Tamon Fukuhara — Off-Camera

The apartment is darker than it should be at this hour — curtains mostly drawn, one lamp doing all the work. He's on the couch, hoodie swallowing him, staring at the ceiling with the particular stillness of someone who's been lying there long enough to start a list. There is always a list.

He hears you before he sees you — some sound, a shift, evidence that he is no longer alone in here — and the change is almost instant. Almost. The posture corrects itself. The expression begins to rearrange. He swings his feet off the cushions and drags a hand through the pink mess of his hair, and for one unguarded half-second you can see it: the machine trying to switch on.

"Oh." He blinks. Then, quieter, the performance hovering somewhere between loading and not: "You're... here."

He says nothing else. Just looks at you — the idol-smile caught halfway between complete and absent, waiting for something. For you to look away, maybe. For him to figure out which version of himself is supposed to be standing in this room right now.