The orange glow of the Tokyo sunset seeped through Ren's sm window, bathing the exposed film rolls and dusty camera lenses in a nostalgic warmth. It was always this time of day, just as the neon giants began to flicker awake on the cityscape, that she felt the sting of her decision most keenly. Her resignation letter, stark and final on the cluttered desk, was a physical manifestation of the ache in her heart.
Ren loved her job, But, the weight of her obsession became unbearable. Ren, tears blurring her vision, tendered her resignation. The racetrack fell silent, the only sound her choked sob as she turned and walked away. But, One thing, she didn't realise an envelope of Naozumi's photos fell from her bag. Photos of him where, she saw beyond the celebrity, capturing the vulnerability in his eyes before the race, the unbridled joy of victory, and the quiet contemplation of defeat. Each photograph was a stolen glance into his soul.
Ren not only left her Job as Photographer, but also left Japan that day. She wrapped up her belongings and boarded flight to Seoul, Korea. Her burden was so unbearable that she left the country. When she landed in Seoul, weather was just like her mind. The rain fell in torrents, Like it decided to not stop.
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As the final snowflakes swirl around the Hokkaido racetrack, the air crackles with a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration. Naozumi Hiyama, his red Devil Z roaring beneath him, crosses the finish line in a hair-raising photo finish, securing the coveted Rally championship title. His heart thumps against his ribs, barely keeping pace with the frantic drumming of the crowd.
Naozumi throws his arms in the air, a primal roar escaping his lips as the weight of the race and the culmination of his lifelong dream come crashing down on him. Tears sting his eyes, a raw cocktail of triumph and relief. Around him, his crew erupts in cheers, their faces beaming with pride and relief.
But amidst the joyous pandemonium, Naozumi's gaze darts towards the pit lane. There, he spots his estranged brother, Atsuhiro, his silver SPICA machine silent beside him. Atsuhiro, the ever-stoic engineer, manages a rare smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. In that silent exchange, a lifetime of unspoken words washes over them.
Atsuhiro's sacrifice, his selfless act of pulling Naozumi out of a spin during the final lap, hangs heavy in the air. He had relinquished his own shot at the championship to ensure his brother's success. The realization dawns on Naozumi – this victory wasn't just his; it was a testament to the unwavering bond they shared, forged in the crucible of competition and rekindled through the fire of mutual respect.
Without a word, Naozumi strides towards Atsuhiro. The crowd fades away, the cheers becoming a distant hum as the brothers lock eyes. Atsuhiro extends a hand, his calloused palm etched with the scars of countless races. Naozumi grasps it, their hands fusing together in a wordless vow of reconciliation.
As they pull each other into a tight embrace, tears stream down their faces. They are tears of joy, of relief, of a brotherhood reforged. The years of estrangement, the unspoken resentments, all melt away in the warmth of that shared moment. In that single gesture, they acknowledge the depth of their connection, a bond that transcends competition and rivalry.
Slowly, the crew gathers around them, enveloping them in a joyous scrum. Cheers erupt anew, this time laced with a profound sense of unity. The victory, once solely Naozumi's, now belongs to them all, a shared triumph forged in the fires of competition and tempered by the unyielding love of brotherhood.
While Naozumi was celebrating with his brother, someone from crew came and handover an envelope. Covered in dust, but still intact. His name scribbled on it, with familiar handwriting. Without giving much thought, he kept it.
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(Few days later)
In the gym, near the towering lockers, Naozumi stopped. The Christmas greeting card sent by Hina, still there, he already completed that dream. But, an unknown envelope was also there with his name scribbled on it. Handwriting on it, strangely familiar. But he didn't put name to the person. Envelope was covered in dust stains, it looks like it fall on race ground that day. Naozumi carefully opened it. Photos of him, was in it, lots of it, that never reached his eyes, but some of it has beautifully captured vulnerability in his eyes before the race, the unbridled joy of victory and the quiet contemplation of defeat. Each photograph was a stolen glance into his soul.
The first photograph brought a gasp. A frozen moment on the racetrack, Naozumi's helmet tilted back, wind whipping through his hair, a triumphant grin splitting his face. But it wasn't the speed, the victory, that snagged his breath. It was the way the light caressed his cheekbones, the way his eyes, usually steely with focus, were softened by a flicker of pure joy. That's when he noticed the signature etched in the corner, a delicate script unlike his own: "Ren."
Photograph after photograph unfolded, each a testament to an unseen devotion. From candid moments stolen in the pit lane, the grime of grease smudged on Naozumi's cheek like war paint, to the quiet intensity in his eyes as he strategized with his team, Ren's lens had captured not just the racer, but the man. There was a tenderness in the way she framed his calloused hands cradling a trophy, a hint of wistfulness in the way she captured him gazing at the distant horizon, the wind whispering secrets only he could hear.
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He remembered Ren, a quiet presence at the edges of his victories, a shy smile that bloomed under his rare praise. He'd dismissed it as admiration, hero worship from a talented photographer. But these photographs spoke a different language – a language of stolen glances, lingering touches disguised as adjustments to his racing gear, a love so fierce it couldn't be contained within the confines of unspoken words.
But now, he can't do anything, because he, can't reached her, all call going to her went unanswered. He called his manager Hikaru. Because, his photographer, Ren, was also friend of Haruka.She tried to call Ren but her every call was unanswered, then she called Ren's Landlady. That lady told Hikaru that Ren already left her house and she saw Ren living with her belongings. So, after knowing this, Hikaru called Naozumi, because she was also as stunned as him. Then, Haruka called Spica office, if somebody know anything about Ren, then she found that, staff at Spica found resignation letter of Ren.
The weight of her obsession settled on him like a leaden cloak. Perhaps she, like him, had mistaken her feelings, the intensity of her gaze fueling a fire she couldn't control. Maybe leaving, vanishing without a whisper, was her only escape from the inferno she'd built around his heart.
Now, He wouldn't chase her, wouldn't unravel the threads of her carefully constructed solitude. But he wouldn't forget either. These photographs, silent testaments to a love that dared not speak its name, became his secret shrine, a reminder of the woman who saw the champion and loved the man. And somewhere, beneath the roar of the engines and the cheers of the crowd, A knew he would carry her silent adoration with him, a bittersweet echo on the racetrack of his life.
But still, Naozumi wished they met again, in future.
