An hour ago, after Teacher Meihe came out of the practice room, she handed the handwritten evaluation report to Ritsu.
The two briefly discussed Haruka’s physical condition.
Teacher Meihe emphasized that for at least three months, absolutely no high-intensity dance schedules must be arranged; she must focus on vocal work.
After reading the report, Ritsu returned to his office and began a nonstop coordination effort.
Over the next forty minutes, he made seven phone calls in a row.
The first call went to the producer at the record label to confirm the recording schedule for the new album.
Originally planned to start recording in mid-January, it now needed to be moved up to the end of December to complete at least three songs during the year-end window.
“Her vocal condition is fine. I just had an assessment done today.”
Ritsu’s speech was fast but left no room for doubt.
“Yes, she can enter the studio for recording very soon.”
The second call went to the TV variety producer.
Haruka had originally been a fixed cast member of a music variety show, but it had been suspended for a month due to the car accident.
Although the producer welcomed her return, he also tactfully mentioned, “To be honest, the substitute we found recently has been doing quite well…”
Ritsu was prepared for this.
“And what if Hoshino Haruka’s performance after her return is even better? I think that would be absolutely not a bad thing for the program team.”
The producer on the other end laughed and readily gave a firm reply.
“Recording next week. I’ll send you the specific time.”
The third call went to the brand partner.
Among the endorsement deals canceled due to the car accident, there was one that had a chance of being salvaged.
Ritsu spent a full ten minutes convincing the other party.
“Hoshino Haruka has fully recovered.”
“Her comeback tweet’s retweets exceeded ten thousand within three hours, and the topic’s popularity has fully returned to pre-accident levels.”
After hearing this data analysis, the other party finally said they needed to “internally consider it” and then hung up.
To an outsider, this cooperation was probably dead; but in industry jargon, “consider it” is ten thousand times better than a direct “no,” meaning there is still room for negotiation.
The fourth to seventh calls were about various piecemeal schedule adjustments, coordination of time slots, and confirming the weekly training time with Teacher Meihe.
In the original schedule, there were indeed some parts involving high-intensity dance and full stage performances.
Fortunately, President Kirishima had the foresight to arrange new schedules during Haruka’s hospitalization that mostly focused on vocal and interview directions, anticipating that she might not be able to engage in strenuous exercise immediately after recovery.
So although this major reshuffle by Ritsu was tedious, it didn’t leave him overwhelmed.
After hanging up the last call, Ritsu rearranged the modified schedule on the phone app.
After confirming there were no omissions, he stood up and left the office.
As usual, he first went to the break area near the vending machine to find Haruka.
Because that girl had a habit: every time she took a break, she would hesitate for two or three minutes in front of the vending machine debating which flavor of juice to drink.
But a colleague from the Publicity Department in the break area said that Hoshino Haruka had just come up, wandered around, chatted with a few other colleagues, and then went back down.
This surprised Ritsu.
In the end, he found her in the basement practice room.
When he pushed open the door, Haruka was standing in front of the mirror, mumbling something.
Her voice was very low.
Occasionally she would draw out a long note, then frown, adjust her mouth shape, and try again.
Obviously, she was doing vocal exercises on her own.
‘Is she actually practicing on her own?’
To be fair, he couldn’t really blame himself for thinking that.
Haruka used to practice on her own, but it usually required a long “activation time.”
Either Ritsu would coldly remind her, “Practice this afternoon since there’s no schedule,” or Teacher Meihe would assign mandatory homework, or she would be inspired by a senior’s stage performance.
In short, her “activation threshold” was higher than average, and she often needed a strong push from someone else.
A situation like today, where she proactively practiced without supervision, was extremely rare.
Ritsu’s eyes narrowed slightly, and then he pushed open the door.
“Practicing?”
Hearing his voice, Haruka turned around.
The moment she saw Ritsu, her expression instantly switched from “focused” to “a little smug.”
“Yeah! Even though I can’t dance right now, I figured I’d at least try to get my singing form back. Didn’t Teacher Meihe just say my vocals are fine?”
“Mm.”
Ritsu walked into the practice room and sat down on a folding chair in the corner.
He opened the schedule app on his phone and turned the screen toward her.
“I’ve rearranged the schedule. Take a look.”
Haruka leaned in.
The color blocks on the screen looked completely different from yesterday.
The blocks labeled “MV Filming” and “Live Rehearsal” had disappeared, replaced by labels like “Recording,” “Radio,” “Variety (Talk),” “Interview,” and other static or vocal-based arrangements.
“All dance-related schedules have been pushed back two months.”
Ritsu explained.
“That includes the new MV filming and the full stage for the music festival in January. I’ve already coordinated with the festival to change it to an acoustic set—singing only, no dancing.”
Haruka looked at the dense new color blocks on the screen and silently swallowed.
“Wow… it still looks really packed…”
“I’ll control the density. I won’t let you burn out all at once.”
“…Mm.”
“Recovery training will follow Teacher Meihe’s plan: four times a week, one hour each. This absolutely cannot be reduced. The rest of the time is free—you can practice on your own or rest.”
Ritsu closed his phone and stood up, his tone softening.
“Take it slow. Especially with something like dancing that requires high-intensity physical activity—you can’t rush it. After all, your injury—”
His gaze fell on the band-aid on Haruka’s forehead, and he paused.
“For that injury to have recovered to this point is already a miracle. Don’t sacrifice your body just to catch up.”
“Mm…”
Haruka nodded obediently.
Ritsu’s gaze shifted from the band-aid to meet her eyes, his tone as calm as ever but leaving no room for doubt.
“I’m here. You can be at ease.”
Haruka suddenly lifted her head and met his gaze.
“I’m here. You can be at ease.”
Ritsu said this very casually, just as naturally as he would remind her “don’t stay up late” or “fasten your seatbelt.”
But back when she was still Matsumoto Eitai, she had heard it once before, in a completely different situation.
—
That year, he was nineteen.
His mother had returned to her hometown to visit relatives.
On the way back, the bus was caught in a landslide.
No one on board survived, including his mother.
Those days were the ultimate darkness and stupor.
Even every breath felt like an unnecessary torment.
He lost his father as a child, and now his mother as an adult.
He locked himself in his house, never went out, never answered the phone, and cut off all contact with the world.
At that time, Ritsu had already dropped out of school and been working in Tokyo for three years.
The two had not been in touch for years, but that day the doorbell rang incessantly.
He ignored it.
After the doorbell stopped, it turned into heavy knocking with fists.
Then came an extremely familiar, rhythmic hand-clapping “knocking melody”—he recognized it.
It was their special code from when they were kids, when Ritsu would come to get him to play.
“Open the door. If you’re still alive, open the door.”
The voice from outside was neither too loud nor too soft, just enough for him to hear.
He finally opened that door.
Standing outside the door was Ritsu.
He was much thinner than in high school, wearing a pair of glasses with slightly bent frames and a wrinkled shirt.
Clearly, he had taken the Shinkansen for several hours and rushed over overnight.
In his hands were a few convenience store bento boxes and some cheap vegetables and fruit.
Ritsu looked at Eitai, who was so wasted and unrecognizable inside the door.
He didn’t say “Are you okay?” He didn’t say “My condolences.”
He didn’t say “Look on the bright side.”
He just placed the things heavily in the entryway and said calmly:
“Just stay alive.”
Then, Ritsu turned to leave, but before stepping out the door, with his back to Eitai, he left a sentence:
“I’m here. Don’t worry. As long as I’m not dead, you are not allowed to die.”
“…”
“I’m here.”
These three light words supported him for a long time in his life, until he truly came out of it.
Haruka’s thoughts drifted far, far away, so far that Ritsu thought she was habitually zoning out again, so he looked down and continued handling unread emails on his phone.
Haruka snapped back to reality and blinked her slightly stinging eyes hard.
She realized she had been thinking too much just now.
But, spanning nearly ten years, facing the same person, hearing the exact same words…
That heavy, substantial warmth.
It hadn’t changed one bit.