1. 夢ならばどれほどよかったでしょう

Romaji: yume naraba dore hodo yokatta deshō
Nuance: “If only it had been a dream—how much easier that would’ve been.”

🗣 Japanese-specific point:
This isn’t just sadness; it’s non-acceptance—a heart that can’t fully take in the fact of loss. The conditional naraba (“if it were…”) shows the mind bargaining with reality.
And the polite deshō softens the line into something almost whispered, which makes the denial feel even more real: grief spoken quietly can hit harder than grief shouted.

2. 戻らない幸せがあることを / 最後にあなたが教えてくれた

Romaji: modoranai shiawase ga aru koto o / saigo ni anata ga oshiete kureta
Nuance: “You taught me, in the end, that some happiness never returns.”

🗣 Japanese-specific point:
Here, “happiness” isn’t a vague mood—it’s time with the person. Not “we can’t meet,” but: the life we shared will never come back.
What hurts is oshiete kureta—a phrase usually used for a kind favor (“you taught me”). That gentle wording turns brutal: the beloved becomes the one who “taught” an irreversible truth simply by being gone.

3. 胸に残り離れない 苦いレモンの匂い

Romaji: mune ni nokori hanarenai nigai remon no nioi
Nuance: “A bitter lemon scent that stays in my chest and won’t let go.”

🗣 Japanese-specific point:
Memory becomes smell, not story. Scent bypasses logic and hits the body first—perfect for grief that returns without warning.
Also, nigai (“bitter”) is taste, yet it modifies nioi (“smell”). That sensory crossing makes the emotion feel physical: the past isn’t only sweet—it carries sting, regret, and ache all at once.

4. 雨が降り止むまでは帰れない

Romaji: ame ga furiyamu made wa kaerenai
Nuance: “Until the rain stops, I can’t go back.”

🗣 Japanese-specific point:
The “rain” works as a clear metaphor for grief: when it stops = when sorrow finally lifts.
And kaerenai (“can’t return”) isn’t simply about going home—it means not being able to return to normal life, normal feeling, normal self. Japanese can use “return” to describe emotional recovery without stating it outright.

5. 暗闇であなたの背をなぞった / その輪郭を鮮明に覚えている

Romaji: kurayami de anata no se o nazotta / sono rinkaku o senmei ni oboete iru
Nuance: “In the darkness, I traced your back—your outline is still vivid.”

🗣 Japanese-specific point:
This isn’t simply “a memory of touching.” It’s the motion of reaching into the dark the way you used to—searching for a back that should be there.
Even though they’re gone, the body remembers. Grief appears as habit before it appears as thought, and the verb nazotta (“to trace”) quietly delivers that cruelty.

6. 何をしていたの 何を見ていたの / わたしの知らない横顔で

Romaji: nani o shite ita no nani o mite ita no / watashi no shiranai yokogao de
Nuance: “What were you doing? What were you seeing? With a profile I didn’t know.”

🗣 Japanese-specific point:
After death, the pain isn’t only “I miss you.” It’s also: I didn’t truly know you.
Yokogao (“profile/side face”) implies a glimpse—an expression you catch only in passing. Adding shiranai (“unknown”) turns love into regret: there were parts of them you never reached, and now you never can.

7. 切り分けた果実の片方の様に / 今でもあなたはわたしの光

Romaji: kiriketawake ta kajitsu no katahō no yō ni / ima demo anata wa watashi no hikari
Nuance: “Like one half of a sliced fruit—still, even now, you are my light.”

🗣 Japanese-specific point:
A fruit once cut can’t become “one” again. That’s the irreversible finality of death.
And yet, only that other half fits perfectly—suggesting: even if life can’t reunite you, the bond remains uniquely true.

Then comes hikari (“light”). Here it isn’t a simple motivational slogan. It means: even after you’re gone, you’re still the hope I live by—the presence that keeps the speaker moving forward, not because the pain vanished, but because love survived it.

🎤 Emotional Summary

“Lemon” portrays grief as a lived condition: denial that won’t settle, time that will never return, memories that cling as scent, and a heart that can’t “go back” to ordinary life. It shows how loss rewires the body—hands reaching into darkness, questions with no answers, the sudden realization that you didn’t know everything about the person you loved.

And still, the song refuses to erase love. Even as the self is split like fruit cut in two, the other half remains the only one that truly fits. That’s why “you are my light” lands with such force: not as easy optimism, but as a quiet vow—I will live with this pain, because you are still my reason to live.