The first time I encountered him, he was kneeling at the water’s edge. A boy, quiet and unsure, soaked in seawater, his eyes filled with something I recognised: longing.
I was a maiden, running along the shore, unafraid, even when I saw him. We locked eyes, and something inside me shifted. I took his hand, helping him stand. And then we danced.
It was only a dream, but it stayed with me.
That was my first glimpse of Noah. He stayed with me too, just beneath the surface. As I grew over the years, so did he, hovering like a wistful mermaid.
In 2023, during my second year of university, I finally gave him a name: Noah. And whenever I don my chest binder, he appears.
Now, I stand in front of the vanity mirror in my Tokyo homestay. The small room hums with light, casting a glow over my reflection. My binder is snug around my chest, pressing me into something flatter. Meanwhile, a comfortable pair of jeans hugs my hips.
Noah leans against the doorframe behind me, arms crossed, watching.
He looks like me — but taller, leaner, with a frame that doesn’t hesitate when he moves. His dark hair is the same as mine, falling in caramel-streaked waves over his shoulders, but his posture is different. While I stand still and uncertain, he slouches with calm confidence, the kind that presents him as belonging wherever he is. His eyes — half-lidded and unreadable — flick over my reflection before he speaks.
“You’re doing that thing again.”
I exhale sharply. “What thing?”
“Overthinking.” He steps closer, standing behind my shoulder, his presence tangible but weightless. “You could put on your first outfit right now, but you’re stuck in analysis mode. We came here to wear these crossplays, not stare at them.”
I meet his gaze in the mirror. “We?”
His smirk is small but unmistakable. “Don’t play dumb. You know how this works.”
I do. Every time I wear something that makes me feel more real, he comes through a little stronger. Today, I have three crossplays lined up — three identities stitched together, each one revealing something different. Noah is waiting, ready to step into each of them.
The real question is: Am I? I roll my shoulders. There’s only one way to find out.
I reach for the first piece, a black mesh shirt hugging my torso as I put it on.
“Not bad,” Noah muses. “A little delicate, maybe, but it works. Just needs an edge.”
He’s right — Visual Kei isn’t about subtlety. I picture the missing pieces — black skinny jeans, a flash of electric blue beneath the mesh — but for now, I work with what I have. I slip on the silk gloves whose tips I cut off, flexing my fingers as the studs catch the light.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Noah says, examining them with mild amusement.
“I think they’re better like that,” I reply, admiring the frayed edges.
Noah hums but doesn’t argue. His eyes flick to the space on my wrist. “A neon cuff would tie this whole thing together.” My fingers trace the silver ring on the black leather choker as I nod.
I fasten the buckle before reaching for the harness, securing the straps over my chest. A friend’s voice surfaces in my memory, teasing: “Is that bondage wear?”
“Tch. He wouldn’t get it,” Noah mutters. “It’s about presence. Knowing exactly how people see you.”
The leather and chains drape across my torso, catching the light.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Noah murmurs.
Next are the chunky platform shoes. Upon stepping into them, the world shifts a little as I put on the red leather jacket for my Cyberpunk look.
As soon as it settles over my frame, Noah takes over completely. His smirk spreads across my face. My stance shifts — hips angled, chin tilted up like I own the surrounding space. The mirror isn’t reflecting me anymore.
It’s him.
“Damn,” Noah exhales, running a hand through our hair. “This suits me to a T.”
His hands move before I can stop them — adjusting the cuffs, flexing fingers against the silk gloves, letting the silver chains clink against my shoes.
“You sense it, don’t you?” His voice is a whisper, a secret only we share. “This is power.”
He isn’t wrong. But even he knows that the power won’t last.
“Alright,” I sigh, shrugging off the leather jacket as I start on the new look. “We look good, but we’re not done yet.” My gaze flicks toward the red haori jacket, waiting for its turn. It’s a different shade of red — less theatrical and more intentional.
“This is unlike anything else,” Noah whispers. He isn’t smirking anymore.
I slip into the dark green hakama trousers, tying them at my waist. Nothing clings, nothing binds. Unlike the past two looks, this one doesn’t reshape me — it flows. A fox-eared wig and nine trailing tails should be here, but for now, they exist only in my mind.
I adjust the red obi belt, securing the haori in place. Noah shifts beside me, rubbing his thumb against his palm like he’s itching to adjust something. But he doesn’t — he only watches.
“You’re awfully quiet,” I comment.
“So are you.” I put on a beady yellow necklace, letting it rest on my collarbone.
“This isn’t just clothes,” Noah continues, his voice softer now.
“No. It’s not.”
We both know why. The Visual Kei and Cyberpunk aesthetics of the previous looks challenge conventions and command attention. But this one isn’t about performance. It’s about reverence.
I pick up a kitsune mask, the fox, tracing the red-painted whiskers.
“Go on,” Noah says, but there’s no challenge in his voice. Just something softer, and closer to uncertainty.
Instead of putting the mask on my face, I let it rest off to the side of my head.
For the first time, I don’t feel the need to disappear into him. I just… am.
“You’re not stepping in.”
Noah tilts his head. “Do I need to?”
I hesitate, then shake my head. “No.” We both turn back to the mirror.
He exhales. “Well. That’s new.”
“Yeah.”
For once, neither of us say a word. And somehow, that’s enough.
Cover by Jay Alvarez