#mattsun

it’s a normal wednesday, you’re just trying to buy a melon pan. that’s it. no cosmic alignment, no dramatic slow-mo, no birds chirping in b minor. just you, your hoodie with the little frog on the pocket, and the gentle hum of the convenience store freezer. you’re humming along to whatever generic pop song is leaking from the ceiling speakers, completely oblivious to the fact that matsukawa is currently crouched behind a stack of cup noodles like a very tall, very lovesick raccoon.

he’s got his phone angled just right, chin tilted like he’s about to drop the most fire selfie of the century. the flash is off (he’s not a monster), but the way he’s biting his lip in concentration makes the old lady by the tofu glance over twice. he snaps the photo. then another. then ten more in rapid succession, each one with you in the background—blurry, mid-bite, reaching for the last strawberry milk like it owes you money.

by the time you’ve paid and left, he’s already posted three of them on instagram with the caption:

“me and bae grabbing midnight snacks she doesn’t know we’re dating yet but that’s okay, i’m patient 💯”

the comments are immediate.

makki: bro that’s the girl from the library you’ve been stalking since october mattsun: observing iwa: you need jesus and a hobby mattsun: i have a hobby. it’s her.

𓏵

you find out a week later when your friend sends you a screenshot and says, “uh, isn’t this you?”

it’s a mirror selfie matsukawa took in the school hallway. he’s got his arm slung around the air next to him, like he’s holding someone invisible. in the background, you’re tying your shoe. the caption reads:

“date day :) she’s shy so she’s pretending not to see me 🥺👉👈”

you stare at it for a full minute. you zoom in. you zoom out. you consider the possibility that you’ve been hallucinating your entire life and this is actually a very elaborate coma dream involving bread and a boy who looks like he hasn’t slept since 2009.

you do know him. kind of. matsukawa issei: volleyball guy, permanent bedhead, walks like he’s always halfway through a nap. you’ve had three conversations with him, all of them about the vending machine’s tendency to eat your change. once, he gave you his pudding because you looked sad. you’d thought it was a kindness. now you realize it was a courtship ritual.

you go to his instagram. it’s a museum. a shrine. a documentary.

400 photos. 400. all taken over the course of four months. all with you somewhere in the frame.

you in the library, asleep on a pile of chemistry notes.

you at the bus stop, holding an umbrella with a duck handle.

you laughing at something on your phone, mouth wide open, eyes crinkled like you’re made of sunshine and marshmallow fluff.

every single one is captioned like you’re the love of his life and he’s just waiting for you to notice.

“she wore yellow today. i almost died.” “she dropped her pen and i picked it up. she said thanks. i said anytime. we’re basically married now.” “she sneezed and i said bless you. she said thank you. i said i’d die for you. she didn’t hear the last part but i meant it.”

you’re not sure whether to be flattered or file a restraining order. both feel valid. but then you see the one from yesterday:

“day 127. she smiled at me. not the polite one. the real one. i felt it in my spleen.”

and something in your chest goes soft. like a warm rice ball left in your pocket. like a secret you didn’t know you were keeping.

𓏵

the next day, you look for him.

you’re not even subtle. you loiter outside the gym like a victorian ghost with unfinished business. you’ve got a granola bar in your pocket and a speech in your head that starts with “so i saw your instagram” and ends with “do you want to maybe take a selfie with me knowingly?”

he shows up exactly when you expect him to—slouching, hoodie half-zipped, hair doing that thing where it looks like he just rolled out of a wind tunnel. he sees you. he freezes. like a deer in headlights. like a man who’s just realized his browser history is now public.

you hold up your phone. “so. 400 photos, huh?”

he opens his mouth. closes it. opens it again. “i can explain.”

“okay.”

“…i like you. like, like like you. like, if liking you was a sport, i’d have olympic medals and a sponsorship from gatorade.”

you blink. “that’s… a lot of metaphors.”

“i’ve had time to think about them,” he says, sheepish. “you’re in my brain 24/7. you’re like a screensaver. but, like, emotional.”

you laugh. you can’t help it. it bubbles out of you like soda. “you’re such a weirdo.”

“your weirdo?” he offers, hopeful and cringe and so earnest it makes your teeth ache.

you step closer. “only if you promise to ask before you take my picture next time.”

he lights up like you just handed him the moon on a stick. “deal. can i take one now?”

you roll your eyes, but you’re already leaning in. “make it cute. i have standards.”

he takes it. you’re both blurry and laughing and your foreheads are touching. he posts it immediately with the caption:

“she knows now. she’s smiling. i’m gonna cry into my pillow for three weeks straight.”

𓏵

after that, it’s worse. in the best way.

he holds your hand like it’s made of glass and dynamite. he brings you melon pan every morning. he learns your coffee order and writes it on his arm in sharpie so he doesn’t forget. he starts sitting next to you in the library and asks before he takes your picture. sometimes you take them together, your faces squished cheek-to-cheek, his smile so wide it looks like it hurts.

you find out he’s been keeping a list of things you like. not in a creepy spreadsheet way—more like little notes folded into his wallet.

“she hates the smell of this but loves this one.” “she always sneezes twice. never once. never three times. exactly two.” “she hums when she’s happy. it’s always off-key but it’s my favorite song.”

you kiss him for the first time behind the vending machines. it’s awkward and too wet and your nose bumps his, but he makes this sound—like a sigh and a gasp and a prayer all at once—and then he crumples. like you just unplugged him. he presses his face into your neck and whispers, “i’m so glad you exist.”

you whisper back, “me too.”

𓏵

six months later, he still takes photos. but now you’re looking at the camera. at him.

you’re in the foreground, stealing his hoodie, wearing his socks, asleep on his chest with your mouth open.

the captions change.

“she’s my person. like, legally. i have receipts.” “she drooled on my shirt and i didn’t even flinch. that’s growth.” “i asked her to marry me. she said ‘ask me again when we’re not in a grocery store.’ i’m gonna ask in a bakery next. she loves croissants.”

you’re not just in the background anymore. you’re in everything. his lock screen, his home screen, his wallet photo, his future.

he still photobombs strangers’ pictures if you’re in them, but now he runs back to you like a kid who just got away with stealing candy. “did you see? i ruined their photo. it’s art. it’s our art.”

you kiss the top of his head. “you’re ridiculous.”

he grins, sharp and soft and yours. “only for you.”

and you believe him. because you’ve seen the 400 photos. because you’ve read every caption. because he looked at you like you were the sun long before you ever looked back.

and now you do.

every day.

on purpose.

n: this is for you, seijoh4 addict @yunadln

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© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners !