Chapter Text
B-Komachi's dome concert was such a huge success it was almost frightening.
The boom and crash of the music, the sparkle and glare of the stage, the ebb and flow and roar of the crowd; it all coalesced into a tempest of energy that nearly blew the roof off the Dome. The audience was like an ocean of light; a million flashbulbs strobing in unison so that the whole venue pulsed with crimson radiance. Occasionally in the haze of brilliance I'd be able to pick out the yellow my fans carried or a stray flash of blue or purple but all of it was swallowed by the tide of scarlet.
It felt as if we were drowning in it - or maybe being consumed by it.
It was the kind of show that I'd never believed a once-upon-a-time underground group like B-Komachi could even dream of. Even now, years after that concert, it still seemed surreal to me that I'd ever stood on a stage like that. Thinking back to it was like remembering a fever dream - something magical and delirious and terrifying. None of the details came clearly to mind anymore, just the overall impression of something larger than life.
But I do remember how dazzling Ai looked up there under those lights; her hair sparkling like spun glass, her eyes flashing like jewels. She seemed to shine so brightly she might have been made of pure light. She'd always been so beautiful, but that night she'd transcended even beauty; becoming something almost inhuman, something divine.
I remember thinking that night that if Ai continued on like this there would be no end to how far she could go.
I wonder if it'd scared her just as much as it'd scared me.
One final flashbang went off in front of my eyes and the photographer yelled, "Alright, we're calling it here!"
I straightened up from the dainty pose I'd been arranged into and stretched my arms over my head in quiet relief. It was the end of a long day of shooting, a barrage of photographs for a spring collection that was due to go out next year. The studio had been softly decorated with pastel blooms and trailing ivy, artificial sunlight flooding in from diffused panels overhead while I was directed into pose after pose. They were aiming for "pastoral fantasy", or so I was told, and I seemed to be playing along well enough.
Admittedly, the whole thing felt a little absurd. Outside, snow was piled thick across the city and the sky was steely grey but here I was, twirling around in floral dresses, gauzy cardigans and ruffled skirts that barely skimmed my thighs. But with how long the production pipeline was, it was better to shoot far in advance than risk missing a deadline and incurring further costs.
At least the studio wasn't too cold, even if the flat white flooring and walls made it look icy and sterile. I'd heard horror stories from other models of having to pose in thick, fluffy winter layers during the dog days of summer, or worse still, swimsuits in the dead of winter. At least I only had to put up with the faint bite of the chill coming through the vents against my bare legs.
Such was life in the glamorous world of modeling - especially when you were still clinging to the bottom rung, like me.
"Thank you so much for your hard work." The staff called out the customary polite thanks and I echoed them gratefully with a bow.
"You did good today, Kyun-chan." the photographer chimed in as she peeked out from behind her camera. "Really natural! I think we got some great shots."
'Kyun-chan'.
I managed not to wince.
It'd been just over a year since I'd graduated from B-Komachi but I'd yet to escape that name.
It was my own fault, really. I'd thought about using my real name for modeling - though only briefly. But the idea of plastering it across ads, feeds, and magazines when I knew my old fans would be watching… that made my skin crawl. I'd only just walked away from being their idol and some of them would surely still be smarting from the perceived betrayal. Giving them an opportunity to dig up my personal information would just have been asking for trouble.
So when Miyako-san suggested I stick with Kyun for brand consistency, I didn't argue. It made sense. A good, clean business decision. Recognition, marketability, all the right things. But it still grated on me.
For an up-and-coming talent, it was a perfectly cute and acceptable nickname that conveyed a sort of girlish energy and liveliness; exactly what the fans wanted. But now I was trying to make my way through the world as an adult woman... I couldn't pretend I wasn't starting to resent it, just a little.
But complaining about it wouldn't do me any favors. Names weren't something you could control. Once people knew you as something, it was very difficult to change how they thought of you - even if you hated it.
So instead, I just bowed again. "I'm glad." was all I could bring myself to say in response before I let one of the assistants guide me toward the dressing room, where the makeup artists and hair stylists were waiting to undo the day's work. Their fingers were gentle but efficient, wiping away layers of foundation and demure eyeshadow, brushing out my hairspray thickened pixie-cut and coaxing it back to its everyday shape. Then I was finally left alone to change back into my regular clothes and see myself out.
When I finally pulled on my coat - a designer brand I'd bought myself - I caught a glimpse in the mirror and smirked. Not quite famous enough to have stylists gifting me these things yet, unlike some of the other girls. But at least I'd been able to afford it.
Buttoning it up, I took a deep breath, bracing myself as I stepped out of the studio's bright artificial bubble and into the night.
The shock of cold hit me the second I stepped outside. It had been chilly when we first arrived, but now that night had fallen, winter had sunk its teeth in properly. I huddled down into my coat, wishing I'd remembered to grab a scarf, and trudged down the street to the train station as quickly as I could. Once upon a time, I would've been bundled into a nice warm car with my manager and personally driven back to the agency after a shoot but nowadays I made my own way, alone.
Such was life as a former idol.
At least the station wasn't far. I kept my head down, breath fogging in front of me, blending with the exhaust rising from slow-moving traffic. By the time I ducked gratefully into the subway entrance, my legs were almost numb from the cold. I fumbled for my rail pass and made my way through the ticket gate, then down the stairs to the platform where I slumped against a pillar to wait for my train.
The platform was mostly empty. This late, the only people milling around were salarymen who were making their own ways home and the occasional college student at the start or end of some grand late night adventure.
I tried not to look at any of them for too long. I hadn't remembered to put on a mask this morning and so catching their gaze meant I risked being recognized. Instead, I let my gaze float around the station as I waited for my train.
But then my vision snagged on something.
I didn't know how I hadn't spotted it before. Come to think of it, I was probably leaning on one of those very posters right now. But it had taken my brain a second to latch onto the familiar group of faces splashed across one of the pillars.
It was an advertisement for B-Komachi's latest album release. The girls stood in a loose formation, each draped in ruffles of flower petals matching their signature colors. My eyes traced over them - Takamine, Nino, Watanabe, Ari, Mei - until they finally settled on the figure in the center, practically blooming with radiance.
Still their indomitable, undisputed center after all this time. Bright eyes, glossy hair, a dazzling smile, all framed by an airy halo of scarlet petals.
Ai.
I stared up at her face and felt something twist painfully inside me. I could only hold her gaze for a few seconds before I had to look away.
I wasn't sure what the feeling bubbling beneath my skin was, but it felt almost like shame.
Being in B-Komachi had been the realization of a dream I'd chased for years.
Since I was young, I'd always wanted to do… something with music. My desire never solidified into a clear, concrete ambition, though. It was a vague yearning-something formless that I struggled to put into words even when prompted. Whenever I tried, all I could ever say was that I wanted to make songs and perform.
How exactly I wanted to do it, what kind of music I wanted to create, why I felt drawn to it - I never really thought those things through. In that way, I was a lot like any other kid saying they wanted to be an astronaut or a princess. It might've been a little more grounded in reality but my ambitions were equally fuzzy, vague, and unformed. I had no idea how I might go about achieving it or if it was even possible for me.
What I did know was that I loved music. I loved it so fiercely that sometimes it felt like I might die if I couldn't find a way to express it. That love was the constant thread running through my entire youth.
But I lacked talent.
It wasn't for lack of trying, either. I'd been playing piano since I was old enough to sit at the keys. My passion for music had lined up nicely with my parents' desire for me to learn an instrument and they were happy to indulge my interest. It came easily enough to me with a good teacher that there was a little part of me convinced that I might have been something special.
It wasn't a difficult fantasy to maintain. In elementary school, there weren't a lot of other kids who took music seriously the way I did - a few others played instruments outside of our music lessons and there were even a handful learning piano from the same teacher. But unlike me, they were all learning because their parents had insisted on it. Without the enjoyment, the passion, the drive that I had, it was nothing more than an obligation that they fulfilled mechanically and without enthusiasm. By the time we all moved up to middle school, I was the only one in my class who'd stuck with it and I'd made significant progress compared to where I started.
Maybe I'm a prodigy, was the pompous thought that crossed my mind. Maybe I could become a famous musician someday.
The middle school I ended up attending - at my own stubborn insistence - was one that specialized in the arts, pulling in students from a much wider catchment area than my tiny, backwater elementary school. It had taken me months of research to find it and I clung to it at once as the next step of my naively optimistic plan: ace the entrance audition, thrive in a school full of musicians, and, eventually, walk straight into a prestigious music university and from there to a star-studded career.
The school itself exceeded every expectation I had. Bigger, brighter, more polished than anywhere I'd ever been with grand practice rooms, polished instruments, sprawling halls lined with trophies and portraits of alumni who'd gone on to make names for themselves. I was dazzled just setting foot inside, starry-eyed over the idea that I belonged to this place now.
And yet, even surrounded by so many talented students - kids just as driven, just as passionate as I claimed to be - I still arrogantly assumed I was different. Special. Better, somehow, simply because I'd been playing for so long.
And then I auditioned for the school band.
The irony of it all was that it wasn't even something I wanted that badly. I had no interest in contributing to school spirit. I'd just wanted to show off, to prove, publicly, that I belonged here. That I was already a step ahead of everyone else.
Even now, years later, it was hard to tell what made me feel the most mortified. Remembering my blind, overinflated confidence from being the only serious musician I knew, all those years of thinking I was naturally talented, destined for something special - or the way it all came crashing down in the span of mere minutes.
They'd ushered me and a handful of other prospective band members into the auditorium, the seats yawning empty and echoing under the stage lights. The audition piece was simple - something I'd played dozens of times before, so familiar my fingers could find the keys in my sleep. I sat down at the piano, ran through it with practiced ease, and left the bench absolutely certain I'd secured my place.
When the next student took my spot at the keys, I barely glanced at him. Just another face, another hopeful who couldn't possibly measure up. I watched with thinly veiled smugness, convinced there was no way he'd come close to matching me.
But then he started to play.
Music didn't so much come out of his fingers as it poured from them - effortless, alive, like the piano itself had been waiting for him. Every note was crisp, perfectly placed, every transition seamless. It was the same song I'd just played, but in his hands, it became something entirely different. Elevated. Full of color and feeling I hadn't even realized the piece contained.
I sat frozen, staring at him, pulse thudding in my ears as he finished.
It's fine, I told myself, almost frantically. If I was going to lose, at least I'd lose to the best pianist in the school. Because surely, with a performance like that, he had to be.
But then the next student played.
A girl with neat braids and steady hands. Her fingers barely seemed to touch the keys - the notes cascaded out like water spilling over glass. Every phrase flowed into the next with a kind of quiet confidence I couldn't hope to fake, as though the music had always belonged to her and she was just letting the rest of us hear it. I sat frozen, my smile stiff on my face, as the audience murmured their quiet approval.
And then another girl. This one delicate, almost fragile-looking, her shoes barely scraping the stage floor as she adjusted the bench. Her touch on the keys was featherlight, but the sound that came out of the piano… it ached. Soft, tender notes that seemed to hang in the air longer than they should, lingering, bruised, beautiful. Her song wasn't loud or showy, but it reached somewhere deep under my ribs and twisted.
One by one, they played. Different styles, different strengths - bold, technical, delicate, soulful - and every single one of them was better than me.
By the time the last student finished, I couldn't even pretend otherwise. The pride I'd carried into that auditorium, the certainty that I was special… it was unraveling with every note, replaced by a cold, creeping dread. By the time we were ushered out for the band to deliberate and come to their decision, the memory of my own performance bounced around in my head, hollow and lifeless by comparison.
All around me, my classmates buzzed with nervous energy, their voices overlapping as they chattered anxiously about their performances - comparing notes, critiquing themselves, fretting over small mistakes only they could hear. Some laughed it off, others whispered their fears under their breath, but none of them so much as mentioned my name.
I wasn't special. I wasn't even bad. I was something much worse.
Completely unremarkable.
In the end, they chose an upperclassman for the spot and I fumed when I heard the news. It felt completely unfair - how was I supposed to compete with someone who had a whole extra year of experience? But even as I seethed, I couldn't stop myself wondering exactly what she was doing that I wasn't. There had to be some secret, some trick, and if I could figure it out, I could still catch up.
So I tracked her down after class, practically vibrating with determination, and asked her outright about her practice routine - expecting something revelatory, some hidden technique, some shortcut to brilliance.
She just blinked at me, baffled.
"Practice?" she echoed. "I guess I practice maybe... two or so hours every day? On top of my lessons, I mean."
I just stared at her. I'd been practicing four or five hours every day, weekends included, and it still hadn't been enough. There had to be something else to it. I pressed her for more details but she just shrugged helplessly.
"I dunno what to tell you," she said, "I just practice the way my teacher tells me to. There's no trick to it."
My heart was pummeling the inside of my chest. I couldn't accept it. There had to be something I was still missing, something she was holding back. I leapt for my last straw. "Then, how long have you been playing for?" I demanded, sure that had to be the key.
"Hmm..." She looked up and away for me for a moment as she thought about it. "About two years, now? Maybe more."
Two years. Two years. Not even half as long as I'd been playing.
She might as well have slapped me across the face.
I stumbled through the rest of my time at middle school like I was sleepwalking. I'd arrived with such high hopes - convinced I was special, destined for something bigger - and those hopes had been dashed so completely that it left me dazed.
I kept practicing, stubbornly, doggedly, clinging to routine more than passion. I learned new pieces on autopilot but even then I could tell my heart wasn't in it anymore.
I started entering competitions, hoping to rekindle that spark, to remind myself why I loved music in the first place. But it never worked. Whether I managed to snag a small prize or walked away empty-handed, the result was always the same: I'd sit in the crowd, stomach churning with envy, watching player after player take the stage. Students younger than me, older than me, more brilliant than me - their performances effortless, their sound alive in ways I couldn't replicate no matter how badly I wanted to.
There seemed to be people with more natural talent everywhere I turned. It gnawed at me - this burning, suffocating need to outdo them. But no matter how many hours I practiced, it never felt like enough. Maybe it was because I wasn't trying as hard as they were - I told myself that, blamed it on my shaken confidence - but deep down, I was beginning to understand the truth.
Even so, I couldn't bring myself to give up. Music was everything to me - it was all I had. So I clung to the piano desperately in hopes that it might still save me, even as my faith in it grew thin.
Eventually, I forced myself to accept it.
No matter how badly I might have once wanted it, I wasn't destined for greatness. I was good, I could admit that much. Good enough that I could impress people if I played something simple but nothing I could do would ever be breathtaking. It would never be enough for me to turn it into a career like I wanted to.
By the time high school entrance exams came around, I'd become resigned to my mediocrity. My parents had been supportive up to a point but even they seemed to have lost their faith in me. Around the time I stopped going to competitions, they started gently pressing me to consider studying something practical, something I could actually turn into a viable career and I surrendered without too much protesting.
It was a crushing admission of defeat. But young and full of fire as I was, I couldn't bring myself to entirely give up yet. I wasn't talented but I had passion - surely that had to be enough to get me somewhere.
My classmates spent our final months together chattering about prestigious courses associated with places like Toho Gakuen and Tokyo University of the Arts. I just kept my head down and found myself a place in general academics.
It was my first year in high school that everything changed. That was the year I auditioned for B-Komachi.
When I looked back at that time, I could conjure up a romantic fantasy of stumbling across the group by chance or destiny, feeling myself drawn to their music like a moth to a flame, swept up in their charisma and magic, becoming obsessed with them and then throwing myself into the pursuit of joining them with all my heart.
The reality was less glamorous. Mostly.
The truth was, I couldn't even remember how exactly I'd discovered them. They'd still been underground idols back then, doing decently in otaku circles, but nowhere near the mainstream. The kind of group that lurked on the fringes of pop culture, with a small, noisy fanbase but little public recognition. I just remembered feeling myself sneer a little when I first saw the flyers for B-Komachi's open auditions plastered around the city. Their bright, frilly promo shots, all pastel ribbons and carefully curated cuteness, seemed worlds apart from the serious musical career I'd once imagined for myself.
The moment I got home, I pulled them up online. I told myself it was curiosity, but really, I just wanted to feel better about myself. I expected amateurish performances, shaky vocals, sloppy dancing… the kind of thing I could turn my nose up at, to soothe my bruised ego even if only for a few minutes.
I found more videos than I expected. None of them were massive hits - view counts hovering modestly in the thousands - but clearly, they had fans. Dedicated ones, from the look of it. The comments were overflowing with hearts, declarations of love, and nauseating praise. People calling them amazing, saying they were the future of the idol scene, showering them with compliments like they were already stars.
It only made me more determined to watch. To find the cracks. To prove to myself they weren't anything special.
I clicked through a few of their performances, leaning back in my chair, half-expecting to scoff and close the tab after thirty seconds. The music didn't impress me - peppy, polished, catchy in that shallow, manufactured way I'd always associated with idols. It wasn't bad, exactly, just… unremarkable. Not the kind of artistry I'd been taught to respect.
It was the girls themselves who caught my attention, though not for the reasons I'd expected. They were all around my age, maybe a little younger, and it showed. Their timing wasn't perfect, a few steps lacked polish, and there was still that unmistakable rawness to how they moved - like they were trying to grow into routines that didn't quite fit yet. But even so, there was something… compelling about it. A certain spark, a messy, unrefined energy that made it hard to look away, even if their technical skills weren't exactly up to par.
Usually, seeing someone my age performing up on stage would've made something burn in my chest - that ugly twinge of envy that always twisted itself into knots inside me when I knew someone was better than me.
But this time, it wasn't envy.
It was curiosity.
I found myself watching the girl in the center more closely. Dark, glossy hair that caught the stage lights. Bright, radiant eyes. A smile so brilliant it practically lit up the frame. She wasn't even doing anything particularly special - just dancing, hitting the same marks as the others - but for some reason, I couldn't take my eyes off her.
The video ended on a frame of her smiling face and after meeting her gaze for a long moment, I clicked through another video.
Then another. And another.
As I watched them dancing across my screen, I couldn't stop wondering - who were these girls?
It was just an underground idol group. Barely scraping the edges of the entertainment industry. They didn't have a big label backing them and I doubted they were being put through anything close to the extensive training regiments some of the real groups subjected their girls to. At this level, they certainly weren't professionals - they were barely a step above any other girl their age who'd ever danced along with her favourite song and played pretend at being onstage.
And yet… they sparkled.
Maybe it was the way the crowd cheered for them, waving penlights and calling out their names. Or the way the girls smiled so effortlessly, soaking in the praise like they were born for it. Something about it didn't add up - how were they shining so bright, when by all logic, they shouldn't be anything special?
A thought crept into the back of my mind, unwelcome but impossible to ignore.
If they were just normal girls - girls who somehow found their way to the stage, to the spotlight, to that shower of praise - then didn't that mean… I could, too?
For the first time in what felt like months, my chest stirred with something dangerously close to hope.
I'd never paid much attention to the idol industry. I was aware of it, of course, but it was the sort of thing I only knew of in passing. The snobbish middle-school me, convinced of her own superiority, had looked down her nose at those girls, dismissing it as low brow entertainment for the masses. It wasn't "art." It wasn't worth respecting.
But that version of me was losing more and more footing as the days went by. She'd been slapped back to reality, thoroughly humbled. I'd spent years pouring my heart into music, yearning for it, chasing after the dream of becoming someone special… only to be met with the limits of my own ability.
So maybe being an idol wasn't the same as that old dream. It wasn't a prestigious music academy. It wasn't standing on stage as a prodigy, earning applause for raw talent. But it was something.
It was the closest someone like me could get.
And if it meant staying connected to music - even just brushing against that world - then I didn't care what form it took.
So I auditioned.
Convincing my parents wasn't easy. They didn't forbid it outright, but I could see the hesitation written all over their faces when I brought it up. I understood, even if it made my stomach twist with frustration. My older brother had been their golden boy once until he crashed out halfway through his first year of university, buckling under the pressure, and now he barely left his room. The last thing they needed was another kid chasing a pipe dream and spiraling into disappointment.
But I stuck to my guns. I told them I was sure. I told them I could balance it with school. That it wouldn't distract me from studying. That I knew what I was getting into.
All lies. But I was at the end of my rope - I would've said anything.
Eventually, after enough pleading, enough promises about keeping up my grades, they caved. Cautious, but willing to let me try.
The moment they agreed, I threw myself into writing the application.
I knew I lacked raw talent and I knew I lacked the years of experience some other girls from within the industry would have but I'd told myself I had passion and that I could make up for it with hard work. That was the excuse I put into my cover letter as well, pouring out all of my heartfelt desire to become a performer.
It was a blatant appeal to their sympathies but I didn't care if it was manipulative - I was desperate.
I spent every waking moment after sending in my application eating, sleeping and breathing B-Komachi's music, obsessively memorizing their choreography and practicing my singing and dancing along to it. It was the first time since middle school I'd felt even the faintest spark of excitement for music again. It wasn't the same as before - that naive, arrogant belief that I was destined for greatness - but it was something. A fragile, stubborn flicker that refused to die, even after everything.
Deep down, I knew what the odds were. There were probably hundreds of other girls desperate enough to become idols and the rational part of me warned that I was probably setting myself up to fail all over again.
But I didn't care.
I poured my entire soul into it, convinced that this was my last chance, my final opportunity to realize my dream. Even if this turned out like a repeat of that wretched band audition, at least I could tell myself that I'd done everything I possibly could.
Even just getting the callback felt like a miracle. For days after, I kept rereading the email, half convinced it would vanish if I blinked too hard, or that someone at the agency might suddenly realize they'd made a mistake and rescind the invitation. It didn't seem possible that someone like me - not particularly talented, not connected, not special - had managed to clear even the first hurdle.
But somehow, I had.
At every single step that followed, I second-guessed myself. When I made it through the first round of auditions, I told myself it was luck. Maybe they were just being generous. When I got the callback for the final selection, I wondered if they needed to fill space, or if I was some sort of charity case.
I stuck through it, refusing to let any of my reservations show but it wasn't confidence carrying me forward. It was disbelief.
Even as I stood in the office at Strawberry Productions, pen in hand, contract laid out before me, I kept waiting for someone to stop me. To say they'd changed their minds. To tell me I wasn't what they were looking for after all… but nobody did.
It was impossible not to feel a thrill of excitement about it all, but I didn't stay dazzled for long. The ink on my contract hadn't even dried by the time I became aware of the scummy underbelly of the world I was lingering on the threshold of.
It started with the paperwork. I remember flipping through the document, wide-eyed, as the reality set in.
I was responsible for almost everything.
Hair, makeup, skincare, nails, - it was all on me. Strawberry Productions would provide wardrobe, which I appreciated… until I saw that any necessary repairs and even the dry cleaning came directly out of my future salary. Assuming I earned one. The agency, in comparison, was responsible for little more than the bare minimum: booking jobs, having us trained, and - their wording, not mine - "ensuring my physical welfare while actively working."
In other words, they'd keep me alive during gigs, and after that, I was on my own.
The more I read, the more I felt my excitement wither. I'd expected the idol world to be strict, but this? This was a business deal. One where I was both the product and the liability.
But what really threw me off was what wasn't buried in the contract.
I kept scanning for it, expecting it to leap off the page: the infamous dating ban. I was anticipating heavy restrictions, dire warnings about protecting the group's image. But it wasn't there.
For a second, I thought maybe I'd misunderstood. I'd done my research - B-Komachi was a gachikoi group, the kind designed to reel fans in with the illusion of intimacy, making them feel like their beloved idols were in love with them too. Those groups were infamous for ironclad dating bans, the kind that could tank careers if broken.
So where was it?
It didn't take long for the answer to hit me.
They didn't need a clause.
The fans were the enforcers. The ones watching, dissecting every interaction, every post, every photo, ready to tear down anyone who broke the illusion.
A legal restriction wasn't necessary. Fear worked just as well.
For the first time since this whirlwind started, a thread of real doubt pulled tight in my chest. I'd chased this dream so recklessly, convinced it was my last chance, my only shot to stay connected to music - but I hadn't thought beyond the glitter and promise of the stage.
What the hell was I getting myself into?
I almost considered backing out. Almost.
But I couldn't. Not now. I'd clawed my way this far - pride, desperation, and stubbornness dragging me behind it - and even if the ground ahead was shaky, I couldn't afford to walk away.
This was it. I was in too deep to turn back.
I signed my name, pressed my personal seal onto the dotted line, and in that moment, it became real.
Somehow - against all logic - I was going to be an idol.
Even with my name signed and stamped on the contract, I didn't believe it. I was still expecting to wake up to that apologetic call saying they'd made a mistake after all. It felt like I'd slipped through the cracks somehow, like the whole thing could collapse under my feet at any second.
The only thing grounding me was the string of practical tasks that followed - most of them pushed onto me by my parents. I had to let my school know, officially. Not that I planned to flunk out just because I was an idol trainee now, but there were attendance exceptions and rules that had to be cleared. Admittedly, I was irritated that they didn't seem to trust me to handle it on my own without the reminder, but maybe that was natural with my brother still rotting away in his room.
So I made the call. Handled the paperwork. Informed my teachers. And suddenly, for the first time in forever, my classmates remembered I existed.
They came flocking with questions, eager to hear the details - even the ones who'd barely acknowledged me before. It was obvious some of them were jealous, others genuinely curious, but it didn't matter. The attention felt good. Addictive, even.
I played it cool, shrugged off the praise, but inside I was buzzing. For the first time in a long while, it was easy to start imagining again that maybe I was special.
But beneath all my bravado, doubt still gnawed at me. Everything had happened so fast, from the audition to the callback to signing that contract… it barely felt like I'd had time to breathe, let alone prepare myself for what came next. Even with the week or so between signing and my first official training session, I kept half-expecting the phone to ring with bad news.
But no call came. And so, when the morning of my first practice arrived, I found myself jittery with nerves, my stomach coiled so tightly I thought I might throw up on the way there.
It was only when I actually stepped into the training room for the first time, greeted with the dazzling sight of the four girls I'd admired for months, that it finally hit me that I was actually here.
Takamine, Nino, Watanabe, and…
When she turned to look at me, my heart stopped. Her bright, sparkling eyes locked onto mine, pinning. I felt my breath catch, frozen under the weight of her gaze.
Those eyes. That smile. They were what had drawn me to B-Komachi in the first place - the reason I'd gone spiraling down video rabbit holes, the reason I'd dared to imagine I could chase this dream at all. And now those same eyes were staring at me, as if she was searching my face for something.
And then Ai smiled at me for the very first time.
"Hi!" she chirped and bounded over to me. "You're our new member, right? Nice to meet you! I'm Ai!"
"Y-Yeah!" I managed to choke out. I tried to force my heart back into its proper rhythm and hoped fervently that my voice hadn't squeaked too badly. "It's nice to meet you all. I'm-"
I hesitated. Everyone in B-Komachi went by their stage names and we'd already settled on mine - a cutesy twist on my given name - but introducing myself for the first time felt strange. It was the first time I'd used it, after all. But Ai was staring at me expectantly and I had no choice but to try it out.
"... Kyun." I finished, limply. "I hope we can work well together."
"Kyun!" Ai echoed and nodded thoughtfully. "Alright, I'll remember it! You've got a cute name, huh?"
I blinked at her in surprise, startled by the compliment. "Um, thanks..."
Ai grinned at me, as blinding as the sun. I tried to smile back but I was so nervous it probably came across more like a grimace.
"Give her some room to breathe, Ai." one of the older girls scolded as she came drifting over as well. With that sleek brown hair and those sharp eyes, there was no mistaking her for anyone but Takamine. "She's probably overwhelmed, don't crowd her too much."
Ai pouted. "But she's our first new member! I wanna get to know her!"
"We all want to but let her get settled in first." Takamine said firmly. "There'll be plenty of time for that later. Right, Kyun?"
I nodded dumbly. I was still struggling to process the whirlwind that was Ai but I felt something like relief when Takamine's calm demeanor grounded me. I took a deep breath to steady myself and looked up to find that the others had gathered around us as well.
"I can't believe the Prez isn't here to introduce you..." the girl with ringleted twin tails, Watanabe, was huffing, folding her arms across her chest. "What kind of impression is that gonna leave, huh?"
"I'm sure he's just busy..." Nino piped up, with the slightly meek smile of a person used to keeping the peace. "And he probably trusts us to handle it, anyway."
"Hmph..." Watanabe rolled her eyes but dropped the subject.
"Anyway, Kyun-chan!" Ai was back in my space again. I tried not to flinch. "Don't be too nervous about our dance practice today! We don't bite so there's no need to be scared!"
I managed another stiff smile. "Thank you, Ai...san?"
Her eyes widened and then she burst into laughter. I stared at her in alarm - had I said something wrong? My stomach twisted anxiously - was she laughing at me?
"Ai-chan's fine!" she giggled, waving my worry away. "We're all friends here, aren't we?"
I relaxed a fraction. I still felt the urge to address them all with respect, considering they were my seniors... but if she was going to insist, then Ai-chan it was.
"Alright, enough chatting for now." Takamine announced and clapped her hands, like a teacher calling her students to attention. "The instructor will be here in a minute, so we should all start getting warmed up. Kyun, I'll walk you through all our stretches. Everybody else, get into your places."
"Okaaay!" Ai sang out with the cadence of a kindergartner responding to her teacher. She made to pull away from me but before she did - "Oh! I almost forgot the most important thing..."
She turned back to me and smiled, bright and beautiful, and extended her hand.
"Welcome to B-Komachi, Kyun-chan!"
My heart leapt into my throat. I stared at her for a moment - at the offered hand - and then hesitantly reached out to take it. It felt so small and delicate in my own.
"Th-Thank you." I managed to say and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I'm glad to be here."
Somehow, her smile grew even more radiant.
Peering into that light, I couldn't imagine ever wanting to be anywhere else.
The train droned an announcement for my upcoming stop and I eased my eyes open.
I hadn't napped. The gentle to-and-fro rocking of the train had eased me into that paper-thin kind of doze and I'd half-dreamt, half-reminisced through most of my ride.
It'd been a whole year since I left B-Komachi, but sometimes it still felt like a fresh wound.
There were days when I was fine - good, even - getting on with my life, convincing myself I was at peace, content with the new path I'd carved out. But then there were days like this, where some throwaway moment twisted like a knife under my ribs. A snippet of a song playing faintly on a radio. A flash of pastel-colored posters in the subway. Someone saying my old stage name one too many times and my mind would be stirred up, dragged back to those bittersweet memories.
Sometimes I wondered if that was its own kind of grief. I kept retracing my steps in my head like if I ran the memories enough times, eventually the outcome would change. Maybe in some alternate version of events, things had gone differently. Maybe I was still standing beside them, still smiling for the cameras, still convincing myself I belonged.
The train jolted slightly, dragging me back to the present, but the ache in my chest lingered, heavy and quiet.
Leaving B-Komachi hadn't been an easy decision. Just a necessary one.
I hadn't hated my time there, though - the opposite, in fact. I'd loved every single moment of it and that was part of why it hurt so much. I'd been swept up in the fantasy of it all, the glittering lights, the adoring fans, the rush of fame and money.
I still loved music, of course. I had never stopped loving music and I told myself it was what mattered most, even after my dreams of being some prodigy collapsed around me. Becoming an idol had just been that dream in a different form and everything else was a bonus.
But the cracks had started showing faster than I expected.
It was just as I'd told myself from the start. B-Komachi wasn't just any idol group - it was a gachikoi group above and beyond anything else. Passion and affection were part of the product, and the fans ate it up but behind the stage lights, behind the choreographed smiles, I couldn't help feeling like a fraud.
I wasn't good at selling that kind of intense, all-consuming love. It felt awkward to stand on stage, serenading fans I barely knew with declarations of adoration, knowing full well half of them probably bought into the fantasy completely. I didn't hate them for it - hell, I understood the appeal - but I couldn't shake the twisting guilt that settled under my ribs every time I sang those words.
And the guilt only worsened when I started seeing boyfriends in secret.
I told myself it wasn't serious. They were just me blowing off steam, needing support behind the scenes and as long as I kept it away from the cameras, nobody was getting hurt. But that didn't make me feel any less like a hypocrite. I'd come into this industry with opinions and standards. I remembered how harshly I used to judge idols who were "two-faced," and now I was one of them.
It left me with this tangled mess of resentment and shame - hating myself for being exactly the kind of person I swore I wouldn't become, even as I clung to the attention. I tried pouring that frustration back into music, thinking maybe that could ground me again.
But even when I tried, I found myself stumbling. The song I composed for Ai's lyrics was tacked on as a b-side to a much more anticipated single and was completely overshadowed by the main track.
It stung. But instead of facing the failure, I threw myself harder into the spotlight, desperate to prove that I was worth the attention. The cheers, the fan letters, the glossy magazine spreads - they became my evidence, my armor.
And then came our Dome concert.
A legendary performance, the likes of which I'd never even dreamed of. It should have been the crowning moment of my career. The apex. The pinnacle of everything I'd worked toward.
But instead, I'd been terrified.
It wasn't the searing heat of the venue under stage lights or the deafening scream of the crowd. Not the pressure, or the expectations or any of that.
What had terrified me was Ai.
She'd become something otherworldly and inhuman that night, an unstoppable force of nature that swept up everything in her wake. She was a star, brighter than any of the rest of us, burning so brilliantly that she eclipsed everything else in her path.
I watched her, paralyzed, as she captivated the hearts of the entire stadium and I was stricken by the overwhelming realization that once again, I would never measure up. No matter how hard I practiced, no matter how much I sacrificed, I would never be able to reach that same height she had.
Oh, I had thought. So that's what true talent looks like.
And so I fled from it. The scarlet glare had scorched itself into my eyes and I'd had no choice but to escape its radiance. Even a year later, I was only just starting to recover, learning to live with the dark spots that clouded my vision. But occasionally, something would remind me of it and the burn would flare up all over again.
I rubbed at my eyes as I pushed myself to my feet, pulling my bag onto my shoulder just as the train began to slow. I was tired - physically, mentally, emotionally - but I still needed to head back to the Strawberry Productions office and sign off before I could go home. I had to let Miyako-san know that everything had gone well, check my schedule for the rest of the week and confirm the details with her.
The train rattled to a halt, doors sliding open to a rush of frigid winter air that clawed at my face and cut through the thin fabric of my tights. I welcomed it - the bite of the cold helped clear my head, pulling me back to the present, away from the mess of tangled thoughts circling in my chest.
I still didn't know what I wanted.
Music was supposed to be my passion. It was my passion. But how was I supposed to reconcile that with everything else? I still wanted to compose but that life wasn't realistic anymore.
At least, not for someone like me.
The ache of nostalgia pressed in tight for a moment but I forced myself to breathe it out with the winter air. I'd made my decision. There was no going back. The only thing left to do was keep moving forward.
But my past seemed determined to catch up with me today.
As I stepped off the platform and into the flow of foot traffic, I automatically scanned for the station exit - only to freeze mid-step, my gaze snagging on a familiar figure standing just beyond the ticket barriers.
She looked inconspicuous enough at first glance. An oversized winter coat swallowing her frame, a slouchy tote bag hanging off one shoulder, a fluffy knit beanie pulled low over her forehead. The hat obscured most of her face, shadowing the delicate lines of her features, and her glossy hair was tucked away beneath her collar. To the average passerby, she was just another commuter.
But I recognized her instantly, even from so far away. No matter how much I'd tried to forget, I could never mistake her for anyone else.
Ai.
The moment the realization landed in my stomach, I froze.
What the hell was Ai doing here? I'd never seen her in this station before and I knew for a fact that Miyako-san was the one who chauffeured her to and from all her jobs, so it wasn't like she needed to get the train.
Was she meeting someone here? Surely not in public, not with this many people around. But even if she was, what were the chances she'd be meeting them at my station?
It didn't make sense. But sense didn't matter. The moment I saw her, all of the sad, shameful emotions that had already been stirred up on the ride over here came surging to the surface, suddenly and inexplicably infuriated by her presence.
Why was she here? Why now of all times? Why was she still everywhere, even in places I thought I'd finally escaped her?
My throat tightened, my pulse thudding so loudly it drowned out the station announcements overhead.
I didn't want to see her. I didn't want to talk to her. I didn't even want to look at her. I wanted to flee and avoid her altogether but the only way out of the station was right past her.
The only thing I could think to do was pretend I hadn't even seen her and hope that she wouldn't notice me either. Ai had always been terrible with faces after all - with any luck, maybe she wouldn't even remember who I was to begin with.
I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with frigid air that bit sharply at the back of my throat, and forced myself to start walking. One foot in front of the other. Keep moving. Keep it together.
I fixed my gaze straight ahead, locked my expression into something neutral, and kept my pace brisk, my boots clacking softly against the platform tiles. The station hummed around me but it all blurred into background noise under the rush of blood pounding in my ears.
Don't look, I ordered myself, even as her presence loomed closer and closer. Don't look, don't look, don't-
I looked.
She was even more radiant than I remembered.
Even under the harsh, gloomy glow of the station's fluorescent lights, she seemed to glow - skin flawless, every feature delicate and refined, her eyes sparkling as they flicked anxiously across the crowd. She looked uncomfortable, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, her hands shoved deep into her coat pockets, but somehow even that awkwardness suited her.
She was still staring out onto the platform, her brow faintly furrowed in concentration as she scanned the faces passing by, searching for whoever she was waiting for. But then, as if she could sense the intensity of my gaze, she turned.
Our eyes met.
For a moment, everything seemed to go still and quiet. The bustle of the station faded to a distant murmur as my surroundings narrowed down to just me and this ghost from my past. She blinked at me slowly, her head tilted, like a curious cat. But then I saw the moment the recognition landed; her expression shifted, softening as the corners of her lips quirked up into a smile.
And then she raised her hand and waved at me.
"Kyun-chan!" she called out. At the sound of her voice, that frozen moment thawed and she rushed towards me. Her arms were a little open and for a terrifying moment I thought she was going to throw them around me in greeting. But, to my relief, she stopped a little short and dropped them back down to her sides. "It's been forever!"
I swallowed. My heart was racing - whether from panic or from seeing her again, I couldn't tell.
"Ai... chan?" I managed uncertainly, unsure of whether I should risk saying her name too loud in a place like this. "What are you doing here?"
She stared at me for a moment, her brow furrowed, and then she giggled.
"I'm picking you up, duh!" she chirped, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
I stared at her blankly. "You're... what?"
"Picking you up!" Ai repeated, her grin bright. "I double checked your schedule with Miyako-san so I could make sure to catch you before you went home! Jeez, you sure are a busy girl these days."
My brain was struggling to process... any of this. I'd forgotten just how much effort it could take to keep up with Ai's pace and I was already exhausted from work, so my poor, frazzled mind was having an even harder time than usual. I shook my head, trying to reorient myself.
"Ai-chan..." I tried again, keeping my voice as low as possible. "Why are you picking me up?"
Her smile... faded. No, not quite - it dimmed, like someone turning the dial on a lamp. It was still there but it was suddenly smaller, less certain, more subdued. Smiling in that unfamiliar way, something about Ai seemed smaller and dimmer, too.
"Well..." she started, looking a little nervous. "I mean, I thought it'd be nice to catch up! I've been wanting to get in touch with you but I don't really know where you live so I couldn't exactly just drop by, so I figured this would be the next best thing! I mean, unless you don't want to hang out? If you're too tired or busy I totally understand but-"
"Ai-chan." She was babbling. I cut her off as gently as I could but I was starting to feel a horrible tingle of dread going down my spine. "Is something wrong?"
She blinked at me, those big, bright eyes wide and more earnest than I'd ever seen them before. Then they slid sheepishly away from me as she laughed. "Ahh, I guess you caught me! I was kind of hoping to ease into it a little more but... well, there's no point beating around the bush!"
I stared at her, apprehension mounting. "Ease into what?"
Ai took a deep breath, bracing herself. Then she flashed me a picture perfect, magazine cover worthy smile and topped it off with a double peace sign. "As of three months from now, Ai Hoshino will be leaving B-Komachi!"
The words didn't register immediately. I just stared at her, uncomprehending for several long moments as she continued to beam back at me. Then I felt colour and heat slam into my face as my reaction exploded out of me.
"YOU'LL BE WHAT?!"
Ai just stuck out her tongue. "Heehee."