My earliest memories drift like fog—shapes without edges, sounds without sources. But even in the blur, one thing shines clear: I was the golden child in a fairy tale life.
Everywhere I went, people smiled. Their faces lit up as if the sun had followed me into the room. They crouched to meet my eyes, their voices high and sweet as they praised my looks, my manners, my charm. They spoke of Mama with awe, and sometimes, they'd glance at me and ask, half-jokingly, "Will he be the next star of the family?"
"I'd prefer him to have a normal life," Mama would say with a soft laugh, her hand brushing back her glossy hair. "Takeo-san thinks the same."
That was Papa. My father. A man not made for the spotlight, yet always standing just beyond it. While Mama dazzled as a singer, actress, and model, Papa lingered in the shadows, the man behind the curtain, the founder of a powerful talent agency that turned ordinary people into gods. He used to say he wasn't meant to shine; he was the mirror that helped others see their light.
Mama's world sparkled, but it spun fast. Too fast. She was rarely home, her schedule taking her across cities, sometimes across oceans. Weeks would pass with only her voice on the phone.
But I never minded. Because I had Papa.
He read to me at night. Took me to parks. Built pillow forts in the living room and called them castles. He laughed with me. Hugged me close. Said I was his whole world.
Back then, I believed him. Really.
It was on a day like any other—quiet, warm, ordinary—that everything changed.
The door slammed. Hard. Loud enough to make the walls tremble. I jumped. My toy slipped from my hand. I turned and saw him—Papa—his face twisted, angry, eyes wild like a storm had followed him inside.
Then, just like that, it passed.
He smiled. His smile was calm. Gentle. The kind I knew.
"Have you had a bath, Daichi?" he asked, voice soft as silk.
"I… I already did," I mumbled.
He crouched in front of me, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "That's too bad… Because Papa wants to bathe with you."
I remember blinking. Trying to understand.
His hand was warm as it took mine.
I didn't protest. Not really. I was three. Old enough to remember, but too young to question. At that age, adults were the sky, and Papa was my sun.
The water steamed around us, but I felt cold inside.
My tears came without warning, slipping down my cheeks even though I didn't know why I was crying. Papa hummed as he lathered my hair, his fingers gentle, almost loving. His voice was soothing, a lullaby that didn't match the strange heaviness in the air.
"You're gonna love it… I promise." That's what he said.
The rest is fragments.
A feeling that made my stomach tighten. His hands sliding places that were never touched before. His tongue, hot and wet, made me think of ice cream melting too fast. His teeth grazed my skin like he was trying to taste something just out of reach.
It didn't hurt. Not exactly. But it didn't feel right, either.
It was nothing like when he tickled me or hugged me or told bedtime stories. It was something else. Something that made me feel hollow and strange and confused.
When he whispered, "Let's keep this our secret, okay?" I nodded.
Not because I understood. But because his voice made me feel like I had to.
I don't remember falling asleep. Only that one moment I was wide-eyed and shivering, and the next, I was drifting away like a leaf on a current too strong to fight.