Yui Collab

“People who criticize others for a lack of ambition, yet don’t support others when they chase their goals, have no right to criticize in the first place,” Yui chastised, letting slip her candid impression with a lovely expression. “They love to preach about hustle to those they deem unambitious, but the minute a poor girl actually begins building her own empire, ninety-nine percent of the influencers are too besotted with their own fame to lend a hand. I want to be in the one percent. After all, there was a boy in that rare, kind one percent who first supported me many years ago. Two one-percents… We’re as rare as they come. Right, Rintarō?”

“Yeah…” I couldn’t believe Yui kept saying embarrassing things while I hollered and tussled with my bed covers last night over what I let slip out yesterday.

Well, not to say that I had any regrets. I felt a lot better.

It was Yui… so it wasn’t as embarrassing.

As the MidnightChef, when I made my short-form videos, I used an inflection because my natural voice was deeper than otherwise ordinary. Even still, I had gained a decent female-to-male follower ratio, which was quite rare on platforms where questionably clad women showing their moves were the most popular facet of all.

I knew what to say after I’d hit re-record many times. I planned to decrease the repeat eventually, and I was riveted by creators who could record to massive audiences in one go, creators like Yui. The main instances she resorted to re-record were to voiceover, since she was multilingual, giving rise to greater reach.

As we edited the thumbnails, Kotone texted. She offered to repost, but only if, and only after, the content went viral on its own. She didn’t want too much traffic pulled toward the three of us just yet.

I showed Yui the message.

She read it, scrolled up–

“Hey,” I exposed.

“I see. Even with me gone, you’ve been taking care of people all the same.” She wasn’t jealous, rather, proud and intimate, like she was remembering every version of me I tried to forget.

The moment Yui’s video went live, people watched and shared. The recent public eye on our shop provided substantial algorithm boosts, and her audience was always hungry for what was real and sweet. Shinohara Chocolat, backed by her honesty and lens, became real again.

When the charts climbed high, we followed through with a collab.

Of course, I probably don’t need to give you a detailed explanation of how adorably the internet hyperbolized everything. The comments went ballistic:

“Is it me, or is she literally glowing around him?”

“The way she says ‘chef’ like it’s her husband?”

“HIS HANDS. THE WAY HE KNEADS THE DOUGH.”

“I’m shipping them. Not sorry.”

Kotone texted, “Don’t get too close in public. You’ll tank the story arc.” It wasn’t a threat as much as it was a reminder. The three of us could ill afford to be seen as a fortified unit yet, with the Academy watching, with Kotone still under her mother’s shadow, with Yui just returned, with me, red-tagged and climbing out of this pit.

I texted back: “I know. I’m being careful.”

Yui saw me typing. “Kotone?”

I concurred.

She brushed her fingers past my wrist like she’d been holding back all day.

“We’ll play it slow. But we won’t pretend.”

“Yui…-san.”

“If we go viral for being obvious, then… let them see.”

Our promotions were terrific.

For reopening day, I planned to invest a portion of my internet earnings into the family chocolaterie by paying others to attend. Yet, it was for the same reason that I witnessed estates operating on shadier methods turn murkier that I pondered this for a minute. Besides, my mother, big brother, and father collectively disagreed with this plan. Even if I obtained more nighttime shifts, my mother insisted on my own channel’s triumph.

My mother had a fantastic eye for potential. “Don’t turn attention away from your own successes.” I guess I owed this much to my first subscriber of millions. Thank you, Mom.