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The morning sun didn't bring peace; it brought chaos. I woke up not to the sound of my alarm, but to the constant buzzing of my phone. This morning, almost against my will, my hand reached for the phone, and as soon as I turned it on, the notifications...
"Wait, is this really Sayaka? She looks so... different. Why was she hiding this face?"
"Is she quitting? Why would she post a photo like this right before the concert?"
"I feel betrayed. We loved the 'Idol Sayaka', not this stranger."
"She's clearly lost her mind. No sane idol would destroy their image overnight."
I stared at the screen, my heart heavy. The internet was a cruel judge, and they had already passed their verdict. My "pure" image was shattered. But before I could even process the comments, my door was thrown open. My mother stood there, her eyes bloodshot, clutching a tablet.
"Do you see this?" she screamed, throwing the tablet onto my bed. "Three major sponsors have already pulled out. The agency is holding an emergency meeting in an hour. You've ruined everything I worked for, Sayaka!"
"I didn't ruin your life, Mother," I said, sitting up slowly. "I just started living mine. I was tired of being a mannequin."
Before I could even realize what was happening, a sharp slap landed on my cheek. My vision blurred for a moment, and all I could hear was the echoing ring of my mother's scream—"What haven't I done for you? I wanted you to be everyone's favorite, to rule their hearts. And now you're destroying it all with your own hands!" She grabbed my arm, her grip painful. "Get dressed. We are going to the agency to fix this mess."
An hour later, I was sitting in a cold, glass-walled conference room at the agency headquarters. My manager, Mr. Sato, was pacing back and forth, while three PR specialists whispered urgently.
"Things have gone completely out of control," Mr. Sato finally spoke, slamming a folder on the table. "The trending hashtags are 70% negative. They're calling you a fraud, Sayaka. They're saying your beauty was all a lie."
"It was a lie," I muttered, looking at my reflection in the glass table. No makeup, just a red mark from my mother's hand.
"Enough!" Mr. Sato yelled. "We've drafted a statement. We'll say you had a temporary allergic reaction to a new skincare product, which caused emotional distress. You'll record a video today—crying, if possible—and apologize for your 'unstable' behavior."
I looked at the script. It was full of lies. They wanted me to go back into the cage.
"I won't do it," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "I'm a singer, not a puppet. If they hate me for my face, then let them."
I walked out of the room before they could stop me. I ran until I found myself near the school park again. Arata was there, sitting on the same bench. He didn't look at the red mark on my cheek with pity. He just moved aside to give me space.
"The storm hit harder than I thought," he remarked.
"They want me to apologize for being real," I choked out. "My mother... she only sees the fame."
Arata stopped drawing and handed me a small bottle of water. "Then stop looking for her approval. The girl I drew yesterday didn't need anyone's permission to exist."