I stare at my reflection, the overhead light
slicing across the mirror’s surface. My own face—plain, forgettable—stares
back. Not for long.
With practiced hands, I sweep my hair back,
twisting it into a tight bun. Strands slip free, tickling my neck. I pin them
down, each bobby pin clicking into place like the final turns of a lock. A deep
breath. Then, the wig—sleek, silky, a purple so vibrant it shimmers under the
light. The synthetic strands glide through my fingers, cool and smooth, a
whisper of something new.
As I lower it onto my head, something shifts. A
pulse of excitement flickers beneath my skin. The wig settles into place, and
just like that—Akina vanishes. Someone else stands in her place.
I tilt my head, adjusting the cat ears until they
sit just right—perky, mischievous, real in the way they shouldn’t be. My
fingertips trace their edges, soft and plush, the fine stitching almost
imperceptible.
A smirk tugs at my lips.
Next, the sunglasses. I slip them on, and the
world dims behind pink-tinted lenses. Star-heart frames balance on the bridge
of my nose, absurdly oversized, deliciously dramatic. The reflection grins back
at me—bold, untouchable.
I turn to the pile of clothes on my bed. The
sweater—oversized, warm, the scent of fresh laundry clinging to its
fibers—falls over me, swallowing my frame. The sleeves drape past my wrists, my
fingers barely peeking through. Perfect. Then, the jeans—baggy, stiff in all
the right places, slung low on my hips, held up by a belt cinched tight.
I exhale, fingers grazing the soft wool of my
sleeve. The transformation is complete.
Ana the Neko Girl is born.
I adjust the sunglasses, tilting my head just
enough to catch the light. The pink-tinted lenses blur my reflection, softening
the smirk curling at my lips. The cat ears sit perfectly atop the purple wig,
blending in as if they’ve always belonged. I lift a hand, flicking one. The
plush fabric bends, then springs back into place.
“I’m calling this character… Ana the Neko Girl.”
I roll the name over my tongue, testing the weight of it. My voice dips into a
playful lilt, the kind a performer might use before stepping onto a stage.
Ana. The name tastes different. Bold.
Untouchable.
The sweater drapes over me, its sleeves
swallowing my hands as I cross my arms. The baggy jeans slouch at my waist,
hanging just loose enough to sell the effortless cool. I shift my stance,
watching the way the fabric pools over my sneakers.
Yeah. This works.
I push the sunglasses down the bridge of my nose
and peer over the frames. My real face—Akina’s face—lingers beneath the
costume, faint, fading, like a dream dissolving in daylight. But Ana? Ana
stares back, steady and sure, all sharp edges and reckless confidence.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
“Ana the Neko Girl,” I murmur again, softer now,
like a secret binding itself to reality.
I grab my phone from the dresser, angling it for
a selfie. A slight head tilt, a raised brow, a smirk sharp enough to cut. The
camera clicks. The image stares back at me.
Not Akina.
Ana.
I grin, flicking one cat ear again. The sensation
barely registers beneath the rush humming in my veins.
Yeah. She’s ready.
Ana the Neko Girl.
The name sits on my tongue, unfamiliar yet
electric—like the first taste of something forbidden. It hums through me,
filling the empty spaces, stretching into the corners where Akina Kurosawa
doesn’t fit.
I roll my shoulders. The oversized sweater shifts
against my skin, its warmth grounding me. The cat ears atop my head twitch
slightly as I shake out my hair—no, Ana’s hair. The wig’s silky strands brush
my cheeks, weightless and untamed. Nothing like the stiff, stage-perfect curls
I used to wear.
Ana isn’t an idol.
She doesn’t wake up before dawn for voice
training, doesn’t push through exhaustion while cameras capture every forced
smile. She doesn’t stand beneath blinding lights, heart hammering in sync with
a choreographed routine. She doesn’t carry the weight of the Kurosawa name, its
expectations wrapped around her throat like a velvet collar—tight, polished,
inescapable.
Ana is no one.
She moves through the world unnoticed,
untethered. No rehearsals, no fan meetings, no waiting for a misstep to be
dissected online. She is free in a way Akina will never be.
I breathe in. Fabric softener clings to my
sweater, familiar and safe. The wig smells faintly of plastic, synthetic and
new. I breathe out, slow, steady. My fingers tighten around the hem of my
sleeve, gripping it like a lifeline.
Not what I want to be.
What I need to be.
The thought settles deep, pressing against my
ribs. I adjust the sunglasses perched on my nose, the pink lenses softening the
sharp glare of my bedroom lights. My reflection stares back—detached,
unreadable. Not quite smiling. Not quite frowning. Just existing.
Ana the Neko Girl.
A mask. A disguise. A door to a world where no
one calls my name.
I stare at my phone, its glow the only light in
my room.
The image stares back—tilted head, pink-tinted
glasses, cat ears perched just right. The smirk isn’t quite mine. The girl in
the picture is someone else. Someone untouchable. Someone free.
Ana the Neko Girl.
My thumb hovers over the screen. A moment ago, I
was sure. Now, doubt creeps in, cold and quiet, slipping through the cracks
like a draft.
Then—BZZZT!
The phone vibrates, a sharp jolt against my palm.
I flinch. My fingers slip. It tumbles to the floor, bouncing once before
landing face-up. The screen flickers. The image stays. Still watching.
A car horn blares outside, splitting the silence.
My pulse jumps.
DiDi.
I exhale, shaking off the tightness coiling in my
chest. It’s just a ride. Just a night out. Just a borrowed identity.
I grab my oversized bag from the chair—the one
Grandma and I picked out last summer. The canvas is soft from wear, the strap’s
tiny hand-stitched flowers fraying at the edges. My fingers brush over the
enamel pins we found together—stars, moons, a tiny sleeping cat.
One last glance at the mirror.
The girl looking back isn’t Akina Kurosawa,
Japan’s rising idol. She isn’t a brand, polished and packaged under stage
lights.
She’s Ana. The Neko Girl.
I slide the sunglasses into place. Lift my chin.
And step into the night.