Inspiration

Inspiration.

Give her courage? This wasn't like implanting hair follicles. What exactly was I supposed to do?

I was flustered, but in the end I accepted.

The reasons were…

Well, part of it was that my heart went soft for the cat-eared character who kept rubbing her hands together, pleading with words like please, just once, together. And the thrill of hearing someone actually sing a song I'd worked on — even if it wasn't entirely my composition — hit harder than I'd ever imagined. There was also something good about knowing the feeble talent I'd nurtured in the corner of my room could make another person smile.

I even laid down the lowball of "I'm not confident" as I promised her a next time.

With only a week left until the tournament application deadline, we dove into a quick meeting. The goal was to settle on a song for the document screening.

Lunari sang the candidates one by one on stream, and I left feedback in chat — songs whose range sat so high they made a listener nervous, or tracks with a good vibe but a tempo so slow the judges would struggle to stay locked in. I wasn't an expert, but I passed along my honest impressions, and Lunari took them seriously.

After weighing several options, we settled on a city-pop track.

Pink-haired Lunari blinked at me.

There wasn't much to overhaul — strip out a few instruments from the original that clashed with Lunari's voice, then lay a thin acoustic guitar layer on top. That alone would make her tone spring to life. I could already hear it.

If she didn't stand out here, Lunari was done. Fail the screening and there would be no Round of 32, no Round of 16. Putting real effort into the document round wasn't optional — it was mandatory.

True to my word, the work was simple and took under two hours. After emailing the finished file, I sat there spacing out for a while.

I'd never say this to Lunari, but a small part of me still thought it might be easier if she just got eliminated. The songs I'd made were already hers — she could use them wherever she wanted. If she advanced… well, that would be good too. Yeah.

While mulling over songs for the Round ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of 16, I constructed an invincible little logic for myself: whether Lunari made it or not, I wouldn't lose. Unlike Lunari, who was deep in practice, I lounged around recycling these useless thoughts and enjoying the free time.

Unfortunately, that free time didn't last. Lunari's call cut it short.

Fresh off practice, Lunari bombarded me with questions. I told her more than once that my ear wasn't that precise, but she insisted I recommend whatever sounded best to me. The rising sense of responsibility was uncomfortable, and yet being trusted felt good.

What was this feeling? Was this what a trained puppy felt like?

Anyway, prepping like this made chat communication increasingly awkward. Whether a stream had many viewers or few, chat was a public space. Everything got logged, and writing long messages was a pain. I could literally watch people pop in thinking, what's this room even for?, then bounce immediately.

The moment it hit two, it was back to one within five seconds.

We were entering a singing tournament to grow her channel, and yet the stream itself was getting thrown away. That dissonance started to itch at me, so I brought it up first.

I'd expected a simple nod, but Lunari hemmed and hawed before speaking up.

I don't have friends. I don't know that stuff.

Handing my personal contact info to someone I didn't know was out of the question. Lunari wouldn't understand, but people — especially women — made me uncomfortable. If she'd been a cam streamer instead of a virtual avatar, I probably never could have done any of this. A few locked eyes with a camera and I would have hit the back button immediately.

So I tried to refuse. Lunari wouldn't back down.

She had a point.

Lunari cleared her throat, then smiled.

Logical. Not a single wrong word.

Just… hassle.

I surrendered.

Was she always this sharp?

A satisfied laugh came through the speakers.

The document deadline arrived fast. Lunari submitted her track safely with two days to spare and spent the following days like any other.

Time passed. Two more days slipped by.

I had her stream open in the background while I fiddled with my composition software when the atmosphere on broadcast suddenly shifted.

Something clattered, and her voice started to shake.

"……?"

My hands stopped on their own. I focused on the speakers.

Silence.

One second. Two.

Lunari bounced like she might leap out of the screen. Tear effects and firework effects exploded at the same time. Her voice went past trembling into actual tears.

Watching her celebrate, relief rose up in me. That little "it'd be easier if she failed" thought vanished like a lie.

The very next day after she'd celebrated through a personal email, the full list of passers went up in a platform-wide announcement. Being a tournament organized by the platform itself, the judging had been lightning-fast — and the reveal was just as swift.

Scrolling down the official notice's participant list, I found Lunari's name.

Among these thirty-two, Lunari was probably the least known. I'd never watched any of the other streams, so they were all strangers to me — but the announcement already had a mountain of comments, which meant the roster was packed with popular streamers.

The official account's notice had even more details tacked on, and it left me speechless. Seeing a scale bigger than I'd expected, my conscience pricked at how lightly I'd approached this as pure promotion.

First place alone was twenty million won. There was an "or secret benefits" stuck on the end, but I had no idea what that meant, so I moved on. The gap between first and second was a full twentyfold. Leave it to internet broadcasting to make the prize structure this provocative.

And one of the sponsors was an entertainment agency. With that kind of professionalism attached, people were spinning wild fantasies and cranking the hype to the ceiling. Very, very pressure-inducing.

I scanned the comments for any mention ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of Lunari. Exactly the reactions I'd predicted.

The tournament hadn't even started, and Lunari's stream promo was already a success.

And right now.

"……Oh."

Sixty-one. Hard to believe it had been single digits not long ago. Just being listed on an announcement post was enough to turn Lunari — whose recognition had been zero — into an object of public curiosity.

Exactly as planned. Just as Lunari had wanted, there were now plenty of people ready to listen to her sing and talk with her.

Looking at the chat…

As the numbers climbed, chat sped up, and Lunari excitedly answered every message. When she was happy, that distinctive lift in her voice came through thick and clear.

I can finally stop forcing myself to type and just watch comfortably while doing other things, I thought — and as I looked at the chat, a strange sensation rose up.

Not a negative feeling. Just… the sense that something had changed.

Was the habit of one-on-one conversation still clinging to me? Maybe I'd unexpectedly been missing those days.

During a short break, Lunari messaged me, and I offered the congratulations I hadn't been able to send in live chat. She was happy. Of course she should be.

I turned my head toward the window, but the blackout curtains were drawn, so I couldn't see outside. My eyes just went that way out of habit.

People change.

As the stream grew, Lunari would change too. She wouldn't be able to do broadcasts where she chattered like she was talking to herself at a single viewer. That was how it should be. The points of contact would get shallower and settle into a single memory.

Maybe I could count this streaming experience as this year's annual event for overcoming my social anxiety. Once the tournament ended, I'd probably go back to being a very quiet viewer, or just return to my ordinary life.

I carefully pictured going back to square one.

Square one — square one — square one.

Humming tones floated around inside my head.

A natural parting?

A farewell that returns you to where you started.

Oh. That was good.

I left the stream behind and opened my composition software.

When I'd been choosing a song for the Round of 16, two candidates had fought it out to the end. One was a dream-pop track with the gloomy resonance I preferred; the other was a tropical house song by a boy group that Lunari had recommended. Of the two, the boy group song's lyrics had left a strong impression.

The four seasons spent together. A school full of memories. A sad goodbye that still held encouragement. Graduation.

The lyrics captured the sorrow of parting from old friends, and yet also the youth overflowing with support for each other's futures. It was all melted into a clean, easygoing house beat — bright and full of energy.

Same lyrics. Different atmosphere.

Parting from friends becomes parting from a longtime lover. The bittersweet blessing sent after the back of a best friend who must walk a different path becomes the bitter ache of letting go of a lover because you want them to be happy.

Once the inspiration arrived, it seized my keyboard in an instant. Before I knew it, the light leaking through the blackout curtains had faded away.

And so PrismTree's song Graduation Ceremony was reborn in my hands.