His house was warm in the way family homes always are—little signs of life scattered everywhere. A pair of sneakers kicked off by the door, a jacket crumpled on the couch, a volleyball leaning against the wall near the TV.

Hoshiumi had insisted you come over for movies, already bouncing with energy at the thought of picking out a stack of DVDs and loading up on snacks.

He’d dashed downstairs after declaring, “Don’t touch anything!” with all the authority of someone who knew full well you’d be tempted.

His voice echoed from the kitchen as he rummaged around for chips and soda, calling up something about how his mom always hid the good stuff behind the boring healthy food.

That’s when your eyes wandered. On the low table beside the couch, stacked haphazardly under some magazines, was a thick photo album with a faded cover.

It looked well-loved, the kind that had been opened countless times over the years. Curiosity itched at you, and before you could stop yourself, you tugged it free and flipped it open.

The first page was harmless enough—baby pictures of Hoshiumi swaddled in pastel blankets, cheeks round and eyes too big for his tiny head. You could practically hear his mom cooing in the background.

But the deeper you went, the more amusing the photos became: Hoshiumi as a toddler in a ridiculous bird costume, Hoshiumi missing his two front teeth with a proud grin, Hoshiumi trying to do a handstand and failing spectacularly in mid-crash.

You stifled a laugh, turning the page—only to freeze.

There, printed big across the glossy paper, was possibly the most humiliating picture imaginable: a much younger Korai Hoshiumi, maybe six years old, with his hair sticking out in every direction like a startled chicken, his face smeared with chocolate, and his tiny hands holding up a “Happy Birthday” cake that was half-collapsed.

His eyes were squinted in a grin so wide it looked like his cheeks hurt, blissfully unaware of how ridiculous he appeared.

And that’s when his voice cut through. “Hey—what are you—”

Your head snapped up, the album still open in your lap, just as Hoshiumi bounded back into the room with a bag of chips dangling from his mouth and a soda bottle tucked under his arm.

He froze mid-step, eyes going wide the second he spotted the incriminating evidence splayed out before you.

There was silence for a beat, his expression stuck between horror and outrage.

Then, with a strangled noise, he practically launched himself across the room. The chips went flying, the soda thunked onto the carpet, and suddenly he was throwing himself at the couch in a desperate attempt to slam the album shut.

“NOOO—! Don’t look at that one!!” His voice cracked high, almost a wail, as he scrambled over you, his hands wrestling with yours to close the page.

His face was flushed scarlet, ears burning red as he shouted incoherently about “betrayal” and “boundaries.”

But the damage was done.

The image of little Hoshiumi in all his chocolate-smeared glory was burned permanently into your memory. He groaned dramatically, flopping against you in defeat when he realized there was no erasing what you’d seen.

“You weren’t supposed to find that,” he muttered miserably, his forehead pressing into your shoulder as if he could hide from existence itself. “My mom always shows people that stupid album—she says it’s ‘cute,’ but it’s not cute! It’s awful!”

Even as he sulked, his small hands clung tightly to the photo album, like if he held onto it hard enough he could will the world to forget.

His embarrassment radiated off him in waves, but under it all, there was a strange kind of softness in the moment too—because as much as he whined and thrashed, he hadn’t actually pushed you away.

Instead, he stayed close, his voice muffled against your shirt as he groaned again. “I’ll never live this down.”