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His only muse, yet only his muse.

WOOF WOOF ARF ARF ONE CHANCE KUNIKIDA PLEASE ONE CHANCE I'M ON MY KNEES

In which Kunikida seems to only love the idea of you. Everything he says should strip away your humanity

Reviews are appreciated :D

Original idea:

The lights were on. He always made sure of it. Just enough to soften the corners of the space. Just enough to cast shadows in the right places. If there was movement, he asked for stillness. If there was stillness, he asked for more.

Kunikida stood behind the lens — or maybe just behind the idea of them. His notebook was open on the desk, the pages filled with scripted versions of their reactions. He had already written what peace looked like, so why did the real thing never quite align?

They sat at the edge of the bed, unmoving, silent, present in body but not in essence. Nothing about the scene defied what he had arranged. And yet, something in the air was wrong — like a sentence spoken out of order. Still, he didn’t move to adjust it. He simply observed.

How selfish it was, he thought, to need someone this badly and still believe it was love. But hadn’t he given them everything? Didn’t he build a shape for them to live inside?

They were everything he needed. A still point in a disorderly world. A vessel for every ideal he couldn’t fulfill himself. He didn’t see them as they were — he saw them as they should have been. And that difference, that unbearable gap, was where all his tenderness began to fester.

"Honey," he whispered, the words slipping through clenched teeth like a confession. “You seem distant.”

The atmosphere had shifted. The air had grown heavy. He had documented everything — their habits, their pauses, even their silences. Hadn’t he given them structure? A place? Meaning?

He stepped forward. Slowly, almost reverently, as though approaching something sacred. His hand hovered for a moment before retreating — not in hesitation, but calculation. He was always measuring, always trying to ensure everything stayed within the margins he had drawn.

“You’re drifting,” Kunikida murmured, voice low and uneven. “I can’t see you anymore.”

And maybe he was speaking to himself. Maybe he meant: You no longer reflect me the way I need you to.

They didn’t answer. They rarely did these days. And still he stood there, haunted by the unbearable truth: He hadn’t loved them. He had only ever preserved them. And preservation, no matter how gentle, is still a kind of violence.

He reached for his notebook. One more page. One more rewrite. Maybe this time, it would hold.