Harmonics of Misunderstanding
One of the concepts that Dolce & Gabbana types get wrong is misunderstanding itself. Most people screw up their take on misunderstandings. They think they come from actions. They believe a lack of conversation creates those little rifts between people, turning into cracks that spark conflict. Wrong. Misunderstandings don't stem from no conversation at all—they come from the wrong kind of conversation. The seeds of misunderstanding sprout right there in the dialogue, and when that talk gets jammed up, it's damn near impossible to untangle the knots in perception.
And yeah, there's a little misunderstanding brewing between us and the transfer student.
"Um, hey, Yoko…."
"Hmph."
That's why Yoko brushes past Lara's call without a glance as they cross paths in the hall, and why Lara shoots me a glare full of resentment after getting shot down cold. It's not like this happens every day, so Lara's trembling with a mix of shame and humiliation.
"You… you little shit."
Nah, it's probably just straight-up anger at me. I don't get why she's pinning it all on me when we stirred this mess together, but since I'm the root cause of her grudge, there's no point arguing. Guilty as charged, I hang my head, knowing I gotta own up before Lara starts really griping. Whether I speak Japanese or not doesn't matter—she won't even listen anyway. Looks like I need to find a decent messenger pigeon to relay the message. No sense making more enemies.
"…But Lara, do we really have to drag Yoko along?"
"Yoko? Oh, the transfer student, right?"
Lara reacts a beat late, like it took her a second to place the name.
"Why not? No reason we can't, is there?"
"There is now. We wanted her 'cause she had no beef with us, but that's out the window."
Yoko's no legendary bandmaster, and dragging her in just for her semi-famous composer cred? Hell, we've already got me for the party. If we're nitpicking perks, it's that she doesn't know about my affair scandal—but judging by her attitude, that's only a matter of time. All that's left for Yoko is her looks, but I'm into older women with a wicked streak, and Lara? Probably straight as an arrow, though who knows. Point is, with the upsides thinning out, why force it?
"If you're dead set on filling spots, just bring friends from your side. Club funding's the goal anyway—tell 'em to show up, snag some snacks, and bounce."
What matters is the excuse, right? Lara's the same—high schoolers lose their minds over snacks. Even ghost members'll bite if you toss 'em a few bags of chips. We handle the activity report ourselves, or skip it. Even on the bare minimum budget, it'll cover live costs.
"That's straight-up scamming, like Junwoo said…."
"Mutual benefit, baby. They get free grub, we hog the funds. Win-win, chicken for you, eggs for me."
"That's the opposite."
"I know. That's why I flipped it."
Damn, she caught that? Maybe I underestimated her brainpower. High schoolers aren't that dumb, fair enough. I mutter a silent apology she'll never hear, then pitch another idea to her unenthused face.
"Or just grab any two instrument players. You're in the instrumental track, right? Bound to con a couple."
"I could find some if I look."
"There you go. Problem solved."
End of discussion. QED. Thud thud thud. All she had to do was nod along like "Yeah, you're right," but instead, she crosses her arms, grumbling to herself in thought.
Lara gets that my logic holds water. She's not secretly hooking up with Yoko or anything—no need to obsess over some stranger.
"But… I dunno, it just feels off, y'know?"
Her heart's not buying it.
"It's a band, right? Not some one-off for a few months—we're talking long-term. Picking members on flimsy reasons like that… it feels kinda…."
"Heh, dreaming big, Lara. Bands are sandcastles that crumble in a heartbeat. They dissolve out of necessity, shift lineups, disband over petty bullshit, spark fights—that's bands."
"Moonlight's stuck with the original crew."
"Those guys never built to last in the first place. Like kicking sand on the beach—it doesn't change the essence."
Plus, Moonlight's got no public drama, but if you knew the real shit between them, you wouldn't say that. Lara needs one booze session with Moon Juhee, followed by a five-hour "heartwarming true band stories" documentary lecture to snap out of it.
"Anyway, by that logic, Yoko's no different. It's been, what, a week?"
"True, but… I got this vibe, y'know? Kinda cringey to say, but… like fate? I wanna band with her or something?"
"It's her face. There's probably a few hundred 'fated ones' left out there for me too."
That "spark" she mentioned—wasn't that just lip service? She was serious?
"Ughhh…."
Despite my earnest persuasion, goldfish-brain Lara clings to her puppy love for the exotic foreign transfer student, looking all desperate. A dash of rationality and she'd drop it. Bad for her and Yoko. Chasing someone who hates you? Annoying as hell.
That's my read: no need to force Minami Yoko into the band right now. No perks, no grounds, no way to even recruit her. Lara's just throwing a tantrum, acting on impulse. Spoiled brats that age? Not cute.
If I were her teacher or dad, I'd scold her flat-out…
"Hm."
I'm neither. Just like her—an impulsive, flawed musician. And as one, I'm more than willing to indulge my favorite vocalist.
"Hmmm."
I mull it over. Crunch numbers, weigh options. Decision made.
"I'll convince her for you, Lara."
I declare it boldly. Lara startles, then gets this weird déjà vu look, like she's heard it before.
"…How?"
"Gotta communicate hard. My way—the best way."
"That sounds sketchy…."
Her narrowed eyes scream distrust, but I need her faith this time. Sure, no Japanese and I'm no smooth talker, but I've got connections. And she's seen how I win 'em over.
"Musicians talk through music… Yoko's one too, so it'll reach her."
"I can trust you this time?"
"Of course. Who else you got? Stalk her till she talks?"
She grimaces, groaning softly—apparently not that extreme. After stomping around in angst, Lara picks trusting her unreliable bandmate one more time.
"…Okay, really trusting you this time. For real."
"Just me."
With her green light, I sling my guitar case over my shoulder and bolt from the classroom. Misunderstandings come from bad talk—so skip words, use something else to convey the truth. Music's always been the pure old gateway for that.
I'm Seonggwang, composer to the stars. For Lara, who believed in me, I won't fail.
Yoko! Let's talk about it!
Time for some heartfelt jamming with the pissed-off composer.
Finding Yoko was easy. First week as a transfer, she's sticking to routines, and word is she holes up alone in an empty classroom after school.
In a darkened room bathed in crimson evening light, there she was—acoustic guitar in hand.
"Dommo, Yoko-san."
"…You guys again."
I greet her warmly, but she groans like it's a chore and edges toward the door. Part of me wants to grab her, but nah, no need.
"Not taking your guitar?"
"Ah…."
Halfway out, she turns back for it. Seizing the moment, I whip out mine and flash it like a trophy.
"…That guitar. From that anime, right?"
Her eyes lock on, hooked instantly. Knew it—she geeked out over the show on Twitter. String players always peek at others' gear out of curiosity.
I ignore her glare, tune up casually. She shoots daggers but sits a seat away, eyes glued to the guitar.
Got her staying for now…
Sharing space is enough—no need to force talk and piss her off more. Better to ease her guard by doing my thing. Perfect timing, too—she's staring.
I pull up a guitar technique tutorial on my phone, pluck away ignoring her.
"…Picking harmonics."
That screechy high note from rock and metal. Strings aren't just one pitch—layers of harmonics hide inside. Normally, the thick fundamental dominates, but graze the string with your thumb pick just right, and the fundie dies while the highs sing. Picking harmonics.
Fancy terms like overtones or whatever—it's just high-note extraction.
"Short pick stroke… thumb just brushes…."
I mimic the video. Screeeeech.
"……."
Not an instant-master kinda skill, huh.
"Pfft."
Yoko snickers at my flop, smug as hell. Yeah, yeah, beginners screw up. Theory's one thing, practice another. Pissed, I keep plucking.
Screeech, skreeeeee.
No bell-like chime—just the guitar whining in agony. Not a plug-and-play move.
"I get the how, but the feel… fuck, that's why I hate strings."
Percussion or keys? Press and it sounds. Strings? No mastery, no sound. I fumble on, and Yoko smirks—then hugs her guitar, strums.
Ting.
Crisp bell tone. Frets 12 and 19, tapping along the board—tapping harmonics.
Show-off. She catches my look, rides the vibe, keeps playing. Solid skills—no buzz, no bad habits. Clean.
Her left hand slides down, pauses, vibrates the string. Aiming for slide-to-vibrato maybe…
"Ah."
Vibrato flops, volume fades to nothing. Pressure wobbles off—wrist lock failed, string pressure dropped.
"Tsk."
I click my tongue back at her. She blushes, glares daggers—karma, bitch. Don't mock the newbie.
I pluck on silently. She side-eyes me, draws her knees in, grabs her laptop. Headphones on, she hums lost in her world.
"Hmm~ Hmmm~"
Tongue-clicking counts like tonguing, thin whistle of a tune. Post-count, it flows into the guitar.
Minami Yoko, aka Syobare—VOCALOID specialist. Electronic edge inevitable, but acoustic softens it. Fast chords get percussive anchors, key changes and tensions via arpeggios. Her hum turns improv into song.
Syobare track, but this feels brand new. Solid tune—rough, but listenable.
"…Still, it's missing something."
She's deep in it, world narrowed to her bubble. No need to interrupt or backseat-drive—it's her song.
So what I do next? Just a lil reference nudge. If only it'd gone like this… A hint of regret.
Ding-a-ling.
I match her play, blending in—not clashing. Acoustic solo covers rhythm, bass, drums too. Melody kills it, so I ride hers. Sync rhythms, interpret the tune. Steal half her intent, freestyle the rest.
"…?"
She notices the added layer, pauses, sets guitar down, doffs headphones.
Was just getting into variation… why stop?
No freeloading complaints from me. She stopped? Fine—now I lay it all out.
"You stopped, right? This song's mine."
"Huh?"
I hijack the flow, full reinterpret. J-pop: dense melody, busy rhythms. Complex harmony tough solo, but vibe's catchable.
"Kinda jazzy… might as well lean in."
Heavy tune? Rootless, bouncy. Bassline secondary beats, arpeggio resolutions maxed.
"E… G-sharp, D, F. Drops to Am funnier here, yeah?"
"……."
Yeah, better. Guitar demands style—own it. Deviates midway, but suits my taste. Let's run with it.
My flavor, my write. VOCALOID days, did this tons. Memories intact, fused knowledge firing.
"…This song…."
Push on. J-pop groove straighter? Jazz pull notes ahead.
Skill's freedom. My way. Guitar stumbles but echoes my vision.
Excitement builds, original goal forgotten ages ago.
Then—
"Ow… flubbed. Broke."
No brake, but my shaky skills tap out. Was masking slips with flow, but nah. Half-assed learning sucks.
Rub sore fingers on floor, shove guitar aside in frustration. Buzz fades, afterglow lingers. Snap back—check Yoko.
"……."
Mad I hijacked? Nah—spaced-out stare at my face. Not crushing on my playing. Something behind me? Glance—nope.
Why's she staring?
I meet her eyes, puzzled. She blinks out of it, finally speaks.
"…Seyroku."
"What?"
That word from her lips. No clue what it means or why. Can't read minds—her intent's a mystery. Just… that gaze unnerves me. Eyes sparkling, maybe sad, aching with longing, fixed on me.
Why that look? I grin awkwardly, clueless.
Cheesy metaphor, but…
"Nande…."
"Uh… sumimasen?"
I misread solo, avoid her eyes and intensity. The transfer student who hated me—or at least resented me. Minami Yoko. A total stranger. But her eyes… like reuniting with a long-lost first love.