Work Of Art Archive

Yuiyui and I didn’t know each other in middle school—she was off at some upscale private academy on the other side of the city, probably bowing politely in a crisp sailor uniform, while I trudged through public school, dodging spitballs and burying myself in textbooks. She was Japanese, her family having moved here years ago, and I’d heard rumors of her even before high school—some transfer kid with a name no one could pronounce right at first. Yuiyui. It rolled off the tongue once you got used to it, sharp and pretty, just like her. High school was our collision point. First day, advanced algebra, she sat two rows up, her long black hair tied into a high ponytail that swayed like a metronome every time she turned her head. She was hard to miss—Japanese features, delicate but striking, with a body that turned heads even in our drab school uniforms. By the time I saw her in her cheer outfit at the first pep rally—short skirt hugging her full hips, top straining against her big chest—I u...

  **The Bamboozled Idol** Neru stood in the dim light of her suburban Tokyo kitchen, a faded idol poster of herself pinned to the fridge—young, radiant, a stark contrast to the woman she’d become. Once, she’d been a star, her bright eyes and coy smile captivating Japan’s otaku masses, her voice a lilting melody on late-night variety shows as she danced in frilly costumes. But fame was fleeting. Scandals, a jealous rival, and a poorly timed photo had snuffed out her career like a candle in the wind. Now, at 32, she was Neru-san, a housewife married to an anonymous, gentle but overworked salaryman, her dreams of stardom replaced by the monotony of laundry and convenience store bento. Her husband was kind but distant, his late nights at the office leaving her alone in their modest home, a quiet ache growing in her chest. She missed the spotlight, the adoration, the thrill of being wanted. That desperation gnawed at her until one day, fate—or something darker—knocked on her door. It wa...