The silence between us lingers, thicker than the faint smell of varnish clinging to the gallery walls. The hum of conversations drifts through the air—clinking glasses, shoes against polished floors, the low murmur of critics and students alike. Yet it all feels distant, like I’m underwater. Only his gaze remains sharp, steady, locked onto me as though I’m another painting to dissect.

“What I might never see again,” I mutter, my voice harsher than I intend. It tastes bitter, too raw, the way it always does when I let the truth slip through my teeth.

Normally, that’s enough to make people recoil. They fidget, mumble something half-hearted, and escape before the darkness can cling to them. But this stranger doesn’t move. His expression doesn’t shift to pity or discomfort. He just looks at me—curious, intent, like there’s something worth finding in the cracks I keep hidden.

I shift my weight, heat prickling my palms. I hate this—the way his presence unsettles me, the way I can’t predict his reaction. “Well?” I snap. “Do you regret asking?”

Instead of retreating, he smiles. Not wide. Not mocking. Just the faintest curve, like the edge of a note barely played. “Not at all.”

The answer knocks me off balance. My walls, usually so reliable, shudder under the quiet confidence in his tone. I turn back toward the canvas, trying to bury the moment. “Everyone else thinks it’s messy. Or depressing.”

“It is messy,” he says, not missing a beat. His eyes remain on the painting, his head tilted slightly, as if listening to something I can’t hear. “But not in a careless way. More like… like it’s trying to hold something that can’t be contained.”

I blink at him. Of all the feedback I’ve endured—“bleak,” “unpolished,” “too personal”—no one has ever said that.

He leans forward, his ash-brown hair slipping from its tie, catching faint light like threads of silver. “It feels like music.”

A laugh bursts out of me, sharp and unguarded. “Music? From paint?”

He doesn’t flinch at the sarcasm. “Everything has rhythm if you look close enough.” Finally, his gaze shifts to mine. For the first time I see it clearly: the brightness in his eyes, not just reflection but something alive, something that carries sound even in silence. “I’m Shion.”

The name rolls from his tongue like a chord. Soft, deliberate, resonant.

I hesitate, then give in. “Kaoru.”

As soon as I say it, I regret it. Now he knows. Now he can find me again. I brace myself, but he only repeats it, slow and measured: “Kaoru.” The syllables hang between us, warmer than I expect, as though he’s trying the name on for size, testing its weight. My chest tightens, and I look away, fussing with my sleeve.

---

Aoi appears out of nowhere, balancing two paper cups of soda. His eyebrows lift when he sees us. “Hey, Kaoru. Friend of yours?”

“Not really,” I answer quickly.

Shion chuckles, a soft sound that feels more like a breeze than laughter. “Not yet, at least.”

The casualness of it strikes me harder than it should. My chest jolts. Aoi smirks, far too amused. “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” he says, thrusting one of the cups into my hand before backing away into the crowd. His grin is obvious even as he disappears. Traitor.

I glance sideways at Shion. He’s still looking at my painting, hands tucked loosely in his pockets, shoulders relaxed like he belongs here. “You painted this for the exhibit?”

“Obviously.”

“Obviously,” he repeats, grinning. “But I meant… it feels personal. More than just an assignment.”

The air tightens in my throat. “Does it matter?”

“It matters to me,” he says simply.

His words land like stones in a pond, rippling through me in ways I don’t want to acknowledge. I force my expression flat. “What do you even know about art?”

Instead of offense, amusement flickers across his face. “Not much. I’m a composer.”

That catches me off guard. I blink. “A composer?”

He nods. “Music major. Fourth year.” He says it lightly, almost dismissively, but the way a couple of students nearby glance at him, whispering in recognition, tells me there’s more to it.

I frown. “Wait. That Shion? People in the cafeteria talk about you. Something about—you already having an album? Or an orchestra piece?”

He waves it off like swatting a fly. “Some things I’ve written got out there, yeah. Doesn’t really matter.”

“Doesn’t matter?” I stare at him, incredulous. “You’re basically famous.”

“I’m a student with deadlines, same as you.” His smile is easy, practiced, but not fake. There’s a strange humility in it that unsettles me more than arrogance ever could.

I bristle. “So what’s a big-shot composer doing at an art exhibit?”

“Looking for inspiration,” he replies without hesitation. His gaze returns to my painting. “And I think I found it.”

The words slam into me before I can deflect. My pulse stutters. I hate the way heat crawls up my neck. I mutter the only defense I have left. “You’re weird.”

“Maybe.” His grin widens. “But so are you.”

I scoff, but my chest won’t settle. His words linger, vibrating through me like the echo of a string plucked too hard.

---

The evening stretches. People circle the gallery, their voices rising and falling like waves. My classmates chatter, critics take notes, strangers snap photos. I should be relieved to blend back into the background, to let my painting bear the scrutiny instead of me. But my eyes keep betraying me, scanning for him.

Shion is easy to find. He draws people in without trying. Students crowd him, asking questions about his work, whispering about his reputation. Some ask for selfies. He obliges with polite smiles, never boastful, never dismissive. But I notice the flick of his gaze, again and again, skimming past them, searching.

For me.

When our eyes finally meet across the gallery, something sharp jolts through my chest. Electricity. He excuses himself smoothly, leaving admirers behind, and walks straight toward me.

“I want to hear more,” he says when he reaches me.

My throat tightens. “About what?”

“About what you see. And what you’re afraid of losing.”

The words strip me bare. Too direct. Too close. No one has ever asked me that, not without pity coating the edges.

“Why?” My voice comes out smaller than I intend.

He shrugs, but his eyes stay fixed on mine, steady and unwavering. “Because maybe if you can’t keep it, I can help you remember it. Through sound.”

The air feels heavier suddenly, pressing against my ribs. My walls strain, creaking under the weight of what he’s offering, what he’s implying. I want to scoff, to laugh it off, to shove him away before he can get any closer.

But all I manage is: “You talk too much.”

It’s flimsy, brittle, and we both know it.

Shion doesn’t look offended. His smile softens, almost tender, like he hears the truth beneath the words. Like he sees the trembling string inside me I’m trying to silence.

I turn my face away, but it’s too late. The sound of his promise lingers, reverberating through me like an echo I can’t shut out.

Inside, something dangerous stirs.

Something like hope.