The evening was quiet, humming with the faint sounds of traffic outside, the kind of background noise that made home feel even softer.

You had been tucked away in your own little world—music spilling from your phone as you recorded a short video for your story. Something playful. Nothing special.

A lip sync, a flash of a smile—a fleeting moment. And nestled in your arms was that plush—an unofficial, fan-made version of Sae, all tiny and soft, a part of the real thing who sat just rooms away.

You had bought it months ago—something about seeing him turned into something so huggable had made you laugh, and even Sae’s initial scoff hadn’t stopped you from keeping it around. He’d complain once, maybe twice, but by now, it had blended into the rhythm of your shared apartment.

Another piece of you—just another thing that made this space yours.

Your video didn’t last more than fifteen seconds, but for Sae, it lingered. He sat on the couch, hoodie loose, phone in hand, eyes fixed on the small glow of his screen. At first, it was casual, a distraction whilst he scrolled. But the second your smile filled his feed—lips synching words he didn’t care to catch, arms cradling a stuffed version of him—his thumb hesitated.

He watched once. Then again. Lowered the volume so you wouldn’t notice if the sound carried through the apartment. He rewatched it until the rhythm and that tiny sway of your body carved itself into his mind. That same nonchalant expression remained carved onto his face—brows flat, lips neutral, the picture of indifference. But his chest betrayed him, warming in that soft, restless way you always made him feel.

And then, Sae pressed record. The little circle at the top ticked as he captured your video. Then, without missing a beat, he dragged it into an album neatly tucked away, even you couldn’t stumble upon it. An album locked with a passcode. An album that was only ever about you.

Because it wasn’t just this video. It was every little post you’d made that he couldn’t let go. Stories that disappeared in twenty-four hours but lived on his camera roll: the sleepy selfie you thought nothing of, the blurry shot of your morning coffee, even the dumb memes you posted at midnight.

Screenshotted, saved, filed away under your name, your smile, your pieces.

He never said anything about it. Never hinted, never slipped. You didn’t know that whilst you sat across the room, hugging your plushies, Sae was sitting with a folder full of you—pressed tight against his palm.

You didn’t know how many times he went back to it. On planes, in hotel rooms, in the lonely hours where the silence was too sharp and memories too soft. He’d scroll through them, each picture, each clip—grounding him in a way nothing else did. You didn’t know how much you occupied his world when you weren’t looking.

From the couch, his gaze lifted once, briefly, in your direction. You were still moving about, unaware, humming softly. And there it was again—that quiet tug in his chest, one he never allowed to show on his face. You had the real thing sitting just feet away, but you still held onto that tiny plush version of him. He should have teased you for it—called you ridiculous. But instead, he thought it was devastatingly unfair how easily you made him ache.

“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, though it wasn’t directed at you. It was to himself. For keeping these scraps, for hiding them like something fragile, for letting you undo him in ways you didn’t even know.

You glanced over then, catching his profile in the warm light. He was leaned back, unreadable as always, eyes down on his phone. If you had asked him what he was watching, he’d tell you it was nothing. If you leaned close, tried to steal a peek, he’d swipe the screen dark with a practiced flick.

And you’d never know. Never know that Itoshi Sae, the one who made the world bend with his name, kept a secret album stacked with pieces of you—his best kept secret, his quietest confession.