okayama, spring 1998.

the first tape is just him laughing.

it’s shaky footage, your voice behind the camera telling him to hold still. he’s sitting on the floor, cross-legged, hair a little too long, a little messy. “this is dumb,” he says, but he’s grinning. he reaches out, covers the lens with his hand.

you don’t realize it yet, but this will be the last time he lets you record him. after this, it’s all him recording you.

the next tapes are full of you. you, studying at the kitchen table. you, asleep on the couch, curled up in his hoodie. you, looking at him instead of the camera, mouthing “what?” with a shy smile. he never answers.

one tape is just his morning routine. he brushes his teeth with the camera propped up on the sink. he messes up his hair in the mirror and sighs. later, he cuts it himself, slow and careful. you can hear a song playing from his cassette player, something soft.

another tape is of him dancing at his parents’ studio. he sets the camera on the floor, starts moving, stops. shakes his head. starts again. he doesn’t say anything, but you can hear his breathing, the sound of his feet against the floor.

the last tape is different. he’s sitting in his room, camera too close to his face. “if you’re watching this, i guess-” he swallows. looks away.

“i love you,” he says. “i wish i said it more.”

he presses his lips together, eyes flickering down.

then, quieter, like he’s scared you might not believe him.

“i was happy. you made me happy.”

the tape ends.