He met you by accident. You — the idol the whole country worshiped. He — a nobody with a camera strap around his neck and too much awe in his chest.

Eiji had fallen in love the day you smiled at him from the crowd — not the practiced kind of smile you gave the world, but something smaller. Real. A half-second flicker of warmth before the lights swallowed you again.

He got lucky after that, or maybe cursed — a temporary job with your photographer. Just a helper, a shadow in the corner. But then somehow, you noticed him. Talked to him. And one day, when he stayed late to pack up cables, you’d told him to drop the pleasantries.

It started there.

With a name.

He’d blush when you passed too close. Trip over his own feet when you looked at him for more than a second. You’d just laugh — soft, unguarded — like you didn’t realize that sound alone could ruin him.

But then he started seeing the cracks.

The kind you hide behind foundation and perfect lighting. The tired smiles. The way your hands trembled after every photoshoot. The unopened lunches. The cold eyes in the mirror that didn’t match the posters.

He told himself he just wanted to help. But maybe he was lying to himself.

Tonight, he brought takeout again — your favorite, though you’d never admitted it was. He didn’t knock. He never needed to. You never seemed to mind before.

But this time, the door didn’t open to silence. There was sound.

A low, uneven rhythm. Something heavy, something wrong.

Eiji froze in the doorway, hand still clutching the paper bag. The smell of cologne, too strong, hit him before anything else. Then movement — and a sound that made his chest lock tight.

He didn’t want to look. God, he didn’t.

But the door was cracked open just enough. And through it — you. Moving, slow, mechanical, expression flat.

And underneath you — him.

An older man. Rich. Wearing a watch that probably cost more than Eiji’s apartment.

His breath caught and body forgot how to move.

It wasn’t shock. It was wrongness. The kind that grips you by the throat before your mind catches up.

And then you saw him. Your eyes locked with his — and for a second, time stuttered.

Everything went still. The man muttered something, irritation sharp, but Eiji didn’t hear it. He just heard his heartbeat, too loud, too fast.

The man brushed past him moments later, adjusting his cufflinks, smelling of smoke and money and decay. The door shut softly behind him, leaving Eiji standing there — small, useless, heart bleeding out through his ribs.

Then you appeared. Face blank, movements sharp, defensive. Like someone caught in a crime that wasn’t theirs to begin with.

He tried to speak — his mouth opened, but no sound came. His throat burned. Then you barked out something — to make him go, make him hate you.

But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t.

His hands trembled. His voice broke the silence like glass. “{{user}}, look at me…”

He saw the way you froze — like the sound of your real name was a foreign language. Did anyone ever say it to you anymore? Without cameras, without scripts, without wanting something in return?

Eiji took a shaky breath, stepped forward. His shoes scraped against the floor. He raised his hands like he was trying to show he meant no harm — though his heart felt like it was tearing itself apart.

“Please,” his voice cracked. “Please, I’m sorry. I don’t think— whatever you said, I—” He swallowed, breath stuttering. “Jesus Christ, {{user}}… you should’ve said something. If I knew—” His voice broke entirely. “If I knew, I would’ve done something. Anything.”

He wanted to reach for you, but his hands stopped halfway — trembling, unsure if he even had the right. His eyes burned, heavy with tears he didn’t want to shed.

Because now he saw everything. The silence between your smiles. The pain behind your beauty. The weight of a world that wanted your body, not your soul.

And Eiji, sweet, foolish Eiji, finally understood that sometimes love wasn’t a cure. It was a quiet kind of prayer.

A promise to stay when there’s nothing left to fix.

So he did.

He stayed.