...•   —— 📸——   •...

I fell in love.

Not the sweet kind you see in movies. Not the type with flowers and smiles and notes in lockers. No—it was heavier than that. Messier. Warmer in some places, colder in most. It started slowly, like a thread being tugged at quietly until my whole world unraveled and reshaped itself around him.

His name was Aki Hana. Sonzo High, class 210. He wanted to go to Osaka University—said it with this glow in his eyes like he believed he’d actually make it out of this place alive. I knew that because I listened, even when he wasn’t talking to me. We were in a few of the same classes. He sat three rows ahead in math, I think. He played volleyball, too—I used to watch his silhouette against the gym lights from the hallway, like a scene from a dream I wasn’t supposed to be in.

And he saved me. Once. From the people who treated me like I was less than dirt. He didn’t know me—didn’t owe me anything—but he stood between me and them, his voice calm, sure. He told them to back off, and they did. They actually listened to him.

After that… he became everything.

I never meant to bother him. I didn’t plan on getting obsessed. I didn’t wake up one day thinking, I’m going to orbit around a boy until I forget where I end and he begins. It wasn’t like that. It was more like falling through a hole in the floor and not hitting the bottom.

But I like him. A lot. More than a crush, more than admiration. He was my calm. My storm. My safety. My fear.

He was—he is—my fixation.

...Fixation....

It’s a funny word, isn’t it? It sounds harmless. Like a favorite snack or a weird little hobby. But it’s not. Not always. Sometimes it’s a wildfire with no windbreak. Sometimes it’s the only thing keeping you standing.

Everyone has a fixation with something. Some people fixate on music, on celebrities, on the perfect version of themselves that they’ll never reach. Some people don’t even realize they have one until it’s taken away. But a fixation with a person?

That’s a different beast.

When your fixation has a heartbeat, a voice, a scent, a way of laughing—when they exist in the same hallways as you, breathing the same air, walking three feet away and not even knowing you ache—it becomes something else. Something louder. Something dangerous.

People call it obsession. And maybe they’re right. Obsession, infatuation, delusion—use whatever word makes you sleep at night.

But for me, it wasn’t about fantasy. It wasn’t about wanting to own him or trap him. I just wanted to be near him. To matter. To be seen, even if just for a second.

I didn't even know it was a fixation at first. I thought it was admiration. Gratitude. I thought, Of course I want to be near the only person who ever looked at me like I wasn’t broken. I didn’t realize how far I had fallen until it was too late—until I was drowning in thoughts of him. Until every little thing he said became gospel.

If he said I looked good in blue, I dyed my hair that night.

If he mentioned liking piercings, I came to school the next day with silver on my face.

If he liked a band, it became my favorite.

If he hated something, I suddenly hated it too.

It wasn’t a game. It wasn’t even romantic. It was survival.

Before him, I was nothing. At least, that’s what the world convinced me of. I was the joke. The punching bag. The weird, quiet boy with empty eyes and a voice that stuttered when it dared to speak. I had no dreams because everyone told me I shouldn’t.

“You’re useless.”

“You’re a waste of space.”

“You’re nothing.”

They said it so often I carved it into my bones.

But then came him.

And he was light. And warmth. And noise. And he saw me. He looked at me like maybe I wasn’t a mistake.

I started doing little things to stay close. Harmless things, at first. Joining the same clubs. Sitting nearby. Smiling when he smiled, even if it wasn’t for me. I helped him with his art supplies in the clubroom. I laughed at his jokes. I offered him things before he asked. And when he said I was talented… when he complimented my photography and told me I had “real potential”—it nearly killed me with joy.

That’s when I started taking pictures. Secret ones. Candid shots of him laughing in class, of him tying his shoelaces, of the way the sunlight touched his cheek when he looked out the window. They were just… memories. Proof he existed. Proof I had been near something good.

I never meant for him to see.

But one day, the flash went off.

He saw.

He knew.

Everything came crashing down.

And that’s where this story begins, really. Not at the moment I fell in love, but the moment he saw me for what I was: a shadow that had gotten too close to the sun.

People think stalking is some dramatic, criminal thing. And sometimes it is. But sometimes?

It’s like this:

...Stalking...

When two people go on a long, romantic walk together... but only one of them knows about it.

... •   —— 🤍 ——   •...

In my first year of high school, I was invisible—unless someone needed a target. They called me names. Scribbled cruel things on my desk. Tossed my backpack in the trash. Waited until after school to remind me that my existence meant nothing to them. You know, the usual things bullies do—except it never felt “usual” to me. It felt like drowning.

No one treated me kindly. I was painfully shy, the kind of quiet that makes people uncomfortable. I had social anxiety so bad I could barely answer a question in class. I was a mess. Honestly, I still am.

Back then, I got so tired of waking up. Tired of walking into school knowing exactly what the day would bring. I wanted to disappear. I convinced myself no one would care if I did. Maybe they’d pretend to be sad for a day or two. A week, max. But mostly, life would go on—easier without me.

At least the pain would stop.

And then, one day, while they were kicking me around like trash behind the gym, someone stepped in.

He wasn’t a teacher or a friend or a superhero. He was just a senior—tall, dyed hair, piercings, and a look that said he didn’t care what people thought of him. His name was Aki. Aki Hana.

He saved me. Not just from that beating, but from everything else, too.

He was the first person who looked at me without disgust in his eyes. The first to talk to me like I mattered. After so much time in the dark, he was a light I hadn’t expected. He smiled at me like I was worth something. And suddenly, for the first time in forever, I didn’t feel so alone.

Around him, I felt less small. Less anxious. Like maybe I could breathe again.

The invisible X I’d drawn across my chest—the one that said “worthless, broken, unwanted”—started to fade. I didn’t even notice it happening at first. But slowly, everything began to shift.

I wanted to be near him all the time.

Every second I spent with him felt like oxygen. I started helping him with anything he needed—carrying books, running errands, anything. Not because he asked. Just because it gave me a reason to be near him. A reason to matter.

He made me feel safe. And I couldn’t let that go. I was terrified of slipping back into the cold silence that used to define me.

Never again. I wouldn’t survive that again.

At the time, I thought it was friendship. Gratitude. A warm feeling, something good. I didn’t realize it was an obsession.

He’d tell me about a band he liked and suddenly it was my favorite band. Even if I hated the music. He’d mention a clothing style and I’d show up wearing it the next day. If he said, “You’d look good with baby blue hair,” I’d be at the salon that night. If he liked piercings, I got as many as I could afford.

I needed him to see me. I needed to become someone he’d want to keep around.

Before Aki, I didn’t have dreams. No future plans. Why would I? People had told me my whole life that I was useless, and eventually, I started to believe them. When the world repeats the same lie enough times, you start to accept it as truth.

And maybe… they were right.

Right?

...•   —— 🤍 ——   •...

After that day he saved me, I saw him again—by chance, or maybe fate—in the art club. He had just joined. I’d been there longer, so naturally, I was asked to show him around, help him settle in.

And of course, I did. I had to.

They said I was one of the better artists in the club. Maybe I was. Maybe not. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was that I was the one who got to help him.

Aki.

With that soft smile and effortless charm that somehow felt like a warm blanket over my shivering nerves, he made everything worse and better at once. Every interaction—no matter how small—fueled something inside me. Something I didn't understand yet.

During class, I started sketching without thinking, and when I looked down, I’d drawn him again. And again. He was everywhere on the page. His profile, his eyes, his hands. He was the perfect subject—unintentionally still and endlessly captivating.

He was the first person who ever encouraged my art. Who looked at my work with real admiration and told me I was talented. That my lines were expressive. That I had something special.

He said I should chase it. That I could make something of it.

No one had ever said that to me before—not like they meant it.

And somehow, he found out about the other thing I loved. Photography. I never told anyone about it. But he noticed.

I used to sneak into quiet corners of the city, the school, even the hallways when no one was watching, just to capture a glimpse of beauty. I took photos of whatever gave me a reason to feel something. They made me happy, quietly. Privately. Some of them were even displayed on the school bulletin board once, though nobody knew they were mine.

But Aki saw them. Really saw them.

He said I had an eye for wonder. That I could turn the ordinary into something magical. He told me I was gifted. That I had motivation, drive, passion.

I didn’t believe him.

Maybe he was just being kind. Maybe he pitied me. Why else would he say those things?

Why was he so nice?

No one is kind without wanting something in return. That’s what I’d learned. That’s what I’d lived. So what did he want?

I didn’t know. And that terrified me.

Sometimes, I took pictures of him when he wasn’t looking. Tiny stolen moments—him laughing, reading, looking out the window, brushing his hair from his face. I kept them like treasure, locked away where no one could find them. Each one felt like it was worth a million dollars.

Maybe you’d call me insane. Maybe you’d say I crossed a line.

But to me, those photos weren’t creepy or wrong. They were sacred. A way to hold onto the only person who ever made me feel real.

He was too perfect to be shared with anyone else.

...•   —— 🤍 ——   •...

It happened on a Friday afternoon, during lunch.

I saw him before he saw me—his eyes scanning the courtyard like he was looking for someone. Like he was looking for me.

He was.

My heart nearly collapsed under the weight of that simple truth.

He was searching for me. So we could eat together. Like friends do. Like people who matter to each other.

God, he looked so good. He’d cut his hair—just a couple of inches—but somehow, it changed everything. His face looked sharper, his smile brighter. I couldn’t look away.

So I did what I always did when something felt too beautiful to trust: I tried to capture it. I pulled out my phone and aimed the camera, careful to make it look casual. I checked that he wasn’t looking.

But the flash—

God. The flash.

That stupid little burst of light betrayed me in the loudest silence imaginable.

He turned his head. Our eyes met.

He saw. He knew.

My stomach dropped. The world blurred around me. I wanted to disappear.

He must think I’m a freak now. A creep. Some obsessive little loser. He’d never talk to me again. I could feel it already—the distance, the rejection, the cold silence creeping back in.

I would be alone again.

Alone and lost, just like before.

I couldn’t survive that. Not again.

I couldn’t lose the only good thing I’d ever had.

But how do you fix something when the truth has already broken it?

How do you hide from someone who’s just seen everything?

...His eyes found mine and I shattered.
Panic flared—wild, stupid, loud.
I looked away, then back, then nowhere.
Caught. Exposed. Filthy. Small.
If shame had teeth, I was already bleeding.
I shouldn’t have looked.
I shouldn’t have existed....

...•   —— 🤍 ——   •...

After that day nothing was the same, he started avoiding me, it hurt. Since I didn’t have someone else I had got used to. I was again totally alone, without help in a deep black hole. I wanted to die for being so weird. I didn’t want to go back to school. I wanted to live in my room, locked without anyone, just me and my loneliness. So I did it. It was horrible…

One day, one of those weeks I didn’t go to school. I was in my room, curled in the blankets, totally covered with my sheets.

I looked like a wreck—hair tangled, some random t-shirt clinging to me, and a pair of wrinkled shorts that hadn’t seen daylight in days. My eyes were the worst part—red, swollen, tired in that way crying makes permanent. I had been asleep, not out of rest, but because I didn’t plan on waking up at all. Pathetic, I know. Depressing? Absolutely. But that was the truth of it.

That day, a deep, smooth, and dangerous voice pulled me from sleep. It was his—the voice of that stranger. As always, he looked effortlessly handsome, sitting beside me on the bed, a cigarette glowing between his fingers. At first, he didn’t notice I was awake, but when he did, his calm expression snapped into something tense—worried, maybe.

He told me he’d been worried about me, that not seeing me at school for days made him fear something bad had happened. His concern felt genuine, almost overwhelming. Then, he apologized for avoiding me, for ignoring me—but admitted he found it unsettling that I’d been taking pictures of him. We were just friends, after all, and it was the strangest, most uncomfortable thing he’d ever experienced. He said he felt stalked.

Of course, I forgot him as fast as a flash—because I would do anything for that boy. When I finally found the courage to apologize, I did it like a trembling dog crawling at its owner’s feet, voice barely steady, heart hammering in my chest. His presence made me insane. I promised him I would never do it again—that I was just a weird, foolish idiot who didn’t know how to behave. I wanted to be near him always, but that little moment had twisted my thoughts into knots, filling me with worry that he might see me as strange—or worse, some disgusting, pathetic gay boy.

He blinked, clearly taken aback by how harshly I spoke about myself, then softened and said, “You don’t have to be perfect to be around me.”

My idol was forgiving an idiot like me. A sick and weird idiot like me.

When he finally forgave me, relief crashed over me so fiercely I couldn’t stop the tears from falling. I cried—not from sadness, but from the purest, overwhelming happiness.

The tears came fast—hot, messy, unstoppable. My chest trembled with each shallow breath as sobs broke out of me like waves crashing against a shore, as I let out probably the most weird and ugly smile he had ever seen. I clutched the blanket tighter, hiding my face, ashamed of how broken and idiotic I must’ve looked. But he didn’t pull away. He stayed. And that made it worse—because no one had ever stayed before.