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Tonight is the night that she graduates. Aichan is no stranger to the heart-rending process that is graduation. She knows that if she looks too closely at the audience, she'll see tears on familiar-looking faces, faces that belong to fans that have held up yellow penlights for five years, and gold before that, faces she's seen during birthdays, Christmas parties, trips to Hawaii, and everything in between.
She knows that glancing backstage will only reveal a group of twelve to fourteen year olds huddling together, crying their hearts out, Sayumi among them, bawwing harder than anyone (even if it means ruining her ichiban kawaii™ face), Aika scolding them to keep appearances up even while struggling to hold a crutch and wipe away tears at the same time. She knows Reina is off sulking alone in a corner right now, like a stray cat licking wounds it won't admit to having in the first place.
She doesn't want to think about what Gaki's doing—honestly, she doesn't know. It’s the one thing Ai doesn’t know, the one thing that’s new about this graduation. It's the first time they haven't had each other to cry on, the first time that one of them is graduating on their own.
Ai is a crybaby by nature, and she knows that looking too closely anywhere--at her fans, at her friends, at her new kohai, at Risa--right now will make her cry. Ai knows all of this as she stands on stage, feels the nervousness and the sadness filling the theatre. She knows, and so she clutches her letter and stares at it for dear life as she reads it aloud as steadily as she can. Her voice breaks in between, but she fights the urge to break down. Not yet. She has to tell them all first. Thank you. I love you. I never imagined that someone like me could stand where I'm standing now. If I've improved any, as a performer or as a person, it's because of you. I've loved these last ten years. I want to make you proud, because I love you.
She manages to stumble her way through somehow, but as she puts the letter away neatly, she can't help but feel overwhelmed. Her smile loses a bit of its composure, her chin starts to wobble, and she's just about to lose it when the music starts playing. It's a happy tune, a cheerful beat that she's rehearsed so many times that she automatically goes into performance mode again when her ears pick it up.
That's right, Ai thinks as her arm curls around her mike stand naturally. I'm still not done telling them. Thank you. I love you.
She'll never be done telling them. She wants to keep saying it, as long as she can. But this is the last time she'll be able to tell them as a Morning Musume member; this is the last memory she can give them as Takahashi Ai, the leader of Morning Musume.
So she looks into as many tear-stained faces in the audience as she can now, even if the shouts and calls threaten to bring tears to her own eyes. "I won't show you any tears, I'll just set off on my journey as it is," she chokes out, I want to be someone you can have faith in." The following lines come more strongly, with a fuller smile. Ai relaxes and stretches and gives off a confident air she's not at all sure she really possesses, because she does want to be strong. For her fans, for her friends, for her kohai, for Morning Musume. She wants to be strong, because every bit of strength she's had these last ten years has come from them, and it's the least she can do now.
Ai has the dance skills to pull off much more complex dance routines, has the vocals to hit much more soulful notes, but instead, she runs like a chicken with its head cut off, wow wow-ing with all her might because this is what she wants to leave them with: a smile. With the same amount of hope, with the same amount of dreams that they've given her. That she herself is leaving with. Thank you. I love you. "Thanks 'till now! Thanks tonight!" Ai sings it over and over and she feels like never stopping, but the performer in her hears the music winding down and knows it's almost done. She looks into the audience, and there's still threads of sadness, still threads of fear.
So she takes a bigger breath, looks at her fans head on. Thank you. I love you. I won't abandon, I won't betray this strength that you've given me.
“I'm leaving with confidence, I'm not giving up, the future that awaits will definitely shine even brighter.”
As she finishes the song to a deafening applause, Ai feels that it's gotten through. The rest of the concert flies by: Ai inevitably breaks into tears as soon as the members give her their messages, and despite her best efforts to rally the troops, everyone's a mess by the time Namidacchi ends, but Ai feels better now, can breathe easier, because among all the tears, there's a hum of love resonating, a stream of confidence, a whole list of unspoken dreams waiting to be fulfilled.
Ai thanks the audience one last time on this stage, this lovely stage she's had for ten amazing years, before she makes her way to the next stage.