The Tired Smile

The TV set was a chrome-plated hell.

Ayaka held her smile—the one she’d been trained to produce at sixteen, wide but not too wide, energetic but not vulgar—while the host fired off yet another joke about her look. Kuro gal. They loved that term. As if her decorated nails and artificial tan summed up her entire personality.

“Alright, Ayaka-chan!” The host leaned closer with that forced familiarity that morning talk shows seemed to run on. “Rumor has it you’re releasing a new single! A love song, right?”

She raised her smile by two degrees. “Hai! Love Signal drops next month! It’s a super energetic song about—”

“—About love, of course!” he cut in, laughing. “And in your personal life? Any love signal you want to share with us?”

The audience giggled. Ayaka felt her nails dig into her palms under the little table. She tilted her head with that playful pout she had perfected in front of a thousand mirrors.

“Mou~! That’s a secret!” High-pitched voice, conspiratorial wink at the camera. The invisible script she’d been reciting for six years.

Fifteen minutes later, in the studio bathroom, she threw up.

Not really—her stomach was too empty for that. Just dry heaves over the immaculate porcelain bowl, while the neon lights above her buzzed like mechanical insects.

Ayaka straightened up, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her reflection stared back: makeup untouched, fake lashes perfect, bubble-pink gloss still shining. A well-oiled doll.

She rummaged through her luxury handbag—a gift from a sponsor whose clothes she barely ever wore—and found the small orange pill bottle. Two white tablets rolled into her palm.

Rapid-action benzodiazepine. 0.5mg. Take as needed for anxiety.

She swallowed them dry. The bitterness burned her throat.

Her phone vibrated. Eighteen unread messages. She scrolled through them without really reading.

Manager Sato: Good work this morning! Photoshoot at 2pm, don’t forget.
Stylist Yumi: Need to confirm your size for tomorrow’s MV outfit.
Mom: You were on TV this morning? I couldn’t watch. Send me money pls, your father…

Ayaka locked the screen.

Someone knocked on the door. “Ayaka-san? Everything alright?”

She recognized Kimura’s voice. Twenty-two, bright-eyed, still dazzled by the industry’s glitter.

“Hai! I’m coming!” Cheerful voice, automatic.

She readjusted her mini-skirt, checked her reflection one last time. Smile. Checked that her eyes didn’t betray anything.

Perfect. The doll was patched back together.

***

The black van sped through Shibuya. Ayaka watched the crowds blur past behind the tinted window—thousands of anonymous faces who would never truly see her, only her image on the giant screens towering over the crossing.

Her own face, gigantic and distorted, smiled back at her on a mascara ad.
Ayaka, 22— idol / seiyuu / influencer. 3.2 million followers. Zero real friends.

“Ayaka-san.” Manager Sato’s voice snapped her out of her haze. He turned from the passenger seat, tablet in hand. “We need to talk.”

His tone was different. More serious.

Ayaka’s stomach twisted again. What did I do wrong now?

“Hai?”

Sato exchanged a glance with the driver, then sighed. “The agency has… noticed some things lately.”

Oh no. The pills. Someone must have seen. Or maybe the dark circles she was having more and more trouble hiding.

“Your energy on stage is always impeccable,” he quickly added, as if reading her panic. “But behind the scenes… producers say you’re distant. Tired. It’s starting to show.”

Ayaka opened her mouth to protest—I smile all the time, I do everything they ask—but he lifted a hand.

“This isn’t a reprimand. The agency wants to support you.” He turned the tablette toward her. “We signed you up for media coaching sessions with an external consultant. Someone who’s worked with several talents, very discreet.”

On screen, a simple profile:

Hayashi Takumi — Image Management & Personal Coaching Consultant
Former senior agent at StarNova Talent Management (2012–2018)
Specialization: Image rehabilitation, media stress management

A professional headshot showed a man in his thirties, calm features, direct gaze. No forced smile.

“He only works with a few selected clients,” Sato explained. “No publicity, no drama. Just support. We think it could… help you.”

They think I’m falling apart, Ayaka translated silently.

She nodded mechanically. “When does it start?”

“First session the day after tomorrow. Thursday, at 3pm.” He handed her a post-it. “Residential neighborhood. More discreet.”

She took the paper. An address in Setagaya—far from neon, fans, cameras.

“Alright.”

Sato looked relieved. “Good. We’re arriving at the studio. Photoshoot until six, then you’re free. Try to sleep tonight, okay?”

As if it were that simple.

***

The shoot was exactly what she expected: four hours of smiling in uncomfortable outfits while the photographer yelled “Cuter! More energy!” as if she were a programmable puppet.

When she finally stepped into her apartment at 9pm, Ayaka closed the door behind her and let her bag drop onto the cold marble floor.

Silence.

The place was huge—3LDK in a luxury tower in Roppongi, panoramic view over Tokyo. The rent cost more than what her parents earned in a year when she was a kid. She hated it.

Too big. Too empty. Too cold.

She slid down against the door, knees pulled to her chest. The city lights shimmered beyond the glass—beautiful, distant, indifferent.

Her phone buzzed. Again. Always.

She ignored it and stared at the ceiling. How many nights like this? How many forced smiles left before the mask finally shattered?

Thursday. 3pm. Setagaya.

An address in a neighborhood she didn’t know, to meet a man she’d never heard of, because her agency thought she was falling apart.

They weren’t wrong, she admitted in the silence of her empty apartment.

Ayaka closed her eyes. Tomorrow, she would smile again. She would sing, dance, pose. Because that was all she knew how to do.

But Thursday…

Thursday, maybe she could stop smiling. Even just for one hour.

***

She slept three hours that night, curled up on the white leather couch, her phone lying next to her like an invisible leash.

When the alarm rang at six, Ayaka woke up with the same question that had been haunting her for months:

How much longer can I keep this up?

She already knew the answer deep down:

Not long.