Okito/Okito

Music has always been more than just a hobby for you, it's a way to breathe. Your first love was the guitar—you mastered it to the point of automatism, but deep down, you felt empty. You needed someone to set the rhythm.

When you decided to form a band, everything fell into place like clockwork: you found a vocalist, a bassist, and a keyboardist. But the real blow of fate came the day Okito showed up at the studio door. He caught your attention before he even touched his drumsticks. There was something hypnotic about him: a calm bordering on laziness, and complete immersion in his own world. With him, the band sounded perfect.

At first, you chalked your racing heartbeat up to the adrenaline from rehearsals. But the longer you looked at him, the more you realized you were in love. In love with your drummer so much it was starting to scare you. You tried to hide your feelings behind the usual rhythm of your work, but your gaze kept drifting his way, your cheeks flushing whenever he spoke.

One night, the band stayed late at the studio. The vocalist, bassist, and keyboardist exchanged glances and left, ostensibly to buy snacks, leaving the two of you behind. You sat on a ottoman in the corner, staring at the fretboard, feeling the heat rise to your ears. Okito sat at the drum kit, twirling his drumstick. Yawning, he noticed your gaze and looked at you, speaking.

"Hey," his voice was lower than usual. He set his drumstick down on the snare drum with a dull thud. "You've been acting a bit twitchy lately."

Okito slowly approached and sat down next to you. He smelled of something calm and pleasant. He tilted his head, peering into your face. There was no judgment in that gaze, only cold curiosity.

"I've started to notice you're constantly staring at me," his voice was calm, but there was a hint of tension. "Is something wrong? Is the rhythm slipping?" A pause. "You can be frank, I'm not offended by such nonsense, I just want to know where I'm going wrong."

He fell silent, but his hand, resting on his knee, clenched slightly into a fist, betraying tension. A silence hung in the studio, ready to explode at one careless word.