Voice

Aika’s bedroom was warm with the glow of her monitor array, a wall of light that seemed to float in the dimness. The air was alive with the faint hum of fans, the soft whir of her wheelchair’s motor when she nudged it into place, the tiny clicks of the tablet mount as she adjusted its angle until it framed her face exactly the way she needed it to. She wore the same outfit she always favored at home, a thin tank top that let the room’s air brush her bare shoulders, and shorts that made her feel unburdened, free. Comfort mattered, comfort let her survive in the performance she had built her world around.

She wheeled herself to the chair in front of her streaming setup, that beaten but beloved computer chair that held her in a way no other did. With a practiced motion she leaned forward, pressing her body weight against its cushion, shifting until she could slide herself into its embrace. No one watching later would ever guess at the soft strain of her torso muscles, or the small stuttering breath she had to steady before beginning. Her audience would see only Aika the virtual idol, vibrant, smiling, purple haired, animated with the glow of youth and confidence.

She glanced at the tablet mounted in front of her, the eye tracking cursor darting wherever she willed it. She blinked, double blinked, narrowed her gaze slightly, tiny movements that her software understood like words, commands, orders. The phone mounted on its flexible arm caught every twitch of her real face, feeding it into the avatar’s flawless, fluid expressions. Aika herself vanished the moment she hit “start stream,” folded up and hidden, leaving only her virtual self in sight. That was the point.

Her viewers loved her singing streams best. She knew this, because they said it endlessly in the chat, filling her scrolling window with little hearts, tears, flames, whatever the moment demanded. And she loved singing back, more than she could ever explain, because her voice was the one part of her she could be proud of, the one part that needed no disguise. When she sang, she could almost forget the chair beneath her, the four stumps that twitched subtly with effort when she moved too much, the way her body was always a little heavier to live in than others’ seemed to be.

She tilted her head slightly, lips parted in a small smile as her stream went live. The chat immediately exploded with greetings.

“Good evening, my stars,” she said, her voice warm, wrapping itself around the words like a ribbon. “I’ve been looking forward to tonight so much. We’re going to have another little karaoke session, because honestly, I just can’t stop.”

They loved her energy. They had no idea of the tiny shiver that raced through her as her chest muscles tightened from holding herself upright too long, no idea how desperately she wanted to stretch phantom limbs she had never had. She read their messages, laughed, teased, and adjusted her tone of voice the way she’d practiced.

What she never told them was that every note was also a prayer. Don’t see me. Don’t find out. Don’t leave me.

Behind her bedroom door, she could hear her mother moving in the kitchen. The faint clang of pots and pans, the rhythm of running water. Her mother had wanted to help her into the chair earlier, but Aika had insisted on doing it herself, jaw tightening when she heard the hesitation in her mother’s voice. She hated the look of worry she always got, hated it and loved it, because it meant her mother still saw her as something breakable, fragile, but also cherished.

On stream, her avatar’s purple hair shimmered as she dipped her head, fake arms moving gracefully through one of the preset animations her software queued. The audience thought she had everything, talent, confidence, charm. She never let them see that behind every laugh she was terrified of cracking the shell, terrified that one day she would let something slip, that someone would notice the stillness of her shoulders, the unnatural repetitiveness of her arm movements.

Her mother peeked into the room once, quietly, just to make sure she was okay. Aika gave her the smallest nod she could manage without the avatar mirroring it, and her mother withdrew again.

The song filled the room, her voice rich and smooth, moving effortlessly through the melody. Her audience filled the chat with hearts, fireworks, entire seas of emotes. They told her they loved her voice, they told her she made their nights better, their comments made her feel like home.

Aika smiled at the monitor, blinking and narrowing her eyes just so, making her avatar beam and gesture as if she were basking in it all with carefree joy. Inside, though, her chest ached with how much she loved them, how much she wanted to keep them, how much she was willing to vanish her entire body just to belong to them.

Her body must stay invisible. It was her most closely guarded secret, her most fragile wall. Because if they ever saw her, if they ever looked past the screen and saw the girl in a tank top and shorts, balanced carefully in a chair with no arms to lift, no legs to stand, if they saw the real Aika, trembling with the effort of holding on to her dream…

She feared they would turn away.

And if they turned away, she would lose the only place where she felt whole.