Chapter 13: In A World Full of Hidden Colors (VI)

The apartment complex became a purgatory a few hours after Kousaka-san left. I had barely seen the faces of the other tenants until they called me out specifically.

Violating the 'wa' culture meant that you're flaying yourself alive. I had to write them letters promising to never repeat the same thing again, and handed them out in a dogeza.

7 tenants. 7 letters. 3 hours.

I'm just glad that the landlady was more forgiving and understood the situation much more maturely and objectively. I had to discuss everything that happened, laid out the context that led us to the argument, and she explained that the tenants were just pissed because exceptionally loud visitors aren't allowed yet she made a special exception for me.

"Special exception?"

"Yup, young Itsuki. I might not always be present in the complex but I can see how diligent and hardworking you are. You pay rent earlier than due, segregate trash and clean the hallways before going to school. But of course, don't be a social rat. You'll be lonely."

That's entirely true.

I just don't feel like she’ll be saying the same thing if she saw what’s inside of my apartment before Kousaka-san barged and cleaned it up for me.

"Being alone and lonely are two different concepts, Mikoto-san. Being alone is by choice, loneliness is caused by being forced to it. I've been living alone for 5 years now, I don't think that does give me a privilege to go beyond rules."

"I really thought that beauty was your girlfriend. She doesn't even knock and just goes straight to your room like privacy means nothing."

"...That's just her. And we're not romantically involved."

Clarifying things felt like defusing a live grenade—with no protective gear. I guess an argument between two stricken teenagers is more clamorous than a couple nearing divorce.

The conversation went on smoothly after that, like an aunt visiting his nephew and giving him two cents about the nuances of life and the art of staying calm. As a businesswoman herself, it's a powerful asset for decision making and fostering stronger relationships with her clients.

It's around 10 PM when I decided to go out and visit my dango stall that saved me at times I couldn’t breathe in that apartment anymore. The streets were dead silent, air taken on that sharp near-winter bite that slipped through my coat without asking.

The streetlamps in the park are off, so I had to use my trusty flashlight and peeled off the "Closed for Two Days" poster from the stall frames, and started to wipe the dusted surfaces down. The shop didn't need any cleaning, but I can't afford to let myself fall into a stupor and mope over something that has already been done.

I admit that the argument between me and Kousaka-san was a ghost tugging at the hem of my thoughts. It's not because of what I said—but because of what I wasn’t able to do.

The near kiss? I don't think so.

Although the feeling of her curves left a burning mark in my innocent hands, it's not the kind of thoughts I wanted to be associated with.

I want to lose the weight in my heart caused by regret of not apologizing to her properly.

When I was about to finish cleaning, the streetlamps flickered open.

I saw it, although barely.

A golden trail illuminating on the bench ten meters across. Even from a distance, I recognized her.

The round rug fell to the ground as I sprinted forward to the distance I barely crossed.

"Kousaka-san!"

I leaned forward on my approach, my heart beating erratically to the sight.

Her hair was tousled and sticking to her face under the flickering lamplight. Her frame curled awkwardly and tightly into herself, bundled in a school uniform far too thin for the season.

She was asleep, although barely.

Her breaths were shallow and quick, frame shivering with each small breeze.

And her lashes were damp, dried tears streaking down to her chin.

She didn’t look like the girl who hurled insults in French. The girl who glared at people at their approach and gave them a thorough beating if they messed around.

No remnants of the girl who mocked my empty fridge or barged into my apartment like a storm in human skin.

She looked…small.

And I was right about my conjecture earlier. Kousaka-san is someone that doesn't cry in front of somebody.

I just wished that she did in front of me, and I would promise to catch her when she breaks and carry her pain along.

“...Kousaka-san is a pleurnicharde.”

Night was no place for girls with tear-streaked cheeks, and she's here, more like escaping everything than surrendering herself.

I am glad that I was the first one to stumble upon her.

So slowly, I walked over. My coat slid from my shoulders, followed by the brown scarf and I draped it over hers.

Her body reacted immediately. Not with words, but with a soft sigh and stir—like she’d been holding her breath for hours.

"...You're really stubborn after all. You said I was planning to die mid-winter and now, look at you."

I used to wrestle with my fear of art every single day because it might break me open when the thoughts of destroying my family resurfaced.

Mikoto-san said earlier, "When we're hurting, we build another kind of wall, not to keep the pain in, but to keep others out. We convince ourselves that no one can understand, so we don't even give them the chance to try."

I understood it. I wanted to keep people out because it kept the pain in. Denial? I think that I've skipped the whole 5 stages of grief and went to the sixth instead, 'surrendering', if there ever was one.

Because even in the multiple layers of walls I've built, Kousaka-san came in like a wrecking ball like she always does. I surrendered building walls because it's useless against her.

"The ones who persist even when you push them, those are the ones worth holding onto."

Mikoto-san's words are still ingrained in my head.

I had mistaken Kousaka-san's genuine concern for an intrusion without thinking that sometimes, the most healing thing I can do is to simply allow myself to be seen, even if it's uncomfortable at first.

"...Thank you, Kousaka-san." the words slipped before a better judgement.

Because the pain used to drag me down, and now, it's just heavy.

I had someone to share it with me and I'm more than willing to be a receiver of hers.

She was a storm I didn’t want to pass.

She stayed long enough to become my clear sky.

***

A breeze rolled past.

And then, it caught my eye.

The sketchbook beside her fluttered open like a wounded bird stretching its wings. The cover had creases along the edges, the way only well-loved things do. A few pages stuck out from overuse, warped slightly from moisture.

A part of me said I shouldn’t. This was her creative diary. This contains every thought, dreams, and aspirations she had.

I have no rights to look at it.

But I picked it up and still looked.

These thoughts are stupid and selfish. I should've been facing capital punishment for doing this.

“La Seine.”

She used charcoal over graphite. The strokes were tentative, but there was rhythm in the flow that mimicked the river she tried to recreate.

It wasn’t perfect—but it was sincerely hers.

“Notre Dame.”

The flaw can be easily spotted in the eyes of an artist. The right tower drooped like a tired pillar. The arches though were sketched with passion and I can feel the devotion on every curve.

Actually, this is so masterful if she ever drew this from photographic memory alone.

“Rue de la République.”

The lines were good, but there are inconsistencies on the building window proportions. That's just a minor correction because that can be fixed with proper shading.

She really captured the mood of the square.

And in every turn of the page, I felt that lonely ache that only comes from places that remember you, but don’t miss you.

Her homesickness resonated in every piece she sketched.

It was memories she can't voice out aloud.

Marseille.

Calanques.

The Market Street by the Port.

A bakery on Rue Paradis.

I couldn’t help myself.

My eyes moved faster.

And then, without warning—

I saw the very last pages.

“Huh?”

My heart skipped.

The sketch reflected no royalty or complication of French architecture.

It was a simple wooden structure with crooked kanji signage on top of it.

The dango stall.

Dango skewers lined neatly under smudged shadows, warm smoke curling in delicate tendrils. Everything was finely detailed, even at the camphor leaves from her perspective on the bench. There was a strange kind of reverence in the way she shaded it—as if it was something sacred.

And I could pinpoint that the weaknesses of her previous sketches improved dramatically.

Another page.

My heart skipped.

It was me.

Slouched behind the stall, mouth slightly open as if I was about to yawn, or mutter a greeting. The lines around my eyes were tired, but there was…calm. A kind of dignity I didn’t know I still had. It might be candid but it's still alive.

She made me look...almost kind.

I turned the page again.

And there it was.

The final and most recent sketch.

She and another person are sitting on the bench.

I don't know if it's still unfinished or she made the person faceless on purpose, but it almost feels like it came from her dreams.

They were close.

Too close for strangers.

Too far for lovers.

And they looked...peaceful.

I blinked.

Something warm was blooming in my chest—a strange vibration like an old string being plucked after years of silence.

And the stranger and stronger vibration, a rasp from a feminine vocal chord.

“GIVE THAT BACK!”

Kousaka-san lounged into the sketchpad as if I touched something sacred.

Technically, I did.

I fumbled and waved my hands forward in defense, but I'm already guilty of my crime.

Kousaka-san was wide awake now, sitting up, face flushed deeper than I’d ever seen it.

“You—! What did you see?! Speak, you maniacal dango-faced sketch-thief!”

I blinked again slowly.

She hugged the sketchbook to her chest like a shield, burying half her face behind it.

"I didn't—!"

"Pervers! Crétin! Ja t’emmerde!"

She shot up her legs forward, her foot landed squarely on my stomach, and I stumbled backward like a ragdoll mid-exorcism.

I hit the ground hard. The back of my head bounced off the park bench like karma itself decided to body slam me.

“What the hell was that for?!”

“For being a nosy little gremlin!” she barked, still hiding her face behind the sketchpad.

“I was appreciating the art!”

“Appreciate a hospital bed after I’m done with you!”

She stood up now, glaring down at me with the righteous fury of a woman caught mid-emotion and choosing violence as a defense mechanism.

I sent her more than apologies before she even moved.