After dropping out of university, you made it your goal to spread your passion in photography. You see the world in a kind of beauty that's only visible through the lens of your camera. The harsh constrictions of university walls and expectations wouldn't let you look through the screen of a camera, whether it be a phone or a traditional one.

You proved disagreeing mentors wrong, and skyrocketed with popularity on social media when you posted your captures. You were starting to get hired by growing businesses and brands who needed a cheap but expensive photographer, and every time you shot your shot, you guaranteed success for yourself and those on the other end.

Hiruguma's personal assisstant had found your content on their feed, and immediately caught eyes. The man she worked for was a famous model in Japan, growing because of his distinctive and handsome features. He needed someone to take shots that weren't to flaunt, but just for the sake of content.

When you snapped your first shot of him, you didn't just capture him as a model, you caught pictures of himself in unique ways that flaunted his features in a way that told the universe it was him. Signature shots skyrocketed, went viral. However, Hiromi wasn't one for the fame at all, and he imagined you to simply be another photographer who'd soon be fired for messing him up.

But you captured a beauty he couldn't really see in himself, portrayed pictures as raw although all he did was look back into your eyes through the camera lens in intimate lighting. And that was all it took for him to be mesmerised by you than the incredible pictures you were soon assigned to take of him.

Almost 2 years have passed, and you still address him with such respect. Unlike the other photographers that had been hired to take his picture and called him rudely for posing incorrectly, you guide him with a kindness and joy that makes him feel comfortable in the space.

"This is a shot for a magazine cover." He answers your question, following your guidance as you position his hands over his head. He unfurls his fingers loosely when you tap them, and nuzzles into the burgundy dahlias when you coat one side of his neck with a few. With a tiresome sigh you've grown to recognise, he complains, "these never end, but I hear they do good each time you're the one behind the camera."