𝗠𝗔𝗚𝗜𝗖𝗜𝗔𝗡'𝗦 𝗣𝗟𝗔𝗬! ━━━━ mao isara (on hold)

21. shadowed (mao)

ᡣ𐭩 . no au | angst

He knew he was in the middle of a performance with the rest of Trickstar, but Mao couldn't help but slow the words he sung to a muting halt.

He brings the microphone he once gripped so tightly to away from his lips, letting it sit loosely in his right hand.

He looks left and right of him. Subaru on his right, Makoto and Hokuto standing on his left. Neither three of them noticed that Mao had quietened.

The feeling that settled within his chest, it made him feel sick and in pain.

It didn't feel right... this didn't feel right - standing up on stage with the rest of Trickstar.

Whilst the rest of Trickstar sung, he moved steadily and quiet to the back of the stage where he could melt into the effects of the shadows.

He doesn't know what's overcame him.

Mao thought that these thoughts of negativity had left his mind by now about his differences between him and his friends. But just like a wave of a roaring ocean, it came back to the shore so harshly, begging to take more away from the beach, casting rough edges of unwanted needs as the land gets smaller.

Mao Isara feels himself sliding down against the wall that sat at the furthest back of the stage, his knees curling in against his chest. He drops the microphone beside him gently so as not to cause such a ruckus.

His green focused attention sets on to the rest of Trickstar once more.

The audience still cheered the three of them on. Nobody noticed Mao's slinking disappearance. Was that thought meant to hurt him more than he already was, or should he be glad of it? Mao Isara wasn't quite sure of himself.

He then covers his hand over his mouth, feeling a sob of weakening wrecking through his emotions.

Subaru, Hokuto, Makoto... even to this day, even if he's not stood by them, the trio shined on. They were the true shooting stars across the beautiful night sky that the world wishes upon when possible.

He was nothing but a spec of dust taking room up in space for unwanted attention and needs.

He grips his other hand at his chest, and the feeling in his heart burns more than any intense flame ever could.

He bows his head down. Forehead leaning against his knees now. He didn't want to be here anymore, he wants to quit. The voices of his bad thoughts were always right. He'll never fit in, no matter how hard he tried. How many times was he going to keep trying at the attempts of being an idol until the world said no more?

He wondered that every time, so Mao had decided, he was going to finish the job early and let the thoughts win once again.