By sixteen, Lisa had learned how to live on four hours of sleep and polite smiles.
She trained in Seoul over the winter, flew back for midterms in Osaka, then returned again during the spring holiday. Her parents kept her grounded — barely — insisting she graduate first. But the pull had started. The lights. The pressure. The glass box of idol life waiting to close around her.
She hid the fatigue well. So well that even her classmates didn't notice the cracked nails, the swelling in her ankles, the tremble in her hands after a twelve-hour choreography block.
But Kyo noticed.
He always did.
They didn't talk every day anymore.
Sometimes not even every week.
But whenever she came back, he was there.
Same corner outside the station. Same time.
He never texted to ask.
She never warned him she was arriving.
But somehow, they always found each other.
That night, she was coming home from a short showcase in Seoul. Not a real stage — just a rehearsal room packed with twenty eyes, and not enough air to breathe.
Her duffel bag was slung low, too heavy for her frame. Her bangs stuck to her forehead. Her voice was still raw.
She spotted him across the street — hoodie up, arms folded, leaning against the guardrail by the canal.
Kyo turned his head slightly when she approached.
No smile. But something lighter in his eyes.
Lisa dropped her bag with a sigh and leaned beside him.
"You look the same," she said, not looking at him.
"Not even taller."
He didn't answer.
"Do I look different?"
Still nothing.
"You could lie a little."
A faint grunt. Possibly his version of a laugh.
Lisa tilted her head back, watching the sky. No stars tonight. Just low clouds and the pale spill of streetlight off the water.
"I don't know who I'm turning into," she said quietly.
"Every week it's new rules. New feedback. I lose five hundred grams and they say good job. I gain them back and I'm a threat to the concept."
Kyo didn't move.
"Sometimes," she added, "I get scared I'll forget what I look like without makeup. Without smiling."
Still nothing.
"Say something," she murmured.
He looked at her finally.
"I know what you look like."
Lisa blinked. Looked away quickly.
Her voice softened.
"Do you remember the day I almost fell?"
He nodded once.
"That's the only time I ever saw you scared."
Kyo's hands were tucked into his sleeves. His left hand was shaking — barely, but visibly.
He curled his fingers tighter, willing it to stop.
"You're not the only one changing," he said.
"But you're not disappearing," she said.
"I am."
They stood there for a long time, shoulder to shoulder, not touching.
The wind moved across the water.
Later, when she'd gone and the street was empty, Kyo uncurled his hand slowly.
A faint shimmer ran under the skin of his palm. A pulse, like pressure held in glass.
He didn't know what it meant yet.
Only that it was getting louder.