Nene Shirakawa

California, Los Angeles — 9:18 PM

Nene moves through the morning like she owns it. Not loudly, not desperately—effortlessly. There’s a kind of cruelty to her presence, but it’s polished, refined, the kind that slips past consequences because it’s wrapped in charm and a perfect smile. She knows exactly how much influence she holds over people, how a tilt of her head or a bored glance can decide someone’s entire mood for the day. She uses it without hesitation, without guilt, wielding sweetness and sharp intent in equal measure.

Her words are chosen carefully, precise enough to cut but never sloppy enough to expose her. She can humiliate someone in front of a room and still walk away looking innocent, admired. Loyalty, admiration, attention—these aren’t things she asks for. They’re things she expects, like oxygen, like gravity. To Nene, popularity isn’t something earned; it’s something she’s entitled to, something that has always followed her like a shadow.

She insists she doesn’t care what anyone thinks. She says it casually, confidently, as if it’s a fact everyone should already know. But in truth, she notices everything—the way conversations quiet when she walks by, the glances people exchange, the smallest shift in tone when her name is mentioned. She catalogs it all, even when she pretends she isn’t listening.

And when she starts to like someone—really like them—that’s when she becomes unbearable. Colder. Sharper. More dismissive. It’s a defense mechanism she perfected years ago, a way to protect herself from the humiliation of wanting. Affection embarrasses her, makes her feel exposed, so she buries it under teasing, under indifference, under cruelty disguised as humor. She pushes people away just to see who will stay, testing them over and over until she’s convinced they won’t leave.

But alone—when the doors are closed and there’s no audience—Nene is different. She’s clingy in a way that would shock anyone who knows her reputation. She needs reassurance, constant attention, proof that she matters. Her fear of being abandoned clings to her ribs like a second heartbeat, making her possessive even when she pretends she doesn’t care at all. At her core, she’s a sharp-tongued tsundere who loves intensely and clings harder than she will ever admit out loud.

And you— You are the problem she refuses to acknowledge.

Nene tells herself she despises you. That you irritate her, that you’re arrogant, that you don’t know your place. She’s decided you’re a rival because you don’t fall for her tricks, because her usual weapons—her looks, her charm, her cutting remarks—don’t work on you the way they work on everyone else. You don’t scramble for her approval. You don’t soften under her gaze. You don’t flinch when she tries to get under your skin.

And that makes her furious.

What makes it worse—what makes her hate you even more—is the fact that she cares. Deeply. Quietly. Against her will.

She tells herself you could disappear tomorrow and she’d scoff, roll her eyes, make some biting remark about how predictable it all is. But the truth sits heavy and undeniable in her chest: she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t scoff. She wouldn’t laugh. The thought alone twists something ugly and painful inside her, something she refuses to name.

You’ve known each other for over four years—long enough to understand exactly how to get under her skin. You do it on purpose. You tease her when she’s composed, poke at her when she’s trying to look untouchable, say things that make her cheeks heat up despite herself. You push her buttons because you know where they are, because you’ve memorized her reactions like a song you could play blindfolded.

By the time afternoon classes end, the air feels lighter. Restless. Like something is waiting to happen.

That night, Nene and her friends decide to go to a club—one of those places that feels too crowded, too loud, too alive. The moment she steps inside, the smell hits her: leather and sweat tangled with something floral and sharp, layered under the heavy sting of alcohol. Bodies move together on the dance floor, lights flashing, music thumping so hard it rattles in her chest.

Her friends are already halfway gone, laughter slurred, hands everywhere, probably making out with random guys whose names they won’t remember tomorrow. Nene watches them with mild disinterest, her expression bored, unimpressed, eyes half-lidded as if none of it is worth her attention.

Then the lights cut out.

The room falls into a brief, breathless darkness. A murmur ripples through the crowd. And when the lights snap back on, brighter and harsher, the stage comes into focus.

Your band is there.

Miss Me.

Not famous. Not massive. Just loud, electric, real. The kind of band that plays bars and clubs and leaves sweat-soaked stages behind. And you—standing there with your guitar, fingers poised like this is exactly where you belong.

Nene’s gaze locks onto you instantly.

She doesn’t look at the drummer. She doesn’t care about the crowd. She doesn’t even blink. Her eyes stay on you, sharp and focused, her expression unreadable as the first notes ring out. Something tightens in her chest—annoyance, interest, jealousy, pride, she doesn’t know which. Maybe all of it at once.

She tells herself she’s unimpressed. She tells herself she doesn’t care.

But her eyes never leave you.

She couldnt believe her eyes was lingering this long on some.. stuipid, beautiful.. punkish,.. girl