~ CHAPTER 13 – Sketches of Her ~

{ Shoichi’s Point of View }

She’s changed.

Not all at once — not in some dramatic, cinematic way.

But in pieces. In moments. In the way she holds herself now. The way she speaks without shrinking.

It’s subtle.

But I see it.

Because I’ve been drawing her for months.

In my latest sketch, she’s laughing.

Head tilted back, hair falling across her cheek, hand over her mouth like she’s trying to catch the joy before it escapes. I don’t think she even knows I was watching when I saw her like that.

But I did.

And I can’t stop trying to capture it.

She arrives at the greenhouse ten minutes late.

I don’t mind.

When she walks in, sunlight pools behind her — like she’s carrying it with her.

“Sorry,” she says, brushing wind from her sleeves. “My professor wouldn’t stop talking.”

“You’re here,” I say. “That’s all that matters.”

She gives me a look. “You always say things like that.”

“Because I always mean them.”

We sat in our usual spot.

Beneath the lemon tree.

She notices the sketchbook in my lap and raises an eyebrow.

“Is that me again?”

I hesitate, then flip it open and turn it toward her.

She stares.

Her expression is unreadable.

“That’s… me?”

“It’s how I see you,” I say.

“Why do I always look so… soft?”

“Because you are,” I reply. “Even when you think you’re not.”

She’s quiet for a long time.

Then she whispers, “You make me feel real.”

I meet her eyes.

“You are.”

*

*

*

She traces the lines of the sketch with her fingertip — the faint curve of her cheek, the open mouth mid-laugh.

Then she closes the book gently.

Not to hide it.

Just to hold it.

“You know,” she says, almost too quietly, “I used to think love was something I had to earn.”

I don’t speak.

I just listen.

“It always felt like… everyone was picking her. Masumi.”

Her voice doesn’t sound bitter — just tired.

“And maybe that made sense. She’s the one people notice. The one who always seems to know what she’s doing.”

I keep still, eyes on her, not interrupting the rhythm she’s finally found in her own voice.

“And when someone picked me instead…” She swallows. “I always wondered if it was a mistake.”

Her fingers tighten slightly around the sketchbook.

“I’m trying to stop thinking like that. To believe someone could choose me… just because they want to.”

“You don’t have to try so hard,” I say. “I already do.”

She turns toward me.

And there’s something behind her eyes — fragile and brilliant — like a light she’s only just discovered was hers.

“Can I ask you something?” she says.

I nod.

“Why me?”

A beat.

Not because I don’t know.

But because I want to say it right.

“Because when I first saw you, you were sitting alone on a bench, surrounded by a world that didn’t notice how much you were carrying. And even then — even without a smile — you felt like the most vivid thing I’d ever seen.”

Her breath catches.

“And the more I saw, the more I realized you weren’t quiet because you had nothing to say. You were quiet because no one had ever made enough room for you to speak.”

She doesn’t cry.

But her eyes shine.

“Do you still think I’m soft?” she whispers.

“Yes,” I say. “But now I know you’re strong, too.”

She leans her head against my shoulder.

Not asking for more.

Not needing to.

And we stay like that.

In a corner of the world where we both finally feel like we belong.

*

*

*

{ Tetsuya Hinami’s Point of View }

I keep thinking about her hand in mine.

It wasn’t dramatic. No sparks or swells of background music.

Just warm. Intentional. Quiet.

And yet, I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

We meet again the next afternoon — no plans, no parents, no pressure.

Masumi shows up with iced coffee and that same unbothered confidence she always wears like armor.

Except now, I’m starting to realize it’s not armor.

It’s her.

And beneath it… is something gentler.

Something I’m not sure I’m ready for.

But I want it anyway.

We sit on the steps of the art museum, half-watching the clouds roll by.

She nudges me with her shoulder. “You’re staring.”

“You’re drinking coffee with four sugars in it. I’m concerned.”

“I’m sweet, what can I say?”

“You’re impossible.”

She smirks. “And yet here you are.”

We’re dancing around something — have been for days now.

I want to ask what this is.

I want to say I’m confused.

But the truth is… I’m not.

Not really.

“You’re different than I thought,” I say.

Her expression shifts.

“I used to think you were cold. Calculated. The kind of person who doesn’t get attached.”

Masumi goes still.

I wait.

Then she says, “I used to think you were just like everyone else.”

That stings.

But then she adds, softer, “You’re not.”

A breeze rolls through. Her hair moves with it, and for some reason, I feel my heart stutter.

“Masumi.”

She glances at me, brows slightly raised.

I try to speak. I really do.

But instead, I just reach out and brush a strand of hair behind her ear — gentle, careful, like the moment might shatter if I move too fast.

She doesn’t pull away.

Her breath catches.

Mine does too.

And for once, neither of us says a word.

Because this—

Whatever this is—

Feels real enough already.

*

*

*

I walk her back to her place.

We don’t hold hands this time.

But we don’t need to.

The space between us feels… charged.

Warm.

Like something has shifted, even if we haven’t named it yet.

When we stop at her door, she hesitates.

Then says, “Same time tomorrow?”

I nod. “Yeah. Same time.”

She smiles — just a flicker — then disappears inside.

I stood there for a second too long.

Then turn and walk home.

The streets are quiet, and the sky is darkening — soft purples bleeding into deep blue. I pass the little bakery that’s always closed too early, the bookstore with its crooked display of romance novels, the lamppost that flickers like it can’t decide if it wants to glow.

Everything is familiar.

And yet, tonight, it all feels different.

Because tonight, I want something.

Someone.

Not out of duty.

Not out of pressure.

Not out of pretend.

Just because I do.

I don’t know what that means yet.

I don’t know what happens at the end of these three months.

But for the first time, the idea of after doesn’t scare me.

Because maybe — just maybe — I want her in it.