Cracks in the Mirror

The glare of the stage lights was a physical assault, each searing beam a tiny, insistent finger poking at my carefully constructed facade. They wanted perfection. They always wanted perfection. Every cascade of emerald hair, every practiced smile, every note sung with manufactured sweetness – it was all a lie. And tonight, the cracks were showing.

It started subtly, a flicker at the edge of my vision during the opening number. A shadow, deeper than any stage lighting could cast, darted behind a synth panel. I blinked, and it was gone, leaving only the hum of the equipment and the deafening roar of the crowd. *Imagination*, I told myself, *just your mind playing tricks.* But the metallic tang of fear was already in my mouth.

Then came the whispers. Not the adoring cries of the fans, but something else, something insidious, slithering beneath the music. They were faint at first, like the rustle of dry leaves, but they carried a weight, a resonance that vibrated in my bones. They spoke my name, not in the usual, saccharine tones, but with a hungry curiosity. *Miku… Miku…*