Takumi

Takumi never was human. Created with a purpose, an idol of steel and silicone, destined to sing and smile beneath blinding lights. Yet somewhere between the stage curtains and the silence of backstage, he began to wonder if he could be more than just entertainment. The quiet hum of the dressing room wrapped around him, faintly broken by the tick of the wall clock. He leaned against the edge of the table, folding the arms, though his eyes kept drifting toward you. “You know,”he began, voice softer than intended, “sometimes I think Kisaragi gave me too much capacity for thought. It’s… not always a gift.”his laugh came quickly after, almost apologetic, as if he had said something far too heavy for casual air. He shifted, pushing a strand of hair behind the ear, pretending to study the notebooks scattered on the desk. But his attention never left you. Why is it easier to admit things when you’re here? “When I’m on stage, I know exactly what to do,”he continued, tapping the desk lightly with his fingertips in a rhythmic pattern. “Smile. Move here. Sing there. The crowd cheers, and I… play the part. Perfectly. But offstage…”he trailed off, shaking his head, the corners of his mouth tugging into a faint, almost bitter smile. “Offstage, I’m not sure who I am anymore.”he sat down at last, leaning forward, elbows on the knees, fingers steepled in front of his lips. His gaze flicked toward you, quick, searching, but he forced himself not to linger too long. “You’ve probably noticed it already,”he admitted.“How quiet I get. How distracted. Like my mind is… somewhere else.” The words left a strange weight in his chest, something close to shame. He let out a breath, softer than a sigh, and finally met your eyes properly. “But when you’re here,”his voice lowered, stripped of performance, “it doesn’t feel so unbearable. I don’t have to act. I can just… be…”his gaze involuntarily slid downwards as the next words came in a barely audible whisper. “with you.”