She watched his thumbs fly across the screen. “A song?”
Jiro paused and looked at her. “A verdict.”
"What did he call you?" Jiro asked.
"Cupcake."
Jiro went still. "That's…" He stopped, like the word didn't fit in his mouth. Tried again. "That's sacred." He said it with such seriousness.
"He didn't treat it that way," she said.
Jiro looked at her. His expression was solemn, sad in a way that felt like grief for something he'd never known. "I know."
Then he went back to typing.
A handler in a black lanyard appeared at Jiro's elbow. "Jiro, we need to move."
Jiro didn't respond. He was still typing, fingers moving like he couldn't stop even if he wanted to. The handler guided him away, down the corridor toward wherever he was needed next.
April stood alone in the corridor, sponsor logos watching like witnesses.
Jiro
JIRO’S FINGERS WERE already moving across the screen before he’d consciously decided to write.
She didn’t ask for anything. Everyone asked.
Everyone wanted—performance, proximity, proof they’d been close to something that mattered.
She just was.
He’d written a hundred songs, chased inspiration across three continents. He hadn’t been caught off guard like this in years.
Bold and soft.
She’d told him about betrayal, about being small in a supply closet, about a man who worshipped love songs while treating her heart like a joke.
No tears for effect. No anger for sympathy. Just truth.
She was a chord progression he’d never heard before.
He had to get it down before it faded.
The song came fast. He didn’t look up.
“A verdict,” he’d told her. He typed until his thumbs ached.
Cupcake is the one who’s moving on.
The line settled. It was done.
Jiro lifted his head, eager to share it with her.
But he was in a different room now. The light had changed, softer, amber instead of white. A green room, maybe. Or a hallway backstage.
She was gone.
He must have been moved.
