Third person view
There are too many faces today.
None of them hers.
Morning starts before the sun decides to be decent. Cold tatami under bare feet.
The kind of cold that sits in the bones and makes them hum.
Rin Watanabe doesn't hum. Not when she's awake. Only on stage.
And maybe, maybe in the shower when she forgets that she's Rin Watanabe.
January 12, 2015.
Day off, supposedly.
That's what the manager said "You've earned it, Rin-chan. Stay home, relax."
She believed him. Idiot.
Phone buzzes.
It's the ugly buzz, the one that means bad news, or worse fan gossip.
Three messages from Kana in wardrobe. One from some number she doesn't know. All saying the same thing, different flavors:
Is this you?
Did you really say that?
Wtf Rin
She scrolls.
There it is.
A photo.
Her.
Except it's not.
Too much eyeliner, wrong shape to the jaw if you tilt your head and actually look. But she's wearing her Stage 4 Winter Tour jacket the one with the custom gold embroidery. The one that, as far as Rin knew, existed in exactly one copy. Hers.
The fake Rin is walking out of a convenience store in Ikebukuro, holding a canned coffee and a pack of cigarettes.
Rin doesn't smoke.
She hates coffee.
But the internet already believes it.
The tags are bad. #rinwatanabe #idolfallfromgrace #smokingidol #trashyqueen
She sits on the edge of her futon, staring at the picture like it's a puzzle she should be able to solve if she just... turns her head right.
There's a taste in her mouth like aluminum.
By 10 a.m., the agency knows.
By 10:15, her manager is calling.
By 10:16, she's not answering.
She doesn't want his voice right now. Doesn't want to hear that fake-polite panic. Doesn't want the "Rin-chan, please cooperate, this is bad for everyone" routine.
She opens the curtains instead.
Winter sun, thin and white like it's been washed too many times.
Tokyo outside is a muted mess concrete, steam from vents, crows laughing at something only crows find funny.
She checks the photo again. Zooms in.
The girl's smile small, almost private, like she's thinking of something only she knows. Rin hates it because she recognizes it. It's hers. That's her Stage 5 ending pose smile. How does someone steal that?
Her phone rings again.
She answers this time.
"Where are you?"
"Home."
"Stay there. Don't go outside. We're... we're handling it."
We're handling it.
Agency-speak for We have no idea what's going on but we're going to yell at a few interns until it looks like we're working.
At noon she caves and calls Kana.
Kana's voice is a low rush, the kind you get when you're talking in the back room where the boss can't hear.
"I swear to god, Rin, she looks exactly like you in person. I saw her yesterday at Shibuya crossing. Thought it was you until she looked me dead in the eye and walked away."
"Could it be a fan?"
"Maybe, but fans don't get jackets made by our costume department. That's yours, right?"
Rin doesn't answer.
Because here's the thing
That jacket wasn't in her closet last week. She'd assumed laundry or dry cleaning or some staff mix-up. Happens all the time.
Except maybe this time it didn't "happen."
She tries to eat lunch. Fails. Miso soup goes cold on the table.
Instead she opens her laptop. She types her own name into the search bar like a masochist.
Scrolling, scrolling. Tweets, threads, blurry paparazzi shots.
Someone's already made a "Spot the Fake Rin" compilation.
Three photos two of her, one of the impostor. The comments argue like it's a game show.
She closes the laptop.
Her apartment feels wrong now.
Like maybe she's the fake one.
Like maybe the real Rin Watanabe is outside somewhere, wearing her clothes, holding her smile, walking in the January air like she owns it.
By 2 p.m., she gives up on staying inside.
Coat, scarf, sunglasses, mask. She could be anyone.
She decides to be "anyone."
Ikebukuro first. She doesn't even know why. Maybe because the photo was there. Maybe because if she doesn't go, she'll feel like she's hiding.
The streets smell like fried chicken and exhaust. Kids in oversized coats, vending machines buzzing.
She stands outside the convenience store from the picture. Same bright orange sign, same crooked poster for oden by the door.
No fake Rin.
At 3:15, she's in a café, small enough that the steam from her tea fogs the window.
She wonders if the impostor is somewhere right now, drinking actual coffee and laughing about the chaos.
She wonders if they look alike when they're both alone.
There's a weight in her pocket her phone. A text from an unknown number:
Nice coat.
She looks up.
And there she is.
Three tables over.
Same face.
Same hair, even the same way the fringe doesn't sit right unless you tilt your head.
But her eyes are different more amused, like she's been waiting for this moment.
The fake Rin raises her cup in a little toast.
Rin doesn't remember leaving the café.
She's walking fast, faster, past pachinko parlors and shuttered boutiques.
Her breath is sharp in the cold.
The phone buzzes again:
Don't be mad. I'm just making you interesting.
She wants to throw the phone into the gutter. She doesn't.
Back home, it's dark already.
The city outside is all lit windows and the hum of trains in the distance.
She sits on the floor, knees up, back against the wall.
The jacket her jacket is on the chair where she left it weeks ago. She stares at it like it's guilty.
Because maybe it is.
The agency calls again.
She lets it ring.
She's thinking about the other girl's smile.
She's thinking about how for one second, looking at her, she couldn't tell if she was seeing herself in a mirror or someone else entirely.
And she's thinking
If someone can wear your face better than you can...
What does that make you?
Outside, somewhere in the city, the fake Rin is probably laughing.
Probably wearing something she hasn't even noticed is missing yet.
Probably planning the next picture.
January 12, 2015—
Day off, supposedly.
Rin Watanabe closes her eyes.
She's not sure if she's going to sleep or just wait.