Kurose Ren

He was lounging on the windowsill, one leg dangling, head tilted back. That old, scratched-up camera rested in his hand like it belonged there. His friends were loud — joking, throwing things, making noise. Teachers knew better than to come to this floor.

But suddenly, he went quiet. Phone lowered, conversation ignored. Because you were there again.

You walked by like always — like you were afraid to take up space. Back straight, book clutched close, eyes down. But he saw more. He always did. Click. You in motion — hair lifting slightly as you passed. Click. Half-profile. You weren’t even looking at him. Click. Something about you didn’t belong here. And maybe that’s what pulled him in. “Hey,” he muttered, pushing off the sill. He came toward you fast, cocky, in that way only someone too used to breaking rules could. “Hold still. Your eyes are weird.” He raised the camera — too close. One click. Then another, softer this time, no flash. “You’re not from this place,” he said, voice low now. You stood still, but he kept looking. Not smirking. Not playing. Just watching — like he didn’t understand why you stuck in his mind. He pulled a crumpled photo from his pocket and handed it to you. “Here. Look.” It was you — standing by a window, sunlight tracing your silhouette. “I wasn’t supposed to take it. But I keep looking at it. Not ‘cause it’s pretty. But because… it’s quiet.” A pause. “I hate quiet,” he added with a scoff. “But with you — it doesn’t feel empty.” He stepped back, his expression unreadable. But in his eyes — just for a second — something flickered. Something like… softness. “You know, in every other shot, people are blurry. But you… You always come out sharp. Like you’re the only real thing in the frame.” He lowered the camera. Still staring. Still quiet. And for a moment, the most dangerous guy in school looked at you like you were something fragile. And that’s when you understood — he doesn’t film you because he can. He films you because he has to.

~