chapter 6: camera chronicler 📸
your notebook flops open lazily as you bask in the soft golden spill of afternoon sun filtering through the tall windows. it stretches across your desk like a warm sigh, kissing your skin with that midweek tired warmth.
pen between your fingers. thoughts somewhere tangled in yesterday. maybe the day before, too.
you woke up feeling just a little bit lighter this morning–thanks to that talk with hiori.
something about the way he listened, really listened, left space where your panic usually sat. it didn’t fix everything, but it cracked the shell of your exhaustion just enough for you to breathe again.
hiori sits beside you, textbook open and highlighter in hand.
his movements are neat, soft, gentle and deliberate. he’s always like that-–always moving with such intention-–like everything should be carried out with utmost importance.
you watch as he turns the page, the highlighter squeaking softly across the lines. there’s a tiny crease between his brows when he’s focused.
kurona yawns quietly from your other side, lips gently resting on the eraser of his pencil, reading through the chapter like the words are drifting off the page.
you hesitate, then lean slightly toward hiori.
“hey,” you murmur, voice quiet like it might shatter the air around you.
he glances up, dark cyan eyes locking onto your (e/c) ones with that same gentle steadiness that calmed your storm last night.
“thanks again,” you say, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “for, y’know…the other night.”
he doesn’t answer right away. just closes his book, placing his highlighter between the pages like a bookmark.
“you feeling a little bit better?”
“...yeah.” you nod, giving him a small smile that almost fools even you. “or at least trying to.”
then kurona, voice soft and simple:
“trying’s better than pretending.”
you glance at him—blinking
and then back at hiori, who offers the smallest smile. the quiet kind that says “i see you.”
maybe this is what it’s like…to be known in quiet ways.
the bell rings. a dull screech through the speaker system.
as class wraps up, you start to pack your things. hiori gives you a small smile, you smile back, slipping your textbook into your bag.
you’re halfway to the door when something tugs gently at the hem of your uniform sweater.
kurona. cheeks a little pink, eyes shy but sure.
he holds out a small paper bag, folded neatly at the top.
“open your hands,” he says, barely above a whisper. “it’s for you.”
you blink. then smile–soft, genuine, a little surprised.
you extend your palms, and he drops the tiny bag into them.
inside: your favourite candy.
“seriously?” you say, a little laugh in your voice. “thank you, kurona.”
he shrugs like it’s no big deal, but you can tell by the way his ears are a bit red that he’s happy you smiled..
“see you later,” he says, and you both part ways in the hallway current—fingers still curled gently around the candy like it’s the sweetest kindness anyone’s offered all day.
it’s lunchtime, and the cafeteria is already bursting at the seams-–chatter echoing off every wall, trays clattering, laughter pitched too high for your nerves to tolerate. the fluorescent lights feel too hard, the noise too much. you stand at the entrance, frozen in place, as a pulse begins to build behind your eyes.
your phone is already in your hand before you fully register the thought,
a white lie. technically true, but not the whole story. there were assignments waiting for you, sure-–but really, you just needed a moment to escape. a pause. a second to breathe without the weight of being perceived.
tucking your phone away, you grip your bento tighter and slip out of the cafeteria unnoticed. your footsteps echo softly as you climb the back stairwell, each step peeling you away from the chaos below.
the rooftop is your little secret haven—a forgotten space where the wind carries clarity, and the sky feels wide enough to breathe in.
the metal door creaks open, you find your way to your little spot hidden away but you stop short.
he’s sitting with his back against the wall, legs stretched out comfortably, black headphones over his ears. from the side profile alone, you recognize him instantly: rin itoshi. his gaze is tilted skyward, watching clouds like they’re trying to say something he can’t quite hear.
he doesn’t look at you. doesn’t flinch. just stays perfectly still, like silence is his mother tongue.
you hesitate in your place, awkward and startled. “oh–sorry. i didn’t know anyone else came up here. i’ll leave—”
you pause, confused. “...don’t what?”
his voice is flat. quiet. almost bored. but he doesn’t look away from the skyline.
you hesitate in the doorway, still gripping your bento box like it’s a shield.
“you can sit,” he says again, this time a little softer. “if you want.”
you glance at him–expression unreadable, posture calm but not cold. there’s no invitation in his voice, but no resistance either. just…space. offered gently.
you nod once and quietly make your way to your usual corner, settling down a few feet away. the breeze curls around you like a sigh. for the first time all day, the world doesn’t feel like it’s pressing in.
for a few long minutes, neither of you say a word.
you unwrap your bento slowly, chopsticks clacking as you pick at cold rice and tamagoyaki. somewhere between the bites,you notice it–the faint sound bleeding from rin’s headphones. a low, hazy melody. dreamlike. hollow and aching.
“...wait. is that cigarettes after sex?”
he lifts a brow—barely. his gaze shifts, just a sliver, before flicking back to the sky.
you nod mid-chew, swallowing quickly. “now that i think about it…you do give off that ‘haunted-by-my-own-thoughts’ energy. CAS definitely suits you.”
a sound leaves him—somewhere between a huff and a scoff. you can’t tell if he’s offended or amused.
“didn’t think someone like you would ditch lunch for a rooftop pity party.”
you blink. “someone like me?”
“y’know. all sunshine and sweaters. the type who usually eats surrounded by people who talk too loud.”
your lips tug into a smirk. “guess you’re not totally wrong.”
another beat of silence. a breeze rolls past, rustling your sleeves and tugging gently at the corners of your hair.
“they’re good, though,” you murmur. “the band, i mean. they’ve got this…soft, personal vibe. kinda like background noise that knows all your secrets. good for studying, crying, or falling asleep.”
“maybe that’s why i like them,” rin says quietly, eyes still tracing clouds like they’re constellations only he can read.
you glance over. his profile is sharp in the sunlight, cut from glass and shadow. but there’s something about him—a stillness that isn’t cold. just…distant. guarded. like a secret half-spoken.
“yeah,” you say softly, almost to yourself. “i listen to them a lot.”
that makes him look at you. not a full turn—just a quiet flick of his eyes.
you chew the inside of your cheek, words falling a little slower now.
“i guess it just…helps sometimes. having something quiet. something that doesn’t ask questions.”
rin hums, barely audible. but they he says,
minutes pass like that—gentle, wordless. you both just exist. no expectations. no performance. just two people, quietly breathing in the same slice of sky.
“you can come back,” he says. “here. if you need to.”
he shrugs-–barely a motion, more like a thought he let slip. “this place isn’t mine. not really.”
you stare at him, surprised by the offer. by the softness tucked in between his usual silence.
“thanks,” you murmur, voice a little steadier. “i might.”
rin slips his headphones back on.
you don’t say anything else. just let the wind comb through your hair and the warmth of the sun press against your skin. somehow, the silence with him doesn’t feel lonely. it feels…understood. like this rooftop is a pause button in a world that never stops spinning.
not when he lets you in, even just a little.
your shoulders still feel light from the wind on the rooftop, the echo of soft music and even softer company humming in your bones. for once, your thoughts aren’t screaming. just a quiet buzz beneath your skin.
the school hallways though? a completely different story.
it’s the tail-end of lunch and the corridors are swarming. students flow like currents, brushing past one another in messy waves. lockers slam open and shut in rapid rhythm. sneakers squeak on polished floors. someone’s blasting music from their phone despite the “no devices” sign plastered on every wall.
the air is thick with the scent of miso soup, cafeteria grease, and those overpriced bentos from the vending machines that never quite taste like food.
you exhale, weaving through the chaos like a shadow, dodging a group of first-years and side-stepping a spilled juice box like you’ve done this dance a thousand times.
and just as you’re about to dip into your next class—
a voice like a firecracker. heads turn. conversations stop.
your soul physically LEAVES your body.
“bro…” someone mutters, snickering nearby.
“why’s he always so loud–?”
shidou ryusei: six feet of athletic menace. all wild blond chaos and a grin-too-wide charm, shouldering through the crowd like it owes him money. he throws an arm around your shoulder without warning, yanking you sideways into his orbit like a human satellite.
you half-collapsed under his weight. “get offff,” you groan, trying to straighten your spine. “you’re heavy.”
“you’re dramatic,” he huffs, hair bouncing as he leans closer. “it feels like i haven’t seen you in dayssss. did you replace me already? i barely see my cuddle buddy anymore.”
your face erupts into flames.
you glance around, horror blooming. yep–definitely getting side-eyed now. one girl gasps. someone else whispers:
“did he just say cuddle buddy?? are they dating?”
mortified, you elbow him in the ribs. hard. he barely flinches.
“stop saying that in public,” you hiss. “people are gonna think i’m your girlfriend or something…”
he gasps like you stabbed him in the chest with a mechanical pencil. gripping his uniform shirt with way too much flair, he staggers back a step.
“you are my girlfriend though. you’re my number one, baby~” he croons dramatically.
you shove his face away, palm smushed against his cheek. “you’re so annoying.”
he spins dramatically like you wounded him. then suddenly lights up.
“WAIT–aren’t you coming to my club today??’
you nod, brushing lint off your sleeve. “i’m photographing the basketball team, remember? yukimiya wants promo content for the talent board.”
shidou’s face practically ignites.
he grabs your shoulders and starts shaking you with the intensity of a child on a sugar rush.
“REALLY?! you’re gonna witness my SICK basketball skills?! you’re gonna fall for me all over again, i already know it!”
your soul does a full-body eject.
“GET OFF!” you smack at his arm. “my brain is literally rattling, shidou–if you don't stop i swear i’ll lose motor function…”
school is out for the day and the sun is beaming in the late afternoon. you take your time getting to the gymnasium.
you slip through the doors, quietly, letting them close behind you with a soft click. the air hits you instantly—thick with sweat, gatorade, and ambition. sneakers squeak against polished floors, and the sound of basketballs thudding in steady rhythm echoes like a heartbeat. warmups are already in full swing.
even with your cat-like movements—slow and quiet, barely noticeable—shidou recognizes you almost instantly. his face lights up “Y/NNNN! YOU’RE HERE!!” he runs over to you mid-drill, his excitement practically bouncing off the walls.
“finally decided to take some shots of your favourite player, huh?” he grins, flexing his arms dramatically.
“i’m here to take pictures of everyone, shidou,” you deadpan. “not just you.”
as you’re still bickering with shidou-–who’s somehow managed to turn “photography” into “flirt and flex hour”—the rest of the basketball team begins to trickle over.
karasu. oliver. otoya. yukimiya.
faces you know now. not just names. not just uniforms.
not strangers. not anymore.
and that realization feels like more of a relief than you expected. it settles somewhere behind your ribs—quiet, warm, grounding. taking photos with people you actually know? people you don’t have to perform around?
your fingers tighten around your camera strap, your shoulders squaring a little more than before. that flutter of nerves in your chest is still there—but it’s lighter now. more like a dance than a storm. ever since the feedback on your first post, your confidence has grown, inch by inch.
you glance up just as oliver strolls over, towel slung casually around his neck like he’s in a GQ ad. his grin is practiced but playful, eyes flickering over you with that signature ease.
glad to see you again,” he drawls. “so what do you think—should i start posing now, or wait until you fall for me mid-shot?”
otoya laughs, elbowing oliver with that effortless grin of his.
“you gotta let her breathe, man.” he teases, then turns to you, green eyes gleaming like he’s got something up his sleeve.
“though…you did say you wanted lots of pictures today. i’ve been practicing my good side.” he flashes a wink.
you raise a brow, sliding the cap off your lens with a small click. “right…” you murmur, deadpan, but the corner of your mouth quirks up just a little.
off to the side, karasu doesn't say much.
he takes a slow sip from his water bottle, gaze cool and unreadable beneath dark lashes. sharp. steady. calculating.
and somehow that single glance lingers longer than the others’ full conversations.
yukimiya steps forward next—his presence calm, composed, like always. he smells faintly of citrus and cologne, soft and clean and oddly grounding.
“i’ve been really looking forward to this,” he says, voice smooth but sincere. “your photos last time were incredible.”
you blink, heat rising gently to your cheeks.
“oh—thank you,” you mumble, fidgeting with your camera strap. “i’ll…try to get some good ones today too.”
the coach walks over not long after, greeting you with a warm, easy smile.
he’s middle-aged—graying at the temples, deep lines etched into his face from years of shouting across gym floors. but his eyes still twinkle, like he believes in miracles that happen at half-court and buzzer-beaters that defy gravity.
“thanks for coming today,” he says, voice warm and a little raspy.
“the boys have been buzzing all week. i swear you’re the reason why they’re so hyped today.” he chuckles, glancing over at the group.
shidou launches himself off the bleachers, mid-flip, limbs everywhere.
“YAHHHH! DID YOU SEE THAT??? I’M AERIAL!”
yeah…maybe a little too hyped.
the coach sighs, rubbing a hand over his face like this is just another thursday.
but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
the whistle blows. practices starts. and so do you.
the gym springs to life in an instant.
squeaks of sneakers against glossy hardwood, the thud of basketballs hitting the floor like heartbeats, fast and rhythmic. laughter ricochets off the walls. shouts fly mid-pass. callouts bounce high off the ceiling beams like they’re chasing the rafters.
not just from the heat, but from the energy.
from the rush that pulses through everyone like static caught in skin.
you take a step back, fingers curling around your camera strap. it settles against your chest like a familiar weight.
the chaos dulls to a hum—
just you, the camera, and the rhythm of movement.
you catch shidou mid-air, arms outstretched in one of his ridiculous jump shots. his face is lit with boyish joy, and explosive light, limbs wild, unfiltered.
oliver spins the ball on one finger, that smug grin aimed at otoya like a weapon. he’s mouthing something cocky—you can’t hear it, but the smirk says enough.
otoya moves like he’s performing, not just playing–fluid, effortless, a grin tugging at his lips as he weaves through defenders. he pushes his bangs out of his eyes with a practiced flick, casually glancing toward the sidelines like he knows someone’s watching even if no one is.
then there’s yukimiya. graceful, like the game was choreographed just for him. clean passes, fluid pivots, not a single wasted step.
you find him through the lens.
and just like that, the rest of the world dulls to grayscale.
he’s not dancing like otoya. not soaring like shidou.
his game is sharp. grounded.
like he’s solving a puzzle no one else realizes is even there.
eyes narrowed deep in concentration, movements smooth but strategic, like chess played at high speed.
you adjust the focus without thinking.
he cuts across the court like he’s sketching something—invisible—every pivot, every glance, every breath meticulously placed.
he doesn’t need flash. he is the flash. the quiet burn in a room full of fireworks.
your fingers hover on the shutter.
you catch him in profile—jaw set, a sheen of sweat catching the gym lights like gold dust.
his shadow stretches across the court mid-turn, jersey clinging to the tension in his back.
his hand outstretched in a no-look pass, the corners of his mouth twitching with subtle satisfaction.
and for a moment—you forget how to breathe.
why does it feel so intimate?
it’s just sports. just movement. just…moments. right?
not in the loud dramatic way shidou is.
not in the flirtatious charm of otoya or oliver.
not in the gratefulness of yukimiya.
no—karasu captivates because he never asks for attention.
and somehow, you give it to him anyway.
you blink and bring the camera back up.
maybe he knows you’re watching.
because there’s a beat. a silver of a second, mid-practice, mid-motion—where karasu’s eyes flick toward you.
and you swear there’s a faint glint of amusement, like he’s caught you peeking.
your finger stills on the shutter.
your snap the photo anyway.
then shake yourself out of it.
light angles, you remind yourself. focus.
but your heart disagrees. it flutters like a moth in a jar.
because that wasn’t just a photo.
practice winds down with a sharp whistle and scattered echoes of bouncing basketballs. you lower your camera from your face, fingertips still tingling with adrenaline from the shots you just captured.
before you can dodge, you’re tackled by shidou.
he launches himself at your mid-run, his sweaty, overheated body practically folding you in half. you stumble, nearly face-planting, the weight of him dragging you into what can only be described as a death cuddle.
“did you see me?!” he practically yells in your ear. his smile could power a small city.
“ i was AMAZING, right? don’t lie. i totally carried.”
you groan beneath him, shoving at his shoulder.
“shidou. you were great. now please get off. i don’t wanna be marinated in your sweat.”
he gasps, one hand flying dramatically to his chest.
“huh? you want me even closer? babe just say the word—”
you shriek, smacking his arm, “GET. OFF.”
he finally rolls off, still pouting like a soaked golden retriever denied a hug.
a few of the boys snicker from the sidelines.
oliver strolls pass, casually sipping from a sports drink. “she’s not your mattress, shidou.” he laughs.
otoya cackles behind him. “he’s just mad because she wasn’t only taking pictures of him.”
that pulls your attention back. right. the photos.
you still have your camera looped around your neck.
and now—mulitple pairs of eyes are watching you.
yukimiya asks, gentle as always. like he’s asking for permission, not demanding proof.. “i’ve been looking forward to it.”
fingers tighten instinctively around the lens.
what if the lighting was off? what if—
before you can spiral too far, otoya bounces beside you, peeking over your shoulder.
“c’mon, don’t gatekeep your art~”
you sigh, long and a little dramatic.
“okay, okay…but no yelling if they’re ugly.”
you scroll through the preview screen, lifting the camera for them to see.
“holy crap—these are actually insane,”
oliver says, eyes squinting as he zooms in.
“yo, my skin’s glowing like i drink water and mind my business. do you airbrush people in real time or what?”
shidou practically screams.
“WAIT I LOOK SO SICK IN THAT ONE—SEND THAT TO ME—NO, SEND ME ALL OF THEM!”
you roll your eyes, but you’re grinning.
yukimiya smiles softy, voice calm and genuine.
“you’ve got a really strong eye for composition,” he says warmly. “you captured the rhythm of the game beautifully.”
you try to brush it off, heat rising to your cheeks.
“it’s not that serious…” you mumble, looking away. “i just got lucky with the lighting or whatever…”
that’s when karasu speaks up. quiet. calm.
“you should take yourself more seriously.”
you blink, looking up at him.
he’s watching you from a few steps away, arms crossed, expression unreadable—but not cold. his voice isn’t biting or sharp, just…honest. solid. like truth laid flat on the floor between you.
“you’re good,” he says plain and simple. “like—actually good.”
the words sink into your chest heavier than they should.
you’re not used to compliments sticking.
most just bounce off your skin before they have time to even mean anything.
but his—his lands. like it slipped through a crack in your self-doubt you didn’t even realize was showing.
you don’t know what to say. so you don’t say anything at all.
heart ticking a little too loud in your ears.
and maybe that’s enough for now.
the sun has dipped lower now.
golden hour kisses the school’s walls, and the pavement outside glows with warmth, like everything’s been dusted in soft amber.
you’re squished between shidou and otoya as you all shuffle down the hill toward the nearest corner store–cheap drinks, vending machines buzzing, neon lights flickering even though the sky hasn’t gone dark yet.
shidou’s hair is still damp from practice, clinging to his forehead as he walks beside you. he keeps bumping into your shoulder on purpose, occasionally singing your name like it’s the chorus to a pop song that only he knows.
otoya hums beside you, sipping something fizzy and purple.
without looking your way, he holds it out to you casually. “wanna taste? it’s grape.”
you give it one long stare. then him.
“...how many girls have you offered your drink to this week?”
he clutches his chest like you stabbed him. “whaaaat?! that’s so cold! it’s just a drink! a peace offering! a symbol of our unspoken bond!”
“pretty sure your last ‘symbol’ had lip gloss on the rim,” you mutter.
shidou cackles beside you. “she doesn't wanna taste your disease juice otoya.”
“y’all are fake,” otoya whines, cradling his soda like it’s emotionally wounded. “i’m the most romantic one here and no one appreciates my generosity.”
“you’re generous with mono,” you shoot back, dodging a flying straw wrapper he throws in defeat.
the corner store glows like a lantern as you approach, casting the sidewalk in a warm pulse of light. the air smells like fried food and bubblegum. something about it feels… lived-in. familiar.
yukimiya’s already at the front, cool and elegant as always, a basket balanced in one hand. it’s filled with sweet buns and chilled matcha. karasu walks beside him—hands tucked in his pockets, earbuds in, shoulders a little hunched from the wind. he hasn’t looked at you once.
meanwhile, oliver’s at the vending machine, beefing with it like it insulted his hair. “i swear i pressed milk tea! this isn't even remotely close—what is this?!”
“you’re pressing it like a grandma,” shidou calls out with unnecessary volume. “just give it here before you break it.”
“grandma?!” oliver gasps, scandalized. “you have old man knees!”
otoya snorts from beside you, tossing a wrapped sweet into your hands before grabbing two for himself. “you’re lucky,” he says with a grin. “i don’t usually share my snacks with just anyone.”
you raise a brow, unimpressed. “do you say that to all the girls you talk to?”
he pauses—then smiles, the corner of his mouth lifting like he’s been caught. “only the ones who make me look good in photos.”
you roll your eyes but pocket the candy anyway. he’s harmless. (mostly.)
and then, behind all the noise, laughter, and vending machine drama, he finally looks at you.
just a glance. barely a flicker.
it’s fleeting, but something about the glance makes your chest flutter. you remember how his voice dipped after practice, quiet but sincere:
“you should take yourself more seriously.”
you didn’t expect those words to stick.
and now, he’s looking at you like he meant it. like he still means it.
there’s no smile. no smirk. just the quiet weight of his gaze—calculated, unreadable, but not unkind.
and then he’s gone again, gaze turning back to the storefront, shoulders brushing yukimiya’s like static electricity. a quiet retraction.
you trail after the others as they push through the glowing doors, the sound of laughter and vending machine buttons mixing with the rustle of snack wrappers and shidou’s protests about how grape is the superior candy flavour.
inside, the warmth wraps around you like an old hoodie. familiar. soft. safe.
but something in your chest is still buzzing. quietly. like the aftershock of being seen.
not watched. not stared at.
you brush your fingers across your camera strap like it’s a secret only you understand.
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