“Your mascara is running,” he said matter-of-factly, not looking up from his phone.

I touched the corner of my eye, examining the black smudge on my fingertip. “It’s waterproof.”

“Then why is it running?”

The café buzzed with the usual afternoon crowd. Outside, Tokyo’s summer rain painted everything in muted greys. I stirred my already cold coffee, watching the liquid swirl into a miniature whirlpool.

“Because these are artificial tears,” I replied.

Now he looked up, his dark eyes meeting mine across the small table. “Artificial tears?”

“Like artificial sweetener, artificial intelligence, artificial everything. We live in a city of artificial things, don’t we, Kenji?”

He set his phone down. “You’re being cryptic again, Yuko.”

“Remember when we first met? You said my eyes were beautiful. But they weren’t really mine, were they? Double eyelid surgery, circle lenses, mascara… Everything about me is manufactured.”

A waitress passed by, the clink of cups on her tray punctuating the silence between us.

“Is this about the wedding?” he asked quietly.

I laughed, but it sounded hollow even to my ears. “Your mother called me ‘plastic’ yesterday. She didn’t mean it as an insult - she was complimenting how perfect I looked in the engagement photos. Perfect. Artificial. Same thing, really.”

“You’re overthinking this.”

“Am I? Look around us, Kenji. Everyone’s wearing a mask. Not just the surgical ones - we’re all hiding behind something. Makeup, designer clothes, Instagram filters…”

He reached across the table, his hand covering mine. His touch was warm, real. “Then take it off.”

“What?”

“The mascara. The makeup. Everything.”

I stared at him, then grabbed a napkin and began wiping my face. Layer by layer, the carefully constructed facade came off. My hands trembled slightly, but I continued until my skin was bare, raw, real.

The café seemed quieter now. Or maybe I was just more aware of the silence.

Kenji studied my face for a long moment. Then he smiled - not his usual polite smile, but something softer, more genuine.

“There you are,” he said.

“Here I am. Imperfect.”

“Perfect.”

I felt something wet on my cheek and touched it. Another black smudge - I hadn’t removed all the mascara after all.

“Still running,” he noted.

“No,” I said, and this time my laugh was real. “These ones are authentic.”

He squeezed my hand, and in that moment, surrounded by the artificial light of the café, the artificial plants in their corners, the artificial sweetener packets in their holders, I felt something entirely genuine bloom in my chest.

Sometimes, I realized, we need to construct artificial things to find what’s real underneath.

Outside, the rain had stopped, and the city’s neon signs were beginning to flicker to life, their artificial glow somehow making the approaching dusk feel more natural, more true.

“Should we go?” Kenji asked.

I nodded, leaving the smudged napkin on the table like a shed skin. “Yes. Let’s go home.”