It was a rainy Thursday when Lucid Dreams arrived at the office of NeonGone, a popular online music magazine. Their first feature interview. Aki had called it a "game-changer."
"Every up-and-coming band hits this milestone," she'd said in the group chat.
"This is how we start shaping our narrative."
That word—narrative—had stuck in Shino's mind like a splinter.
The building was glass and steel, cold and modern, perched high above the city. In the waiting area, posters of past covers lined the wall: sleek portraits of artists mid-laugh, mid-pose, mid-ascension. Shino looked at them and felt impossibly out of place. Her guitar case was scuffed. Her hoodie was too worn. Even Mika had traded her usual denim jacket for something vaguely formal.
Aki, of course, looked radiant—styled but effortless, her black jeans tucked into boots that probably cost more than Shino's entire amp setup. She had done her makeup that morning. Shino hadn't even thought to bring lip balm.
"You look fine," Mika whispered as if reading her mind.
"It's not about looks. It's about vibes."
"Yeah, and mine are screaming 'I want to go home,'" Shino muttered.
They were ushered into a small photo studio first. The lights were hot and unflattering. The photographer asked them to pose "naturally," which meant standing awkwardly in ways that didn't feel remotely natural. Shino winced every time the shutter clicked.
Aki, meanwhile, looked like she'd done this a hundred times. She angled her chin just right, smiled with her eyes, gave the camera softness and edge all at once. Shino wasn't sure if she admired her or resented how easily it all came to her.
After the shoot, they were brought into a quieter room for the interview. The journalist, a young woman with a notepad and a too-bright smile, introduced herself as Yuna.
"So, first of all—congrats on your EP recording! That demo of 'Glass Heart' has been everywhere." She grinned at Shino.
"You wrote that one, right?"
Shino nodded.
"Yeah. It came from a pretty personal place."
Yuna tapped her pen.
"Can you talk about that a bit? The meaning behind it?"
Shino hesitated. She'd written the song after a night spent pacing her bedroom floor, scared of being seen but more scared of being forgotten. It was about loneliness, vulnerability, and the quiet hope that someone might understand her through the music. But in the studio version, layered with harmonies and synths, it barely felt like hers anymore.
"It's… about feeling fragile," she said, carefully.
"But still wanting to connect. Even if it hurts."
"A beautiful sentiment," Yuna said, scribbling.
"And Aki, you've been called the driving force behind the band's live energy. Do you see yourself as the leader?"
Aki smiled modestly.
"I think we all lead in different ways. But yeah, I push us. I'm always thinking about what's next."
"And how do the others feel about that?" Yuna turned to Mika, who gave her trademark half-grin.
"Aki's the engine. I'm just the bass line that keeps us grounded."
Everyone chuckled.
Kanna, who hadn't spoken yet, shifted in her chair. "I think we all want the same thing… but maybe not always for the same reasons."
Yuna raised an eyebrow.
"Care to elaborate?"
There was a pause. Kanna glanced at Shino, then at Aki.
"I just mean… sometimes chasing success changes how you make music. And you have to ask yourself if that's still the music you want to make."
Shino felt a pang of relief and guilt at once. Relief that someone else had said it. Guilt that it wasn't her.
Aki's smile stiffened, just slightly.
"I think evolution is natural. We've come a long way since our first rehearsal in Kanna's garage."
Yuna, sensing tension, scribbled faster.
"So what's next for Lucid Dreams?" she asked, upbeat.
"Is there an album in the works? A tour?"
Aki jumped in.
"We've got some exciting things coming. More recording, definitely. And we're exploring live opportunities. There's real momentum right now—we'd be foolish not to ride it."
Shino watched her talk, her voice smooth and confident. And all the while, something gnawed at the edges of her own thoughts: When did we agree on all this?
The interview wrapped after another round of awkward group photos and a handshake from Yuna.
"You all have something special," she said.
"It's rare to find a band with such different energies that still feels cohesive. I can't wait to write this one up."
As they exited the building, the clouds had lifted slightly, but Shino still felt heavy.
They stopped at a vending machine just outside. Mika bought a can of coffee and handed another to Shino.
"You were quiet in there," Mika said, leaning against the wall.
"I didn't know what to say," Shino admitted.
"Every time I think I've figured out what we're doing, Aki adds another layer."
"You could always say something."
"Would it matter?"
Mika didn't answer right away.
"I think it would. To Kanna, at least."
Kanna was a few steps ahead, scrolling her phone in silence. Aki was already on the curb, talking with someone over the phone—probably the promoter for the next gig, or maybe a blogger. Shino couldn't tell anymore.
Later that night, the article went up.
"Lucid Dreams: Japan's Newest Indie Darling Isn't Playing Around."
The photo at the top was a close-up of Aki, looking fierce, confident. The piece called her the "heart of the band," described Shino's songwriting as "introverted brilliance," Mika's bass lines as "groove glue," and Kanna as "the rhythmic backbone.
But something about the piece felt wrong. The tone. The polish. The illusion.
And the final line stuck with Shino long after she closed the tab:
Lucid Dreams is more than a band. They're a story in the making—and Aki is writing the next chapter.
Shino sat back in her chair. Outside, the wind rattled the windows. Her guitar leaned in the corner, strings loose, waiting.
For the first time in a long time, she didn't pick it up.