The Inside, Now That Counts
I press my fingertips against the cool windowpane, letting the hum of the set blur into background noise. The shuffle of papers, the clipped commands, the endless click of cameras—it all dulls, like someone’s hit the mute button on my life. My eyes slip shut for just a second. I savor the silence.
Freedom. I used to know what that felt like. Once upon a time, joy wasn’t something I had to manufacture, like a product with a checklist: smile here, laugh there, look wistful now. It was effortless. It was mine.
Now? Expectation clings to me like a second skin, too tight, suffocating. Breathe. Smile. Always smile.
“Miss Kurosawa, are you with us?”
The director’s voice slices through the quiet, sharp enough to make my pulse stutter. My eyes snap open, and I force my shoulders back.
“Yes. Sorry.”
I sound steady, but inside, I feel like a balloon stretched too thin, one breath away from bursting. The director studies me for a beat before turning away.
“Reset the lighting! Pick up the energy, people!”
I step back into place, the spotlight swallowing me whole. The cameras stand ready, their lenses like eyes—watching, judging, waiting for me to deliver. My own reflection stares back, polished and precise, a perfect illusion.
“Ready?”
I nod. I don’t feel ready. I don’t think I’ve been ready for years.
"Action!"
The cameras come alive, and I do too—except it’s not really me. It’s the version of me they expect. Poised, effortless, untouchable. The mask slips on like second nature. The real me? She’s been buried for so long, I wouldn’t even know where to find her.
Click. Flash. Smile. Pause. Turn.
A rhythm as familiar as breathing.
Click. Flash. Smile. Pause. Turn.
A machine, spitting out perfectly curated moments.
"Kurosawa!"
The name hits like a slap, stiff and impersonal. A brand more than an identity. Kurosawa. It sounds like a corporate slogan. ‘Kudos–Saw–What?’ No, that’s stupid. Enomoto—my grandmother’s maiden name—now that one makes me snicker. ‘Hello, Moto.’
Ruri would get it. It’s our kind of joke. A joke I’ll never share with anyone here. Not in this world of perfect illusions.
"Cut!"
The director’s voice cracks like a whip. “What was that? I need you to commit, Akina. Don’t make it a joke.”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
I swallow the bitter taste of frustration. “Yes. Of course.”
I nod, obedient, but the words feel hollow. How do you commit to something that feels so far from real? How do you keep pretending when you’re running on fumes? It’s like playing dress-up in a life that doesn’t belong to me.
I square my shoulders, adjust my posture, and force another perfect smile. Maybe this time it will stick.
“Reset… And. Action!”
And just like that, I fall back into place, the cycle repeating itself. A loop I can’t escape.
“That’s it! Yes! More!” The director’s voice cuts through the air like a drill sergeant. “Akina! More!”
More. Always more. But I have nothing left to give.
I’m so done with this.
"Give me more?" He says.
What does even mean? If I give any more, I’ll burn out—like a shooting star, or maybe a comet. Just a streak of light before I disappear into nothing. The thought lingers, heavy and unspoken. Instead, I do what I always do. I fake it.
I smile—the kind they want, bright and effortless. But it doesn’t fit right anymore. It’s starting to feel fragile, like a cheap mask that’s one tug away from snapping in half.
The cameras glare at me, hot and unrelenting, like a thousand little suns. For a moment, I feel weightless, almost detached. But it’s not freedom. It’s suffocating. The lights, the expectations, the pressure—it all blends into one heavy, suffocating blur.
Click. Flash. Click.
Each sound drives another nail into the shell I’ve built around myself.
I want to escape. Just for a second. Step away from the lights, the cameras, the endless hands fixing my hair, the voices tweaking every inch of me until I’m ‘perfect.’ But there’s no escape, not really. The weight of their stares presses in, demanding more, better, flawless. And inside? I feel hollow. Like a cardboard cutout barely held together by a few loose threads.
"Akina, !"
The director’s voice cuts through my thoughts, sharp and impatient.
Yeah, yeah. I nod, because that’s what I do. I nod and smile and pretend like I’m fine. Like I here.
The shoot finally wraps, and I slip away, searching for a quiet corner. Not the kind with a perfect aesthetic for social media—just a dimly lit space that smells like stale coffee and exhaustion. I lean against the wall, eyes closed, but the weight of everything clings to me. My hands are clammy. My pulse won’t settle.
I glance at my reflection in the glass. Flawless makeup. Perfect hair. The kind of girl people dream about being. The kind of girl I don’t recognize anymore.
She’s beautiful. She’s everything they want her to be.
But she’s not .
The realization sinks in, slow and suffocating. When did I start feeling like a stranger in my own skin?
A voice calls my name.
"Akina! Come on, the fans are waiting."
Right. The meet-and-greet. Five lucky fans, handpicked for their exclusive moment with me. I mentally roll my eyes but force another smile. Time to be
again. The star.
I step into the room, and there they are—five eager faces, eyes wide with admiration, waiting for a piece of me. One of them jumps up and shouts,
…What?
I freeze. Did she—did she actually just say that?
I blink, trying to process. "What?" The word slips out before I can stop it.
For a second, everything stalls. The fans shift nervously, unsure of whether to laugh or hold their breath.
Do I have bad breath or something?
Then, chaos. Security rushes in. My publicist is shouting, —which seems a bit dramatic, but hey, it’s their job. They’re moving in on a boy, maybe seventeen, who somehow slipped past the barricade.
All this money for glamour, and they couldn’t afford decent security. Figures.
I sigh, watching as the kid reaches out, his fingers brushing against mine just before the guards grab him. Something crinkles in my palm. A note.
I barely have time to register it before he’s tackled to the ground.
"There a god," I mutter, shoving the note into my pocket.
And then, I plaster on another perfect smile.
Because what else can I do?