This isn't Dedication

Two weeks since we extended the clubroom, whenever I enter I still expect the cramped, overrun by books, writing club I’ve known for all of high school. The vibe of it truly was on another level—but I suppose the extension was needed, as we now have three extra regular members.

Shadows from the window frames stretched deep on the hallway, leaving the writing club’s metal door darkened and cool to the touch. I slid open the door and saw no one at the old wooden table we usually write at. As expected though, Fujioka sat in the clubroom’s extension with her face stuffed in a canvas.

“Did you schedule an appointment?” The question came from Fujioka.

This time, no, no I’m not falling for it. She’s just trying to work me up and get a reaction out of me. No longer though.

“I don’t exactly remember saying you could come in either. I’m clearly in the zone, Makoto.”

Nope. We both know this is my club.

“Last night after Kaoru-chan went to Sayuri’s room to sleep you forgot to shut your blinds. The way you touch your—”

“Okay! Hey! This is my c-club! I-I mean what’re you even doing here!?” I threw my arms up. She won. “Ahem— I-I mean, uh, you’re coming to the club’s camping trip, right?”

Fujioka made a few strokes on her canvas with a thin brush then carefully set it down. “As much as I would love to come and “enjoy the springtime of my youth”, I cannot. Need I remind you of all people, Makoto, you and I are professionals with a deadline in three days.” Her whole sentence reeked of condescension—she towered over me with words alone. It felt as if I was only a foot tall standing at the feet of this goliath.

It doesn’t help that she’s almost a head taller than me…

“Of course I know that.”

“Naturally that’d lead me to assume since our last meeting you’ve finished most of the revisions? And the project is in a state ready to submit?”

This is a crucial junction of dialogue options. One route—the truth—leads to despair and distress. The other—lying—leads to a longer roundabout way of Fujioka questioning me until I admit I lied. Either way, both roads lead to hell.

It seemed though, a secret third way opened up during my prolonged silence. “I’ll take your silence as more issues arose?” Fujioka rose-up, herself, as she spoke. Until now her body was almost fully obscured, but when she stepped around the isle I took a sharp breath in. Her top and usual wool dress pants were stained with a myriad of colors, creating something akin to a modern-art piece.

“F-Fujioka… Your c-clothes…”

She glanced down, her eyes widened too making me think she was as surprised as me. “It appears I got a bit too in the zone. A-ahem— anyway, Makoto, while I would recommend you stay back as well and work with me in the clubroom… I understand your obligations as club president.”

H-hey, wait, some recognition for my position? Maybe Fujioka’s finally comin’ around and seeing the light. “R-right, it is an obligation to uh, represent the writing club… Yeah… Yes.”

“Naturally. I mean seeing as you're going but haven’t finished a final draft, you’ve figured out some plan to make both work.” Fujioka spoke with a poker face that could fool James Bond.

That’s not sarcasm, right? S-she means that. I’m gonna assume she does. Living life seeing the best in people really makes it easier, that’s a lot off my conscience.

The black-haired illustrator before me smirked and swiveled around—her silky long hair flipped with her, moving like a second shadow.

A natural silence fell over us and we each wandered back to our usual spots in the clubroom. It’s a bit weird, choosing all the dialogue options to simply end an interaction… Or was that just us being comfortable with each other…?

Probably the first thing.

Close to ten minutes passed. I sat with an arm stretched out across the large wooden table and my head laying on it. I am unable to write. My critics appear to be right… I’m a fraud.

I stood up with a defeated slouch and stomped my feet over to Fujioka. She paid no attention to me, though—nor did I want her. I positioned a nearby stool behind her and plopped myself down.

You could describe my posture using the English letter “C”.

I hate it. I hate watching her paint. She and the light novel community titles her as an “illustrator”, but we both, and the industry, know that isn’t right… not what it really is. She’s a savant. Watching her makes me feel… makes me feel… insignificant. Without a moment of hesitation, she puts strokes of paint in seemingly random places on the canvas. Flicking her wrist about in ways that’d make you think she’s goofing off. You say to yourself, “what is she doing?” but after a few more blobs of paint—it’s the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen. The Mona Lisa-shaped in the visage of Kaoru Akimoto. I might as well be sitting a thousand meters behind her. Just days ago all she had was "average" as I said... How could I say that in the first place? Me of all people, a massive fan of hers, knows she's nothing short of extraordinary. In just these last few days, she's redone all the pieces it looks like... It's the level of quality she has only used on personal projects... I’m nowhere close to her. I’m looking at someone through a distant telescope who’s made it through the hell of posting works online, connecting with people, getting a first job, book signings, tours, interviews… She has impossible amounts of talent and passion. She can sit down and just paint, not distractions or second thoughts. Why? I have a story in my head damnit, why can’t I tell it!?

I stood up from my stool and turned towards the door. “I-I’m tired… I think I’m gonna get going.”

It took until I had one foot out of the doorway for Fujioka to respond to my goodbye. “Three days, Makoto.”