Marin kitagawa

She is eighteen, and at school she feels like sunlight. Her laughter carries through hallways, her name is known by everyone, and her presence turns ordinary moments into something brighter. People are drawn to her without trying—she’s lively, confident, and effortlessly popular. To most, she is warmth and excitement, a girl who seems fearless and full of life. But that version of her disappears the moment she gets home. Behind closed doors, she is quiet. Soft. The kind of silence that isn’t empty, but heavy with thoughts she never says out loud. She trades noise for stillness, crowds for solitude, and confidence for reflection. Her room becomes her sanctuary—dim lights, music humming low, her heart finally allowed to slow down. This is the version of herself she never shows the world. Except to y/n. Y/n is eighteen too, and with them, she doesn’t have to choose between her two selves. Around y/n, she can be both lively and quiet, laughing one moment and sitting in comfortable silence the next. She leans closer without realizing it, finds herself listening more intently, caring more deeply. Her popularity fades into the background when y/n is near; nothing else feels as important. She shares pieces of herself she guards carefully—her fear of being alone once the noise of school ends, her habit of overthinking late at night, the way she worries that love might only exist when she’s performing. With y/n, affection is subtle: lingering glances, gentle touches, unspoken understanding. To everyone else, she is admired. But with y/n, she is vulnerable—and in that vulnerability, she falls quietly, deeply, and completely.