Chapter 14: Things We Only Say Without Words

There was something unnerving about sitting across from someone who had just slept on a bench the night before.

More unnerving when that someone was staring at you with narrowed eyes like you’d trespassed into the most sacred corner of her psyche—which, in fairness, I probably had.

The café was warm. Not just temperature-wise, but in the way late-night diners tended to be—dim lighting, muffled laughter from another table, and the faint aroma of burnt coffee beans and cinnamon syrup that refused to leave the air.

Bandages were slapped to each of my cheeks, as punches rained down towards my face that fateful night.

I sat with my hands on the table, elbows tucked in. Straight posture. Neutral face. Like I was on trial.

She hadn’t touched the hot chocolate I ordered for her yet.

She just…stared.

“Are you going to drink that?” I asked.

Her eyes narrowed further. “If you're ready to explain why you were flipping through my soul.”

How did we even end up in her favorite cafe in Sannomiya?

It goes like this—today's a cheeky Friday, the first day of my return to school, and the day after I spotted Kousaka-san sleeping on the bench. It's natural that she would ignore me in the classroom but I can feel her eyes tearing my soul from behind me all the time.

So after classes, I caught up to her by the park bench and asked her out.

Not the romantic thing.

My discomfort fueled me to apologize and explain what I saw that night.

But she ignored me.

And then, the light bulbs flickered in my head. I mentioned the cafe branch at Sannomiya, and heck, the porcupine's face lit up so fast.

"So you're asking me for a date?"

"That's not necessary."

"Random act of kindness?"

"A transaction."

She rolled her eyes. But she came anyway.

We chose the corner table by the window, half-shielded from the view of other people. It was already night after my shift—while the cafe had many customers, the outside was empty.

It was fitting for two people who used to watch themselves from a distance.

“…Is this a peace offering?” she asked, raising a brow.

“More like an apology,” I said, looking at the 2299 yen vanilla tower frappe with a large croissant across. “You were freezing last night. Figured some iced coffee might improve your resistance to cold and fix your mood.”

She gave a small, humorless laugh.

“I’m not a vending machine, Shimizu. You can’t just insert guilt tokens and expect warmth to come out.”

“Then think of it as hush money.”

“Hush money for what?”

“…For the sketchbook. Or for that face that glares at me like I've stolen some underwear.”

“I’d rather have my underwear stolen than the sketchbook.”

Fair point, though the delivery is gross.

“I wasn’t flipping through your soul. I was…flipping through pages. It's not like your drawing is something to be ashamed about. It's really good..”

“You sound awfully defensive for someone caught red-handed.”

“I brought you here to apologize, not debate semantics.”

She leaned back in her seat, arms crossed. “Okay then, Picasso. Apologize.”

I blinked. “Picasso?”

She smirked. “I figured you’re more of a Monet, but let’s not flatter you just yet.”

And turned away as if the lightness of the wall beside me could steady me.

“…Sorry, Kousaka-san. I overstepped.”

Ah, being a loser hurts my pride.

“And?”

“And I shouldn’t have looked.”

“And?”

“…And you’re really bad at accepting apologies.”

She huffed and leaned forward, breaking her arms from their defensive cross, and took a long, slow sip.

A sound that was almost a sigh escaped her lips thereafter.

“…Okay. I’ll admit. This is good.”

But I could feel the tension leaking out of her in waves.

“You’re still mad.”

“I’m humiliated,” she muttered, looking away.

We sat in silence for a beat—teetered on the edge of being uncomfortable, but didn’t quite fall off the edge.

“Now, I want to hear it.”

“What?”

“Suggestions.”

I reached into the tote bag resting by my chair, pulled out the sketchbook she’d practically tossed at me yesterday, and opened it gently to one of the Marseille spreads.

“You made the lines too strict here,” I said, tracing a curve near the harbor with my fingertip. “Old port roads aren’t this symmetrical. Marseille breathes differently—it’s chaotic and unstructured. You captured the mood, but not the rhythm.”

Her expression shifted. Curiosity replacing irritation.

“You’ve been to Marseille?” she asked.

"Through pictures on the web. I study cities the same way I studied brushwork—composition, weight, negative space. If you want to draw from memory, you have to cheat a little. Steal from photographs, but paint like you’re lying.”

“…Continuer.”

I looked up.

She was leaning forward now, elbows on the table, expression unreadable.

“You’re… listening?” I asked.

“Why wouldn’t I?” she said, raising a brow. “You clearly know what you’re talking about.”

“You were embarrassed last night.”

“I’m still embarrassed. But if I’m gonna be roasted alive, I’d rather hear it from someone who knows how to use fire.”

I stared at her for a moment.

Then turned the page again.

It was a sketch from Seine. La Seine—the one I critiqued last night.

“You just mimicked what a river looks like—and water right here flows too straight,” I said quietly. “It’s more serpentine in real life. You drew it like a mirror.”

She blinked.

“…What?”

“The river. Your composition is strong, but the curves are rigid. Water doesn’t move like that. It breathes, and it has an attitude.”

I traced an imaginary line through the river, as if predicting the flow of current depending on the sea level and the pull of the tide during the night.

“Everything has an attitude, if you understand it well enough. Don’t draw the subject. Draw the way it made you feel when you were standing in front of it.”

Her eyes searched my face as if something in that sentence caught her off guard.

“...You say that you've stood in front of things you had painted.”

I didn’t respond right away.

Because I had.

The cliff.

The lake.

The bridge.

And every place I stood in and failed to take the leap.

I see my reflection every single day and chose to ignore it, but it lived vividly in my paintings.

“I used to paint like that,” I said softly. “Like I wanted to make things feel remembered, as if it was my last day.”

My raw honesty with her took me by surprise.

I didn't normally give such details about myself, but Kousaka-san wasn't the stranger across the stall anymore. She already saw the deepest depths of my personality, and I think there's nothing left to hide from her.

“You were really good, weren’t you?”

Her eyebrows knit together in concern as she waited for the rest of the story.

"That's what people always say. I don't think I am good at all. I can't even explain the fundamentals of art. I just...” I trailed off, looking at the night outside the window. "...blend everything that I observe and everything that I feel."

I turned the page once more, not out of curiosity, but genuine desire to share what I have learned and what is yet to learn with Kousaka-san.

It was Notre Dame.

“I already saw this last night, and you just need a few adjustments on the right tower. Overall, I'm actually impressed since you're drawing from memory.”

Another pause.

Kousaka-san finally took the sketchbook back, but didn’t flip it shut. She held it gently, like it was both a shield and a secret. She kept gazing at the weak points I said.

“I knew it,” she muttered. “You saw right through the structure. Not many people could pick out those flaws. As expected from someone who lived in art.”

"...And died with it."

That silenced her.

I didn’t elaborate.

And she didn’t pry.

Somewhere, I think, she understood. I don't mind talking about and saying my apologies again from our argument two days ago. But on the topic of me returning to paint, for me embracing art again, it's something I cannot decide right now.

She flipped to the next page, and I could see its reflection on her bright blue eyes.

“You didn’t critique this one,” she said.

“There’s nothing to critique,” I murmured.

“It’s rough. The proportions are off. You’re barely recognizable in this sketch.”

“Exactly.” I said. “That’s the part you got right.”

To be honest, I think that kind of description was perfect. I'm barely even recognizable without the mask I am wearing.

The Shimizu Itsuki that my customers know and the Itsuki that Kousaka-san has already seen are completely two different people.

She didn’t look up.

Her voice dropped, quieter than before. “You didn’t ask why I drew it.”

“I figured you wouldn’t tell me.”

"Because I didn’t want it to disappear.”

I blinked. “Pardon?”

“That moment,” she said. “The dango. The stall. The silence. It wasn’t anything special. But I want to draw something I couldn't explain. And that's the first time I drew something I could see and I could reach."

The café seemed to quiet further.

I waited on my rising heartbeat but Kousaka-san didn’t continue.

So I offered the silence she needed.

"..."

My cocoa had gone lukewarm.

Her words hadn’t.

We sat there, breathing in each other’s honesty.

And then, when I thought the conversation had finally collapsed into its own shadow, she asked—

“…Hey.”

I looked up.

“Would you mind…” she hesitated, her eyes darting to the window. “Walking me home?"