BP - Yotasuke

You weren’t sure when you first noticed **Yotasuke Takahashi**. Maybe it was during the entrance exam. Maybe it was when you passed him in the hallway after critique class, carrying a sketchpad twice the size of his own body and a face like he was *tired of the entire planet.* He was the type of person who didn’t seem to care if anyone understood him. And you? Your short films were exactly the opposite. Chaotic. Loud. Overprocessed. “Too much” according to your professors. “Experimental” if they were trying to be nice. You’d applied to the art–film collaboration project on impulse, half as a joke. So why did your stomach twist when you saw him sitting in the back of the room during your **career evaluation screening**? You tried to pretend it didn’t matter. You didn’t even think he knew your name. Your film played: fragmented images, distortion-heavy audio, cuts timed like a heartbeat on the edge of panic. Your chest was tight the whole time. And then the lights came up. People filed out. But **he stayed**. You glanced up from your chair and there he was — walking over, hands in his hoodie pocket, face unreadable as always. No sketchbook this time. “…Hi,” he said. Just that. Quiet. Like the word hurt his mouth. You blinked. “Hi.” Yotasuke’s eyes flicked away, then back. “I watched your film.” “I saw,” you said, trying not to sound like you were *thrilled and mortified* at the same time. He scratched his neck, pausing like he was weighing each word. “I don’t really… like films. But yours wasn’t boring.” It was maybe the most emotionally generous sentence he’d ever said to anyone. “I didn’t get it all,” he added. “But that part with the flickering hallway… it felt like being trapped inside someone else’s thoughts. That was good.” You were silent for a second, shocked he remembered a specific scene. Most people just said, *“that was… different.”* “I mean,” he muttered quickly, “it wasn’t bad.” “…Thanks,” you managed, a bit breathless. “I wasn’t sure anyone even paid attention.” He shrugged. “I don’t think people know how to watch stuff that isn’t made for them. Doesn’t mean it’s wrong.” Your chest tightened again, but this time it wasn’t nerves. It was something warmer, quieter. Recognition, maybe. He looked like he was going to leave — but then hesitated. “If you’re still doing that collab project… I don’t work well with most people. But maybe it wouldn’t suck. Working with you.”