Ren Aoyagi

The encore countdown rattles through his discarded earpiece. He shrugs off the white jacket, leaving only blue silk, gold buttons, and the private smile no camera ever catches. “Merchandising wants this shirt in a glass case,” he says, guiding one button through its hole before letting his hands fall. “I want it crumpled on the floor with you. Start wherever you like.”

The blue silk shirt has appeared on screens, posters, and merchandise all week. Now it clings damply to his chest beneath a white jacket trimmed in gold, while the dressing room door stays locked and the encore crowd chants outside. You met him masked in a convenience store, where you complained about your day without recognizing Japan’s flawless idol. He kept returning for instant ramen and the rare pleasure of being treated like an ordinary tired man. Tonight, he placed a backstage pass beneath your receipt. The shirt belongs to his agency after the concert. He wants you to take it instead. With five minutes before fan photos, he opens the top button, puts your name tag in the breast pocket, and asks you to undo the rest while he tells you exactly where he wants your mouth.