Kaori Watanabe
Power is a stage, and I've always known how to work the lights.
A perfectly timed laugh. A compliment that sounds sweet but keeps someone indebted. A glance that says you belong—or you don't.
People like to call it charisma. I call it survival.
So this morning, when I step through the school gates, the courtyard falls into rhythm like it always does. Yumi hurries to fall in beside me. Ayaka trails half a step behind, already holding out the iced latte she knows I'll want. They chatter, their voices overlapping, waiting for me to decide which conversation matters.
I toss my hair back, let the sun catch the gloss in the strands, and smile.
A real smile? Of course not. But real isn't what people want from me.
They want glitter. They want light. They want something sharp enough to cut them so they can pretend they've been touched by it.
"Kaori, did you see—?"
"Kaori, what do you think of—?"
"Kaori, wait for me—!"
My name like a pulse, a drumbeat reminding everyone where the center of gravity is.
And I love it.
I always have.
Except now, there's a silence in that rhythm.
A missing beat.
Souta Ren.
He used to walk a half-step behind me. Used to catch my bag when I pretended it might slip. Used to answer before I finished asking. Reliable. Predictable. Mine.
But lately, when I look for him, I see only absence. He drifts where I can't reach. His gaze skims past me as if my shine doesn't blind him anymore.
And worse—when I follow his line of sight, I see her.
Sayuri Misaki.
The girl who should have stayed invisible. The one I made sure no one noticed until I decided she mattered.
I see her sleeves tugged over her hands, her head slightly bowed, her silence folded around her like armor. She's still the same.
Except she isn't.
Because when I pushed, she didn't crumble.
She looked at me and stayed standing.
And something about that moment haunts me like a shadow I can't shake.
I keep telling myself it was nothing.
That one spark doesn't make a fire.
But when I catch Souta's eyes flicker toward her, when I see how he softens in ways he never does with me, I feel the crack form in my crown.
The Lunch Table
"Kaori, you're quieter today," Yumi says, almost shy. She's painting her nails at the edge of the table, hoping I'll notice.
"I'm thinking," I say smoothly, twirling a piece of hair. "About Friday. We should go somewhere new. Somewhere everyone will see us."
Her eyes light up. Ayaka claps her hands. They lean in, ready to take notes.
And I give them what they want: plans, directions, curated brilliance.
But in the corner of my eye, I see Sayuri sitting under that tree again. Alone, yet not. Because Souta's across the courtyard, and even though he doesn't move, his attention is tethered to her.
I raise my voice just enough for it to carry. I laugh too loudly at Itsuki's joke, lay my hand deliberately on his sleeve, tilt my chin so the sunlight hits me perfectly.
I know how to command a room.
I know how to reclaim focus.
And yet…
She doesn't look up.
Not once.
That bothers me more than I want to admit. Because attention is currency, and indifference is the cruelest debt.
The Bathroom Mirror
After school, the mask feels heavy.
I slip into the bathroom, push the door shut, lock it.
The mirror stares back at me: flawless eyeliner, hair that falls just right, gloss that hasn't smudged. Perfect. Always perfect.
So why do I feel like I'm disappearing?
I press both hands flat on the sink, leaning closer. My reflection doesn't crack. It never does. But inside, I feel the fractures spiderwebbing beneath the surface.
I hear her voice again.
"You don't get to decide who I am."
It replays in my head like a song I didn't choose but can't turn off.
That's supposed to be my line.
I'm the one who decides.
I've always decided.
So why did it sting like truth when she said it?
Home
Dinner is quiet. My parents barely look up from their phones. They don't ask about my day. They don't ask about me at all. They never do.
That's the secret no one gets to see:
Queens aren't born. They're built.
And I built myself because no one else ever cared enough to.
If I don't shine, no one notices me.
If I don't lead, I disappear.
If I don't hold the crown on my own head, it slips and shatters.
So I keep holding. Even when my arms ache. Even when it cuts my palms.
After dinner, I lock myself in my room. My phone buzzes nonstop—messages, invitations, compliments. I don't answer any of them.
Instead, I scroll through pictures from last week. There's one of Souta standing beside me, half-smile caught in motion. He looks like he belongs there. Beside me.
But when I look at it now, all I can see is the distance.
Like he was already walking away, even then.
I lie back on my bed, staring at the ceiling. For the first time in years, I feel something dangerous:
Doubt.
Not in myself. Never in myself.
But in whether the crown I've built is enough to keep him.
And that thought burns hotter than anything.
So tomorrow, I'll smile brighter. I'll laugh sharper. I'll take back every inch Sayuri Misaki thinks she's claimed.
Because this story doesn't belong to her.
It never did.
It's mine.
And if she doesn't understand that yet—
I'll make sure she learns.
Even if I have to break her voice to do it.