Careless Whispers

Present 

The night does not end when the blue and red police lights finally fade into the distance. Instead, it stretches. It lingers. 

By morning, the story has already taken on a terrifying life of its own. Sachi Kimura’s name floods every entertainment portal, accompanied by grainy, edited clips and snippets of legal documents that were never meant to see the light of day. 

We do not speak much as the hours pass. The only sounds are the mundane noises of a life that feels like it is falling apart. Haru makes coffee that we barely drink, the bitter steam rising in thin, mocking swirls. Abby scrolls endlessly through headlines, his jaw tight and his high cheekbones looking like blades under the pale morning light. Rie sits cross legged on the floor, her petite frame nearly swallowed by an oversized velvet pillow. She hugs it to her chest like it might anchor her to something solid in this storm.

Our phones do not stop ringing. The vibrations on the glass table sound like angry insects. Managers, lawyers, and executives who once praised our chemistry now speak in careful, rehearsed tones that chill my blood. Every conversation ends the same way.

"You need to say something. Soon."

By afternoon, the decision is no longer a choice. We cannot hide behind statements written by faceless publicists. We cannot let edited footage and anonymous sources shape the truth of our hearts for us.

So, we agree to stand in front of the world together.

Security guards with expressionless faces guide us through quiet corridors that smell faintly of industrial disinfectant and floor wax. The hum of electricity from the overhead lights buzzes in my ears, steady and indifferent to the fact that our dreams are on the line.

The conference room waits at the end of the hall. I can hear the muffled roar of the press behind the heavy double doors. Bright lights. Cameras. A stage that feels far too small for the heavy truth we are about to reveal.

I pause just before the door, my breath hitching in my throat. My 5'6" frame feels fragile in this moment, but then I feel a familiar presence. Haru stands beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his shoulder through my sleeve. He does not say anything, but he reaches down and briefly laces his fingers with mine. 

I inhale once, catching the scent of his familiar cedar wood cologne. Then, we step inside.

We walk to the podium as a unit. The noise explodes instantly. It is a physical wall of sound. Questions are shouted before we even sit down. Names, accusations, and half truths are hurled like stones across the room. I grip the edge of the cold mahogany table, grounding myself in its solid weight.

A moderator clears his throat and raises a hand. “We will begin now. Please allow them to speak.”

The room settles into a tense, vibrating quiet, punctuated only by the rapid fire clicking of camera shutters. I take a steadying breath and step closer to the microphone.

“My name is Aurora Adams,” I say. My voice carries through the room, surprisingly steady despite the way my heart is pounding against my ribs. “Thank you for being here. We asked for this conference because there has been a lot of speculation, misinformation, and pain surrounding an incident that happened five years ago. We want to address it directly because we owe the truth to our fans and to ourselves.”

A ripple of murmurs moves through the room like a wave. Haru speaks next. His voice is calm, measured, and unmistakably sincere. “On the night of the fire at our former training facility, a trainee named Akira Sato was injured. Contrary to what has been circulating online, Akira did not die that night.”

The room erupts again. Flashbulbs go off like fireworks, blinding me for a split second. Voices overlap in a chaotic frenzy.

“Are you saying the public was lied to?” “Where has he been for five years?” “Was this a corporate cover up?”

Rie leans forward, her expressive eyes shining with a fierce determination.  “Akira is alive. He recovered from his injuries and made the conscious choice to leave the entertainment industry. That choice was his alone. He is healthy. He is safe. And he does not want to return to the spotlight.”

A reporter stands abruptly in the front row. “If he is alive, why hide it? Why let the fans believe he was gone?”

Abby straightens his posture, his tone sharp but controlled. “Because we signed non-disclosure agreements. We were teenagers. We were scared. And we were told by those in power that silence was the only way to protect everyone involved, including Akira.”

Another voice cuts in from the back, cold and accusing. “So you admit you chose your careers over telling the truth?”

The question lands like a physical punch to the gut. I lean into the microphone again. “Yes,” I say quietly. The word echoes through the speakers, louder than any denial could have been. “We did. And that decision is something we take full responsibility for.”

The room falls into a sudden, eerie stillness.

“We were young,” I continue, my voice softening as I speak from the heart. “We were trainees with no power, no legal knowledge, and no safety net. We were told that if we spoke, Akira’s privacy would be violated, our families would be sued, and our futures would end. That does not excuse our silence, but it explains the weight we have been carrying. We have lived with that guilt every single day.”

My throat tightens, but I look toward the back of the room, imagining Akira in his quiet house in Saitama. “Akira chose a life away from fame. He has a family. He has peace. Revealing his survival now is not about dragging him back into this industry. It is about correcting a lie that should never have existed.”

A journalist raises her hand. “Is Akira here today?”

“No,” Haru answers firmly, his gaze steady. “And he will not be. This conference is not about spectacle. It is about accountability.”

The moderator nods slowly, sensing the shift in the room's energy. Another reporter speaks up, her voice less aggressive than before. “What about the allegations made by Sachi Kimura? The footage she released?”

Abby exhales, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “Sachi Kimura was a fellow trainee who struggled with the pressures of this industry. She released edited footage to construct a narrative that painted us as villains to ease her own resentment. We understand her pain, but pain does not justify endangering people. We have submitted the unedited footage to the proper authorities to prove our side of the story.”

Rie’s voice trembles as she adds, “We hope she gets the help she needs. This industry failed her, just as it almost failed us.”

I look out at the crowd and realize that the atmosphere has changed. They are listening now. Not all of them are convinced, but the feral hunger for a scandal has been replaced by something quieter. Uncertainty.

A final question comes from the back. “Do you regret staying in the spotlight after everything that happened?”

I glance at Haru. Beneath the table, his fingers brush against mine, a secret touch that gives me the final burst of courage I need. I think about our fans, the people who supported me.

“I regret staying silent,” I say, looking directly into the main camera lens. “But I do not regret surviving. And I do not regret fighting for the chance to tell the truth today.”

The moderator announces the end of the conference. The noise returns, but it feels different now. Less like a riot and more like a conversation. We stand and leave together, escorted through a side door into a private hallway.

The air out here is empty and quiet. My legs feel like they are made of water as the door shuts behind us, cutting off the chaos. Rie lets out a shaky, breathless laugh. “Well. That was officially the most terrifying thing I have ever done.”

Abby rubs the back of his neck, a weary but witty smirk returning to his face. “We are trending again. No idea which direction the wind is blowing this time, but at least we can breathe.”

Haru turns to me, his brown eyes soft and filled with a pride that makes my heart swell. “You did well, Aurora. You were incredible.”

I nod, though my chest still feels tight with the lingering adrenaline. The truth is out now. It is not a clean ending. It is messy and complicated and real.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, expecting another news alert, but it is a message from an unknown number. My breath catches as I read the single sentence on the screen.

Thank you for letting me stay invisible.