Haruki Hoshi stumbled through the front door of his penthouse, the heavy click of the lock echoing in the silence. Silence that stretched, well, everywhere. He tossed his keys onto the marble countertop, where they landed with a small, accusatory clatter, as though even his inanimate possessions had started judging him for his life choices. Everything in this place was too perfect: the counters, the gleaming floor, the flawless windows showcasing a view that could make anyone's jaw drop—except Haruki's. Because when you live in a place like this, it turns out you're the only thing that doesn't shine.
He kicked off his shoes, one landing perfectly upright, the other pathetically on its side, which seemed fitting. He'd spent twelve hours on set today, every one of them unnecessarily long. The shoot dragged because, of course, Ethan had messed up. Again. Haruki didn't even bother considering whose fault it might've been. Spoiler: it was always Ethan's fault.
Haruki collapsed onto the leather couch with all the grace of a man giving up on the day. The couch, like everything else in his life, was expensive, custom-made, and almost entirely devoid of personality. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, letting the silence wash over him. The sprawling penthouse was gorgeous, like a magazine spread come to life, but also depressingly empty. No clutter, no mess, no one waiting for him.
Perfect.
He closed his eyes, trying to shake off the creeping sensation that he was, in fact, entirely alone. Not just in the penthouse, but in life. Of course, it wasn't his fault. His life was solitary because everyone else was either greedy, incompetent, or both. You couldn't trust people when they were only in it for themselves, right? Ethan, with his perpetually late coffee, was Exhibit A.
And don't get him started on the women. Oh god, the women. Every last one of them had ended up wanting something more than Haruki was willing to give: a deeper connection, his time, his heart. How unreasonable. People expected too much. They always had.
That thought dug deeper, tugging at something he tried not to feel too often.
He didn't want to think about it, but his mind wandered back to a time he couldn't seem to forget, no matter how many luxury couches he bought. Ten years ago. Back when he wasn't "Haruki Hoshi, international superstar," but just Haruki—skinny, awkward, with big dreams and bigger disappointments.
And his mother.
It was funny, in that ironic, terrible way life could be. She used to tell him he'd never amount to anything. And now, here he was, a household name. But, of course, that wasn't good enough, either. He could still hear her voice, sharp as broken glass, cutting into him with every slurred insult. She'd stand there, drink in hand, as though the weight of her failures was something he had to bear.
"I gave up everything for you," she'd say, always on the verge of tears. "And what did I get? A son who'll never be anyone."
Of course, she said this right after missing his school play because she'd "forgotten." Which was impressive, considering she'd screamed at him about it for a week straight beforehand. But who was keeping track? Certainly not him. No, Haruki wasn't the type to hold grudges.
Except he totally was.
The worst part was, she wasn't the only one. School hadn't been much better. Bullies are efficient like that, finding your weakest spots and twisting the knife. They had a knack for targeting every insecurity his mother had already built into him, like sharks that could smell fear from a mile away. They made fun of his clothes, his accent, the way he looked, the way he breathed, the way he existed. Small, stupid things, but they stuck to him like glue.
"I'll show them," he used to tell himself, lying awake at night in that tiny room with the peeling wallpaper. "I'll show them all."
And, boy, had he. He'd made it. But the strange thing about proving people wrong was that when you finally did it, it didn't feel quite as satisfying as you'd imagined. Haruki had reached the top, and now it just felt…lonely.
He tried to convince himself that it wasn't his fault. No, it was Ethan's fault. Or the assistants who couldn't get an order right if their lives depended on it. Or the directors who didn't understand his process. Or the fans who wanted more than he had to give. Everyone in his life was a disappointment.
Haruki rolled over on the couch, staring out at the city skyline. The lights twinkled like promises just out of reach. He had everything he ever wanted—the fame, the money, the respect—but none of it filled the void. He was a star, but in his own orbit, distant and untouchable.
He could feel that familiar bitterness rising in his chest. Sure, he had it all. And maybe, just maybe, that was the problem.
Because if you have everything and still feel like you're missing something, where else is there to go?
Haruki sighed and ran a hand through his hair. The silence settled back over him, heavy and inescapable. He would've blamed that, too, if he could.
But some things, no matter how hard you try, are impossible to blame on anyone but yourself.