The Accidental Hitmaker

Haru Aoyama’s life was composed in the key of beige. It was a quiet, unassuming melody played on a slightly out-of-tune piano in an empty room. At twenty-two, he was a master of invisibility, a virtuoso of blending into the background. His days were spent in the hushed halls of a university library, where he worked as a part-time archivist, his nights in a tiny, soundproofed apartment that smelled faintly of old sheet music and instant coffee. This apartment was his sanctuary and his prison, the only place he felt safe enough to indulge in his one true passion: writing music. Music was the vibrant, thrumming counterpoint to his muted existence, a secret symphony only he could hear. He poured all his unspoken words, his unexpressed feelings, and his unlived dreams into melodies and chord progressions, creating songs that were far braver and more brilliant than he could ever be. But they were for him alone. The thought of anyone else hearing them sent a jolt of pure, undiluted terror through his veins.
This particular Tuesday evening was no different. Haru sat hunched over his keyboard, a pair of high-end headphones clamped over his ears, isolating him from the world. He was putting the finishing touches on a new demo, a song that had practically fallen out of him over the past week. It was an upbeat, impossibly catchy pop track with a soaring, hopeful chorus. He’d titled it “Starlight Bloom,” a name he found slightly embarrassing but fitting for the song’s explosive energy. He’d even layered in a temporary vocal track using a synthesized voice, just to get a feel for the flow. It was finished. As always, a wave of post-creative melancholy washed over him. He had created something beautiful, and now it would be locked away on his hard drive, another ghost in his digital machine. With a sigh, he opened his cloud storage, intending to drag the file into his “Completed Demos - Private” folder. His cursor hovered, but a sudden, sharp cramp in his hand—a protest from hours of gripping his mouse—caused his finger to twitch. The file didn't land in the private folder. It landed in the public one, a digital graveyard of old university project files he’d long forgotten was shareable via a link on his dusty, abandoned social media profile.
He didn't notice. He closed his laptop, stretched, and shuffled to the kitchen to prepare his nightly feast of instant ramen, the beige symphony reaching its crescendo. Meanwhile, miles away, in a cramped, slightly dilapidated dance studio, the idol group “Starlight Bloom” was at its breaking point. The name was a cruel irony. There was no starlight here, only the flickering fluorescent bulbs overhead. And nothing was blooming; everything was wilting. Mika, the group’s fiery center and self-proclaimed leader, slammed her hand against the mirror, leaving a sweaty palm print. “This is hopeless!” she fumed, her crimson pigtails quivering with indignation. “The choreography is uninspired, the song our agency gave us sounds like a dying dial-up modem, and our last live stream had fewer viewers than a traffic camera! We’re a failure!”
Yui, the group’s gentle soul and Haru’s long-lost childhood friend, placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Mika, don’t say that. We just need a little… spark.” Reina, the cool, silent visual of the group, simply stared at her reflection, her expression unreadable but her posture radiating a deep weariness. And Koko, the whirlwind of chaotic energy, was currently trying to balance a water bottle on her head. “Maybe if we add more chaos magic, it’ll work!” she chirped, before the bottle inevitably tumbled and soaked her. The argument devolved from there, a familiar pattern of frustration and despair. Defeated, Yui slumped onto a bench and pulled out her phone, scrolling aimlessly through her social media feed. She was about to give up when she saw a post from an old, forgotten account. Haru Aoyama. Her childhood friend, the quiet, shy boy who used to write little songs for her. He’d shared a link. Curious, she tapped it. The song began to play from her phone’s small speakers. It started with a sparkling synth arpeggio, followed by a driving beat that was instantly infectious. Then the chorus hit—a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated joy and optimism.
The bickering in the room stopped. One by one, the other three girls turned towards the sound. Koko’s eyes went wide. “What is that? It sounds like a festival made of sunshine and kittens!” Reina, for the first time all night, looked intrigued, her head tilting slightly. Mika marched over, ready to dismiss it, but she stopped dead as the melody burrowed its way into her ears. “Where did you get this?” she demanded, her voice softer than intended. “It’s… from an old friend,” Yui said, her own eyes shining with disbelief. “I think… I think he wrote it.” Koko snatched the phone. “Play it again! Louder!” She plugged it into the studio’s main sound system. The song, “Starlight Bloom,” exploded into the room, filling every corner with its vibrant, life-affirming energy. For the first time in months, the four girls weren’t arguing or despairing. They were listening. And as the final notes faded, a shared, unspoken thought hung in the air. This was it. This was the spark. Without a word, Koko hit record on her own phone, aimed it at the four of them, and started a live stream. “Hey everyone! We found our new song!” she yelled. They played it again, and this time, they started moving, not to set choreography, but with a raw, joyful energy they hadn't felt in years. The stream, initially watched by a few dozen loyal fans, started getting shared. Then shared again. The title, “Starlight Bloom,” began to trend. By the time Haru Aoyama woke up the next morning to the shrill beep of his alarm, his accidental upload had over a million plays. He was, completely and utterly, a viral sensation. And he had absolutely no idea.