Chapter 14: Between Applause and Absence

Chapter 14: Between Applause and Absence
“I thought stepping forward would feel like flying.I didn’t expect it to feel like standing alone under too many lights.” — Akane

The building didn’t look intimidating from the street.

It was all glass, steel, and clean architectural lines. The logo was so minimalist it felt like a statement of supreme confidence—a brand that didn't need to explain itself. Akane stood on the opposite sidewalk for a beat too long, her fingers white-knuckled around the strap of her bag. She watched people flow in and out of the glass doors with the practiced ease of those who belonged.

She took a breath, sharp and cold.

Okay. It’s just a building. Don’t overthink it.

The moment she stepped inside, that logic shattered.

The air itself seemed to vibrate. The lobby was a symphony of clicking heels, ringing phones, and the distant, rhythmic snap-snap of shutters. Massive mirrors lined the walls, reflecting not just faces, but an undeniable aura of self-assurance. Everyone walked as if they owned the floor beneath them—as if the very space bent to accommodate their arrival.

Akane felt suddenly, painfully… visible.

A receptionist looked up, eyes scanning her with clinical efficiency. "Name?"

"Akane Hayasaka," she replied. Her voice stayed steady, even as her pulse performed a frantic drumroll against her ribs.

The woman offered a professional, rehearsed smile. "Third floor. Studio B."

The elevator ride was far too short.

When the doors slid open, the world expanded into beautiful chaos. Racks of high-end clothing glided past; stylists adjusted silk and lace with aggressive precision; models huddled in clusters, their laughter sounding effortless and airy. Everyone here seemed to have been born knowing exactly where to stand and how to catch the light.

Akane hovered near the wall, her hands suddenly feeling like awkward, extra appendages she didn’t know how to stow.

A stylist marched up to her, her movements a blur of efficiency. "You’re early. Good. Sit—no, stand—actually, right here." She steered Akane into a pool of high-wattage lighting, her fingers quick and practiced as they checked her hair. "You’re cute. A very clean look."

Cute.

The word felt strange. It wasn't an insult, but it wasn't a compliment either. It was transactional. A specification on a manifest.

Akane nodded, her throat tight.

"Relax your shoulders," another voice barked from behind a monitor. "Smile naturally."

Naturally.

She tried to summon it.

The camera rose. The lens stared back at her—unblinking, glass-eyed, and expectant. The director made a casual, sweeping gesture. "Okay, Akane. Just imagine you’re happy."

Her smile froze.

She could feel it happening—the corners of her mouth twitching, her expression turning brittle and self-conscious. Her heartbeat was the loudest thing in the room. When the first flash erupted, she flinched before she could stop herself.

"Reset," the director sighed. He wasn't angry; he was just busy, and she was a delay. "Shake it out. Try again."

Akane stepped back, her cheeks burning and her palms damp. She looked around, expecting judgment, but realized with a jolt that no one was even looking at her. They had already looked away. Nearby, another model was laughing perfectly into a lens, her hair flipping with a grace that felt impossible to replicate.

Akane swallowed hard.

I can do this, she told herself.

But knowing you can do it and actually feeling the confidence to do it were two very different things.

She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to find a bit of solid ground in the middle of the whirlwind.

One step at a time.

And then she remembered. Outside that frame—waiting somewhere in the quiet, patient world beyond these walls—was someone with his hands in his pockets. Someone who believed in her without needing to turn it into a speech.

For the first time since she’d walked into the building, Akane didn’t feel completely alone.

The second take was barely an improvement on the first.

Akane held the pose, her fingers curled around the product exactly as she’d been instructed, but her smile was a fragile thing—too careful, too deliberate. The director let out a heavy sigh, rubbing his temple with the back of his hand.

“Okay,” he said, his voice flat but not unkind. “Let’s take five. Break it up for a moment.”

A stylist hurried past, thrusting a bottle of water into Akane’s hand. “You’re doing fine,” she murmured, though her eyes were already scanning a nearby clothing rack.

Akane nodded, stepping back into the shadows of the studio. Her reflection stared back at her from a mirrored pillar—composed, pretty, and utterly hollow. She looked like a girl playing a part she hadn't memorized.

She exhaled a long, shaky breath. Why is this so hard?

She reached down to adjust the bracelet on her wrist, grounding herself in the cool, solid weight of the metal. When she finally looked up, her gaze drifted toward the back of the room—not searching for anything in particular, just looking for an exit from her own head.

And then, she saw him.

Adam was standing near the studio entrance, positioned just outside the taped-off production zone. His hands were buried in his pockets, his posture as relaxed as if he were waiting for a bus. He wasn't trying to interfere or call out to her. He was just there, looking like he belonged simply because he wasn't trying to prove that he did.

For a heartbeat, he just watched her.

Then, he noticed her looking back.

His expression shifted. It wasn't a smile, exactly—Adam didn't do "broad and flashy"—but it was something infinitely softer. He lifted both hands, elbows bent at an awkward, rigid angle, and gave her two highly exaggerated thumbs-up.

He even threw in a single, firm nod, as if to say: See? Settled.

Akane blinked.

Then, she laughed.

It slipped out before she could catch it—a quiet, breathy sound that was entirely, undeniably real. The tension that had been coiling in her shoulders for the last hour snapped like a cut string. A few people nearby glanced at her, confused by the sudden change in atmosphere, but Akane didn't even notice them.

Her gaze stayed locked on Adam for just a second longer.

He actually came.

The director clapped his hands, the sound echoing through the rafters. “Alright, let’s go again. Back in position!”

Akane stepped onto the set, her feet feeling lighter than they had all morning. She didn't try to "imagine" a perfect smile this time.

She just thought of him.

The camera rose. The lens focused.

This time, when the flash erupted, she didn't flinch. Her lips curved into a natural, easy smile, her eyes warm and bright—as if she were sharing a private, unspoken joke with someone standing just out of frame.

“Hold that!” the director shouted, his voice tinged with genuine surprise.

Flash.

“Good. Yes. That’s the one.”

Akane felt it then—not the soaring confidence of a professional, but a deep, quiet steadiness. It was the kind of strength that comes from knowing someone is rooting for you, even when they have absolutely no reason to be there.

When the shoot paused for a lens change, she glanced back toward the door.

Adam was already lowering his hands, looking away and pretending he hadn't just made a complete fool of himself for her sake.

Akane smiled to herself, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

Sometimes support didn't need to be a grand speech. Sometimes, it looked like two awkward thumbs in the air.

The days began to stack themselves in silence.

They didn’t move in dramatic leaps, but in small, ordinary increments—the slow turning of calendar pages in the corner of Akane’s room, the shifting of alarm tones, and routines that rearranged themselves without ever asking for permission.

Monday bled into Thursday. Thursday dissolved into another shoot.

Akane was learning the language of the industry. She learned how to sit like a statue while strangers' hands adjusted her hair, and how to hear a director bark "Again!" without flinching. Every set had a different soul—new faces, new scripts, new blinding lights—but the heartbeat remained the same. Wake early. Travel. Smile. Focus. Repeat.

Her phone spent most of its life on silent.

Adam’s messages arrived with a patient regularity, like clockwork.

Did you eat? Good luck today. Text me when you’re done.

She replied in the snatches of time between takes.

Still shooting. I’m okay. Sorry—long day.

Sometimes the replies were voice notes, her tone soft and frayed with exhaustion. Sometimes they were just emojis—a heart, a sleepy face, a tiny pixelated proof of life.

Adam visited when the world allowed it.

Once, he stood at the periphery of a different set, watching from behind a velvet cordon while Akane ran through her lines. She didn’t even see him that time—she was too focused, buried too deep inside the character.

On another day, he didn't even make it past the front desk.

"Sorry," the security guard said, his voice polite but unyielding. "Closed set today."

Adam nodded, already retreating. "No problem."

He waited outside for a while anyway. Just in case. Then, he eventually walked away.

The group chat served as the connective tissue for their fractured time. Minato bombarded them with photos of half-finished homework and questionable cafeteria food. Hikari shared delicate sketches born in the quiet of the art room. Ryusei sent cryptic memes at hours that defied common sense.

Akane would scroll through them late at night, curled under her covers, her bones heavy with a weary kind of success.

Sometimes she and Adam talked on the phone, their voices hushed and low, careful not to disturb the sleeping houses around them. Other nights, they didn't speak at all.

Neither of them complained. Neither of them made accusations.

But the days kept moving, indifferent to the distance.

By the end of the month, Akane had completed five ads. Five different versions of herself had been polished, captured, and packaged for the world to see.

And Adam? Adam had learned the subtle, aching art of how to miss someone quietly.

Adam hadn’t intended to scroll for this long.

It started the way it always did—his thumb moving on pure muscle memory while his mind drifted elsewhere. A post from Minato. A clip from a sports page. An ad he skipped without even registering the brand.

Then, his thumb stalled.

The image loaded with crystalline clarity, bright and meticulously framed. It was a clothing brand he recognized—minimalist, tasteful, expensive. And there she was.

Akane stood bathed in soft afternoon light, her hair styled with effortless grace, her smile relaxed in a way that looked practiced now. She was holding hands with another male model, their fingers interlaced just enough to suggest an intimacy that didn't actually exist. The caption spoke of connection, comfort, and shared warmth.

Adam stared at the glowing screen.

He didn’t feel a flash of anger. He didn’t feel the cold prickle of fear. Instead, there was just a small, unexpected tightness in his chest—a physical pressure he hadn't prepared for.

Huh, he thought, his expression remaining unchanged. So that’s what that feels like.

He scrolled through the comment section. It was a sea of praise and heart emojis. People remarked on how "natural" they looked together. Someone called them a "power couple." Someone else asked if they were dating in real life.

Adam snorted softly and clicked his phone shut, the screen turning black.

“It’s an ad,” he told the empty room, his voice echoing calmly. “Obviously.”

And it was. He knew that. He trusted her—trusted the foundation they had built, brick by brick, over the last few months. Still, the image lingered behind his eyelids longer than he wanted it to, like a musical note that refused to resolve into a chord.

He stood up, stretched his limbs, and headed to the kitchen to boil some water.

The kettle began to whistle. Steam rose in a white plume. Life, in its quiet and indifferent way, continued.

The feeling in his chest didn't grow. It didn't fester into something ugly. It just sat there—small, manageable, and honest.

When he thought of her tired voice over the phone, her messages apologizing for the hectic schedule, and the way she always promised, "I’ll make time," the tightness finally began to ease.

I’ll tell her, he decided, feeling a flicker of mild amusement at his own expense. Or maybe I won’t. It’s nothing.

He smiled faintly at the steam.

Jealousy, he realized, wasn't always a loud, crashing wave. Sometimes, it was just a quiet, stinging reminder that you actually cared.

...

Adam wasn’t expecting a visitor.

That was his first thought when the doorbell rang—a sharp, sudden intrusion that sliced through the stillness of his apartment. He glanced at the wall clock. Late evening. Too late for Minato’s usual chaos, and far too early for any scheduled deliveries.

He stood up, moving more out of ingrained habit than actual curiosity.

When he pulled the door open—

Akane was standing there.

She wasn't the polished, high-definition version of herself he’d seen on his phone screen earlier. She wasn't "camera-ready." She was just… her.

Her hair was gathered into a loose, messy knot, with stray strands framing her face. She was drowning in an oversized hoodie, her eyes shadowed with fatigue but glowing with that unmistakable spark she only showed when she finally allowed herself to exhale.

For a heartbeat, the hallway was silent.

Then, she smiled. It was a small, relieved expression—the look of someone who had been carrying a heavy weight all day and had finally found the one place she was allowed to put it down.

"I’m home," she said softly.

Adam stepped aside instantly, his voice a low murmur. "Come in."

She didn't even wait for the door to click shut. She leaned forward, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face against his chest with a quiet, contented sigh. It was as if her body had reached its destination before her mind could even process the journey.

He stiffened. Not much—just a fraction—but it was there.

Akane felt the tension immediately. She pulled back just enough to look up at him, her brow furrowing. "Hey…?"

"I—" Adam started, then caught himself. He shook his head once, as if trying to clear away mental static. "Sorry."

She searched his face, her hands resting lightly against the fabric of his shirt. "Did I do something?"

"No," he said. The word came out too fast. "No. It’s not that."

She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing in that attentive, focused way of hers. She wasn't suspicious—she was just reading him. "Then what is it?"

He hesitated. It wasn't that he didn't trust her; it was just that the feeling itself felt… insignificant. Childish. And yet, somehow, intensely precious.

Akane waited. She was always good at that—waiting for him to find the right words.

Adam finally let out a long exhale. "You’ve been busy."

She blinked. "Yeah."

"And I saw one of your ads," he added, his hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "The clothing one."

Recognition flickered in her eyes, followed quickly by a wave of understanding. "Oh."

He huffed a quiet, self-deprecating sound. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "It’s stupid."

She stepped closer again, moving with a careful gentleness this time. Her hands slipped into the warm sanctuary of his hoodie sleeves. "Tell me anyway."

He met her gaze, his eyes honest. "You looked good. Happy. And there was this guy, and—" He stopped, taking a short, sharp breath. "I know it’s work. I’m not mad. I just… I didn’t expect to feel weird about it."

She stared at him for a long beat.

Then, she laughed.

It wasn't a teasing sound, nor was it dismissive. It was warm, fond, and laced with an odd sense of relief.

"Adam," she said softly, reaching up to cup his cheek with her palm. "That’s not stupid at all."

"It's not?"

She shook her head. "It just means you care."

He frowned slightly, his logic trying to reassert itself. "I already knew that."

Her smile widened, reaching her eyes. "Yeah, but now you felt it."

She leaned in, resting her forehead against his. The world narrowed down to the space between them. "I don’t belong to anyone in those ads, Adam. I’m just acting a part. The only place I actually come home to like this—" she tapped his chest lightly, right over the steady rhythm of his heart, "—is here."

Something inside him finally uncoiled. The tightness he’d been carrying since he saw the photo simply evaporated.

She hugged him again, slower and firmer this time. Adam wrapped his arms around her fully, his chin resting atop her head as he pulled her in.

"I'm sorry," he murmured into her hair.

She squeezed him tight. "Don’t be. We’re still learning how to do this."

He smiled, the expression hidden against her. "…Yeah."

She pulled back suddenly, her eyes bright despite her exhaustion. "Hey."

"What?"

"Let’s go on a date tomorrow."

He blinked, caught off guard. "Tomorrow?"

She nodded with eager determination. "No cameras. No schedules. No 'roles.' Just us."

A beat of silence passed.

"…Okay," he said, unable to stop the sudden softness from bleeding into his voice.

Her smile was instantaneous and triumphant.

She stayed for a while after that—curled up beside him on the couch, her legs tucked under her, occasionally stealing glances at his face as if to reassure herself he was actually there.

And for the first time in a month, they didn't feel like they were playing catch-up. They were just… together.