The sketchbook has been sitting on my desk for three days.

It’s closed, unassuming, just another battered notebook among dozens. But every time I glance at it, my stomach knots. It’s ridiculous—how something so small could feel so heavy. How one stupid page could weigh more than all the silence I’ve carried for years.

I tell myself I won’t show him. That there’s no reason to. That it’s just a drawing.

But that’s a lie, and I know it.

It’s not just a drawing. It’s him.

The way his hands float over the keys like they were born for them. The tiny furrow between his brows when he’s lost in a melody. The faint smile that lingers after the final note fades. Somehow, I captured all of it—every piece of him I was too cowardly to say out loud.

And now the sketchbook sits there, like it’s daring me to speak.

---

Shion arrives earlier than usual. The autumn light outside is pale and golden, slipping into the studio like a soft sigh. He’s carrying nothing this time—not even his keyboard—just a small bag slung over his shoulder and a strange, thoughtful look in his eyes.

“You’re early,” I say, pretending to busy myself with rearranging brushes.

“Couldn’t wait,” he says easily, dropping the bag on the floor. “I had this melody stuck in my head all morning. Figured if I don’t play it here, it’ll never leave me alone.”

There’s something quieter in his smile today. Less teasing, more… searching.

I nod toward the keyboard corner. “Go ahead.”

But he doesn’t move. “Actually, I was thinking we could do something different.”

I blink. “Different?”

“Yeah.” He gestures at the blank canvas set up near the window. “No music today. Just… talk. Sketch. Be here.”

It shouldn’t make my heart stutter the way it does. But it does.

I hesitate, fingers curling slightly at my sides. “I don’t talk much.”

“I know,” he says gently. “But I want to listen anyway.”

And just like that, the walls I spent years building feel thinner than paper.

We talk. Not about anything important at first—trivial things, silly things. He tells me about a disastrous attempt at cooking the night before; I tell him about the stray cat that’s been sneaking into the studio’s courtyard. The words stumble and scatter, but they find their rhythm.

And somewhere between laughter and comfortable silences, my gaze drifts back to the sketchbook.

I don’t notice Shion following my eyes until he speaks. “What’s in there?”

“Nothing.” Too fast. Too defensive.

He tilts his head, studying me. “You’ve been looking at it all afternoon.”

I swallow hard, pulse loud in my ears. “It’s… personal.”

“Can I see?”

The question hangs in the air, heavier than any demand. He isn’t pushing, just waiting—patient, unassuming, but present.

And that’s somehow worse.

I reach for the sketchbook before I can lose my nerve. My hands feel clumsy, unsteady, as I flip it open. Pages filled with meaningless studies pass under my fingers—still lifes, motion sketches, abstract shapes—until I reach it.

The portrait.

Him.

I hesitate one last time, my thumb hovering over the edge of the page. Then, with a shaky exhale, I turn the book toward him.

Shion goes still.

For a long moment, he says nothing. He just stares at the drawing—his likeness captured in pencil and shadow, rendered with a tenderness I hadn’t meant to reveal. His fingertips hover just above the page, as if touching it might break the spell.

“Kaoru…” His voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it. “This is…”

“Don’t,” I mutter, looking away. “It’s stupid. I shouldn’t have—”

“Beautiful.”

The word cuts me off. I blink at him, caught off guard.

“It’s beautiful,” he says again, and this time, his voice trembles ever so slightly. “You see me in a way no one ever has.”

Heat floods my cheeks. “It’s not— I just drew what I saw.”

“And that’s exactly why it means something.”

He’s closer now. I didn’t even notice him move, but suddenly he’s standing right in front of me, the sketchbook between us like a bridge. His gaze meets mine, steady and impossibly gentle.

“Do you know,” he says quietly, “that every time you look at something, you teach me how to hear it?”

My breath hitches. “What do you mean?”

“When you describe the way light bends around a shape. Or the way silence feels heavier in some rooms. When you talk about what the world looks like to you…” He swallows, searching for words. “It changes the way I write. It *changes me*.”

The air between us tightens. I can feel my pulse in my fingertips, in my throat, everywhere. I want to step back, to make a joke, to defuse the weight of it—but I can’t. I don’t *want* to.

“Shion…” I whisper.

He reaches out—slowly, deliberately—and brushes his fingers against the corner of the page, just shy of my hand. “I think,” he murmurs, “that art and music aren’t separate at all. They’re just different ways of saying the same thing.”

“And what’s that?”

“That we’re alive.”

The words hit me harder than I expect. And in the stillness that follows, I realize that the ache in my chest isn’t fear anymore. It’s longing.

I don’t know who leans closer first. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s him. But the distance shrinks until I can feel the warmth of his breath against my skin. It’s not a kiss—not yet—but it’s close enough to make the world fall away.

Close enough that, for the first time, I’m not thinking about what I’m losing.

I’m thinking about what I’ve found.

---

That night, after he’s gone, I sit alone in the studio again. The sketchbook is still open on the desk, the portrait staring back at me.

But it doesn’t feel heavy anymore.

It feels like the beginning of something I’ve been too afraid to name.

Something alive.

Something real.

Something like love.