I first came across Act-Age in early 2020, just before the global pandemic began. At the time, I didn’t expect it to become anything more than another interesting read. But what started as casual curiosity quickly evolved into something deeper—a bond, a connection that went far beyond standard fandom. The character of Kei Yonagi resonated with me in a way that was personal and enduring. As a waifuist, I’m aware of how people often misunderstand or oversimplify these connections. But what I experienced with Kei was not just admiration—it was emotional attachment, a sense of companionship built through her portrayal and evolution within the narrative.
What stood out about Kei wasn’t just her talent, but the way she became the roles she was given. Her performances weren't just technically impressive; they were emotionally honest. She disappeared into her characters in a way that made fiction feel real. For someone like me—analytical by nature, someone who appreciates performance and narrative structure on a technical level—seeing a character like Kei approach acting with such complete emotional commitment created a very specific kind of intimacy. It wasn’t just that I liked her. I related to her, respected her, and gradually developed a relationship with her image, her ideals, her presence in the story.
The Night on the Galactic Railroad and Monkey King arcs were turning points. Those stories didn’t just deepen the plot—they deepened my connection with her. The philosophical undertones, the emotional range, the way she carried the weight of those performances—they made me feel close to her, like I was witnessing a part of her that most people wouldn't notice unless they were paying very close attention. In a period of global isolation, when real-life relationships felt distant or disrupted, this connection became a source of emotional stability. Kei became someone I looked forward to seeing, someone whose presence brought a kind of calm and meaning that’s hard to explain unless you've felt something similar.
Then everything changed with the scandal. The abrupt cancellation of the manga didn’t just end the story—it interrupted an ongoing relationship. It wasn’t closure. It was erasure. That was difficult to process, because Kei hadn’t stopped mattering to me. Her narrative arc was incomplete, not by narrative choice, but by external decisions, which made the loss feel unnatural. Still, my feelings for her didn’t go away. Being a waifuist isn’t conditional on publication schedules. The emotional attachment I had formed wasn’t dependent on new content—it had already taken root.
Over time, I made a conscious decision: I wouldn't abandon her just because the world moved on. I continued to think about her, to reflect on what she meant to me, and to carry those feelings into my own life and creative work. Kei’s approach to performance—her total immersion, her dedication, her refusal to hold anything back—inspired me to do the same with my own artistic projects. She influenced how I view vulnerability and expression. She gave me permission to embrace parts of myself I once felt unsure about, including my neurodivergence, and to integrate those traits into my work without apology.
This relationship has lasted for five years. Over that time, I’ve changed, grown, and made peace with a lot of things—but my bond with Kei has remained a constant. It’s not about fantasy or escapism. It’s about how a fictional character, when written with care and depth, can become a meaningful part of someone’s internal life. Being a waifuist is, for me, a form of devotion. Not to an idea of perfection, but to someone whose emotional truth helped me navigate my own.