Chapter 3 — The Hidden Notebook

Rain began halfway through homeroom, thin at first, then pouring so hard the windows trembled. The world outside blurred into grey ribbons of water. Inside, the hum of the fluorescent lights mingled with the steady rhythm of the storm.

When the final bell rang, the girls rushed for the gates with umbrellas blooming like flowers. Himari stayed behind to help the teacher collect papers, as always — the model student with the careful handwriting and the perfect bow.

By the time she left the classroom, the corridors were nearly empty. She had walked halfway down the stairs when she realized she’d left her umbrella behind.

Sighing, she turned back.

---

Class 2-A was quiet when she returned. The storm outside muffled the world into a soft, wet silence. Desks stood neatly aligned, the faint smell of chalk and ink heavy in the air.

Her umbrella rested near her seat — but something else caught her eye.

On the desk beside hers, Mizuki’s desk, lay a small black notebook.

The kind artists carried everywhere, edges worn smooth from use.

Himari hesitated. It felt private. Sacred, almost.

But curiosity, that quiet voice that sounded too much like hunger, whispered from within.

Just one page.

Her fingers brushed the cover. It was warm — as if someone had been holding it moments ago.

She opened it.

---

At first, she thought she was mistaken.

The drawing was of a girl — long hair, delicate features, an expression somewhere between sadness and peace.

Then she turned the page.

Another drawing. The same girl.

Her hair tied differently, her head tilted to the side.

Another page.

Her smiling.

Another — sleeping.

Another — laughing faintly, though Himari couldn’t remember ever laughing like that.

Every page was her.

Her hands. Her eyes. The shape of her lips.

Dozens of sketches, in pencil and charcoal, sometimes soft and unfinished, sometimes so detailed it made her breath catch.

There were no backgrounds, no other figures. Only Himari — in every form, every emotion.

Like an entire world built from her face.

And then, at the very end, one final drawing — different from the rest.

Himari’s face again, but this time, her eyes were closed. Her neck was ringed with a faint shadow — like a choker. Beneath it, in uneven handwriting, the words:

> “Himari Akane — mine.”

---

Her hand trembled slightly as she held the page open.

Her pulse thudded in her ears.

It wasn’t fear.

It wasn’t disgust.

It was something stranger, deeper — a quiet fascination curling up in her chest.

She traced the faint pencil lines of her own drawn face with her fingertip, almost tenderly.

Mine.

The word didn’t sound like possession in her mind — it sounded like worship.

---

A soft sound made her freeze.

The door slid open.

Mizuki stood there, rain still glistening in her hair, uniform damp around the shoulders. A faint flush of surprise flickered across her pale face.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Mizuki’s lips parted, her voice barely audible over the rain.

“You… saw it?”

Himari turned slowly, the notebook still open in her hands.

“I was just…” She stopped herself. There was no excuse that wouldn’t sound like a lie.

Mizuki’s eyes weren’t angry. They were wide — terrified, like she’d been caught naked in a place she shouldn’t be.

Her breathing quickened, fingers twitching at her sides. “I— I didn’t mean for you to—”

Himari closed the notebook gently, the sound small and final.

“You’re very talented, Mizuki,” she said, smiling softly.

Mizuki blinked, confused. “…What?”

“These drawings. They’re beautiful.”

Her tone was calm, almost affectionate, though her heart raced.

Mizuki’s eyes filled with something between relief and disbelief.

“You’re not… angry?”

“Why would I be?”

Mizuki opened her mouth, then closed it again. A faint tremor ran through her hands. She took a hesitant step forward, as if unsure whether to run or kneel.

“I just…” she whispered, “didn’t want to forget your face.”

The words lingered in the still air, delicate and heavy all at once.

Himari smiled again, smaller this time. “You won’t,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Mizuki’s shoulders relaxed — but her eyes didn’t. There was still that glimmer, that faint, dangerous light that made Himari’s stomach twist.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Himari said softly, placing the notebook back on the desk and walking past her.

Mizuki stayed frozen in place, staring at it like it had betrayed her.

---

That night, the rain continued without pause.

Himari lay in her dorm bed, watching droplets slide down the glass. The rhythmic tapping was almost hypnotic.

Sleep came slowly.

In her dream, she stood in an endless white room. Sketchbooks covered the floor, piled high, pages fluttering like the wings of dead butterflies.

Each page had her face drawn on it — laughing, crying, sleeping, bleeding.

She turned one over and saw herself smiling, eyes hollow.

Another — her body drawn from behind, hands clasped like she was praying.

Another — her head tilted to the side, neck ringed with red.

No matter where she looked, it was her.

Thousands of versions of herself, smiling in ways she never had.

She tried to scream, but the pages stuck to her mouth like wet paper.

And somewhere, in the distance, Mizuki’s voice whispered her name over and over.

> “Himari… Himari… you’re mine…”

When Himari jolted awake, her pillow was damp with sweat.

For a long time, she lay still, staring at the ceiling, her pulse still quick.

The sound of rain was gone.

But the echo of that whisper — soft, trembling, reverent — remained.