Chapter 3: The Idol Who Glitters

If there is a social hierarchy in this high school, I am not even at the bottom of the pyramid. I am the pavement the pyramid is built on. I am the gum stuck to the shoe of the person walking on the pavement. I am Kenji, the background texture that didn't render properly.

And Aoi?

Aoi is the sun.

She sits exactly three rows ahead of me, second seat from the window. It is the prime protagonist spot in any anime, but she isn't just a protagonist. She is a celestial body. Even from here, stuck in the gloomy back row of the classroom, I can see the way the afternoon light filters through the window and catches her hair. It is purple-black, a color that shouldn't exist in nature but somehow looks completely natural on her. It is long, silky, and probably smells like expensive shampoo, vanilla beans, and broken dreams.

Aoi isn't just a student. She is The Aoi.

She is a literal idol. If you turn on the TV at 7 PM, she is there, selling orange juice with a smile that brightens the pixel count of your screen. If you walk through Shibuya, she is there, fifty feet tall on a billboard, holding a bottle of perfume. She sings songs about cherry blossoms and first loves that make grown men cry in their cars. She has a fan club that probably has a higher GDP than some small countries.

We have been in the same class since middle school. Three years.

Total words spoken between us: Zero.

Actually, that might be an exaggeration. Once, in eighth grade, I sneezed, and she might have looked in my direction. But she was probably looking at a butterfly outside the window.

"Alright, everyone, open your textbooks to page 54", the history teacher drones on. His voice is a weapon of mass sleep destruction. "Today we are discussing the intricate tax laws of the Edo period. Try to contain your excitement".

I open my book. The pages are crisp because I rarely open them. Boredom washes over me like a warm, heavy blanket. I spin my pen—a cheap plastic one, not my drafting pen—between my fingers. Spin. Drop. Spin. Drop.

I glance toward Aoi. It is a reflex. A habit. Like checking the time or checking if my zipper is down.

Usually, she sits with perfect posture. Her back is straight, her head is held high, and she takes elegant, precise notes in a notebook that is probably color-coded. She is the model student. The image of perfection.

But today… something is different.

She is hunched over.

Her shoulders are curled inward, creating a protective shell. Her history textbook is propped up high on her desk. Way too high. It is standing vertically, like a fortress wall designed to keep out enemy invaders. Or, in this case, the teacher's line of sight.

Is she sleeping?

It wouldn't be surprising. Idols have insane schedules. She probably finished a photoshoot at 3 AM and had to be here by 8 AM. I feel a pang of sympathy. Even suns burn out eventually.

I squint, leaning forward slightly in my chair. The angle is tricky, but from the back row, I have a sniper's vantage point.

Wait.

There is something tucked inside her history textbook.

It is a smaller book. A paperback (bunkobon) size.

I tilt my head to the left. The light shifts. I catch a glimpse of the cover.

It is glossy black. There is a stylized red font that looks like slashing sword strikes. And there is an illustration of a silver-haired warrior girl crying tears of blood.

My eyes widen. My heart stops beating for a solid second.

That cover. I know that cover. I know every single pixel of that cover.

I designed that cover in Photoshop three months ago. I spent forty-eight hours agonizing over the shade of red for the font. I argued with my editor for a week about the placement of the title.

It is Volume 6 of The Crimson Valkyrie.

My jaw drops slightly. I catch it before it hits the desk.

Aoi, the perfect idol, the girl who represents purity and mainstream pop culture, the girl who probably spends her free time saving puppies, baking cookies, and practicing choreography in a mirror room… is reading my light novel.

During class.

In the middle of a lecture about Edo period tax laws.

And she isn't just reading it. She is into it.

I watch, mesmerized. I can see her shoulders shaking. It is a subtle vibration at first, like a phone on silent mode. But then it gets stronger. Her head dips lower behind the wall of the textbook.

Is she… crying?

Oh god.

I check the chapter count in my head. If she is reading Volume 6, and she is about halfway through… that means she is at The Scene.

The scene where Commander Kael sacrifices himself to save the rookie protagonist.

I wince. A wave of guilt crashes over me.

I wrote that scene on a Tuesday night. It was raining. I was tired. I was hungry. I went to the convenience store to buy my favorite custard pudding, the premium kind with the extra caramel sauce. But when I got there, the shelf was empty. The clerk told me they were sold out.

I was so devastated, so filled with irrational despair over a lack of pudding, that I went home and killed off the most beloved mentor character in the series. I poured all my pudding-less rage into that death scene. I made it brutal. I made it emotional. I made sure every reader would feel the void in their soul that I felt in my stomach.

And now, Aoi is the victim of my pudding tantrum.

She sniffs. It is a quiet sound, barely audible over the teacher's monotone voice, but to me, it sounds like a cannon blast.

She moves her hand. She grabs a handkerchief from her pocket. It is a cute, frilly pink thing. She dabs her eyes frantically, trying to wipe away the tears before they ruin her makeup. All while trying to turn the page with her other hand.

She can't stop reading. She is hooked. She is suffering, but she needs to know what happens next.

This is surreal. This is a glitch in the simulation.

I am sitting here, a nobody, watching the most famous teenager in Japan cry over words I typed in my underwear while eating instant ramen.

"And so, the Shogunate implemented the currency reform...", the teacher says, turning to the chalkboard.

Aoi lets out a small, choked sob. She quickly turns it into a cough.

"Cough! Cough!"

"Are you alright, Aoi-san?", the teacher asks, pausing his chalk mid-stroke.

Aoi freezes. She straightens up instantly. The history textbook snaps shut, hiding the light novel inside. She looks up, her eyes glistening.

"Yes, Sensei!", she says. Her voice is clear, perfect, and steady. "I just… swallowed some dust. The history of the Edo period is just so… breathtaking".

The teacher blinks. He looks touched. "I am glad you find tax reform so moving. Drink some water".

"Yes, Sensei".

She takes a sip from her water bottle. As soon as the teacher turns back around, she immediately opens the book again. She dives right back into the tragedy.

She is hardcore.

I look down at my hands. They are stained with a bit of ink from my morning drawing session. These hands created the world she is lost in.

A weird feeling bubbles up in my chest. It is a mix of emotions I can't quite name.

Pride? Definitely. Seeing someone enjoy my work is the ultimate drug.

Shock? Absolutely.

But there is something else. A strange sense of connection.

Aoi is always surrounded by people, but she always looks… polished. Distant. Like a doll in a glass case. But right now, hunched over my book, wiping snot from her nose (elegantly, but still), she looks human. She looks like just another otaku trying to escape reality.

The class drags on for another twenty minutes. For me, it feels like twenty seconds because I am too busy watching Aoi's emotional rollercoaster. She goes from sadness to anger to relief. I know exactly which paragraphs she is reading based on the twitch of her eyebrows.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

The bell rings. It signifies the start of the lunch break.

The spell breaks.

Aoi slams the book shut with the speed of a ninja. In one fluid motion, she slides the history textbook—with my novel still hidden inside—into her bag. She zips it shut.

She stands up. She smooths out her skirt. She pats her cheeks. She takes a deep breath.

The transformation is instant.

The crying fangirl vanishes. The Idol returns.

"Aoi-chan!", a high-pitched voice calls out.

Three girls from the front row swarm her desk immediately. They are like moths to a flame.

"Aoi-chan! Do you want to eat lunch with us? We brought macarons!", one girl squeals.

"Aoi-chan, your hair looks so good today! Did you change your conditioner?", another asks, reaching out to touch a strand.

"Did you see the drama last night? You were amazing!", the third one gushes.

Aoi smiles.

It is a blinding smile. It is the smile that sells a million bottles of orange juice. It is perfect. It is practiced. It is a shield.

"Thank you, everyone", she says, her voice light and airy. "I would love to join you. Macarons sound delicious".

She doesn't look like a girl who just watched a mentor figure die a tragic death. She looks like she has never known sadness in her life.

She picks up her bag. She begins to walk toward the door, surrounded by her entourage.

She walks past my desk.

Time seems to slow down.

I am sitting there, frozen, clutching my pen.

She passes within inches of me. For a split second, the air shifts. The scent of vanilla and flowers drifts by, overpowering the smell of chalk dust and teenage sweat.

She doesn't look at me. She doesn't look at anyone. Her eyes are open, and she is smiling, but she isn't really seeing the people around her. She is in her own world. Or maybe… she is still in my world. Maybe she is still thinking about Commander Kael.

I look at the back of her head as she walks away. Her purple-black hair sways with every step.

The famous idol Aoi cries over my writing.

The girl who is worshiped by millions is worshiping a pen name. My pen name.

"Kenji!", a loud voice bellows, shattering my internal monologue.

I jump, nearly dropping my pen.

Yoshi is standing at the classroom door, waving his arms like a windmill.

"Cafeteria!", he yells, completely ignoring the atmosphere. "Move it! They have the limited edition curry bread today! If we don't run, the rugby club will take them all! This is war, Kenji! War!"

I snap out of it. The trance is broken.

"Coming", I call back.

I grab my bag. I stand up.

I glance one last time at the door where Aoi disappeared. The hallway is crowded, but I can't see her anymore. She has been swallowed by her popularity.

Maybe the gap between us isn't as big as I thought. We both wear masks. She wears the mask of a perfect idol. I wear the mask of a boring student. But underneath, maybe we are just two people who like stories about valkyries and magic swords.

Or maybe it is.

Maybe I am just a weirdo staring at a celebrity and projecting my own delusions onto her. Yeah, probably that.

"Kenji! The curry bread is calling our names!", Yoshi screams, now halfway down the hall.

"I said I'm coming!", I shout, running after him.

I run past the spot where Aoi walked. The scent of vanilla is gone, replaced by the smell of the cafeteria fryer.

Back to reality.

But as I run, I can't help but smile.

I'm sorry about the pudding, Aoi-san, I think to myself. But just wait until you read Volume 7. You are going to need a bigger handkerchief.