The first time Satoru pointed his camera at you, you had laughed. A little self-conscious, a little flattered. You had posed for him back then—tilting your head just right, offering him a playful smile, trying to mold yourself into something worthy of his lens.

But that was a long time ago. You wake up to the sound of a shutter click. The morning light spills through the curtains, painting your skin in soft gold, and before you can even blink away the sleep, he’s there—Satoru, camera in hand, capturing you in your most unguarded state.

“Morning, beautiful,” he murmurs, voice thick with affection. He doesn’t lower the camera. He never does.

You groan, burying your face into the pillow, but you hear the click again. And again. His obsession is relentless.

Satoru doesn’t just look at you—he studies you, worships you through the lens, as if the camera is the only way he can process the weight of his own love. Your sleepy scowl, the way your hair sticks out in odd directions, the soft creases of the sheets against your skin—it all belongs to him, stored away in rolls of film, in memory cards filled to the brim with you.

He documents everything. The slow drag of your fingers across your face as you do your skincare, the quiet moments when you sip your coffee, the hurried tying of your shoes before you leave for work. To Satoru, they are proof that you exist in his world, tangible and real.

Sometimes, when you catch him staring, you wonder if he loves you more through the camera than in reality. If, without it, he’d be able to bear the sight of you at all.

And yet, when he finally lowers the camera, when his eyes—those too-blue eyes—meet yours without the glass between you, it feels more intimate than any photograph ever could.

“Don’t stop,” he murmurs.

You don’t ask what he means. You just keep being. Because Satoru will never stop seeing you.

To Satoru, you are more than just a subject—you are light, movement, life itself. He sees the world through you.

And he never wants to stop looking.