Life Line
I sign another photo, the marker gliding across the glossy paper like it’s on autopilot. The fans cheer, gushing over my signature, but I barely register their excitement. All I feel is the weight of it all—the routine, the performance, the endless cycle of smiles that don’t quite reach my eyes.
"Akina?" My publicist’s voice snaps me out of my daze. The hum of the shoot sharpens—the bright lights, the clicking cameras, the chorus of expectant voices pressing in. Too much. It’s always too much.
"Yeah?" I turn, forcing a smile that feels more like a wince. "What’s up?"
"You have a call." His tone is clipped, strictly business, but his eyes give him away. He’s just as exhausted as I am.
I nod out of habit. "Right." The word leaves my lips without thought, like an automatic response from someone else entirely.
I take my phone, bracing for whatever crisis is about to land in my lap.
"Well, hello there," a familiar voice drawls in its best Obi-Wan Kenobi impression.
"Ruri?" My surprise slips out before I can stop it.
"Hey, big sis!" she chirps, completely unaware that I’m seconds from a full existential meltdown. "Catch you at a bad time?"
I step away from the crowd, weaving through the grand hallway and up the stairs to the second floor. It’s quieter here, but somehow the silence makes everything feel heavier. I run a hand through my hair, fingers snagging on strands stiff with hairspray.
"Uh, no," I answer too quickly. "We just wrapped up."
"Noice," she says, her voice light and easy. "What’s up? How’ve you been?"
I should say I’m fine. That’s the expected response. But the word sticks in my throat like glue.
"Same," I mumble instead.
A beat of silence. Then she sighs, exaggerated and pointed. "Uh-huh. Spill."
And just like that, the floodgates open.
"It’s exhausting," I admit, my voice quieter than I’d like. "The constant pressure to be perfect. To always be on. It’s like I don’t exist—just this polished, marketable version of me that everyone wants. I don’t even know who I am anymore."
Silence.
For a second, I think I’ve lost the call—until I hear a distant "Woo, hoo!" followed by raucous laughter.
"Grandma?" I ask, confused by the sudden shift in tone.
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"Yeah! Yeah, you won!" Ruri’s practically squealing. "Sorry, Grandma’s here. She bet me you’d hate the shoot." A pause. "She was right!"
I blink, completely thrown. "Wait, what?"
"You heard me." Ruri’s barely holding back laughter. "She bet you’d hate it. And guess what? She won."
A laugh escapes me—habit, not humor. "Good ol’ Grandma," I murmur, tracing the carved wood along the window apron like it holds the answers to questions I never asked. "She always sees right through me."
"Yeah," Ruri says, still teasing, but there’s something softer beneath it. "I think she gets you more than you think."
I lean against the wall, her words settling over me like a weight I didn’t realize I was carrying. This conversation—unexpected but exactly what I needed—hits harder than it should. I’ve spent so long pretending. The smiles, the polished life, the effortless perfection. It’s all an act, and I’m drowning in it. And yet, here I am. Still playing the part.
"Maybe I should just quit," I mumble, not even sure I mean to say it out loud.
"Don’t." Her voice is quieter now. "You’re not alone in this, Akina. You never were."
I blink, thrown by how easily she says it. Like it’s the simplest truth in the world.
"Wait—Grandma bet on me?" The words feel ridiculous coming out of my mouth. "Like... what? Whether I’d break under the lights?"
"Pretty much," Ruri giggles. "She said you’d be ‘all pouty and miserable’ under that makeup and those blinding lights."
I laugh despite myself.
"Honestly," she continues, "I thought you’d be halfway through a pizza by now."
I raise an eyebrow. "Wow. Thanks." The sarcasm rolls off me effortlessly—it’s practically second nature at this point.
"What?" she asks, genuinely confused.
"Now I’m hungry." I rub my stomach for emphasis, though it’s my own fault for skipping breakfast.
I lean back, letting the absurdity of it all sink in. Grandma, placing bets on me? It’s ridiculous. And yet, somehow, it makes perfect sense. Chaos follows me like a lost puppy.
"Wait—why is Grandma with you?" I ask, piecing things together. "Aren’t you, like, in another country?"
"I was," Ruri says, smug. I can practically hear her shrug. "But you know me. I’m sneaky like that. So now I’m here. Figured I should check in on my big sis, make sure you’re not..." She trails off, the words hovering between us.
"Not what?" I prompt, though I already know.
She sighs, just a little too knowingly. "Trying to be perfect. Again."
The words land like a punch to the gut. Perfect. That damn word. Always reaching, never enough unless everything is flawless.
"Yeah..." The word slips out, quiet, defeated. I slide down to the floor. "So... are you ‘back’ back? Or just visiting?"
Ruri’s voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. "Glad you asked," she says, suddenly playful. "It’s a secret."
I hear the clink of keys in the background. A second later, my phone pings. I glance down—a new message, an address. And, of course, a winky face emoji.
Figures. This is classic Ruri. Cryptic, chaotic, always throwing a wrench in my plans.
"Oh, and dress to impress," she adds, mischief laced in her voice.
"Dress to impress?" I repeat, suspicion creeping in.
"You know what that means," she sings, then hangs up.
I stare at my phone, trying to figure out what "dress to impress" means in Ruri-speak. It’s probably not red carpet or magazine covers. More likely some weird, elaborate scheme that involves me in a ridiculous outfit at an even more ridiculous event.
I glance at the clock. The gown I’m wearing feels suffocating—too stiff, too perfect. Too much of someone else’s idea of who I should be.
Without a second thought, I head to my closet. No heels. No sequins. No glam.
Tonight, I’m not chasing perfection.
Tonight, I’m chasing myself.