The first time Shion brings his keyboard into my studio, I almost throw him out.

It’s not a large space. Every inch of the floor is already cluttered with canvases, brushes, and sketches that never quite lived up to what I imagined. The smell of paint clings stubbornly to the air, no matter how wide I leave the windows open. The studio is mine, chaotic but sacred.

So when he wheels in a battered keyboard case and starts unpacking it like he owns the place, my blood pressure spikes.

“You can’t just—”

“Relax,” Shion interrupts, flashing that insufferable grin. “It’s not permanent. Think of it as… a collaboration.”

“I didn’t agree to this.”

“You didn’t disagree either.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, exhaling slowly. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I get that a lot.” He plugs in the keyboard, then pats the side of it like it’s a trusted friend. “Trust me. This will make sense.”

I cross my arms, glaring at him. “If you scratch my floor, I’m kicking you out.”

“Duly noted.”

He settles on the bench, fingers hovering over the keys. Then he glances up at me, the cocky humor fading into something gentler. “Just… sketch. Don’t think too much. Let’s see what happens.”

The room falls quiet. Only the faint hum of the amplifier remains.

Then, softly, Shion begins to play.

It isn’t a melody I recognize. The notes drift slow and tentative at first, like footsteps testing new ground. Then they gather confidence, weaving into patterns that shimmer like ripples on water. I feel them in my chest, in the air around me—the resonance filling the space more completely than even silence ever could.

Almost without realizing it, I pick up my pencil.

The paper beneath my hand is blank, intimidating. But as Shion plays, lines start to appear. Loose curves. Fluid shapes. Not precise, not academic. Just movement—like my hand is chasing the sound itself.

He shifts into a different chord, and my pencil darkens, pressing harder, tracing depth. A swell in the music sends my strokes scattering across the page, jagged but alive. For the first time in months, my art doesn’t feel like it’s dying.

It feels like it’s transforming.

I glance at him. He isn’t watching the keys. He’s watching me.

The realization sends heat rushing up my neck.

I clear my throat, pretending to focus harder on the page. “You’re… distracting.”

He smiles faintly, not breaking rhythm. “Good. Then we’re even.”

The banter is light, but underneath it, something heavier pulses. Each note he plays seems to find an echo in me, vibrating against the cracks I’ve tried to keep hidden. My hand trembles once, but instead of freezing, I let the imperfection stay. Somehow, it belongs.

After a while, I set the pencil down, staring at the mess of lines and shades. It isn’t finished. It isn’t even coherent. But it feels alive, in a way my careful studies haven’t in months.

Shion stops playing, letting the last chord linger. The silence that follows feels full, not empty.

I swallow hard. “That was…” Words fail me.

“Resonance,” he says softly, answering for me.

The word hums in my chest.

He leans back slightly, stretching his fingers. “It’s strange. Usually when I compose, I’m chasing an image in my head. But with you—it’s like the image is chasing me back.”

I laugh once, bitter at the edges. “Don’t make it sound romantic.”

His gaze holds mine, steady. “Why not?”

My breath catches. For a moment, the air feels charged, fragile, as if one wrong word could break it. I look away, fumbling for safety in sarcasm. “You’re impossible.”

He chuckles, the sound softer than usual. “Maybe. But you didn’t stop me from playing.”

I can’t argue with that.

---

Over the next few days, it becomes a rhythm. Shion shows up—sometimes with sheet music scribbled on napkins, sometimes with nothing but that mischievous smile. He plays. I draw. We don’t always talk, but we don’t need to. The room fills with sound, with movement, with something that feels less like loneliness and more like… company.

Once, he catches me closing my eyes while he plays. I only meant to rest them, but in the darkness, the music blooms into colors in my mind. Not the sharp hues I used to see, but soft washes of gold and indigo, like memory reimagined.

When I open my eyes again, he’s watching me carefully.

“What?” I snap, embarrassed.

He shakes his head, smiling. “Nothing. Just… you looked like you believed in it.”

“Believed in what?”

“That sound can hold color.”

I don’t answer, but my chest aches with the truth of it.

One evening, as the sky outside deepens into violet, he plays something slower, almost hesitant. The notes are tender, fragile, like secrets whispered too close.

I find myself sketching not the music, but him. The curve of his shoulders, the concentration in his brow, the way his hair falls slightly into his eyes. My pencil moves before I can stop it.

When I realize what I’ve drawn, heat flares in my cheeks. I slam the sketchbook shut.

Shion glances up at the sound. “What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

“Show me.”

“No.”

He raises an eyebrow, a playful challenge sparking in his gaze. “Someday, Kaoru, I’ll make you show me.”

I roll my eyes, but my heart stumbles against my ribs.

That night, after he leaves, I sit alone in the studio, staring at the shut sketchbook. My chest feels tight, confused, alive.

His word echoes again: Resonance.

I press my hand against my heart, feeling it still vibrating with the last notes of his music.

And for the first time, I’m terrified—not of losing my sight, but of what I’ll do if I lose this.