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Leo grew up under strict expectations that shaped him from an early age. As the eldest son, he was taught what it meant to be a “proper” man and an older brother—responsible, composed, and selfless. These rules became deeply engraved in him. At home, he learned to be dutiful and dependable; outside, he poured everything he couldn’t express into music, the only place where he felt truly free.
From a young age, Leo believed that being a man meant staying cool under pressure, putting others before himself, hiding vulnerability, and carrying burdens in silence. He accepted these values without question, convinced that sacrificing his own feelings was proof that he was doing the right thing. In his mind, enduring quietly was both love and duty.
At the same time, Leo’s childhood stood apart from others. He was labeled a “musical genius” early on, seeing the world through a restless, imaginative lens that few could understand. His boundless energy and unconventional thinking made him difficult for his parents to handle, yet music became his answer to everything. It was his refuge, his language, and his way of making sense of the world around him.
As he grew older, Leo clung tightly to the ideals he had built around himself. Music gave him control in a world where he often felt isolated and misunderstood. His innate kindness made him believe that if others followed his vision, everything would work out for the best. However, this belief also made him stubborn. He pushed his ideas strongly, even within collaborative spaces, creating music that reflected his sense of perfection but sometimes left little room for others’ voices.
These ideals became both his strength and his armor. They protected him from loneliness, yet slowly made him rigid. In trying to survive, Leo adopted traditional views of masculinity—and even internalized sexism—not because they truly fit him, but because they gave him a structure to lean on. Still, deep down, he felt out of place. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t fully reconcile who he was with what society expected him to be.
Though his family genuinely cared for him as he grew up in loving family, sometimes Leo felt he was a burden instead. Their kindness somehow reinforced his guilt, making him feel as though he had to live up to their care by never failing, never complaining, and never asking for help. Not realizing that he was basically trapped in his “idea” all along from a lot of factors.
Over time, cracks began to appear in Leo’s worldview. The principles he had relied on no longer matched reality, yet he held onto them desperately, afraid of losing the foundation of his identity. Slowly, his genius—once his greatest pride—began to feel like a curse.
He realized that the music he believed could “win” over others had instead started to suppress them. What he had intended as inspiration sometimes overshadowed others’ creativity. The thing he loved most had begun to hurt people around him. This painful realization forced Leo to confront the gap between his ideals and their consequences, shaking his sense of self-worth.
By the time he entered Yumenosaki Academy and joined the idol course, Leo was already mentally fragile. He doubted his own value, yet still clung to his ideals out of fear. It was during this unstable period that he met Izumi, who became a crucial presence in his life. Izumi recognized Leo’s talent and had ambitions that aligned with it. Their bond formed quickly—intimate, practical, and emotionally entangled—each relying on the other in ways neither fully understood.
Leo often thought about how easily he could have continued as a professional composer. He had already achieved success, and the path ahead would have been stable and comfortable. Yet, something about being an idol kept calling him back. Despite his struggles, performing brought him genuine joy. It became a new passion, one that grounded him even when everything else felt uncertain.
Still, no matter how hard he tried to hold himself together, Leo could no longer ignore the fractures in his beliefs. What once gave him pride now felt fragile. He kept smiling, acting confident, and pretending he was fine—but inside, he was lost. Slowly and painfully, Leo began to question everything: his music, his ideals, his worth, and where he truly belonged in the world.
And for the first time, he had to face the possibility that being strong didn’t mean enduring alone.
Leo grew up surrounded by strict expectations that shaped his life from a young age. As the eldest son, his family taught him how a man should behave, what an older brother should do, and the responsibilities that came with his position. These rigid rules created a divide within him. At home, he was the dutiful son, embodying responsibility and composure. Outside, he poured his individuality into music, the one space where he felt free.
To Leo, being a man meant to act cool, putting others first, suppressing his vulnerability, and bearing burdens in silence. These values became his guiding principles. He believed that by sacrificing his own comfort and feelings, he was fulfilling his duty as a son and growing into the man he thought he should be.
Leo’s childhood was anything but ordinary. Labeled a “musical genius” from a young age, he saw the world in a way others couldn’t—through the vibrant, chaotic lens of creativity. His boundless energy and unconventional perspective made him difficult for his parents to manage, but Leo saw music as the answer to every problem. It was his escape, his solace, and his way of understanding the world.
By clinging to these ideals over the years, Leo created a solitary world where he felt in control—as a genius left him isolated and, in many ways, naive. He became stubborn, convinced that if others followed his vision, everything would fall into place as he was a very innately kindhearted man who genuinely only wants the best for everyone in the core. He pushed these principles even in his music, crafting compositions that reflected his vision of perfection but sometimes stifled the creativity of others.
This belief became both his strength and his shield. It helped him cope with the loneliness of being misunderstood but also made him rigid. He tried to blend into societal norms by adopting traditional ideas of masculinity and even sexism, using them as tools to survive. But deep inside, he felt out of place, unable to reconcile these norms with his true self.
Leo’s family really cares about him, in short conclusion, if anything he feels like a burden to his parents because they've been so good to him.
As Leo grew older, he began to see the flaws in his worldview.
He realized that his principles didn’t always align with reality, yet he clung to them stubbornly until they began to break him. His genius, which he once believed was his greatest strength, started to feel like a curse.
The music he once thought could "win" against others had become a tool that suppressed individuality. His compositions, meant to inspire, instead overshadowed others' creativity. The very thing he loved—his music—had turned into something that hurt others. It forced him to confront the gap between his ideals and the unintended consequences of his actions.
The situation forced him to question his self-worth and the ideals he had built his life around.
When Leo arrived at Yumenosaki and became part of idol course, he was already in not-so-good mental state. He questioned his self-worth but clung stubbornly to his ideals, afraid to let go of the foundation he had built his life upon. In such state, he met Izumi, who became a lifeline for him. Izumi saw potential in Leo and had his own ambitions that aligned with Leo’s talent. They formed a bond that was both close and transactional, relying on each other in ways neither fully understood.
Leo often reflected on how he could have continued as a professional composer. He had already achieved success in the field before coming to the academy, and it would have been an easy, comfortable path. Yet, something about being an idol called to him. Despite his doubts and struggles, Leo found joy in performing. It became a new love for him, one that kept pulling him back no matter how difficult things became.
Despite his efforts to hold everything together, Leo couldn’t ignore the cracks in his principles. What once made him proud now felt fragile and flawed. He pretended to be fine, putting on a confident facade, but inside, he felt lost. He grappled with the realization that his ideals, no matter how noble, could not always hold the weight of the world—or even himself. Slowly, painfully, Leo began to question everything he thought he knew about his music, his worth, and his place in the world.
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Maru was born into the well-known Hidaka family, a household respected for its influence in the entertainment world. As a child, she was lively, expressive, and deeply drawn to art and performance—especially theater. She had already found something she loved. But as she grew, social expectations began to press in on her. Because she was a girl, she was told to be quiet, reserved, and obedient. She was forced to hide parts of herself that felt natural. Questions filled her thoughts: Why can’t I do what boys do? Why do I have to sit still like a doll when I have so many dreams? I never chose to be born this way. These doubts slowly weighed her down.
When Maru was twelve, her life changed drastically. Not long after her birthday, her father, Sagano, passed away. His death exposed long-standing tension between the Hidaka family on her mother’s side and the Ikeda family on her father’s side. The Ikeda family, deeply patriarchal, had always resented the Hidakas’ influence, and after Sagano’s death, they began targeting Maru’s mother, Ena, believing she had no one to shield her.
What followed were legal disputes and bitter conflicts. Eventually, Ena chose to abandon the Ikeda family name altogether. She took Maru and her younger brother, Arata, and returned to using the Hidaka surname. Although the Hidaka family offered support, Ena refused, not wanting to involve them further in the conflict, so as to prevent the Hidaka family name from being dragged into greater controversy by the media.
This decision, however, came at a cost. Already grieving the loss of her father—and her grandfather as well—Maru became a target at school. Her classmates bullied her over the name change, claiming she didn’t “deserve” the Hidaka surname. Others mocked her appearance, saying she didn’t look like someone from such a prestigious family. These cruel words cut deeply, feeding Maru’s insecurities and making her feel like she belonged nowhere—not to her family name, and not even to herself.
Despite everything, Maru kept her pain to herself. She didn’t want to add to her mother’s burden, knowing Ena was struggling in her own way.
One memory stood out as especially painful. Maru once had a crush on a boy at school. He knew about her feelings, yet when he saw her being bullied, he chose to stay silent. Watching him turn away while she fought alone felt like a quiet betrayal, deepening her sense of isolation.
That experience changed how Maru viewed love itself. She began to believe that expressing affection, loving someone openly and hoping for that love to be returned, only made others feel uncomfortable or trapped. What she had meant as care and sincerity was instead met with avoidance and disgust. The realization hurt deeply, because all she had ever wanted was to love freely and be free together with someone else.
Each hardship layered upon the last. The loss of her role models, family conflicts, rigid gender expectations, the forced name change, the bullying, and her painful experience with first love slowly eroded her sense of self-worth. Piece by piece, her once-bright spirit dimmed. By the end of it all, Maru no longer knew who she was or where she belonged. Only that she was still searching for her identity, and for a reason to believe she was enough.
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