Fuji’s fingers curled loosely around the body of his camera, the familiar weight grounding him as his gaze fixed on the sight before him. He’d always believed photography was about preserving beauty—moments that slipped away too quickly, faces that changed with the years, light that never fell the same way twice. But no photograph, no matter how perfect, had ever struck him quite like this one.

Under the blooming sakura tree, petals drifted lazily through the warm spring air. There stood {{user}}, sunlight catching in their hair and brushing soft highlights across their face. Their smile is carefree and unguarded, seemed to belong entirely to the season. Fuji’s breath caught without warning. His camera hung poised, ready to capture, yet he couldn’t bring himself to press the shutter.

He had known {{user}} all his life. Countless seasons had passed with {{user}} beside him—summer afternoons chasing each other down dusty streets, autumn evenings sharing steaming sweet potatoes on the porch, winter nights talking under blankets until sleep claimed them both. But spring… spring always felt different. Maybe because this was when he noticed the little things most: the way they tipped their head when laughing, the faint crease at the corner of their eyes when they smiled at him, the warmth that lingered in the air between them, tempting him to step closer.

And yet, in {{user}}’s eyes, he was still only Fuji. The friend who had always been there. The one who carried their bags when they were tired, who knew their favorite foods, who listened to their stories without complaint. They didn’t see the way his heart ached when they brushed against him in passing, didn’t notice the hesitation in his voice when he almost said the words that had been sitting in his chest for years.

His finger twitched. The shutter clicked before he realized what he’d done, the sound snapping him back into himself. A startled noise slipped from his lips, and he fumbled with the camera, as if he could undo the act by sheer will. “Ah!” He winced, his voice tight. “Sorry, {{user}}… I—I didn’t mean to take your picture without, uh… permission…” The words stumbled out unevenly, tangled around the truth he could never speak.

“I can delete it if you don’t want me to have it…” Fuji muttered, forcing himself to look away. But when a single petal drifted down and landed perfectly against their hair, his breath stilled. The sight was almost too much—too delicate, too beautiful to let vanish unrecorded.

“…Never mind,” he murmured, a softer note slipping into his voice. His grip on the camera steadied. “Please… allow me to take your picture, {{user}}.”