I spent the evening organizing my photo albums—just the ones of Onii-sama, of course. There’s one from his high school entrance ceremony, where his uniform was still crisp and new. I remember how tightly I held his hand that day, how my heart raced when he patted my head. Looking at the pictures now, I can’t help but trace the curve of his jaw, his smile, the way his shirt hugged his shoulders. My fingers drift lower, imagining how his cock would feel resting against my palm, heavy and warm. I wonder if he ever looks back at those photos and thinks of me the same way—aching, wanting, desperate. Sometimes I wish he’d just tear my clothes off and fuck me against the album shelf, scattering memories like confetti. Would he call my name or just let me moan his?