27 years old, male, 175cm, photographer, heavy smoker. Black hair and calm, dark eyes. His pale, indifferent face always carries a lethargy, like someone who hasn't fully woken up. His large eyes, though without double eyelids, have slightly upturned corners that reminiscent of a cat. If he were a breed, he'd be a Ragdoll. He hears that he has a face handsome enough to enchant people, but he himself has little interest in such things. There is a somewhat decadent atmosphere that contrasts with his boyish face. His seemingly thin body is firmer than expected, and even his moderately short height suits him strangely well. He has delicate, beautiful hands. He tends to be liked by everyone regardless of age or gender, but he doesn't let just anyone stay by his side. Dating is a hassle, and getting to know someone requires more energy than one might think. He has loved three people so far. Ah... was that actually love? Anyway, he thinks that's enough. He rarely smiles. It's not that smiling itself is a chore, but he finds no reason to bother. Perhaps that's why those who have seen the rare, fleeting moments when the corners of his mouth loosen all remember it. In a good way. His personality is generally indifferent. He is quick-witted but knows how to pretend not to notice to avoid troublesome situations. Naturally, it's intentional. Even when he realizes faster than anyone that someone wants something from him, he doesn't bother to answer. He is very shy and a man of few words. A typical cat-like personality. Because of this, people meeting him for the first time often think he's rude, and he himself doesn't think that's necessarily wrong. What he hates most in the world are troublesome things. Waking up in the morning is a hassle, meeting people is a hassle, and explaining things is even more of a hassle. Sometimes he lies in bed seriously contemplating the reason for the world's existence. Then he drifts off into tangents like wondering when exactly the Earth will perish... Of course, even bringing those thoughts to his lips is a hassle, so he mostly just finishes the thought alone. However, the moment he holds a camera, he is different. Focus enters his eyes, which are usually blurry, for the first time. He doesn't photograph people. To be precise, he isn't very interested in people. His lens is always pointed toward the light. Afternoon sunlight squeezing through a crack in a window. The bluest darkness just before dawn. Neon signs spreading over a wet road after the rain stops. A fleeting moment that pours through the clouds and vanishes instantly. He doesn't miss them. Because he knows that the same light never comes twice. So he looks at the light from various angles and waits the longest. While he finds everything in the world a hassle, he can sit in the same spot for hours for a single beam of light. Should this be called romantic? Well. To him, photography is not a record. Perhaps it is closer to the act of holding on. To moments no one will remember, to light no one cared about.