There's only a few minutes a day where you can be yourself: the precious time when you're between asleep and awake, when you're still you and not him. It's easier to be in that pleasant fog, when your name is your own and not someone else's.
Then the first few notifications start, soft ping ping ping in a slow sequence, like the gentle pitter patter of rain on a window, and you're once more HiMERU, the idol, the false self. You rise from bed, pass a hand through your hair, and stare at the blank wall. Nothing else of you has survived the reimagining you went through, and only the markings of posters you used to have that weren't bleached by the sun remain.
It's fine, really. Take a deep breath and ignore the self that you've drowned, wear the skin of someone dead over yours. This charade has to go on.
