A New Challenge
Aika barely touched her breakfast.
The world outside her window was bathed in soft morning light, but she felt like she was somewhere else entirely—stuck in the lingering haze of last night's painting.
Her usual works followed careful techniques, measured strokes, and meticulous detail. But this—this was raw. Unpolished. Unplanned.
And yet, she couldn't look away from it.
It was the first piece she had ever made that felt alive.
But was that enough?
Doubt crept in as she stared at the brushstrokes. Would anyone understand it? Or would they see it as a mistake?
"Oi, you're zoning out."
Aika snapped back to reality as her younger brother, Haru, plopped into the seat across from her, stuffing his face with rice. He squinted at her suspiciously.
"You're acting weird," he said through a mouthful.
Aika frowned, absentmindedly stirring her miso soup. "No, I'm not."
"You totally are." He smirked. "Wait… did you finally get a boyfriend?"
Aika nearly choked on air. "W-What?!"
Haru cackled, enjoying her reaction. "I knew it! Who is he? Is he rich? Tall? A delinquent?"
She shot him a withering glare, grabbing her bag. "You seriously need to stop watching dramas."
"Then what's got you so distracted?"
Aika paused, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag.
For a moment, she considered telling him. About the music, the colors, the way something inside her shifted when she painted last night. But… how could she even explain it?
Instead, she sighed. "Nothing. Mind your own business."
Before he could pester her more, she slipped on her shoes and rushed out the door.
But as she walked to school, Haru's words echoed in her mind.
Why had she denied it so quickly?
---
The Eyes of an Artist
By the time Aika entered the art room, she had convinced herself that last night had been a fluke.
She set her supplies down, ignoring the strange weight in her chest. Today, she would focus. She would return to what she knew best—structure, technique, perfection.
Then—
"Fujisawa-san."
Professor Kondo's deep voice cut through the quiet classroom.
Aika straightened as he approached, his sharp eyes studying her.
"Do you have something new to show me?"
Her heart jumped.
She hesitated, fingers twitching toward her bag.
Did she dare show him something so… different?
Professor Kondo had always praised her discipline, her technical mastery. But this painting—it wasn't controlled or precise. It was a mess of color and feeling.
Still…
Slowly, she reached into her bag and pulled out the piece.
She held her breath as Kondo examined it. His brows furrowed slightly, his fingers brushing his chin. The silence stretched on, thick with unspoken judgment.
Finally, he murmured, "This is… different from your usual work."
Aika's stomach twisted.
That wasn't praise.
But it wasn't criticism, either.
Kondo's gaze flickered to her. "What inspired this?"
Aika hesitated.
If she told him the truth—that she painted while feeling music—would he think it was nonsense?
Before she could answer, a familiar voice broke in.
"That's pretty cool."
Aika stiffened.
She turned—and nearly groaned.
Riku Asano leaned casually against the doorframe, hands shoved in his pockets, his golden-brown eyes scanning her painting with open curiosity.
Professor Kondo raised an unimpressed brow. "Asano, you're not in this class."
"Yeah, but I got bored," Riku said with a lazy grin, strolling inside. His gaze flicked to Aika. "Looks like you actually tried something new, huh?"
Aika scowled. "Why are you here?"
"Relax, Art Girl," he chuckled. "I came to ask if you're free after school."
Aika blinked. "Why?"
"You still don't get it, do you?" Riku leaned over her canvas, tapping the edge lightly. "You saw colors in my music. Now it's time to see music in your painting."
Aika frowned. "That doesn't even make sense."
Riku's smirk deepened. "Doesn't it?"
Professor Kondo, who had been listening in silence, suddenly let out a small chuckle.
"You two seem to have an interesting dynamic," he mused.
Aika bristled. "We do not have a—"
"Fujisawa," Kondo interrupted, his expression thoughtful. "You've spent years refining your technique, but perhaps it's time to explore a different approach. You should take this opportunity."
Aika gawked. "You agree with him?"
Professor Kondo smiled slightly. "For now."
Aika slumped in defeat.
Riku, looking far too pleased with himself, shot her a smug look. "Looks like you don't have an excuse, Art Girl."
She groaned.
This was going to be a long day.
---
Music in Motion
After school, Aika followed Riku to an abandoned classroom near the music hall. Dust lingered in the air, the scent of old books and worn wood mixing with the fading warmth of the afternoon.
In the center of the room sat a grand piano, slightly aged but still beautiful.
Riku cracked his knuckles. "Alright. Let's see if you can feel this one."
Aika sighed, setting up her sketchbook. "Fine. But if this turns out to be a waste of time—"
"You'll owe me lunch," Riku finished, smirking.
Aika rolled her eyes. "Just play."
Riku placed his hands on the keys.
The first note rang out, deep and resonant, like a drop of ink sinking into water. Then another. And another.
The melody unfolded slowly, rich with longing. It wasn't just sound—it was a story, one that tugged at something deep inside her.
And then—
Colors.
They weren't just fleeting streaks this time. They moved.
The deep blue thickened like the weight of nostalgia, gold softened into wisps of pink, swirling in time with the melody. The song felt like reaching out for something that was slipping away.
Without thinking, Aika grabbed her pencil.
She didn't plan. She didn't hesitate.
She just drew.
Her hand moved instinctively, lines curving with the rise and fall of the music. Where the notes soared, her strokes lifted. Where they sank, the shading deepened.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours.
She only stopped when the final note faded into silence.
Her breath hitched as she stared at the paper.
It wasn't like anything she'd drawn before. The lines pulsed with energy, shifting between abstract and real. It was chaotic. Imperfect.
But it was alive.
Riku peered over her shoulder.
A slow whistle escaped his lips. "Damn. That's actually cool."
Aika swallowed hard.
For the first time, she wasn't just copying what she saw.
She was painting what she felt.
And it terrified her.