MHA REINCARNATION!

The spotlight was blinding. A roaring wave of sound, a cacophony of cheers and camera clicks, crashed over me as I bowed. Another sold-out concert. Another city conquered. Another night of singing songs I wrote, pouring my heart out to thousands of screaming fans who knew nothing about the real Hitoshi Shinso.

I was Shinso Hitoshi, J-Pop idol, ranked number 17 on the charts this week. My music was catchy, my performances dynamic, and my persona – the cool, aloof artist – was meticulously crafted. It was a mask, a well-rehearsed act that allowed me to stand on stage and bare my soul without truly revealing myself.

And behind the mask, behind the carefully constructed image, was Neito Monoma.

He stood just offstage, arms crossed, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd. He was my manager, my best friend, and the reason I was on that stage at all. He'd seen the awkward, introverted kid pounding away at a dusty piano in the back room of a karaoke bar and somehow, inexplicably, believed in me.

Neito was… everything. He was the grounding force in my whirlwind existence, the logical voice that cut through the noise. He was brilliantly strategic, fiercely loyal, and infuriatingly oblivious. Oblivious to the fact that the songs I wrote, the melodies I poured over until dawn, were all whispers of my feelings for him.

The problem was, Neito was… Neito. Career-focused, driven, and completely devoted to his work. He saw me as a project, a diamond in the rough he was determined to polish. He was proud of my success, and I knew, deep down, that he wouldn't risk anything that could jeopardize it.

And that included a confession of love from his very successful, image-conscious, J-Pop idol client.

The truth was, I didn't know how much longer I could keep it hidden. Every song I sang, every lyric I wrote, was a subtle declaration, a coded message only he could decipher, if only he knew the code.

After the concert, the usual chaos ensued. Security guides, handlers pushing through the throng, flashlights illuminating the path to the waiting limousine. Neito was a whirlwind of instructions and efficiency, barking orders into his phone as he steered me through the throng.

"Good show tonight, Shinso," he said, barely glancing at me. "Vocal performance was strong, the crowd engagement was excellent. We need to work on your stage presence during the ballad, though. You seemed a bit detached."

Detached? Was he kidding? I was pouring my soul out on that stage! Every note I sang was a desperate plea for him to notice me, to see me. But all he saw was a performance to be critiqued.

"Right," I mumbled, sinking into the leather seat of the limo.

The ride was silent, punctuated only by Neito's terse phone calls. He was already planning the next performance, the next interview, the next step on the relentless ladder of fame.

Back at the apartment we shared – a purely practical arrangement, designed for maximum efficiency – I went straight to my keyboard. The silence of the room was a stark contrast to the thunderous applause I'd experienced just hours before.

My fingers danced over the keys, searching for a melody, a way to express the turmoil inside me. The notes flowed out, a melancholic tune woven with longing and frustration.

Neito walked in, a stack of papers in his hands. "Shinso, I need you to look over these interview questions for tomorrow. They're asking about your inspiration again. Remember, keep it vague. Don't give away too much."

He never understood. The inspiration was always him.

"Neito," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Can we talk?"

He sighed, the sound filled with thinly veiled impatience. "Look, I'm swamped, Shinso. We have a tight schedule. Can it wait?"

"No," I said, my voice firmer this time. "It can't."

He finally looked at me, his blue eyes sharp and assessing. "What is it?"

I took a deep breath, my heart pounding in my chest. This was it. The moment of truth. Risk everything or stay silent?

"I…" I started, then hesitated. The words caught in my throat. Fear, like a cold hand, gripped my heart. What if he rejected me? What if my confession ruined everything we had built?

"You?" he prompted, his brow furrowed.

I looked at him, at his perfectly sculpted features, the way his hair fell across his forehead, the intense focus in his eyes. I loved everything about him, every single infuriating detail.

"I just… I wanted to thank you," I said, the lie tasting like ash in my mouth. "For everything. For believing in me."

He visibly relaxed, a small smile playing on his lips. "You earned it, Shinso. You have talent. Just keep working hard, and you'll go far."

He clapped me on the shoulder, oblivious, and turned to leave.

"Neito," I called out again.

He stopped, his back to me.

This was my last chance. I could tell him. I could risk everything.

But the thought of losing him, of jeopardizing my career, of shattering the fragile equilibrium we had established, was too terrifying.

"Never mind," I said, my voice barely audible. "Goodnight."

He nodded and left the room, leaving me alone with the echoes of my unspoken confession.

I sat back down at the piano, the melancholic melody now tinged with a sharper pain. I was trapped, a prisoner of my own ambition and my own cowardice. I would continue to sing my love songs, to whisper my feelings through coded lyrics, hoping that one day, somehow, Neito would understand.

But for now, I would remain silent, a J-Pop star hiding a secret love, forever destined to watch the man he loved from afar. The spotlight, after all, was a good place to hide. It blinded everyone, including the one person I desperately wanted to see me.

The next day, during the interview, I recited the rehearsed answers, talking about my passion for music, my dedication to my fans, my artistic journey.

The interviewer asked, "And what inspires you, Shinso-san? What is the driving force behind your music?"

I smiled, a practiced, charming smile that didn't reach my eyes.

"Life, I suppose," I said, my voice smooth and detached. "The joys and sorrows, the hopes and dreams… everything that makes us human."

Neito, standing off to the side, gave me a small, approving nod.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell the world that the driving force behind my music was standing right there, oblivious and beautiful, and that I was slowly dying inside from the weight of my unspoken love.

But instead, I smiled again, and the interview continued. The show went on. And I, Shinso Hitoshi, J-Pop idol, would keep singing my love songs, hoping that one day, Neito would finally hear them. Even if he never knew they were all for him.