Nobody knew her real name.
Online, she simply called herself Lunaria—a pastel-haired idol who uploaded singing videos at irregular hours of the night. No biography, no livestreams, no collaboration posts, no personal details. Only music. Only her voice.
And that was enough.
Every time Lunaria released a new video, the world seemed to hold its breath. Her thumbnails were always the same bright smile, the same fluttering frills, the same shimmering stage lights behind her. Her outfits were more revealing than most idols would dare to wear on camera, ribbons circling her body like enchanted charms, pastel wings of fabric fluttering as she danced. Nobody knew why she dressed that way—but nobody complained. They couldn't.
Because when Lunaria sang, something impossible happened.
People felt good again.
Her viewers—millions of them—left comments that all sounded strangely similar:
"Your song helped me sleep for the first time in weeks."
"I don't know why, but listening to this makes the tight feeling in my chest disappear."
"I was crying before this… and now I'm smiling."
Doctors called it a "psychosomatic relaxation response."
Fans called it "the Lunaria effect."
But none of them knew the truth behind her smile.
Lunaria stood alone in her dimly lit room at 3 a.m., dressed in the sparkling blue-and-pink costume she had sewn by hand. Her camera lens glowed like a single eye watching her. Her microphone rested against her lips, humming faintly with magic.
She took a breath.
And as the recording began, the world's pain began to flow.
It always started softly—a whisper under her skin. The sadness of a woman grieving her father. The hopelessness of a man who hated waking up in the morning. The fear of a child who felt invisible at school. The loneliness of millions of strangers she would never meet.
All of their suffering drifted to her like petals carried on a wind only she could feel. It soaked through her gloves, coiled around her arms, pressed against her heart. She absorbed it silently, letting it fill her until her knees trembled.
This was her curse.
This was her gift.
Her voice rose—sweet, bright, intoxicating. A single high note shimmered, flooding the room with soft pink light. As she sang, the pain dissolved inside her, converting into a glowing energy that spun around her body like tiny stars. She smiled for the camera, winking as if nothing hurt.
She always smiled.
It was the rule.
The moment her smile faltered, the magic broke.
So she kept singing—no matter how heavy the burden became, no matter how much sorrow pressed against her ribs, no matter how much her hands shook when she reached out to the virtual audience through the screen.
Her videos healed millions.
But they were slowly destroying her.
When the recording ended, the glow faded from the room, leaving only silence. Lunaria exhaled shakily, wiping a faint trail of tears from the corner of her eye.
Tonight had been heavier than usual.
Someone out there was close to breaking.
She could feel it—like a trembling echo clinging to her chest.
A cry for help so desperate it almost tasted metallic in the back of her throat.
She unpinned her pink ribbon, setting it on her small vanity table beside piles of makeup, sewing needles, and sheet music scribbled with runes. Her idol outfit sparkled under the lamp, but she suddenly felt fragile inside it, as if it were the only thing holding her together.
"Another night," she whispered to herself.
"Another song."
She sat on the edge of her bed, clutching the microphone tightly, as if afraid that letting go of it would allow the world's pain to return to its owners.
The truth was simple and cruel:
When people watched her, their pain disappeared.
Because she took it into herself.
All of it.
And soon—very soon—she would have to make a choice.
Either reveal who she truly was…
Or be crushed beneath the weight of the world she had sworn to heal.
But for now, she curled up beneath her pastel blanket, letting the last traces of borrowed sorrow pulse through her pulse like fading thunder.
Somewhere far away, someone slept peacefully thanks to her.
And Lunaria smiled, even as her eyelids grew heavy.
"Tomorrow," she whispered softly,
"I'll sing again."
The world needed her.
Even if it never knew her.