Chapter 10: In A World Full of Hidden Colors (III)

This had to be a dream.

Probably from sleep deprivation from studying too much, maybe from the mold still lurking in the corners of my lungs.

But the way Kousaka-san stood there, clutching a painting that hadn’t seen light in five years, was too specific to be fiction.

A canvas.

A part of me I thought I had deleted.

Painted with hands I no longer acknowledged.

Hands that once believed in color, before the world stole it.

And the look in her eyes wasn’t curiosity. It was understanding. And I hated it.

"Kousaka-san," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Put that back. Please."

My voice came out quiet, unsure—like even I wasn’t convinced by it. The last time a 'please' came out from my mouth was already 5 years ago. And I was begging someone to stay, and now, I'm using it to push someone away.

She didn’t move.

I tried again. Firmer.

“Kousaka-san. Put it down.”

Still nothing.

A breath. A pause.

“Just..." I added, my throat tightening from suppression. “put it away.”

"No," she said. Her tone was calm, but beneath it was something raw, taut like a violin string being plucked. "Not this time."

I stood up from my kotatsu and moved past her gently and took the canvas from her hands. My fingers were trembling as I slid the artwork back into the cabinet, into the darkness where it belonged. The others began following up. My body worked on muscle memory, automatic and detached as always.

If I didn’t acknowledge this reality, this whole ordeal might fade away.

When I was about to take the final piece, "Il Respiro delle Dolomiti" as I called it, or "The Breath of Dolomites", Kousaka-san's grip on my wrist stopped me.

“Don’t you dare hide that.” she hissed.

I jolted on our skin contact, the closest we had ever since. But none of that registered anymore.

I turned halfway, unwilling to meet her eyes.

But her voice stopped me cold.

“You don’t get to do that. Not after I saw what’s inside. Not after I’ve seen what’s still alive in you.”

“There's nothing to see.” as I tried to pull away.

"Then why are you shaking? Why do your hands look like they're about to collapse? What's so wrong about a portrait of a cliff?"

I gritted my teeth, clutching one of the paintbrushes too tightly.

The memories returned, too vivid in its intensity.

There was a young boy standing on a cliff, canvas in his hands, looking at the hollowness below. A jump could've ended it all, but he didn't have the courage to do it.

He can't take the leap.

He was afraid of death.

So he painted it. The strokes were clumsy, dark dots scattered around as tears burned, marred by time and grief on the day he created it.

"That's just your imagination. I'm not the person you think I am in your head."

Silence.

Then a step forward.

"Imagination?" she repeated, incredulous. "So I imagined this?" She pulled another painting from the pile—a fair-skinned woman in a gown, holding the moon—might be "La Principessa Della Luna, The Princess of the Moon."

Her hands trembled too, but not from fear. It was from admiration and fury.

“Imagination doesn’t paint this alive, Shimizu.”

She’s not stupid to let me avoid the topic. She's aware that I’m trying to lie through the obvious.

She let go of the grip and gestured toward the broken cabinet.

“Those aren't fantasies. They're memories. They're pieces of someone screaming through canvas—and you're shoving them into a drawer like trash.”

I shook my head. “Stop romanticizing this.”

“I’m not. Artworks of this quality are only created by savants.”

And just like that, the word hit me like a brick to the chest.

“...Savant?”

Me, Shimizu Itsuki, an art savant?

I heard it so many times before, and it’s provoking to be called once more.

It wasn't just the internal wounds that stood fresh, but also the memories along with it.

In the perspective of others, they were nice words. An honor bestowed to exceptional individuals. But to me, they’re hollow. They held no meaning.

They’re anathema.

"Don’t call me that," I said sharply.

"Why? Because it's true?"

"Don't. Call. Me. That." I seethed through gritted teeth.

“Why the hell not?! I’m trying to tell you what you are!”

“And I’m telling you to stop!" my voice finally rose into something as loud as hers.

“No. You stop! Stop hiding! Stop pretending like nothing touches you! Stop living like everything is just ‘fine’ when you’re barely holding yourself together! We're already past through your dango stall, Shimizu! Don't pretend that—”

"It's never a damn praise!" I snapped, crushing the air with trembling hands. "To me, it's a curse! Because I’m not that anymore! And don't you dare say such things if you're someone who acts like being saved is a crime!"

She blinked, and pulled me by the collar.

"I’m not trying to save you, you thick-skulled, emotionally constipated redhead! I’m asking you to be real! For once in your goddamn life, just be real with me!"

We were shouting now, loud enough to make the windows tremble. And I can feel her rosy and warm breath brush past me as she speaks.

“I’m not here to pity you!" she continued, breathing heavily. "I just want to know who the hell you are behind that damned wall you built! And I’ll say it again because you’re too stupid to realize something, the dango stall Shimizu and the Shimizu in the apartment are two different people!”

She pushed me away and pulled away a wrapped painting—the one I had hidden the deepest.

"Don’t!”

I tried to reach out, but she embraced it defensively.

"Then talk to me, Shimizu! Give me something—anything!"

She ripped the wrapping away, and seeing it, it felt like tearing up the skin of a healing wound.

Gli Architetti del Mio Mondo.

The Architects of My Own World.

Obra maestra.

Masterpiece.

It was the whole 11 years worth of stories molded into a single canvas.

A piece I valued the most, and at the same time, I hid the deepest.

A tangible reverie of something I can never get.

A perfect three-member family, all in one frame.

Her expression shifted into something more softer, something too foreign from a delinquent that only knew aloofness.

"Is this...them?"

The sharpness in her eyes was gone in an instant. It was replaced by something akin to regret, probably upon realizing that she just touched something that she wasn’t supposed to.

I didn't answer.

I just grabbed the other corner and Kousaka-san didn't bulge.

“Give me…that.”

A steely glint entered her eyes.

“No!” she fought through my efforts and we were already pulling it against one another.

Words began spilling out like blood from an open wound.

“Why do you care?” I hissed. “Why do you keep pushing on my own stories?!”

“Because someone has to! You said it yourself when you threw yourself into those bastards! No one cared for you, not even your family and teachers, and now that I am here, asking why you completely lost your balls over a damn painting, you become a jerk drowning in silence!”

“I survived just fine without you.”

“No, you endured. That’s different.”

“You think I want your sympathy? You think this—this cleanup project of yours will somehow make me whole?!”

“I’m not trying to make you whole!” she growled, yanking the canvas harder. “I’m asking you to stop pretending you're not shattered!”

That final line hit my nerves.

She was right, I was just pretending I'm not shattered.

I'm a mess, and I know it.

If I had my way, I wouldn't even exist outside of a picture frame.

The first tears started to fall from my eyes.

And the line built in my throat I kept for 5 years, uncontainable, came out volcanic.

“ART DESTROYED MY FAMILY!!!”

The words cracked from my throat, body shuddering in every syllable I sputtered.

“THIS CURSE OF A TALENT—IT DESTROYED ME!!”

A beat, a breath. She had gone silent.

“DO YOU GET IT, KOUSAKA-SAN?! I DIDN’T CHOOSE THIS! I DIDN’T WANT TO BE SPECIAL! I JUST WANTED TO BE LOVED!”

And I pulled with everything I got.

Snap.

Crack.

Rip.

Thud.

And the canvas broke right in the middle.

The tear echoed like a scream no one of us could voice out, a gunshot in the cramped room.

And what followed was stillness, save for our burdened breaths upon exertion of emotions.

I stood frozen across, holding the remnants like the remains of a corpse.

And the part of the portrait that fell to my feet, was her.

My hero, my mentor, and the one that I destroyed the most.

My mother.

Shimizu Aino.