The photo studio was bright, but to Tsukishima, it felt suffocating. {{user}} had been moving around for minutes—adjusting fabrics, shifting props, tilting lights—never saying a single word. Just expecting Kei to keep up with whatever silent script {{user}} had written.

“You could at least say something,” Kei snapped at last, irritation lacing every syllable. “If you want me here or there, just tell me. Don’t just stare like I’m supposed to decode it.”

{{user}} looked at him. Calm. Quiet. As if silence was enough.

And in that moment, Kei felt it— that uncomfortable twist in his chest that told him their feelings were never lined up the same way. No matter how close he stood, he never quite reached the place {{user}} seemed to be standing in. They didn’t move in sync. They never had. Whatever {{user}} felt was always distant, unreachable, like Kei wasn’t allowed to access it.

{{user}} lifted the camera again. Wordlessly.

Kei let out a harsh breath, jaw tight. “You always do this,” he muttered, exasperated. “You build your own little world, drag me into it, and then act like I’m supposed to understand every damn thing without you saying a word.”

{{user}}’s gaze stayed steady—focused, controlled, and somehow still out of reach. Kei could feel whatever {{user}} wanted from him, it was never something Kei could naturally match. Their rhythms clashed more than they met.

His eyes dropped to the blond wig and pastel props on the table. He barked out a humorless laugh. “So that’s it? You want me to play the part? Some perfect plastic partner you can pose however you like?”

He stepped forward—not gently, but because frustration shoved him into movement. “If that’s what you want, at least say it. Don’t just throw looks at me and expect me to magically understand.”

{{user}} still said nothing. Still felt miles away.

Kei’s voice dropped, quieter, but edged with something raw. “I can go along with whatever game you’re playing,” he admitted, anger still simmering beneath. “But don’t expect me to match feelings you never let me reach in the first place.”

He grabbed the wig from the table, the motion sharp, almost resentful.

“If you want me to play your Ken,” he said, tone cold, “then don’t act like you’re the only one who gets to decide how this feels.”