Jhio – This is not her story anymore. It never was.
Sometimes I wonder what people really see when they look at me. Is it the practiced smile I wear like armor in front of the cameras? The kind of smile that sells?
Maybe it's my voice—singing those polished lyrics about love, hate, loneliness. The kind of words people eat up because they want to believe they mean something. To them, they do. To me… they're empty.
What I show them—what they think is real—That's long become part of the lie. The truth?Was buried years ago under layers of strategy and profit margins. I became exactly what they wanted:Untouchable. Beautiful. Elusive.
The man they worship like he was never broken. Like he was never real. The man of their dreams.
How ironic. No one is further from that illusion than I am.
And yet—this is my life. When I step on that stage, they believe every second of it. And every second of it is a performance.
I learned early how to read people. You don't have to ask questions. Just study the way they breathe. The way they blink when they're afraid. Their truths leak through the smallest cracks— the twitch of a lip, the glance that lingers too long..Their fears. Their longings. Their hunger. Emotions…They rule everyone but me.
For others, they're everything. For me, they're a foreign language I never needed to understand. I knew what was expected of me. Smile. Say the right words at the right time. Be the man they needed—no matter who he really was.
My father once called me "the perfect son" in an interview. I laughed when I saw it. Perfect?Because I played the part? Because I knew how to deliver what people expected? That wasn't love. That was usefulness.
Love…is a convenient illusion. A drug people inject into the void so they don't have to face how empty everything is. A currency they created to make their lives feel like they mean something.
Becoming an idol? It wasn't a dream. It was a plan. Cold. Strategic. Ruthless.
The stage became my board. And I—the king.
I sing.
They cry.
I smile.
They scream.
It's fascinating, really. How desperately people want to be manipulated. As long as it feels a little bit like love. As long as it gives them the illusion of being seen.
But for me?It became static. Faces blurred. Names faded. Touches—meaningless.
Until that night. Until her.
It was supposed to be like every other show. Another foreign city. Another sea of screaming fans. Lights, sounds, the usual scripted chaos.
After the concert, we had a VIP meet-and-greet. A few carefully selected fans. The ones who paid extra to buy a moment of proximity. They always believed it meant something. That being near us—even for just a few minutes—was a dream come true.
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🖤She came here to disappear.🖤
Too bad I already knew her name🖤
Tomorrow, I'll show you what happens when someone tries to outplay me in my own world.🖤