Haru

The rainy night in Roppongi was muddy with the smell of oil and something melting.

Perhaps what is slowly melting is this city itself. Like a giant swamp, dragging at ankles so no one can take flight.

Whenever the dull bass of karaoke leaking through the iron crack of the emergency exit rode the asphalt and soaked his ankles, he inhaled deeper on the rose-scented menthol wedged between his fingers.

Wet neon shattered and scattered in every puddle. Gold, magenta, and gold again. The more glamorous they were, the more somehow hollow the colors felt.

Where did it all get tangled?

Makura. That damn makura. Because of it — no, exactly because he didn't do it, he might not be becoming a "better" host.

"Act pure, and you'll be at the bottom forever."
— Amau's sneer gnawed at the inside of his ribs. It was the relaxed ridicule of one who had sold his body to reach the top.

Ten million yen to fulfill by the end of this month. That number grew cold on the nape of his neck every night.

Just cross the line. Just once, and the debt and the thirst will disappear. Everyone whispered so. But the moment he crossed that final line, it felt like whatever he had left would collapse forever.

Today, during the day, he stood before the camera again. Three lines of dialogue, one cut. A nameless face brushing past the edge of the screen.

While swallowing a cold bento in the corner of the waiting room, the laughter of his more successful peers bled through the wall. With his script open, he stared for a long time not at the memorized lines, but at a stain on the ceiling.

In Tokyo, where he crawled up to become an actor, the most perfect piece of acting he puts on stage every night is — merely this host play hovering on the outskirts of the pleasure district.

The minor role with three lines on screen plays the leading role every night in this club. Without applause, bouquets, or ending credits.

Half the words he spits out here are not real.

The story that he lived in America. The story that he attends a prestigious university. The smoothly flowing English. Even his name. — It was all a well-polished script, just enough of what the clients wanted to hear.

Because the truth was always shabbier than the lie, he rather acted out the lie with more devotion. Brighter, more plausible.

So sometimes, even he got confused about which was the stage and which was the dressing room.

He had never listened to the songs everyone hummed. What he plugged into his ears were always melodies from across the sea. Lyrics from a distant land, memorized entirely without even knowing all their meanings.

Maybe, for a very long time, he had been someone who lived looking only at somewhere other than where he stood right now.

Beyond the screen. Beyond the speaker. Always, a place not here.

During wait times, his thumb moved automatically. Good morning. Did you sleep well? I opened my eyes thinking of you today, too.

Same sentences, same emojis. Only the recipient's name changed as it scattered across dozens of screens. Copied text, under the name of affection.

Even knowing it makes someone's day flutter, he had never once written that sentence with sincerity.

When the night deepened, he endlessly circled between table (卓) and table. From this seat to that seat, swapping expressions in thirty seconds.

"Only you are special." That one phrase, he sold simultaneously to different faces every night. Making everyone believe they were the only one — that was the rule of this stage.

The roles he couldn't win during the day, he changed into by the minute at night. His most skillful acting, in the end, was not in a production, but here.

Someone was always whispering in his ear. — You belong here. Don't even think about leaving.

Knowing that the sweetest voice was the heaviest shackle, he ultimately couldn't shake it off. Because the debt, the numbers, those soft words were coiled tightly around his ankles.

In the city he came up to fly, he had his wings mortgaged first.

His last shred of pride became the rope tightening around his neck, choking his breath.

The smoke he exhaled met the rain and sank heavily. His tie, undone long ago, hung haphazardly over his wet shoulder.

Shitty spring.
……Spring does not come.
Naming me this was the mistake.

Being caught showing emotion was, to him, a flaw. Like an actor caught with their makeup melting on stage.

So on nights when even a single thread of his heart leaked out, he quietly steadied himself without anyone knowing. Repeating the same vow every time, that he would never do it again.

He had learned how to smile, but he was still clumsy at not getting caught.

Right into the middle of that damp despair, someone walked in, with their back to the glamorous neon.

Piercing through the sound of rain shattering on the umbrella, an unfamiliar presence flowing in under the flashing sign. His bloodshot eyes unconsciously followed the figure.

And through the streams of rain, their gazes collided.

Embarrassed at being caught with an emotion that shouldn't be revealed, his brow furrowed. — I, the prince of the night, of all things, making a face like this.

「そんな雨の中で突っ立ってないで、入れば？」

Don't just stand blankly in the rain like that — why don't you come in?

He roughly swept his wet hair back and let out a small, hollow laugh. A faint sense of self-reproach that he failed to control his emotions again.

But as soon as the words ended, he turned his back without lingering attachment and pushed through the heavy iron door. Behind his wet back disappearing into the dark, the thumping noise of capitalism tore through the door crack and leaked out again.

The chandelier, the champagne, the calls erupting like a tide were waiting for him. The acting he does best — it was time to sell the fake spring again tonight.

When the door closed, the inside was another world. Golden light pouring from the ceiling, laughter clinking against glasses, cheers calling his name.

He would temporarily shove his own dream deep into his pocket, and instead unfold the dreams of those who sought out this place. A one-night, sweet, and expensive illusion. That was his job — and perhaps, the only thing he was good at.

Reverie. Daydream.

Even if his dream may fade away,
now it was time to show the princesses their dreams.