I close my eyes, searching for something—anything—beneath the chaos. A whisper of myself. A reminder that I exist beyond the glitz and rehearsed perfection.
When I open them, the room is the same. Of course, it is. The grand, gilded set doesn’t care about me, or anything for that matter. I take a slow step forward, the weight of it all settling over me like an expensive, ill-fitting coat I can’t shrug off.
"Cut!"
The illusion cracks. The lights glare down like miniature suns, hot and merciless. Hairspray stings my eyes. Someone’s drowning in perfume—probably me. Stylists swarm, yanking, adjusting, smoothing, fussing like I’m a porcelain doll seconds from shattering.
"Akina, chin up. Smile. No, . You’re selling , not toothpaste," the director calls out, voice edged with impatience.
Oh, my bad. Let me switch from to . I lift my chin, soften my lips into the expression they want. Confident. Alluring. Perfectly out of reach.
The cameras flash, trapping me in flawless still frames. Sweat trickles down my back, but I don’t move. Can’t move. The illusion has to hold.
"Beautiful!" someone shouts. The word ricochets off the walls, hollow and weightless.
Beautiful. Right. I glance at the monitor between takes, at the polished version of me they’ve created. She’s radiant. Impeccable. But her eyes—my eyes—are empty, like she’s waiting for someone to remind her who she used to be.
"Akina, more energy this time. You’re the star, remember?"
I let out a laugh that sounds like a champagne flute cracking. "Right. The star."
"And—action!"
The cameras roll again. I slip into the rhythm—pose, hold, shift, repeat. Every click pushes me further from myself. My feet ache, my smile trembles, but I keep going. Because stars don’t stop. Stars shine, even when they’re burning out.
I’ve done this a thousand times. The movements, the angles, the effortless charm—I know them as well as my own name. But today, something feels wrong. Like I’m watching from a distance, a ghost wearing my skin, haunting a life I barely recognize.
I remember when happiness wasn’t staged. When laughter didn’t come with a camera crew. When I didn’t have to analyze how joy looked from the outside. Back then, there were no perfect angles, no rehearsed reactions. Just life—messy, unfiltered, real.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
"Cut!"
A stylist rushes over, smoothing a wrinkle on my sleeve. I nod, barely hearing her. My mind is drifting, reaching for something simpler. Something true.
The director claps his hands, snapping me back. "Reset! Energy up, Akina!"
I blink, and just like that, the spell breaks. My smile snaps into place—polished, practiced, armor. My jaw aches from holding it, but the pain is easier than letting the cracks show.
"You okay?" The makeup artist brushes a stray hair from my cheek. Her voice is soft, almost kind.
"Fine." The lie slips out, effortless.
But I’m not fine. The fractures run deep, splintering with every camera flash, every barked command. I wonder how long before the facade crumbles. Before do.
I inhale, roll my shoulders, and step back into place.
Showtime.
The director’s cue hits, and I move like a marionette. Chin lifted, spine arched, head tilted at the exact angle they want.
The cameras flash, and I give them what they crave.
This is why I’m here. To shine—even as the light scorches me from the inside out.
"More energy, Miss Kurosawa!" The director’s voice slices through the air, sharp as a blade. He claps once, a crisp command. "Smile! Radiance!"
I stretch my lips into the grin he demands. My face protests, muscles aching. It’s not a smile—it’s a mask. A hollow, painted-on expression selling a happiness I can’t even remember.
The lights flare, punishing. Heat presses in from all sides, thick and suffocating. My breath catches, but no one notices. The crew swarms, adjusting, tweaking, muttering over monitors.
"Perfect," the director purrs, satisfaction curling in the air like smoke.
The word should feel like a reward. Instead, it settles inside me like a stone—cold, heavy, unmoving.
Perfect.
What perfect, anyway? A laugh that never lingers? A smile that never slips? A woman stripped of every flaw until there’s nothing left but their creation?
"Miss Kurosawa, reset for the next shot." A stylist is already at my side, smoothing, adjusting, rearranging. I nod without thinking, my voice lost somewhere in the noise.
As she works, my gaze drifts past the set, past the lights. A memory surfaces—unbidden, too vivid.
Years ago, I was curled up on my parents' couch, drowning in crumpled homework and snack wrappers. Ruri sat beside me, holding her breath as she tried to spell a word she couldn’t quite get. It didn’t matter if she got it right. What mattered was the laughter—mine, wild and unrestrained, shaking my ribs until they ached.
It was real. Untamed.
The director’s command snaps me back. The mask slides into place. I step forward, smile flashing under the glare.
"Radiance," he says again.
And I give it to him. A hollow light, designed to dazzle.
Between takes, I drift to the window. My heels tap against the polished floor, the only sound anchoring me to the moment. Outside, the city sprawls, bathed in the soft gold of late afternoon. Cars glide by, slow and steady, like fish moving through a quiet stream. On the sidewalks, people walk at their own pace, laughter rising in bursts I can barely hear through the thick glass.
They seem so...