“tell me one person that still watches this show.
just tell me.
one child who still remembers who miku is from that damn show.”
“w-well, there—“
“none.”
“..none, yes, but she was loved. she’s still caught up in the past, isn’t she—?”
“she’s still stuck in the past because you haven’t allowed her to let go.
let her let go.”
“…but that’ll break her. she’s one of our oldest stars, she hasn’t been away from the set for the past twenty years— who knows how she’ll react to practically zero viewership compared to the empire she’d built up all those years ago—“
“if she’s not off that set by tomorrow, i’m taking matters into my own hands.”
“…”
miku had been on that set for years. more than years, almost; two decades’ worth of screen time was dawning on her, & despite how all of her audience had long since grown up past her & had moved on, miku still slaved away in front of the camera, deluding herself with the belief that there were still people watching her, cheering her on from home.
they just never came in person.
the television company was done with her. they needed that set back, & miku’s little static gig just wasn’t bringing in any revenue any longer. however, the problem was that they just didn’t know how to get her off the set; she’d had it for the past two decades, never a time off screen or away from the camera. she had become addicted to the approval of nonexistent viewers by now, desperate for the notion that she was still appreciated.
it was depressing.
the other stars often chatted about that “sad static thing”, at breaks & during lunch. the stars as a whole were called the vocaloids, a group of singers specially adapted & grown into the singer & performer life. miku wasn’t quite considered one of them. she didn’t have “the voice”, which was a key factor that led to her failed stardom, & her constant need for approval. that her voice was still worth something, that she was still worth something.
teto was another vocaloid star. she was in the same ranks as miku, almost. her time was nearing, per se. she’d overheard the tv directors talk about her, about how her voice was becoming old news to the viewers & how they wanted something less pretty princess, & more punk & gender-equalising. she didn’t bother to fight it, however. she knew the cycle of stardom gave only fleeting moments of fame to those “graced” by it.
teto often passed by miku’s set, watching from the corner of her eye how that sad little woman still sung & sung in front of the audience that didn’t exist until her throat turned sore. teto wished she could help, do something, but she didn’t quite have the guts.
miku noticed teto too. how she’d walk past her own set in particular, paying attention to her, all with a worried look on her face. miku was naïve, but she could easily sense looks of unease. something was not right here—why so concerned about her specifically?
miku soon learned.
“so they said you have to move out of here by tomorrow, else you’ll be forced out—tv show & all,” explained a supervisor to her, before walking out on the set to do some other job.
miku froze. she sat on the stage of the set, knees pulled up to her chest, curled in on herself. her eyes were wide, unlike her usual cheer, smile nowhere to be seen.
no one was watching her. no one had been watching her.
her audience had abandoned her. they’d left her.
she didn’t even sob.
didn’t even cry.
just slumped to the side of the set, not giving a care to the camera that was still rolling, since there was no one watching her anyway.
she didn’t even notice when teto came in.