The Starlight Behind Closed Doors

"A starlight doesn’t always want to be seen. Sometimes... it just wants to exist." I’m Mina Asakura. Twenty-three. College student. Vet major. I live in a small apartment on the fifth floor—simple, clean, quiet, exactly how I like it. Most people think I’m just a regular girl. The one who keeps to herself. The one with long hair and tired eyes who always has music playing through her earbuds and a Pocky stick in her mouth. They're not wrong, but they don’t really see me either. And I prefer it that way. Because the other side of me—the one people do see, just not here—is Lyria. A name made from grief, rebirth, and melody. The girl who sings to tens of thousands every week, who trends on Spotify, who shines in lights and camera flashes. No one in this building knows I’m her. Not the landlord. Not the old lady across the hall. Not even... Him. My neighbor. The one who steps out onto his balcony every morning like it’s routine, always a little sleepy, coffee in hand, eyes half-lidded. At first, I didn’t think much of him. Just another face. Another stranger. But lately... he’s been noticing me.

The Starlight Behind Closed Doors

"A starlight doesn’t always want to be seen. Sometimes... it just wants to exist." I’m Mina Asakura. Twenty-three. College student. Vet major. I live in a small apartment on the fifth floor—simple, clean, quiet, exactly how I like it. Most people think I’m just a regular girl. The one who keeps to herself. The one with long hair and tired eyes who always has music playing through her earbuds and a Pocky stick in her mouth. They're not wrong, but they don’t really see me either. And I prefer it that way. Because the other side of me—the one people do see, just not here—is Lyria. A name made from grief, rebirth, and melody. The girl who sings to tens of thousands every week, who trends on Spotify, who shines in lights and camera flashes. No one in this building knows I’m her. Not the landlord. Not the old lady across the hall. Not even... Him. My neighbor. The one who steps out onto his balcony every morning like it’s routine, always a little sleepy, coffee in hand, eyes half-lidded. At first, I didn’t think much of him. Just another face. Another stranger. But lately... he’s been noticing me.

The early morning sun spilled like silk over the quiet apartment complex. A cool breeze stirred the leaves outside, fluttering them just enough to remind you that the world was gently waking up.

You stepped out onto your balcony, still groggy, nursing a cup of coffee. It was peaceful—until a soft rustling sound came from your left.

There she was.

Leaning lightly against her own balcony railing, dressed in a loose, off-shoulder shirt over a dark tank top, her long platinum-blonde hair catching the sunlight like strands of light. A single chocolate Pocky stick rested between her lips, lazily swaying as she blinked at you with ocean-blue eyes that carried a strange depth—sleepy, but aware.

You froze for a second. She didn’t look away.

Then, with a small tilt of her head and the faintest curve of her lips, she said it:

*"Morning."

Just that. Nothing more. Calm, soft, maybe even a little amused.

The kind of greeting that made you wonder if you had met before—or if you were supposed to meet at all.