The dim glow of the backstage prop closet felt like its own secret world. It was cramped, filled with dusty crates, costumes draped like forgotten memories, and the faint scent of old fabric and paint thinner. A perfect place to hide away—or argue.
"I'm telling you, the script needs to stay as it is!" Koharu's voice was sharp, eyes flashing with frustration as she leaned against a crate, arms crossed.
I stood just a foot away, heart thudding for reasons I wasn't ready to admit. "You don't get to rewrite everything every time you get nervous."
She scoffed. "And you don't get to act like some perfect NPC who can't handle a little chaos."
I grinned. "I'm not perfect. Far from it."
She narrowed her eyes. "Then why do you keep hiding behind that blank stare?"
The air between us thickened like a summer storm. Her breath was shallow, her usual loud energy replaced with something quieter—but more dangerous.
"I'm not hiding," I whispered, stepping closer, the cramped space shrinking faster than I could think.
"Then what?" she challenged, eyes locked on mine.
I swallowed.
"Scared. Maybe."
Her jaw tightened. "Scared of what?"
I looked down at the messy floor. "Being seen. Really seen."
A silence so heavy it felt like it could break us.
She broke it.
"I hate it," she said quietly, voice raw. "How people always give up on me. How they ignore my ideas like I'm some annoying glitch in their perfect game."
My breath caught.
"I'm always the one left behind," she added, "the one who stumbles or crashes or gets cut from the final draft."
I stepped even closer.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Her confession felt like a confession of her soul, a rare glimpse behind the mask.
I realized then how much I'd underestimated her.
"I'm not the only one with fears," I admitted.
Her eyes searched mine, waiting.
"When I was little… I got on stage once. For a school play. I was supposed to be the lead."
I paused, the memory sharp and bitter.
"But I froze. Completely. Forgot my lines. My voice disappeared. Everyone laughed. Some kids even called me a joke."
Koharu's expression softened. "That's awful."
"Yeah. After that, I decided I'd be invisible. Safe. No spotlight, no chance to mess up."
She blinked, and for a moment, I saw vulnerability crack her fierce exterior.
"So you hide behind being the NPC?" she guessed.
I nodded slowly. "Yeah. Because being noticed means risking everything."
Koharu swallowed hard. "I get that."
We stood close enough now that I could see the subtle flush on her cheeks. The dim light caught a stray lock of hair falling over her face, and the way her lips parted slightly made my breath hitch.
Neither of us moved. The moment stretched—electric, fragile.
Then, like a whispered secret breaking the spell, the closet door creaked.
Mitsuki.
Her sharp gaze flicked between us and without a word, she turned and slipped away as silently as she had come.
Koharu jumped, breaking the tension.
"Uh… did she just see that?"
I scratched the back of my neck, suddenly feeling very exposed. "I guess."
She looked away, biting her lip.
"Well, maybe she saw something worth seeing."
I smirked, trying to ease the sudden awkwardness.
"You're still not cute," I teased.
She laughed, a soft, genuine sound that echoed warmly in the cramped space.
"Keep telling yourself that."
The air lightened.
"I'm serious though," she said, stepping back. "This play? It's more than just acting or scripts."
"Yeah?"
"It's our chance to rewrite the endings we never got. Yours and mine."
I stared at her, the weight of her words sinking in.
"Guess we're both overdue for a sequel."
Her grin was mischievous now.
"Let's make sure this one has fanservice."
I rolled my eyes but couldn't hide my smile.
"Don't push it, Kohai."
She winked. "No promises."
---
Later, as I left the closet, my mind buzzed with thoughts I couldn't quite shake. Koharu wasn't just some wild card or annoying side quest. She was a complicated story—flawed, fierce, and maybe… worth fighting for.
And maybe, just maybe, I was ready to stop hiding behind the NPC label.
---
To be continued