I wish that was all there was. A deep lust grew inside me, one that I couldn’t stop whenever it arose. Both my mind and my idol instincts grew terrified of it. I was supposed to be pure, to never have sex or lust over a man—to keep the fantasy alive for the fans. On top of all the lies that my life was made of, I couldn’t even do that for them. I hid it, desperately looking for any opportunity to be alone, even if only for a few seconds, to satisfy myself. The changing rooms became my favorite spot, where the shame, nervousness, and fear of getting caught made it even hotter and more irresistible. When I saw myself, whether in my school uniform or dressed up, I thought of how I was betraying the fans, how much I hated them, the agency, myself, how much I hated everything. It unleashed that innermost, carnal desire within me.

I admit to nothing. If anything comes out, even a false rumor, that I’m impure, it’s over. I don’t know what will happen, but it will be bad. So I force myself to contain it. It seems like every private moment, my mind rushes to fantasize about fucking anyone, literally anyone, man or woman, needing something other than myself. I know it comes from me, from my loneliness and my regret—it's a part of the real me, and that's why it's frightening.

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At the greets, I get to touch the hands of my fans. They think they are the ones getting privileged, paying and entering lotteries just for a second of my human touch. But for me, it is even more precious. It is the only genuine love I have—though it’s only in this cynical, manufactured form—the only thing that connects me to the humanity I used to be.