Reflection and Resolve

The dormitory was quiet, bathed in the pale blue light of early morning.

Nataria lay curled on her side, one arm wrapped tightly around Mr. BUN’s soft middle, her phone screen illuminating her face in the dim room.

She had been scrolling for what felt like hours, but in truth, she’d been stuck on a single page for thirty-seven minutes.

The official “Off Script” website had posted the results of the photoshoot challenge for voting.

There were three pictures.

Hibiki and Sachiko’s photo looked like a still from a classic romance film, Hibiki leaning against a cherry tree, Sachiko smiling up at him with such open affection it made something in Nataria’s chest twinge.

It was beautiful like a fairytale.

Momo and Shou’s was… different. Momo sat on a stool, gazing upward with wide, innocent eyes, all romantic red.

Shou loomed over her, one hand braced on the wall behind her head, his face mere inches from hers.

His smile was predatory, but there was a strange softness at the corners of his eyes that contradicted the dangerous angle of his body.

He looks like he’s deciding whether to kiss her or eat her, Nataria thought with a shiver.

But then she scrolled to her own photo with Senri and stopped.

Her breath caught every time she reawakened the screen.

The composition was nothing like what she’d envisioned.

Her concept of stark separation had been obliterated. Instead, the image told a story of convergence.

Senri, dressed in creams and whites that made him glow like a captured star, was angled toward her.

The light surrounding him spilled across the void between them.

It touched the edge of her black dress, turned the delicate patterns into silver filigree, and illuminated one side of her face, the curve of her cheek, the dark fan of her lashes, the slight, vulnerable part of her lips.

But it was his eyes that held her captive.

He was looking at her with an intensity that was both solemn and seeking.

He looked at her as if she were a question he desperately wanted to answer.

Like she was the only thing he sees.

He doesn't hate me.

The thought sent a jolt through her system, a delicious, terrifying warmth that started in her stomach and spread to her fingertips.

Her heart performed a clumsy, happy rhythm against her ribs.

She tapped the screen to zoom in on her own face and nearly dropped the phone.

That’s not me.

The girl in the photograph looked up at Senri with huge, dark eyes that sparked with something like wonder.

Her cheeks were flushed a soft pink.

Her expression was open, unguarded, a girl caught between fear and longing, asking a silent question of her own:

If I reach for you, will you stay?

She had spent her entire career being told her features were too sharp, her presence too intimidating to ever read as “soft” or “vulnerable.”

Yet here was undeniable proof.

She remembered the shoot, the blinding flashes, Yoshida’s abrupt command, the way Senri’s eyes had found hers.

The electric stillness that had fallen over the studio.

She remembered Yoshida’s begrudging comment afterward, muttered to Senri as he packed his gear:

“That’s the only acceptable kind of masculinity. As the mirror that reflects real beauty.”

Her face burned now, a blush so deep she felt her brain heat.

She hugged Mr. BUN tighter, burying her hot cheek against his plush head.

Scrolling down, she braved the comments section.

The narrative around her had been shifting since the full episodes aired, her tearful confession in the balcony, Senri’s cold judgement, his public apology.

The hate was still there, but it was now mixed with curiosity, and even… sympathy?

A ridiculous meme was gaining traction:

a screenshot from the second episode, her face framed mid-bite of the strawberry manju.

@strawberry_crisis posted:

NATARIA HIDOMU: ONLY A BEAST IF UNFED

SECRET TO TAME THE ICE QUEEN = SWEETS

[Screenshot: Nataria eating manju with blissful expression]

Someone commented underneath.

@midnight_coffee: the duality of nataria: "i will crush you" → :D manju time

She snorted, a sudden, undignified sound in the quiet room.

Under her and Senri’s photo, the debate was fierce.

@dramallama_infinite: Senri’s EYES though. I've never seen him look at anyone like that in video

@casual_viewer_k: her expression is so different here. that's not her "ice queen" face at all

@senri_music_fan: guys can we not turn this into a shipping thing? his music career is what actually matters

@bittersweet_tea: I mean... you can say it's not romantic but something is definitely happening in that photo

@daily_senri: nah reality show ships are temporary, his actual work is forever. let's not make it weird

@realitytv_trash: the gap between hibisachi's shoujo manga energy vs momoshou's "I will devour you" energy vs whatever THIS is... this show is unhinged

Senri’s fans, she noted, were organizing.

Their comments were polite but firm, a digital wall erected to protect their idol’s image.

The thought should have been reassuring, but it sent a trickle of cold dread through her warmth.

His career…

The dorm room door opened with a soft click, and Sachiko stepped in, the crisp morning air clinging to her athletic wear.

Her cheeks were flushed from her run, a healthy glow on her skin.

She paused, taking in Nataria still curled in bed.

“You’re still here?” Sachiko’s voice was warm as always.

“I’ve been for a run, did my laundry, and meditated.”

Nataria quickly locked her phone.

“Just… waking up slowly.”

Sachiko nodded, pulling her hair into a messy bun as she headed for her drawers.

“Amano-san made breakfast before he left. He left a plate for you in the fridge. Said it should be reheated for two minutes on medium.”

The casual information landed like a stone in a pond, sending ripples through Nataria’s already unsettled system.

He made me a plate. Her heart did that skipping thing again.

“Oh,” she managed, her voice strangely thin.

“Thank you for telling me.”

“He’s at the agency all day. Vocal training, then dance practice. Probably won’t be back until late,”

Sachiko continued, grabbing a towel.

She didn’t look at Nataria, but the information was offered with a knowing simplicity that was worse than a direct tease.

Does she know? Can she tell?

The idea that her private, flustered reaction was visible made her want to sink through the mattress.

“Right. Well. I have a meeting with my manager anyway,”

Nataria said, swinging her legs out of bed with forced efficiency.

“Thank you, Sachiko.”

She fled to the bathroom, the cool tiles a shock to her bare feet.

In the mirror, her reflection confirmed her fears, her hair was a violet cascade of sleep-tousled waves, and her cheeks held the lingering pink of her earlier reverie.

She looked… soft. Just like in the photo.

Get it together, she commanded her reflection.

He’s just a kind person. He’d do that for anyone.

She deliberately thought of his list in the kitchen, the meticulous notes about everyone’s dietary dislikes.

It did little to calm the flutter in her stomach because she knew he did it because of her reaction to spice.

His kindness was systematic, yes. But the look in his eyes during the shoot… that had been singular.

°❀°❀°❀°❀

The restaurant Yamazaki had chosen was a discreet place known for its private booths and excellent dessert menu.

Nataria spotted him immediately at a table in the back, his stern face partially obscured by a menu.

As she approached, he looked up and gestured to the seat opposite.

On the table, waiting for her, was a tall glass of matcha strawberry ice cream, her favourite, topped with a delicate drizzle of black honey and a single mochi.

Her guard went up instantly.

She slid into the booth, eyeing the treat with deep suspicion.

“You said you had good news. This looks like a consolation prize.”

Yamazaki, her manager of five years, set the menu down. The lines around his eyes seemed deeper than usual, but for the first time in months, they weren’t pure stress.

A faint, almost unfamiliar smile touched his lips.

“It’s good news, Nataria. I promise.”

He pushed a thin folder across the table toward her.

“Take a look.”

Cautiously, Nataria opened the folder, leaving the ice cream to melt.

It was a script. A few pages for a guest role in a popular Thursday-night drama, “A Morning To Remember” She skimmed the character description.

“HARUKA, 20. An art school student. Eccentric, whimsical, sees the world in bursts of colour and metaphor. Wears mismatched patterns and carries a sketchbook everywhere. The artsy archetype, but with a hidden layer of melancholy.”

Nataria’s head snapped up.

“This is… for me?”

“The director saw some of your earlier, pre-debut theatre work. He thinks you have the range. The agency… was skeptical. But he insisted on an audition. Which, given the last three months, is a miracle.”

She looked back down at the pages. Haruka was nothing like the cold heiresses, sharp-tongued, or tragic beauties she was usually cast as.

This girl was all soft edges and bright, chaotic energy. A role that required openness and a touch of silly sweetness.

A bright and pure thrill shot through her.

She loved acting.

She loved the escape of it, the privilege of living a hundred different lives, of experiencing emotions she kept locked away in her own heart. This was a chance to do something completely new.

“I can do this,” she murmured, more to herself than to Yamazaki.

She flipped a page, already hearing Haruka’s voice in her head, light and musical.

When she looked up again, she found Yamazaki watching her, his expression unreadable.

The sight of him,really looking at her, not through her or past her with that harried, defeated look he’d worn since the scandal, struck her with a sudden wave of guilt.

Yamazaki had been her anchor through her rise, and had nearly been sunk by her fall.

He hadn’t even been on set the day of the incident, but he’d borne the brunt of the agency’s fury, fighting to keep her career on life support when it would have been easier to cut her loose.

For three months, his smiles had vanished, replaced by a grim determination and weary sighs.

And now he was smiling. Because of her.

Because she had a chance.

“What?”

she asked, her voice softer than she intended.

“You look better,” he said simply.

“The show must agree with you.”

Her treacherous mind immediately conjured Senri’s face, his smile as he watched her eat the manju, his serious eyes across the photoshoot set.

Heat bloomed across her face. She snapped the script folder shut with more force than necessary.

“The show is a job,” she said, too quickly.

She took a deliberate spoonful of the ice cream, the cool, bittersweet matcha a grounding sensation.

Then she met his gaze, her business mask sliding back into place.

“Since I’m getting jobs again, the agency should be reasonably pleased, yes?”

Yamazaki’s smile faded into his more familiar cautious neutrality.

“They are… cautiously optimistic. This is a test. Ratings and reception matter.”

“Good.”

Nataria set her spoon down with a soft click.

“Then I have a request.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“A request?”

“I want a new wardrobe. For the show.”

Yamazaki stared at her as if she’d just announced she wanted to swim to the moon.

“Your wardrobe for the show was discussed and approved weeks ago. You said you didn’t care what you wore.”

“Things change.”

She held his gaze, willing him to understand.

“The public is seeing a different side of me now. The comments are shifting. This role…”

she tapped the script,

“...came because someone saw me outside of that ice queen box. Sticking rigidly to one image is… limiting. And frankly, bad strategy right now.”

“Since when do you care about wardrobe and styling?”

he asked, genuine confusion in his tone.

Since a boy in a cream-colored sweater looked at me and I wanted to be seen as more than just the shadow.

The thought was so mortifyingly honest she could barely acknowledge it herself.

“Since I realized survival requires adaptation,”

she said instead, her voice logical.

“You can convince them, Yamazaki-san. Tell them it’s a necessary narrative pivot. That visual variety will generate more discussion, more interest. Tell them it’s to support the new acting opportunity.”

He studied her for a long moment, seeing past the professional façade to the stubborn, desperate hope beneath.

He let out a long, weary sigh, but it was the sigh of a man already calculating the argument he would have to make, not one of refusal.

“This is a risk,”

he said finally.

“If they say no, it reminds them you’re ‘difficult.’ If they say yes and it backfires, it’s on both of us.”

“I know.”

“And if I do this,”

he continued, leaning forward slightly, his voice dropping,

“you will nail this audition. You will be impeccable on that set. You will give them no reason to regret this tiny inch of leverage we’re asking for. Understood?”

The weight of it settled on her shoulders, a purpose.

He was sticking his neck out for her. Again.

“Understood,” she said, her voice firm.

“And… thank you.”

He gave a single, sharp nod, then signaled for the check.

“Don’t thank me yet. Eat your ice cream. You’ll need the energy for the battle ahead.”

As he paid, Nataria took another spoonful, the sweet cream dissolving on her tongue.

She looked out the restaurant window at the bustling street, her reflection superimposed over the moving crowd.

For the first time in a long time, the girl looking back didn’t seem like a static image, a brand, or a scandal. She seemed like someone in motion. Someone changing.

And she knew, with a certainty that was both thrilling and terrifying, that a boy with sunny eyes and dimpled smile was the unexpected catalyst for it all.

The photo was proof.

The flutter in her chest was proof.

The script in her hands was proof.

The light had touched the shadow, and the shadow had decided, quietly but irrevocably, to step into the light.