in the small things again—light through the curtains, the hush of dawn, the way the breeze brushes my skin and almost feels like you. And for the first time in a long while, it doesn’t hurt to hope.

If the stars are kind, if fate hasn’t forgotten us… I know we’ll meet again.

Not as people picking up the pieces, but as two souls finally finding home in one another.

When our stars align, I’ll be waiting.

The young lad loves to play his strings alone where no one is judging him. There he can listen to only his soothing notes and nothing else. Chongyun was a shy person to begin with, but he really wanted people to hear his songs. He was indulged in his music until his only friend, Hu Tao, disturbed him.

"CHONGYUN!!!" the brunette girl greeted him.

The young lad couldn't help but frown at Hu Tao. "Energetic and loud as always, huh," he thought. Chongyun stopped and looked out the window, pretending that he was done playing his guitar.

"Hey! I heard you play," Hu Tao snickered. The light-haired lad blushed from embarrassment, hoping she was lying. "It was beautiful, though. Don't be shy to play some for me and teach me sometimes," she added with a smile. Chongyun replied with a small smile and continued to play his strings.

He and the brunette lass became friends in no time, and Hu Tao helped Chongyun cope with his shyness. It wasn't long until Chongyun heard that someone was looking for band members. He instantly got interested but was too shy to approach the person. This ginger-haired man seemed too pushy—it was like he wouldn't stop until you joined his group, which was a bit creepy for Chongyun. He found out that Hu Tao was picked by the ginger-haired man from the streets, and she helped him join as a guitarist.

He met two more members that he never knew he'd be friends with: Kaeya, the flirtatious guy who would definitely flirt with anybody he saw; Albedo, the quiet bassist who Chongyun heard was forced to join this group; and then there was the ginger-haired man, Ajax. He was somehow funny to be with but sometimes pushy. Ajax sometimes unexpectedly treated them to anything, which made him the sugar daddy of the group. Kidding.

Before they played as a whole, the young lad looked at his bandmates and chuckled, for he never expected to have a group of friends such as them.

"Ready to play for everyone, Chongyun?" Ajax asked him with a smile.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The beat finally started and Chongyun picked up his pace on playing his strings. Now, 𝐒𝐮𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐧 was finally on the stage, playing with their hearts' content, pouring their energy to play their song for everyone.

"𝐈'𝐦 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲," Chongyun inaudibly replied.

Because of them, he would've never reached this place. Because of them, people could now hear his notes. And for that, 𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒃𝒚 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒈𝒖𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒓 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒅.

The guitar hadn’t moved in years.

It sat in the corner of Chongyun’s room, cloaked in a fine layer of dust and silence, like a relic left behind in the wake of something sacred and broken. He couldn’t bring himself to touch it. Not since she left. Not since everything fell apart. Not since the band fell silent.

𝐒𝐔𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐍水圏—his heartbeat, his outlet, his family. They were never meant to be something big. Just a bunch of friends chasing sound and feeling. But back then, it felt like the world. Back then, Hu Tao was still by his side. Laughing in rehearsals. Humming beside him in the studio. Dancing barefoot across his apartment floor while he strummed something new.

And then she was gone. No grand breakup. No screaming. No doors slammed shut.

Just… absence.

He used to believe that if he just wrote the right song, played the right melody, she’d stay. That the music would hold them together even if everything else was falling apart.

He was wrong.

And when she left, so did the music.

“You kept it here all this time?”

Chongyun didn’t look up. He knew that voice—quiet, composed, tinged with curiosity that was never intrusive. Albedo stood in the doorway of his room, holding the old guitar case like it might bite him.

“You haven’t touched it, have you?”

Albedo didn’t ask the question with judgment. Just observation. That was his way—always noticing things others didn’t.

“No,” Chongyun said simply.

Albedo set the guitar down gently. “It’s a beautiful instrument. Would be a shame if it never got to sing again.”

He didn’t respond. There wasn’t much to say. That guitar had once been his second heart. Now it felt like a coffin.

Chongyun had been the soul of the band. On stage, his melodies were raw, sometimes chaotic, but always honest. Off stage, he was quiet, reflective—the kind of person who felt too much and said too little. Hu Tao had been the fire to his calm. Loud, impulsive, electric. She pulled him out of his shell. He grounded her. They were a perfect contrast.

Until they weren’t.

Music was more than art to him—it was his way of translating emotion. When he lost her, he lost the ability to understand his own feelings. Every string on his guitar felt like it carried her voice, her laughter, her memory. Playing became painful. And so he stopped.

𝐒𝐔𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐍水圏 disbanded quietly. No announcement. No final show. Just silence.

Sometimes he dreamt about her. Not the version of her that walked away, but the one who fell asleep on his shoulder during tour bus rides. The one who helped him write "BLOOM" in one night on the balcony while it rained. The one who made him believe that broken people could still create beautiful things together.

He woke up from those dreams with songs in his head—and a heart too heavy to write them down.

One afternoon, something changed. It was small. Insignificant, almost.

Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting golden beams across his floor. The dust on the guitar case shimmered. Something in him stirred.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he crossed the room. Kneeling down, he unlatched the case. The smell hit him first. Wood and time and memory.

“Hello, old friend,” he murmured. The guitar felt foreign in his hands. Heavy. Like it remembered everything he was trying to forget. He plucked a string. It was out of tune—sharp and jarring. But he didn’t put it down.

It took almost an hour to get it properly tuned. His fingers were clumsy, the calluses long gone. But when he played that first chord—soft and simple—he felt something loosen in his chest.

Not relief. Not yet.

But something.

He started slow. Fifteen minutes a day. Then thirty.

He didn’t try to write at first. Just scales. Old progressions. Muscle memory. Some days, he couldn’t do it. The grief came in waves—unpredictable and merciless. But on the good days, he remembered what it felt like to breathe through music.

Then, one rainy evening, Albedo appeared again. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his usual unreadable expression softened by concern.

“You’re trying too hard to make it sound like it used to.”

Chongyun didn’t look up. “I’m not trying to sound like the past. I’m trying to make it honest.”

Albedo stepped inside and placed a warm mug of tea beside him. “Then let it be cracked. Let your fingers falter. Let your voice shake.”

He paused, then added with a faint smile, “That’s what makes it real.”

It stuck with him. That night, he wrote a song. It wasn’t perfect. It didn’t rhyme. It barely held a structure. But it was his.

Weeks passed. He played more.

He began reworking old band material—not to revive it, but to understand it. The songs they wrote together took on new meaning. They weren’t just about youth and chaos anymore. They were about longing. Distance. Change. And forgiveness.

Eventually, Albedo invited him to play at his photography exhibit.

“Just a few songs,” he said casually. “You don’t have to introduce yourself. Just play.”

Chongyun hesitated. For weeks. But he showed up.

The gallery was simple—white walls, sharp lighting, and haunting portraits of abandoned spaces overtaken by nature. Albedo’s work was always like that. Beautiful, melancholic. Full of quiet resilience.

He set up in the corner, adjusted the mic, and sat with his guitar in his lap.

No fanfare.

He didn’t announce anything.

He just played.

One song. One shot.

The first was shaky. His voice cracked. His fingers trembled. But somewhere in the second verse, he let go of the fear. And something shifted. People stopped talking. The gallery fell silent. He didn’t look up until the last note faded. And when he did, he saw eyes glistening with tears. People who didn’t know his name, but somehow understood his pain.

Later that night, someone messaged him. A dancer who had quit after an injury. A poet who hadn’t written since their partner died. A student who hadn’t picked up her paintbrush in years.

“Your music made me feel again,” one said.

“Your broken melodies gave us permission,” said another. “To find ours.”

He kept going after that. Released a small album—Broken Melodies. Recorded in his apartment. You could hear the city outside, the kettle boiling, the creak of his chair.

It wasn’t polished.

It was real.

And then one evening, his phone buzzed. The name on the screen nearly stopped his heart.

Hu Tao.

I found your album. It’s beautiful. I don’t think I could’ve appreciated that kind of honesty when we were together. But now I do. I’m glad you’re still playing.

He stared at the message for a long time. Then, without replying, he picked up his guitar. Strummed a new progression.

Not sad. Not bitter.

Just true.

The sun was setting—light bleeding across the sky in streaks of lavender and gold. On his balcony, Chongyun sat with his guitar in his lap, fingers moving without hesitation now. The music wasn’t perfect.

But it was alive.

His band might never reunite. Hu Tao might remain a beautiful part of his past. But the music was his again. He wasn’t trying to write her back anymore. He was writing himself forward. And somewhere in the cracks between each note, he found something better than perfection.

He found peace.

There are moments—quiet ones—when I catch myself reaching for you without thinking.

In the stillness, where the world fades into silence, your absence settles beside me like an old companion. Not heavy, not sharp… just there. Familiar. I’ve grown used to the ache, but never comfortable with it.

I remember the way your eyes softened when you looked at me. How your touch never demanded anything, only gave. I think about those things more often than I admit. Maybe too often. But love doesn’t ask for permission to linger.

Every part of me holds onto the feeling of you—your laughter tucked into the corners of my memories, the warmth of your presence echoing in places you once stood. And still, I move forward. I keep working, keep breathing, keep protecting. It’s what I know how to do. But every path I walk somehow bends back toward you.

We’ve braved storms before. Faced things no one saw coming. And even now, separated by distance and the weight of unspoken words, I believe in us. In the thread that ties our hearts together. Quiet, but unbreakable.

You’ve always been my light, even when you’re not here to shine. And if time is kind, if fate hasn’t forgotten us, I’ll find my way back to you. No matter how long it takes.

Until then, I’ll wait. Not with folded hands or empty days, but with hope steady in my chest—like a compass that never loses its way.

Because I loved you then, I love you still. And I always will.