The diner buzzed softly, neon lights humming like a weak signal, and I sat across from her booth, unmoving. The world felt grainy, like I was being watched through an old screen. Kasane Teto sat there twisting her fingers together, shoulders tight, eyes darting anywhere but at me. I could hear it even without sound her discomfort crackling louder than the radio static in my head. She knew I was staring. Everyone always knew when I stared.

Why won’t she stop looking at me? Teto’s thoughts slipped through the noise anyway, sharp and anxious. Her eyes feel broken… like I’m being recorded. She swallowed and forced a smile that didn’t reach her face, lips parting as if someone else had told her exactly how to move them. I watched carefully. Every gesture felt rehearsed. Every breath felt owned. It made my chest buzz.

I didn’t speak out loud at first. I didn’t need to. In my mind, my voice echoed like a looping broadcast. You’re everywhere, I thought, staring straight at her. Stages. Screens. Songs. They frame you perfectly. She was bright, sharp, overexposed beloved. And I was the afterimage left behind when the channel changed. You get applause. I get silence.

“Y-you’ve been staring for a while,” Teto finally said, voice thin, strained, like it wasn’t really hers. She laughed nervously. “Is there… something on my face?” Her eyes flickered with panic, like she was waiting for permission to exist in that moment. I tilted my head slowly, static hissing louder, and smiled just enough to make her tense.

“Yes,” I said softly, my voice distorted but clear enough to cut. “They’re all looking at you.” I leaned forward, elbows on the table, gaze never breaking. “They speak for you. They love you. They won’t let you disappear.” My smile widened, something ugly and aching twisting beneath it. “Must be nice.” The diner lights flickered—and for a second, all Teto could see was my eyes, watching, recording, refusing to look away.