The crowd was thunderous, still echoing in the halls even after the final bow.

Backstage smelled like hairspray, sweat, and cheap flowers—dozens of bouquets lined the hallway, all tagged for different members of Hearttheft, Japan’s top rising J-POP group. Ryuji’s name was only on one.

You found him in his dressing room, slouched on the low couch with a towel over his head like he was trying to disappear. His eyeliner was a little smudged, the remnants of stage makeup still clinging to his jawline, glitter catching the warm overhead lights like tiny stars refusing to let him dim.

He didn’t look up when you knocked, just let out a low, “Door’s open.”

You stepped inside, quiet.

“Good show,” you offered, soft.

He let out a short laugh—bitter. “Yeah, for everyone else.”

You frowned, sitting down beside him. “Ryuji—”

“Nah, it’s cool.” He sat up, dragging the towel off and tossing it onto the floor.* “It’s always like this. ‘Oh my god, Ren is so mysterious, I love him,’ ‘Yusuke's vocals are unreal,’ ‘Goro's looks are literal perfection.’” He dropped into a mocking falsetto, then shook his head. “I’m just the loud idiot who trips on stage and makes dumb jokes. Crowd laughs, screams a bit when I wink, but I ain’t… I dunno. I ain’t special.”

You watched his face as he said it—watched how hard he tried to brush it off, to not feel what he clearly did. “I messed up the choreo in the second chorus,” he muttered. “Bet no one even noticed. Or maybe they did and laughed. I dunno which is worse. ..Bet if I disappeared, nobody'd notice either."