Photo of a Sleepless Dream

*bzzzzt*

“…”

*bzzzt!*

The birds outside my window were chirping, and my phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

That meant there was no escaping the inevitability of waking up. I shut off the alarm and stared at the ceiling. The lifeless, dull ceiling of my cheap apartment.

I’d moved out to prove to my parents I could be independent. What I actually proved was that independence came with rent, bills, and a ceiling stain shaped suspiciously like Kyushu.

My head replayed images from my dream. An idol smiling. My camera clicking. Everyone’s astonishment at a picture I had just taken. An authentic, honest snapshot of life.

“What a dream…” I mumbled, rolling over, only for a notification to light up my screen.

“Good morning, Mikazuki Hajime! We inform you that your awaited arrival at Rin’s backstage is around 10 am sharp.”

Only it wasn’t really a dream.

I sighed and slid off the bed. Man… How the hell did I manage to be hired as Rin Tsukishiro’s personal photographer on my first day as an intern!

I ruffled my brown, messy hair and met my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I mean there’s fiction and then there’s my current situation!

I hadn’t even told anyone yet. I mean… how could I? I’m pretty sure nobody will even believe me at this point.

Nevertheless, I splashed cold water on my face and brushed my teeth, trying to wash away the disbelief. A hot shower helped a little. Then came the battle with my hair, the same middle-parted cut I’d kept for years. Low-maintenance, easy to manage, decent enough for public display.

The face I got from my mom made sure I didn’t look like a bum, yet I wasn’t a model either, just somewhere comfortably in between.

10 am sharp huh…

I still had some time before that. I sat down in front of my laptop and started typing away.

“Dear Matsuda-sensei…”

How do I even begin to explain this? Hey, remember the internship that started yesterday? Well they hired me full time!

As if! How do I phrase this without him dropping his morning coffee on his keyboard?

“Arclight productions saw my work and offered me…”

What work did they even see? I just insulted their biggest asset and somehow got a full time gig!

20 years old, second year in college and already giving my professors heart attacks and false hopes.

I postponed the email for later and got up to get dressed. I slid open my wardrobe door and exhaled.

Fashion is simple.

Simple colors. Smart fits.

You don’t have to dress fancy to look presentable, you just have to find the right balance.

Or at least, that’s what I believe in.

After all, cameras catch everything. The trick isn’t to look good — it’s to look like you didn’t try too hard to look good.

I slipped into a white t-shirt and a beige oversized blazer, black trousers just loose enough to look deliberate, not lazy. A thin necklace, a watch, and my camera strap slung diagonally across my chest completed the look.

Stylish enough to not look like a stalker. Hopefully.

My reflection in the mirror gave me a lazy, unimpressed stare.

“You’re really doing this, huh?”

Apparently, I was.

The train was packed — as usual for a weekday morning. Salarymen in suits, students half-asleep, and somewhere in between them… me, the idiot who accidentally became a celebrity’s personal photographer.

The soft rumble of the tracks gave me time to think, though maybe “overthink” is the better word.

Just yesterday, I was the guy holding reflectors and dodging angry photographers.

Now? Takano-san had been reassigned to basic studio work, and I was officially listed as the “new stills photographer” for Tsukishiro Rin’s upcoming documentary.

I’d call it a promotion, but… I didn’t even apply for the job.

Arclight called it a “creative reallocation of personnel.”

Takano called it “nonsense.”

And I just called it “fantasy.”

When I left the studio yesterday, Takano-san didn’t even look at me. He was standing off to the side, pretending to check his gear, jaw clenched so hard it looked painful.

I get it though. I’d probably hate me too.

Still, I couldn’t help but think about Tsukishiro Rin’s laugh.

That moment. That photo.

It wasn’t skill. It was luck. A fluke.

And now I was supposed to recreate that luck… on command.

Right. No pressure.

The train pulled into Shibuya Station with its usual metallic groan. I adjusted my blazer and checked the time. 9:46.

I walked up the escalator, the city noise growing louder with every step; traffic, chatter, advertisements screaming from every LED screen.

And then… there it was again. The Arclight Productions logo gleamed above a glass entrance that looked more like a luxury hotel lobby than an office.

For a second, I just stood there, staring at my faint reflection in the glass doors.

“Alright, Hajime. You survived day one. You already exceeded personal expectations…”

The second I stepped out of the elevator to the studio, I knew something was off.

Yesterday, I was just “the intern.”

Today, I was apparently “Mikazuki Hajime.”

“Good morning, Mikazuki-san!”

A woman in a blazer and headset approached me immediately, smiling the kind of polite smile only people in PR are trained to give. “Rin-san’s still in rehearsal, but you’ll be called to meet her soon. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Americano or latte?”

I blinked. “Uh… you actually know my name?”

She tilted her head, pen tapping against her clipboard. “Of course. My job is to know everyone who works here. And more so you. You’re Rin-san’s personal photographer, after all.”

Right. That’s me now.

“I—uh, sure, I’ll take…”

My sentence trailed off as I caught sight of a familiar silver-haired figure by the lighting rig.

Aoi Takano.

He was hunched over a tripod, glaring at me with the simmering fury of a man demoted by destiny and bad timing.

“…What kind of coffee does Takano-san drink?” I asked.

The woman blinked. “Ah, Takano-san? He usually takes an Americano.”

“Then I’ll have a latte,” I said without missing a beat.

Her eyebrows rose slightly, but she smiled again. “Of course.”

As she walked off, I could feel Takano’s glare burning holes through my skull.

I looked his way and gave a polite nod, the kind that said I’m trying to be civil, please don’t throw a light stand at me.

He didn’t nod back.

“New guy gets coffee instead of delivering it now…?” He muttered under his breath.

I adjusted my strap, glancing around the studio. Everyone was different today — polite, smiling, almost deferential.

Assistants moved out of my way instead of bumping into me.

It was surreal.

Yesterday, I was invisible.

Today, I was “the guy who made Rin-san laugh.”

Before I could even find where to stand, a familiar voice cut through the background chatter.

“Mikazuki?”

I turned. A tall woman in her thirties approached. It was Rin’s manager, Nakahara Saya.

The one who initiated my… hiring. And the person most qualified to have me fired.

“Ah—yes?” I replied, instinctively standing straighter.

She flipped through a few sheets on her clipboard. “We’re moving forward with the authenticity angle for the documentary. The director wants shots that feel… natural. Spontaneous. The picture you took yesterday had him very pleased.”

“Uh, thanks?”

So we’re gonna exclude the fact I insulted her? Phew.

“Since you’ll be working closely with Rin-san, I’d like you to… learn her.”

“Learn her?”

Her eyebrow rose. “Get to know her better. Personality, habits, likes, dislikes. Anything that helps you capture her naturally.”

Right. Learn her. Not stressful at all.

“She’s in her dressing room now,” Saya continued. “You can go in and ask her whatever questions you feel are relevant. Take notes if needed.”

I blinked. “You… want me to interview Japan’s top idol? Alone?”

“That’s the job.”

There was a brief silence while I considered whether “spontaneous cardiac arrest” counted as a valid excuse to skip work.

Saya sighed, rubbing her temple. “Look, Rin-san is as professional as they get despite being the same age as you. I’m sure you won’t run into any problems. Just don’t abuse her professionalism.”

“…Inspiring advice.”

She looked up from her clipboard, deadpan. “I do my best.”

Then, just as I started walking away, she added, without looking up,

“And Mikazuki-san?”

“Yeah?”

“Please don’t make her cry again.”

“I didn’t make her cry yesterday!”

“I said don’t.”

She waved me off with the kind of dismissive grace only managers and exasperated mothers possess.

By the time I reached the hallway, I wasn’t sure whether to feel trusted or pre-condemned.

Still, I adjusted my strap, grabbed my small notepad, and exhaled.

Alright. Just a simple conversation with a national celebrity in her dressing room.

No big deal.