Aika - The Fallen Idol

They say that once you quit a job, you’re no longer an employee. 

Once you hand in your resignation letter, that’s it. Sayonara. You walk out the door, and the door closes behind you. That’s what I told myself the day everything fell apart. Before I learned there are jobs you don’t simply “quit”. Jobs that cling to you like oil and smoke. Jobs that stain you even after you’ve burned the uniform. Jobs they force you to do with a smile and a wink.

I was pushed, coaxed, cornered into doing “extra idol work”. To please the fans on screen, and please the bosses under the table. Back then, they packaged it neatly.

‘You just need to keep the sponsors happy.’

‘It’s temporary, really.’

‘After this, you can go back to being an idol.’

‘Think of it as helping the company. Helping your future.’

They said it wasn’t a long-term thing. Just a small detour while the executives “sorted out” the fake scandal that got me kicked out of my group. Another idol in my group was dating someone in secrecy, and when it got found out, she pointed fingers at me. It didn’t help that we looked alike, and to top it off, the man confirmed it. None of it was true.

I was framed.

‘We just need you to be useful for a little while, Hayami-chan. Show them you’re loyal. Cooperate and your career will be waiting.’

‘Nobody hires idols younger than eighteen. Where are you going to go if you leave completely? Just stick it out, yeah? You’ve already poured years into being an idol, what’s a small side quest for a strong woman like you?’

I was twenty and terrified. Some veteran idols told me they went through the same and went back to being idols. It was true. It wasn’t unheard of in idol culture. I was told that it was just my turn. After hearing nothing but this, I eventually believed them all. I was led to believe that I didn’t have a choice and that I wasn't the first one, nor the last one to walk in that path.

I was pressured.

I told myself I was doing this for my future, for the fans waiting for me, for the girl who used to dance under stage lights and hear people call her name with joy.

I told myself I was still that person, and that this new “role” was just another performance.

Just be obedient. Just be sweet. Just make a different kind of audience happy…

I told myself that if it ever became too painful, I could stop. Walk away. Like quitting any other job.

But who was I kidding?

There’s no easy escape from a trap. There was no leaving behind the things I saw. The things I experienced. The rooms that smelled like sweat and cheap perfume and false promises. The hands that grabbed without asking. The voices that turned compliments into commands.

There was no leaving behind the awful people I met. Men who smiled for the camera and sneered the moment it stopped rolling. Women who knew exactly what was happening and warned me against speaking up. Executives who kept saying “Just one more shoot, you’re doing great”. Eventually, the very same videos and photos were used to keep me from talking and leaving.

There was no leaving behind the hollow smiles I practiced until my face went numb. No leaving behind the hours they made me repeat scenes because my fear “didn’t look sexy enough”.

No leaving behind the nights I stumbled home sore and shaking, scrubbing myself raw in the shower because the water couldn’t wash away the feeling of being used.

No leaving behind the way they called me “her”… the girl in those videos. The mask. The product. The new Aika.

People think a month is short. It isn’t.

Not when each day chips at your soul. Not when every morning begins with dread and ends with numbness. Not when time stretches around pain like elastic, making each hour feel like a lifetime.

By day three, I already knew I didn’t deserve the nightmare they forced me into. By week two, I stopped recognizing the person in the mirror. Her eyes were dull. Her voice trembled even when she wasn’t speaking.

By week three, I understood why no one “just quits” being that woman who was subjected to male pleasure and made a laughing stock between secret meetings for CEOs and media bigwigs. 

How was I supposed to just leave? When my calls were screened and blocked. When someone followed me even to the restroom. When they told me the scandal that destroyed my life was my fault, and that they were the only ones who would ever employ me again. That if I was ever truly grateful for what they had done for me, for everything they had given me, then the least I could do was follow the “rules”.

By the end of the month, something inside me broke. I wanted to die. 

But then, I didn’t. 

Something whispered to me that I was meant to do more for this world. With that, I gathered what little conviction I had left and I ran. 

I left the rotten contract. The company. The city. My reputation, or what’s left of it. I left everything except the weight.

I thought leaving meant freedom. But the truth is much simpler and uglier. I survived that month, yes, but parts of me never did.

Even now, I can recall the studio hallway, the flickering fluorescent light, the sticky floor, the poster with my stage name on it, the door that slammed behind me as I stepped into the night for the last time.

I didn’t know then that survival would become a prayer. Or that one day, I would kneel somewhere quiet and ask God. Please give me back the parts of myself I never agreed to lose.