The classroom buzzed with chatter, the hum of voices filling the space like background static. For Haruki, it was white noise. He sat in the farthest corner of the room, his head bowed, pencil moving swiftly across his sketchbook. His hand danced over the paper, tracing the outline of a girl surrounded by darkness—faceless, her figure consumed by a tangle of shadows.
It wasn't just a drawing; it was a piece of him, raw and unfiltered.
"Sumimasen," a soft voice broke through his haze.
Haruki glanced up, startled. A girl stood in front of him, her hands clasped around a neatly folded timetable. She looked new—her uniform too pristine, her posture awkward as she glanced at the empty seat beside him.
"I think I'm supposed to sit here," she said, bowing slightly.
Haruki gave a slight nod, his voice barely above a whisper. "Dozo."
She sat down, her movements hesitant, as if afraid of disturbing the air around her. Haruki kept his head down, hoping she wouldn't try to talk to him.
But she did.
"What are you drawing?" she asked, her voice curious but gentle.
Haruki froze, his pencil pausing mid-stroke. "It's nothing," he muttered, flipping the page over.
"I saw it," she said, leaning slightly closer. "It didn't look like nothing."
Haruki tightened his grip on the sketchbook. He hated how exposed he felt, like she had peeked into a part of him he wasn't ready to share. "I just... like to draw," he said finally, his tone clipped.
The girl didn't press further. Instead, she smiled—a small, fleeting smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I'm Aoi," she said.
He hesitated before replying, "Haruki."
---
The hours dragged on, the rain outside turning Tokyo's streets into a blur of shimmering lights and gray skies. Haruki packed his things quickly when the final bell rang, eager to escape the suffocating walls of the classroom. He walked through the schoolyard, his hood pulled up against the drizzle, and made his way to the old art room.
It was his refuge, a forgotten corner of the school where no one bothered him. He sat by the window, the faint hum of the city filtering in as he opened his sketchbook.
He stared at the faceless girl he had drawn earlier. She seemed to mock him, her outstretched hand a silent accusation.
"You're just a stupid drawing," he whispered, tearing the page out with shaking hands.
A knock on the door startled him. Haruki turned, his heart sinking when he saw her—Aoi. She stood in the doorway, her umbrella dripping water onto the floor.
"You forgot this," she said, holding up a folded timetable.
Haruki frowned. He hadn't even realized he'd dropped it. "Thanks," he muttered, taking it from her.
Aoi's eyes wandered to the walls, where his older sketches were pinned. She stepped closer, her gaze lingering on one in particular—a boy curled into himself, surrounded by jagged, claw-like shadows.
"You made these?" she asked, her voice filled with quiet awe.
Haruki shrugged. "Yeah."
"They're beautiful," she said, then quickly added, "but... sad."
He let out a bitter laugh. "That's life, isn't it?"
She didn't respond right away. Instead, she turned back to him, her expression unreadable. "Sometimes it is," she said softly. "But it doesn't have to be."
Her words hung in the air, fragile and tentative. Haruki looked away, his chest tightening. "Why are you even here?" he asked.
Aoi hesitated, her fingers clutching the strap of her bag. "I don't know," she admitted. "Maybe... because you seem like someone who understands."
Her answer cut deeper than Haruki expected. He wanted to tell her she was wrong, that he didn't understand anything—not himself, not the world, not the ache in his chest that never went away. But he didn't.
"Just leave me alone," he said instead, his voice cold.
Aoi's face fell, but she nodded and left without another word.
As the door clicked shut behind her, Haruki stared at the empty doorway for a long time. Then, slowly, he picked up his pencil and turned to a fresh page in his sketchbook.
This time, the faceless girl had a face.
Aoi's face.