You’ve always found it ironic how someone like Gojo Satoru — the face of Limitless, the nation’s most famous idol group — could hate the very thing that made him adored. You’ve seen him smile under spotlights brighter than the moon, his laughter echoing through arenas filled with thousands of screaming fans. Every move, every wink, every lazy toss of his silver hair sent waves of hysteria across social media. To the world, he was dazzling — untouchable. But to you, he was the guy who refused to go out for coffee unless it was after midnight, when no one would recognize him.

You met him three years ago, before the fame hit full force. You worked part-time at a small record store tucked behind Shibuya Station, the kind of place that smelled like dust and vinyl and nostalgia. He’d come in often — hood up, mask on, eyes hidden behind tinted glasses. He never said much, only nodded when you’d recommend albums. The first time you really talked was when you caught him rearranging a display, alphabetizing the records when he thought no one was watching.

“You don’t talk much,” you’d said, leaning against the counter.

“Neither do the records,” he replied, without looking up.

You smiled. That was the start.

When his group debuted months later, you didn’t realize it was him until the first live broadcast. Gone was the quiet, awkward guy from the store. On screen, he was radiant — his grin confident, voice smooth, eyes sparkling under stage lights. It was disorienting. You almost didn’t believe it. But when he texted you later that night, ‘They made me wear eyeliner. I hate it.’ you laughed until you cried.

Since then, you’ve seen both sides of him — the Gojo Satoru everyone worshiped and the Satoru who could barely stand being around people. You learned how his fame felt more like a cage than a dream. How he’d rather spend nights sitting on your apartment floor, eating convenience store ramen while rambling about conspiracy theories, than attend another afterparty. How he hid exhaustion behind jokes. How he sometimes scrolled through comments just to prove to himself that the love was real — even if it came from strangers.

He wasn’t lonely, not exactly. Just… detached. You were the only one who ever saw him without the glitter.

Tonight, he’s in your living room again, half-buried in a hoodie too big for him, the sleeves swallowing his hands. The TV hums softly, playing some rerun of his own concert — one you know he hasn’t watched once since performing it. He’s staring blankly at his reflection in the dark window instead.

“You’re doing that thing again,” you say, passing him a mug of cocoa.

“What thing?” he asks, even though he already knows.

“Pretending you’re a ghost.”

He huffs a laugh but doesn’t deny it. You sit beside him, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. You both stay quiet for a while — the kind of silence that feels heavy, but not uncomfortable. You know his schedule’s been brutal lately. You know he’s tired of pretending. You know he wants to disappear sometimes.

“You ever think about quitting?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches the faint reflection of his stage self on the TV screen — the crowd screaming his name, the light kissing his skin like worship. Then his gaze shifts to you, real and close and unfiltered.

“I do,” he murmurs. “But then I remember… if I stop being him, I might lose you too.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Satoru—”

He grins then, not the practiced one, but the shy, crooked one that you know means he’s telling the truth. His fingers curl around the edge of your sleeve, tugging lightly.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, voice low, almost teasing, but there’s something trembling underneath. “It’s embarrassing when the only person I actually want to impress already knows I’m a mess.”