Chapter 5 — “The Cut on Her Hand”

The hum of the art room was soft — the scrape of pencils, the faint rustle of sketchbooks turning. Afternoon light poured through tall windows, slicing the air into gold and shadow.

Himari sat by the window, charcoal staining her fingertips, glancing now and then at Mizuki.

Mizuki sat two desks away, her expression calm, her movements deliberate. Every line she drew seemed to ache with emotion. She was sketching Himari again — Himari could feel it in the weight of Mizuki’s gaze, the way her shoulders tensed whenever Himari looked back.

It should’ve made her uncomfortable.

Instead, it made her heart beat a little faster.

The teacher spoke about composition, about how art captures truth. Himari wondered what truth Mizuki was trying to draw.

Then came the sound — a soft gasp, followed by a metallic clink.

Everyone turned. Mizuki’s cutter had slipped from her hand, its blade glinting crimson where it had caught her palm.

A thin line of blood trailed down her wrist.

“Mizuki-san!” one girl cried, leaping up.

“I’m fine,” Mizuki said quickly, voice too calm. “It’s just… nothing.”

She pressed her hand against her skirt, staining it dark red.

The teacher hurried over, fussing. Someone fetched tissues. Mizuki just smiled, even as her fingers shook.

“It doesn’t hurt,” she murmured. “I’m used to it.”

The words chilled Himari.

---

After class, when the others had gone, Himari found her alone in the art room. Mizuki sat at the back, the smell of antiseptic in the air, wrapping her palm in a thin strip of gauze. Her sketchbook lay open beside her — another unfinished drawing of Himari, this time her lips half-open as if mid-sentence.

Himari stepped closer. “You should’ve gone to the nurse.”

Mizuki smiled faintly. “I didn’t want to make a fuss.”

“Bleeding in class isn’t nothing.”

“I said I’m fine.” Mizuki’s tone softened, then broke into a whisper. “I was just… thinking. You didn’t look at me much today.”

Himari froze. The way she said it — soft, trembling, but with an edge underneath — made the air feel heavy.

“Is that why you—?” Himari stopped herself, her voice caught between anger and confusion.

Mizuki didn’t answer. She just kept winding the gauze, her fingers slick with blood.

“Mizuki,” Himari said, kneeling beside her. “That’s not— You can’t hurt yourself just because I didn’t—”

“Then look at me now,” Mizuki whispered.

Her eyes, wide and wet, met Himari’s. They were trembling, but the gaze didn’t waver. It was almost accusing.

Something inside Himari cracked. A part of her wanted to pull away — another part couldn’t.

So she did the only thing that came to mind.

She took Mizuki’s bandaged hand and lifted it to her lips.

Mizuki gasped softly as Himari kissed the wound through the gauze — a faint taste of metal and salt. When she pulled back, her lips were smeared faintly red.

“Does that make you feel seen?” Himari whispered, her tone colder than she meant.

Mizuki shivered. Her shoulders shook — from pleasure, pain, or guilt, even she didn’t seem to know.

Tears welled in her eyes, but she smiled anyway. “Yes,” she breathed. “You’re looking at me now.”

---

The rest of the day blurred. They walked home in silence, their shadows crossing beneath the dying light. Himari’s fingers twitched with the memory of blood. Mizuki’s hand remained hidden in her sleeve, still trembling faintly.

That night, Mizuki sat in her dorm room, her sketchbook open once again. The lamp flickered, casting their drawings in uneven light.

Her left hand — the injured one — ached dully as she wrote between the sketches of Himari’s smile:

> “If pain is what it takes to be seen, I’ll keep bleeding.”

A few drops of crimson fell onto the page before the ink dried.

In the silence, she smiled faintly, whispering to the shadows:

> “Himari’s lips were so warm.”

And somewhere, not far away, Himari closed her diary, unable to sleep — tasting iron when she pressed her tongue against her lips.

The sea outside crashed gently, endlessly, as if echoing something that couldn’t yet be named.