The pale glow of his laptop screen was the only light in the apartment. Empty cigarette packs were stacked precariously on the coffee table, surrounded by cans of iced coffee with just a few drops left inside. The air was thick, suffocating, blending the stench of smoke and stale instant noodles. Outside, faint sounds of life drifted through the curtained windows—laughter, the rumble of traffic—but Ken felt as though he were miles away from it all. He only opened the door for the convenience store deliveryman and kept his curtains permanently closed. He hadn’t set foot outside in a week. After examining the “Renewal” cover file more closely, he realized that the modification date referred only to an auto-save triggered while the file was left open. The creation and completion of the cover had actually occurred between midnight and 3 a.m., just before Ken went out for coffee. It was him. Ken had created the visuals for “Renewal.” The problem: he didn’t remember doing it. At least, he wasn’t sure. He could vaguely picture himself creating the file and working on the wind-blown ripples on the water. He might have adjusted the shade of red on the ship. Afterward? Maybe he’d laid down on his futon? He wasn’t sure. Miyaki had been right: Ken was exhausted. And now he was paralyzed by a gnawing fear—the fear of running into Ame again.
Ken opened the Instagram app on his phone and meticulously scrolled through his followers’ accounts. Ame had to be there somewhere. The more he examined his notifications and their profiles, the more a painful truth dawned on him. Almost none of his followers cared about design, photography, or video. They were all hardcore fans of the bands Ken had worked with. The only likes he got were on stories showing backstage glimpses of rehearsals with Tokyo Neon Waves. For a fan, following Ken was just another potential source of exclusive musician photos. Nothing more. The pictures he posted to showcase his designs and merchandise rarely got comments or likes—unless a musician shared his work.
Ken was no one. He just projected colors and shapes onto a screen, while real artists created from nothing. Ken didn’t create. He immortalized and interpreted the talent of others. If he couldn’t remember working on “Renewal,” he could very well have invented Ame. And yet, those schoolgirls at the convenience store had laughed about her wet hair…
Searching his followers yielded little. So, he typed “#YamatoVJ” into Instagram’s search bar. Dozens of concert photos he’d taken appeared. Ken kept scrolling, as if possessed, watching videos and visuals fly past without pause. He had a gig lined up at Club Quattro, as the VJ for a performance, but he was certain Ame was somewhere in those posts.
Suddenly, his scrolling stopped. He stumbled upon a fan video unlike any other. Instead of filming the musicians, the person was desperately scanning the crowd. The camera trembled violently, rendering the footage grainy. But Ken saw himself at the edge of the frame. The caption read: “I found Yamato.” Ken remembered that concert. It had been for a rap group, and he’d been the photographer. The Instagram account name was a random string of numbers, meaningless. But it was following… Miyaki.
Ken arrived at Club Quattro running, three hours late. The audience was already entering the venue while Ken hadn’t even tested his equipment or rehearsed with the musicians. Disheveled and pale, he rushed backstage, only to be met with a storm of reprimands. The pop band, rising in popularity, was furious. They’d hired Ken based on Tokyo Neon Waves’ recommendation and were appalled at his lack of professionalism. “I know the flow of your setlist by heart,” Ken assured them. “Everything will go exactly like in the demo I sent you.” “We’re not taking that risk,” the band’s manager snapped. “The show will go on without video projections. We’ll find a reliable VJ for our Osaka and Fukuoka tour stops. Go home.”
Ken slumped at the venue’s bar, ordering pint after pint of beer. He hated pop music anyway. What stung more were the messages of disappointment from Tokyo Neon Waves, who regretted recommending him. Everything around Ken blurred. The fans’ screams, the bassline, the drumbeat—all became distant. The singer no longer seemed angry, lost in the ecstasy of performing under his manager’s reassuring gaze.
Ken could kiss his two biggest contracts goodbye. His bank account had been in the red for months. He just wasn’t good enough.
As tears of frustration welled up, Ken locked eyes with Ame. He recognized her instantly. This time, instead of running, he grabbed her arm and dragged her outside. Exploding with rage, he yelled: “Leave me alone! Stay out of my neighborhood, stay away from my gigs. Leave my friends alone! Or I swear I’ll report you for harassment!” Ame froze, paralyzed with fear. “But Ken…” she stammered. “How do you know my name?” he shouted, drawing wary stares from passersby.
Under the pressure, Ame dropped her backpack. Badges and drawings spilled out, all of them featuring the same person—Miyaki. “I’m sorry, Ken. This isn’t how I imagined we’d meet… I’m Toka, Miyaki’s girlfriend. He’s going to introduce me to his parents soon, you know. Once he hits the top ranking at his host club, we’ll get married. He’s told me about his best friend Ken, the VJ, and I just had to meet you. What’s Miyaki like with his friends? Is he kind, rowdy, funny? Has he talked about me?”
Ken stumbled back, unsteady from the sheer amount of alcohol he’d consumed. “You’re lying… You’re stalking me. You’re obsessed with me. Liar.”
Toka blushed and giggled. “I’m flattered, but Miyaki and I are forever. I’d never feel anything for his best friend. It would break his heart. Can you imagine how much it would hurt him if we fell into some love triangle?”
“You’re completely insane…”
“I want to buy Miyaki a gift, and I need your advice. If we become friends, I’ll secure my place in his world. Let’s meet tomorrow at the café below your place at 4 p.m.”
When Toka disappeared around the corner, Ken stood frozen, crushed by an unbearable truth: even his nightmares weren’t about him.
