~ CHAPTER 7 – The Lines We Draw ~

{ Yasuko Aikawa’s POV }

It’s late.

The campus quad is quiet — just scattered pockets of students heading to their dorms or sitting under lamplight with open textbooks and half-finished snacks. The greenhouse is closed, but Shoichi walks beside me anyway, our steps slow, like neither of us wants to go back yet.

He hasn’t said much since we left the art building.

But he hasn’t stopped looking at me, either.

Not in a way that makes me shrink.

In a way that says he sees me. All of me. And he’s still here.

“You okay?” I ask gently.

He nods, then pauses. “I want to show you something.”

We take a small detour — across the courtyard, around the corner of the humanities building, to a short staircase leading to the basement studios.

“I used to come here a lot,” Shoichi says as he unlocks the side door. “Before I figured out how to show people what I was really thinking.”

The door opens into a long, dim hallway. We walk until he stops at a door that’s slightly cracked open.

Inside: sketchpads. Paint-stained tables. Old canvases. And one entire wall covered in charcoal drawings.

It takes me a second to realize—

They’re all of the same girl.

Different angles. Different clothes. Different moods.

But always the same face.

Mine.

I stare in silence.

Shoichi walks past me, then stands with his hands in his pockets, eyes on the wall.

“I drew you before I really knew you,” he says. “Not because I was obsessed or weird or anything. I just—” He exhales, searching for the words. “You looked like someone carrying something heavy. And I didn’t know how to help. So I started drawing.”

My breath catches in my chest.

“I thought maybe,” he adds quietly, “if I could understand what made you look that sad, I could also understand how to make you smile.”

He finally looks at me.

“I guess I’ve always been drawing the parts of you I wish the world saw.”

I don’t say anything.

I just step closer, lean into him, and wrap my arms around his waist.

Shoichi stiffens in surprise.

Then relaxes, pulling me in gently.

No rush.

No expectation.

Just the kind of quiet that doesn’t need to be explained.

- Meanwhile… -

{ Tetsuya Hinami’s POV }

I’m not used to anyone asking me what I actually want.

So when Masumi Aikawa calls me the next morning and says, “Come with me,” I don’t question it.

We end up at the university library — not the main one, but the smaller annex tucked behind the administration building.

It’s peaceful.

And oddly nostalgic.

Masumi gestures toward the archive room. “I just want to show you something.”

I follow her past the rows of dusty books and microfilm readers until we stop at a corner display — a case of student projects and awards.

One of the items inside: a folded paper house, glued together carefully with little painted details.

I blink. “Wait— that’s mine.”

Masumi looks at me, eyes narrowed playfully. “So you did want to be an architect.”

I laugh, short and caught off guard.

“I made that in middle school.”

“Your name’s still on the tag,” she says. “It was part of a university outreach display. I found it last semester when I was bored.”

I stare at the paper house — crooked, imperfect, but unmistakably mine.

She saw this.

She remembered.

And somehow, that means more than I expected.

*

*

*

{ Masumi Aikawa’s POV }

We sat at the long table beside the archive room, quiet for a few minutes. The old floor creaks under every shift of our weight, but it’s otherwise still — just the two of us, and the soft hum of fluorescent lights.

Tetsuya keeps glancing at the display case.

“I forgot that thing even existed,” he says. “I remember staying up way too late gluing the roof on.”

I smile. “You were probably the only boy in the entire project who painted flower boxes.”

“I thought it’d look lonely without them.”

There’s a pause — brief, but thoughtful.

“That’s what you wanted back then, huh?” I ask. “Architecture.”

He nods slowly. “Yeah. I liked the idea of building something that stays. Something that makes space for people.”

“Sounds like the opposite of law.”

“It is.”

Another beat.

“You still could,” I offer. “If you wanted to.”

He gives a small, almost sad smile. “Maybe. But my father doesn’t build houses — he builds reputations.”

I study him. For once, he doesn’t seem like he’s trying to act put-together.

Just tired.

Honest.

“Why didn’t you say no?” I ask softly.

Tetsuya raises an eyebrow.

“To this trial thing,” I clarify. “Why didn’t you put your foot down and walk out when our parents brought it up?”

He leans back in his chair, arms crossed loosely.

“I almost did,” he admits. “But then you stepped in.”

His voice is quieter now. “And I figured… if you were willing to stand between all that pressure and me, then maybe I could do the same.”

I blink.

Tetsuya Hinami, the boy who refused to marry anyone, just admitted something almost like gratitude.

And maybe something else.

“You’re not what I expected,” I murmur.

He huffs a laugh. “You either. I thought you’d be... a perfect daughter. Polished. Unreachable.”

I smirk. “I am polished.”

“And unreachable?”

I meet his gaze, unflinching. “Depends who’s trying.”

He holds my eyes for a second longer than necessary.

Then glances away.

But his ears are a little pink.

We leave the archive room together. No big conclusions. No declarations.

But there’s a rhythm to the walk back to campus.

An ease.

Like maybe this trial isn’t about pretending to be engaged anymore.

Maybe it’s about remembering who we used to be — before everyone else decided who we were supposed to become.

*

*

*

{ Yasuko Aikawa’s POV }

We walked slowly back from the basement studio. I still have pencil smudges on my fingers, and the edge of Shoichi’s sleeve brushes mine with every step.

Neither of us talks much.

I think we’re both a little afraid to break the stillness — like if we speak too loud, whatever’s holding us together might slip through the cracks.

We’re halfway across the courtyard when I hear someone call my name.

My real name.

Not “Masumi’s sister.”

Not “the quiet one.”

Just… “Yasuko.”

I stop.

Shoichi does too.

Across the quad, standing with a book clutched in one hand and a half-unreadable expression on her face, is Shizuka.

I haven’t spoken to her directly in months.

She used to be everywhere Masumi was — polished, observant, sharp in that way that made you feel like she was memorizing you.

Now, she just looks… tired.

Like something in her life isn’t going the way she planned.

“Can we talk?” she says, eyes flicking between me and Shoichi.

He shifts beside me, silent.

I glance at him, then back at her. “About what?”

She hesitates. That alone is weird — Shizuka never hesitates.

“Not here,” she says finally. “But I need to say something. It’s about… Masumi.”

I don’t owe her anything.

But the way she says my sister’s name — not cold, not spiteful, just cautious — makes something tighten in my chest.

I nod.

“Give me five minutes,” I tell Shoichi softly.

He looks at me. “You sure?”

I nod again.

He gently hands me the sketchpad — still warm from his hand — and steps back. “I’ll be near the café.”

Shizuka waits until he’s out of earshot.

Then sighs.

“You don’t have to listen,” she says. “But I think you deserve to hear this from someone who doesn’t want anything from you.”

I fold my arms. “Go on.”

She looks me in the eye.

“Masumi’s been protecting you this whole time. She just doesn’t want you to know.”

I don’t speak.

I can’t.

Because some part of me — the smallest part — already wondered.

But hearing someone else say it…

…it feels like someone just turned the lights on in a room I didn’t realize I was locked inside.

*

*

*

“What do you mean she’s been protecting me?”

Shizuka doesn’t look smug. She doesn’t look like she’s here to gloat. That’s the scariest part — she looks honest.

“I don’t know everything,” she says. “Masumi doesn’t talk about her feelings like normal people. But I’ve seen the way she looks at you when you’re not paying attention.”

She pauses, choosing her words.

“She’s hard on herself. Harder than anyone else ever is. And every time someone came after you — guys, your parents, strangers — she got in the way. Quietly. Brutally. But never where you could see it.”

I want to say she’s wrong.

I want to say I would’ve known.

But would I?

“She stole them,” I whisper. “Every guy I cared about.”

“She tested them,” Shizuka says gently. “And they failed.”

I don’t answer.

Because if she’s right…

If even half of that is true…

Then everything I built my resentment on starts to crumble beneath me.

Not all of it.

Not the loneliness.

Not the years of being overlooked.

But enough that it hurts in a different way now.

“I don’t know why you’re telling me this,” I murmur.

Shizuka exhales. “Because I don’t want her to have to carry it alone forever.”

Then, softer: “And maybe I’m tired of pretending I didn’t care what happened to her.”

She turns before I can respond. Walks away without waiting for thanks — or forgiveness.

Leaving me alone in the courtyard.

Holding a sketchbook that now feels heavier in my hands.

A few minutes later, Shoichi finds me.

He doesn’t ask what happened.

He just walks up and offers his hand.

And when I take it, I don’t let go.

That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

Wondering how much love can look like cruelty.

And how many people we’ve misjudged simply because they didn’t know how to show they cared.

Maybe Masumi isn’t the villain I made her out to be.

Maybe I don’t want her to be.