Canvas of Silent Colors

"I'm Natsuki Ren. First year, just transferred in. From this spring I'll be in Suimei for the next three years… planning to focus on illustration and maybe… music production, too. I want to create something that makes people feel… a bit less alone, I guess."

I turned my head slightly, just enough to see him in the edge of my vision. Black hair that fell into his yellow eyes. His smile was small. Controlled.

I didn't care. My focus stayed on the table. But then—

Illustration.

My gaze paused for half a second. Illustration. Music. I wondered what his lines looked like. Were they sharp? Were they blurred with smudge tools and faint airbrush like so many students' sketches? Did he understand balance, weight, negative space? I wanted to see it just once. Then I would know.

"EEEEEHH?!! Illustration? Music?! Kouhaiiii, that's amazing! Amazing amazing amazing!" Misaki's voice cracked like fireworks bursting over a quiet street. "That means you can help animate my next short! Wait—maybe backgrounds— or sound— or—"

She bounced forward, her hair swinging against her back. Jin reached out, calm and resigned, tugging her sleeve back.

"Calm down, Misaki. You'll scare him."

Natsuki Ren just smiled softly, bowing his head in that polite, half-hidden way. His eyes flicked up at Misaki. Not nervous. Just quiet. There was something strange in them. Observing everything, but not clinging to anything. Like floating ink in clean water.

Sorata shifted, scratching the back of his neck with his usual awkward laugh. "Well, since Chihiro-sensei made you do it properly… guess we'll follow too. I'm Kanda Sorata — third year. My dream's to be a game developer who makes something people will remember. If you're doing music, maybe someday I'll come begging for a soundtrack."

Game developer. Sorata's voice was always noisy. But his noise was warm. Like a heater buzzing in the corner of a silent art studio.

That day he carried me to Sakurasou flashed faintly in my mind. His arms trembling, his voice cracking when he yelled at me.

I glanced down at my lap, letting my hair fall over my eyes. Sorata was talking again, his voice like warm water, filling the quiet places in my head. Easy. Familiar.

I didn't understand why people smiled when they heard his voice. I didn't feel what they felt. But I could mimic it. When he smiled at me, I would smile back.

When he patted my head, I would lean closer. He liked that. It made him happy. I didn't know if it made me happy, but I didn't hate it. So I did it.

That was love, wasn't it?

I didn't know.

Nanami sat up straighter, her voice strong and practiced like usual. "Aoyama Nanami. I'm a third year too. My dream is to be a professional voice actor… seiyuu. So… I hope you'll watch over me too."

Misaki threw her arms open again with her overexcited voice. "Kamiigusa Misaki! College freshman! Animator! I'm gonna make people smile and cry and smile again! Ren-kun, you HAVE to help me with my next short okay?!"

Jin pushed his glasses up with a tired half-smile. "Mitaka Jin. Sorata's friend… Misaki's boyfriend. Screenwriter. Nice to meet you."

Silence settled for a moment. I felt everyone's gazes shift to me.

I stood up, the wooden floor pressing cool against my toes. My skirt rustled faintly.

"Shiina Mashiro… third year," I said softly. "My dream is… to become a mangaka."

Mangaka. It was the only word I cared to say. Because it was the only truth.

Misaki let out a long excited squeal. Nanami-senpai clapped lightly. Sorata smiled with that warmth again.

But when I sat down, I looked back at Natsuki Ren.

His gaze was still on me. Calm, quiet, soft.

For a moment, it felt… different. Not warm like Sorata. Not bright like Misaki. Not strong like Nanami. Not tired like Jin. Just—quiet. Like he saw something in me. Something no one else could see. Even myself.

I blinked once. Turned away. Let my hair fall like a curtain.

Sorata was still warmer. His noise still louder. His presence still closer.

But illustration.

I wanted to see Natsuki Ren's lines just once. Then I would know if he was worth remembering.

--------------------------

"I don't really focus on one thing. More like... a jack of all trades. Illustration, animation, pixel art, background art, music, sound and video editing... anything that's needed, I adapt."

I watched the way his fingers curled lightly around the chopsticks, the faint tremor in his hand as he spoke. MIDI keyboard… music production… illustration… pixel art… background art… His words stacked like small, neat boxes. Each one fitting cleanly into the next.

He adapts, he said.

I didn't understand why someone would want to do everything. If you split yourself into pieces, how could any single piece become real art? Real art consumed you completely. There was no space left to adapt.

But then—

"It's like Sorata," I heard myself say.

I hadn't planned to speak. The words slipped out, quiet, almost blending with the clatter of dishes and muted hum of morning voices. Sorata… He learned everything too. Even if his lines were weak. Even if his colors were unbalanced. He tried. Every day. That was warm.

Sorata laughed awkwardly, scratching his cheek. His voice trembled a little when he admitted he practiced drawing. For me. For himself. For his game.

I felt a faint warmth in my chest. Not an emotion. Just… heat. Like pressing a hand against your shirt after standing in the sun too long.

Nanami leaned forward, her voice soft but trembling. Worried. I didn't understand why she trembled when she was only telling him not to burn out. But her eyes stayed on him even when she tried to look away. Her fork clinked against her plate, a sharp sound in the quiet dining room.

Ren chuckled softly.

His eyes flicked to me. He smiled. Small, quiet, respectful. There was no tremble in his gaze. Just calm. Like his eyes were open to everything all at once.

"Maybe… we have some similarities there, senpai."

Similarities.

I blinked once. What similarities? I didn't know. His words hovered in the air between us, like faint pencil lines before inking. Unfinished. Unclaimed.

Then his gaze shifted. The moment broke. He dipped his head politely. "Sorry, Mashiro-senpai. Let's talk later."

Talk. Later.

I watched his back as he stood up, his posture straight, his shoulders relaxed. The faint static behind my thoughts crackled once, sharp and soft at the same time.

Adapt… music… illustration… Similarities.

But Sorata was still warmer.

My fork felt heavy in my hand as I took another bite, tasting nothing at all.

Chihiro let out a sleepy chuckle, looking at Sorata and Nanami with a smirk. "Well, aren't you two lucky? Getting such a polite kouhai this year."

Nanami's voice drifted through the air, soft and careful. "Yeah… he's really considerate."

Considerate.

I didn't really understand that word. Was it like when Sorata peeled the apple for me without asking? Or when Chihiro left dinner money on the table before vanishing for two nights straight?

Sorata rubbed the back of his neck, his voice tinged with awkward laughter. "Seriously… Ren, you're way too mature for your age."

Mature.

Another word I didn't understand completely. They said it to Sorata too sometimes, but only when he was serious. Most of the time they called him dense.

Ren smiled politely, his chopsticks pausing before he continued eating. His voice dropped into something softer, almost like he was speaking to himself instead of us.

"My mother… she thought like that too. But… maybe it's just my uniqueness."

Mother.

His tone was too warm. Warmer than Sorata's. Warmer than anyone's. The word 'mother' carried something in it. Something gentle, something that should feel safe.

But inside my head, a faint static crackled.

Mother.

The word didn't have an image for me. Just noise. A sharp buzz somewhere in my chest. Like pencil shavings scraping against a desk, scattered, uncollected.

Nanami leaned closer slightly, her eyes kind. "You really value your family, huh?"

Family.

The static flickered again, washing over my thoughts. 

Ren nodded once. "Yes."

His voice was final, quiet, calm. Like he was closing a door softly.

I stared at him, my fork hovering mid-air. Watching the shape of his eyes as they lowered back to his food. Watching how his shoulders rose and fell with each quiet breath.

He looked up at me, suddenly.

Our eyes met.

His gaze was quiet. Warmer than Sorata's. But not directed at me, not truly. It felt like he was looking at everything at once, without asking anything from it.

In that moment, I felt—

The static.

Just for a second. A faint, prickling buzz under my skin, fading before it could form into anything I could name.

Then he looked away, returning to his breakfast with calm movements.

I watched him for a moment longer. Trying to understand that warmth.

That flicker.

But it slipped back into blankness before I could catch it.

So I lowered my eyes, and continued eating too.

---------------------------

Ren's voice drifted toward me.

"…Sorata-senpai. Mashiro-senpai. If it's okay to ask…"

I turned my head slightly, feeling the strands of hair shift against my cheek. His eyes were on us, calm and curious.

"How did the two of you meet for the first time?"

I blinked once. Meeting? My memory felt like an unprimed canvas — dry, cracking, empty in places.

Sorata's eyes widened a little. A faint pink spread across his cheeks as he scratched them lightly with his finger.

"Ah… that question…"

His gaze drifted away from Ren, looking somewhere past the window. Past the breeze and the summer sky. I watched him. His face softened, eyebrows relaxing, lips curling into that small smile he made only when he remembered something private.

"It was… in England, actually. I went there with Chihiro-sensei to help bring Mashiro back to Japan."

England.

I remembered the grey light, the damp pavement under my bare feet. Oil paint drying in the cold air, with hum of wind against my ears.

"When I first saw her, she was… well, she was standing there barefoot in the middle of the street near her art school dorms. Just… staring blankly at a canvas she left on the ground. People were whispering around her, pointing, but she didn't even notice."

I tilted my head, fork still resting in my fingers. That scene. Yes. It happened. People's words blurred together like muddy water. None of it mattered. There was only the canvas, the color I couldn't mix right that day. And then… there was him.

Sorata.

He was standing there, holding a plastic bag of snacks from the convenience store across the street. Looking at me with that same confused, troubled face he still wears even now.

"I thought… she looked like a lost kitten."

Lost.

I didn't feel lost. I felt where I always was. Inside myself. Inside the colors.

"She didn't say anything at first. Just… kept staring at me with those empty eyes."

Empty.

People always said that. Empty, blank, distant, strange.

But that day, when I saw him standing there, holding his bag of snacks, frowning at me with that worried look —

I thought.

He looks… warm.

"And then, without warning, she grabbed my sleeve and said, 'You're coming with me.'"

Sorata laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck.

I didn't understand why he laughed. That day, it was simple. I needed hands to carry canvases because I couldn't hold them all myself. He had hands. So he came with me.

"Back then, I didn't even know what was happening. Before I realized it, I was helping carry her paintings, following her to her studio like I was some assistant. She didn't care about me being a stranger at all… she just kept working, silent and focused."

Yes.

That's how it was.

I didn't care that he was a stranger. He was just… there. Like the sun warming the pavement outside the studio window. Like the chair that didn't creak. Like the brush that never frayed at the tip.

Useful.

Comfortable.

Warm.

The spring breeze drifted through the window, brushing against my cheek. The faint scent of flowers blurred into the steam rising from my cup of tea.

"…And that's how it started," Sorata said softly, his voice curling at the edges with tired affection. "From the very beginning… Mashiro was always like this."

I looked at him, meeting his eyes.

Like this.

Yes.

He calls me Mashiro, like it's a name that belongs to a person who does normal things. Like feeling warmth the way people expect.

Ren asked a question but didn't really. Maybe he wanted to see how Sorata would tell it.

How I would react.

I don't. I just watch the air move his hair a little. It looks soft.

From the very beginning… Mashiro was always like this.

I think that's true.

"When I see her painting, it's like… I'm seeing someone truly alive. Someone shining with everything they have. I… I wanted to be able to support her. To stay by her side and… watch her continue creating beautiful things."

I blinked once, staring at him.

Alive. Shining. Beautiful.

Those words floated around me like petals drifting past in the wind. They didn't touch me. They never really did. Inside, there was only quiet, the same quiet I always carried. I tilted my head slightly, feeling a strand of hair brush against my cheek.

Then my eyes shifted. Just for a moment, I looked at Ren.

He wasn't looking at Sorata. He was looking at me. There was nothing in his gaze. No awe, no worship, no desire to protect. Just… something clear. Like he was seeing me exactly as I was, without needing me to be beautiful or special. Just me.

I felt something loosen in my shoulders. A faint, invisible knot untying itself. My fingers curled slightly around my fork.

I turned back to Sorata.

"…You're noisy, Sorata."

He let out a strangled squeak, flailing slightly. "Wha– Hey! I'm being serious here, Mashiro!"

I tilted my head at him again, not understanding his reaction, then leaned my shoulder lightly against him. His warmth pressed into my arm. It didn't change the quiet inside me, but it settled there, like a small stone at the bottom of a pond.

----------------------------

At noon, sunlight poured across the wooden porch behind Sakurasou. I sat there cross-legged, sketchbook balanced against my knees. The breeze rustled faintly through the garden shrubs, carrying scents of cut grass and spring flowers.

My charcoal pencil moved steadily, tracing the outline of a girl holding a bottle of rainbow-coloured drops – Nanairo Drops.

I stared at the page.

The shapes were correct, perspective balanced, shadows clean. Each detail emerged exactly as it was in my mind. Yet when I blinked down at it, there was nothing. Just lines and form. Colours without meaning.

I didn't feel sad. There was no pain, no tightness in my chest. Only an ache in my wrist from constant sketching, and a quiet awareness that this wasn't enough. That I wasn't enough.

A sliding door clicked open behind me. I heard quiet footsteps, then Sorata's voice.

"Mashiro," he called softly, stepping onto the porch. His shadow fell over me, stretching long in the noon sun. "Eat this. It's your favourite melon bread."

He pressed the package into my hands. I didn't move to open it. Instead, I looked up at his face as he crouched beside me, peering at my drawing.

"…Nanairo Drops again?" he asked, his brows knitting. "You're drawing the same scene… over and over."

I nodded. That was true. Again. Again. Again.

Because it was never enough.

He sighed, brushing stray hair from my cheek and tucking it behind my ear. His touch was warm against my skin.

"Take a break, Mashiro. You're going to burn yourself out."

His voice trembled slightly with worry. I didn't understand. Burn out. Overwork. For me, there was no 'over.' Only… this. This endless, silent cycle.

Then his fingers tilted my chin up, and before I could react, his lips pressed lightly against mine.

Warmth. Pressure. The faint scent of soap. I didn't close my eyes. I just stared at him, feeling nothing ripple through my chest.

This was normal. Sorata kissed me sometimes when no one was around. I let him. It didn't hurt. It didn't feel good, either. It just… warm.

He pulled back with a small, flustered smile. "I'll go upstairs to finish my event scripts. Come in soon, okay?"

I nodded. He ruffled my hair and walked back inside, sliding the door shut. Silence returned, only broken by the hush of spring breeze and the faint scratch of my pencil moving again.

---------------------------

Afternoon came quietly.

The sun drifted westward, casting slanted golden light through the glass doors. My sketchbook lay open on my lap, surrounded by crumpled papers scattered around my feet. Each page was wrong. Even though the lines were perfect, something was missing.

Something I could never grasp.

Time blurred. The breeze grew cooler.

Then I heard footsteps behind me.

"Mashiro," Sorata called softly, stepping onto the porch with quick, tired footsteps. He carried his wallet in one hand. "I'm heading to the market. We're out of rice and eggs for dinner later, I'll come back soon so wait for me okay?"

I didn't answer. I just sat there, eyes fixed on the paper before me.

His gaze drifted down to the crumpled sketches littering the porch. His brows furrowed with quiet exasperation. Without a word, he bent down and began picking them up, crushing them further in his grip before tossing them all into a plastic bag.

"These are just failed ones, right?" he muttered, half to himself. "I'll throw them out with the rest of the garbage."

I watched him. He moved quickly, cleaning the porch of my discarded drawings as if they were nothing more than trash. To him, they were failures – useless scraps she didn't need. And he was right.

When he straightened up, bag in hand, he glanced back at me. His eyes softened, worry flickering in their depths.

"Don't stay out here too long, okay? You'll catch a cold."

I didn't reply. I just watched him turn and step inside, sliding the glass door shut behind him. Silence fell once more, broken only by the rustling of the papers he carried away.

I lowered my gaze to the blank page before me. The breeze stirred the edges faintly.

I didn't feel sad. I didn't feel anything. But in that quiet golden afternoon, staring at the empty space where my failures had been, I wondered briefly…

If something thrown away still remained somewhere.

--------------------------

I heard Ren's voice. Quiet, careful. Like someone stepping onto thin ice.

His words drifted into my ears, but they didn't echo anywhere inside. Just words, entering and leaving.

When he asked if he could sit beside me, I didn't look up. There was no reason to refuse. I didn't feel bothered, didn't feel anything.

So I said his name because he existed there, in my sight, and that was all.

The pencil felt heavy between my fingers. I pressed the tip against the paper, feeling the grain catch, feeling the vibration of pressure up my wrist. But no line came out.

The image in my mind was clear, vivid, complete – yet when I tried to move my hand, it felt distant. Like telling someone else to walk forward, but their legs refused to move.

When he asked where Sorata was, I answered simply.

Market.

Dinner.

Words that had no meaning beyond what they were. Sorata had told me he would go. He always told me small things like that. Where he was going. When he would be back. What he would buy. Whether he would cook curry or omelette rice.

I didn't mind knowing. I didn't mind not knowing either.

The pencil trembled slightly in my grip as I stared at the page. Nanairo Drops. The girl on the page was smiling faintly, holding a bottle of rainbow drops against the sky. Her hair was caught in the breeze, eyes closed, expression gentle.

The wind brushed against my bangs, lifting them for a moment before they fell back over my eyes. I felt it, but I didn't move to push them away.

Ren's voice reached me, soft and quiet.

"...Mashiro-senpai," he said. "Why did you crumple this?"

I didn't look up. My pencil hovered just above the page. I could feel the weight of his eyes on me, waiting. The air between us felt still, like a painting left unfinished.

Why?

I pressed the pencil tip down lightly, feeling its sharpness catch on the paper grain. But I didn't draw anything.

Finally, I let out a small breath. "No good," I said.

My voice came out flat, small, just air vibrating in my throat. It wasn't worth keeping. It wasn't… anything.

"But…" he said. I heard the sound of paper being smoothed out in his hands, gentle, careful. "It's… amazing. It's beautiful, Mashiro-senpai."

Beautiful.

I wondered what 'beautiful' meant. Everyone in England used that word when they saw my paintings. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. Sorata used it too. But when I looked at this drawing, all I saw was lines. Shadows. Shape. Form. It was correct, but it wasn't alive.

Was it beautiful?

I didn't know.

I felt Ren's presence beside me. His breathing was soft, quiet, a faint warmth against the silent coolness of spring evening.

The wind lifted the edge of my sketchbook page, fluttering it lightly. I didn't move to stop it. 

I heard his breath catch slightly, then fall silent.

The pencil touched down onto the paper again. Just a faint scratch, no real line.

"No inspiration," I said, almost to myself. "Sorata… will give it to me later."

I thought of Sorata's warmth, his hands when they held mine, his voice when he told me I did well. Maybe he would give it to me again today. Maybe not. If he didn't, I would just wait until tomorrow.

I felt something shift in Ren's presence beside me. A quiet tension, like still water rippling from a dropped leaf.

He moved slightly, folding his legs so he faced me. I didn't look up, but I sensed his gaze.

"Senpai," he asked softly, "do you really think it's 'no good'? Or… do you just not know what's good anymore?"

His words floated toward me, gentle and heavy at the same time.

Not know what's good anymore.

I let the question pass through me. The pencil trembled faintly between my fingers, then settled against the paper again. I could hear the faint hum of wind chimes in a neighbour's yard.

I didn't understand his question. I didn't know what 'good' was in the first place. Good or bad, beautiful or ugly, right or wrong – it didn't matter. If it didn't come out the way it felt in my mind, then it was no good. That was all.

The world felt pale and distant.

I didn't answer.

I didn't know how to.

"…I'm sorry if I'm being rude," Ren said quietly beside me. "But… it's beautiful, Mashiro-senpai. Even if you think it's not… it really is."

Beautiful.

That word again. It floated into me, then drifted away without touching anything inside.

My pencil touched down onto the paper, scratching out a faint, broken line. I didn't look at him. There was no reason to because this conversation was done.

My hand moved only slightly, the graphite leaving behind a thin grey mark that meant nothing.

I heard him shift, his clothes rustling as he stood. The wood creaked softly under his feet.

"Senpai," he said, his voice low, "wait here."

Wait here.

I kept my eyes on the page as he walked past me, listening to the quiet patter of his steps on the stairs. The breeze moved against my hair again and feel colder. 

I pressed the pencil tip down until it dented the paper but didn't break through. The smell of charcoal and old wood mixed in the afternoon air.

Upstairs, I could hear faint sounds. A chair scraping back. Something being moved across a desk.

I stayed still. My breathing felt far away. Even the ache in my shoulder from sitting hunched all day felt dull and unimportant.

Then I heard his footsteps coming back down. Calm, unhurried. I didn't lift my head.

"Come here, senpai," he murmured.

His voice was close again. Warm. Gentle. I blinked once as he leaned down and slipped something over my ears. Headphones. The cushion pressed lightly against the sides of my head, enclosing me in a faint, muffled quiet.

I blinked again, slow and heavy, as he set the laptop down in front of me. The screen glowed softly against the fading light, tilted to match my gaze.

UNDERTALE.

The title flickered onto the screen in white pixel letters. A small heart pulsed beneath it. The headphones filled with quiet, nostalgic synth notes.

I felt them vibrate against my temples, faintly buzzing in my bones.

Ren was adjusting the screen angle carefully. I could see his hands reflected for a moment on the black loading screen before it brightened.

"Have you ever played a game before, Mashiro-senpai?" Ren's voice came from beside me, soft and low.

My eyes flicked to the glowing pixel letters on the screen. UNDERTALE. White on black. Simple. Small.

Sorata… he had asked me to play his game before.

I let the memory flicker briefly across my mind. His earnest face, leaning down with that bright, clumsy smile, telling me about his game, telling me to try it. Like he was giving me a piece of himself.

"…Sorata… he asked me to play his game before," I murmured. My voice sounded empty to my own ears. Just a fact spoken aloud.

Ren tilted his head, watching me. "Did you?"

I shook my head. The motion was small, just enough to shift my bangs across my eyes.

"No," I said quietly. "I didn't want to. Games… aren't art."

They weren't. They never had been. Art is something absolute. Something created to exist, to be shown, to be beautiful or ugly or broken, but complete in itself. Games were… illusions. Noise. Something moving only if you tell it to move. If no one played it, it was nothing.

A dead program with no life or meaning on its own.

Art… exists without needing anything back.

His silence pressed against me. I could feel his gaze on the side of my face, but I kept my eyes on the flickering screen. The little heart pulsed below the pixel title. Red and small. Like a dot of acrylic on a white canvas, but emptier.

"…Just try this one," he said softly.

I felt his hand slide over mine, warm and light. His fingers wrapped around mine, guiding them to the keyboard. His skin felt warmer than Sorata's. It didn't burn or make my chest tighten, but it felt… undeniably there.

"Here," he whispered, his breath brushing my cheek. "Hold the right key down. Gently."

My index finger pressed down under his guidance. The plastic key resisted faintly before giving way.

On the screen, the small pixel figure took a step forward. Then another. The stone hallway stretched ahead, grey and dark. The synth melody in my headphones thrummed low, echoing in a place deep inside my chest that felt almost hollow.

Why am I doing this.

I felt the thought drift across my mind like smoke. Games aren't art. They don't create anything true. They are made of rules and commands and invisible walls you can't paint over. Even if you fill them with feelings, it's all decided. Programmed. Not alive.

But I didn't pull my hand away. Ren's warmth covered mine, guiding my movements. The small character kept walking forward, their steps echoing against invisible stone. The pixels flickered with each movement. The emptiness inside me flickered too.

He said nothing else. Neither did I.

--------------------------

Mashiro's finger pressed the right key, guiding Frisk through silent grey halls. The flickering pixels felt too bright against the dull emptiness in her chest. Her ears filled with music—simple, quiet guitar plucks looping over and over, calm and cold like water dripping in a stone well.

The piece was minimal. Just guitar at first. No bass, no synth, no layered harmony. Each note plucked alone, separated by faint rests, leaving empty spaces between sounds like pauses in a lonely conversation.

As The pixel boy walked further, the hallways changed. Still grey stone, still dim, but new rooms opened to her—each one empty, yet feeling like someone had just been there. The guitar melody continued, unhurried, unbroken.

Then, halfway through, the music shifted. Almost imperceptibly at first. A faint synth pad emerged beneath the guitar, warm and soft like a hidden blanket. The chords deepened, each note carrying a quiet gravity. The guitar no longer sounded alone.

The emptiness was no longer empty. There was depth now. A silent space within the silence. An echo of memory carried in each resonant string.

Mashiro's chest hurt. No… it didn't hurt exactly. It felt… something. Cold? Warm? Shaking? She couldn't name it. The feeling pressed against her ribs like icy air trapped beneath heavy blankets.

The pixel boy passed a mirror on the wall. Plain. Grey frame, grey stone background. Words appeared silently at the bottom of the screen.

"Despite everything, it's still you."

Mashiro blinked.

The breeze outside the porch window rattled faintly. But here, in this quiet grey hallway, there was no breeze. Only the music, the pixels, and those words.

Her bangs fell across her eyes. The pencil slipped from her left hand, rolling across her sketchbook. She didn't notice.

Why… is it like this…?

Despite everything, it's still you.

The words glowed on the laptop screen. But Mashiro didn't see them at first.

Because in that flicker of silence—

She was somewhere else.

A heavy wood door. Dark polished floors reflecting chandelier light. Her small shoes squeaked against the marble as she was led down the hall.

"Walk properly, Mashiro."

That cold voice. Female. Crisp English accent. The clack of heels beside her.

She didn't answer. She just kept staring down at her feet. At the hem of her white dress with little pink roses. Her fingers curled into the fabric. She remembered the smell of perfume. Heavy. Bitter. Sharp.

"She's a quiet child, isn't she?"

Another voice. A man this time. Deep. Distant. Her mother's grip tightened on her wrist.

"She won't cause trouble."

"Good," he said, with a tone like he was approving a painting in a gallery. "That's all that matters."

A faint warmth bloomed in her chest then. Not happiness. Not sadness. Just… something. Something that faded as quickly as it came.

The next moment—

She was back on the porch. Back in this grey pixel hallway.

The words still glowed on the screen:

"Despite everything, it's still you."

Mashiro didn't understand why her heart felt heavy. Why the static still rang in her ears even though there was only quiet guitar now, plucking slow and soft, wrapping around the synth like dusk falling over silent hills.

She swallowed, her throat tight. Her bangs slipped forward, hiding her eyes.

Despite everything…?

She didn't know what "everything" meant.

Or what "you" was supposed to be.

But as the little pixel child kept standing there, staring at their reflection, Mashiro felt her hands tremble faintly. A feeling she could neither name nor erase.

The pixel boy kept walking. The halls stretched on, leading her past silent rooms. Here and there, small creatures appeared—strange monsters with wide white eyes, blocky bodies, and uneven outlines. They didn't speak in voice lines. Only silent black text scrolled beneath them.

Mashiro stared at them. At their awkward shapes, their flickering pixelated faces. They were weird. Ugly. Not beautiful like her paintings or Sorata's bright games.

But…

She felt something tighten in her chest as they moved. Even though they were just uneven pixels… they felt alive. Their existence pressed against her senses, silent but undeniable. Her stomach twisted with unease and a faint, breathless curiosity.

The music rose gently, the synth weaving into the guitar's quiet dance. A lullaby. But hidden within was something heavier. Like a song you'd hum at a funeral, voice shaking with held-back tears.

Fear prickled up her spine.

She didn't understand why her hands trembled against the keys. Her eyes stayed fixed on Frisk's small, round face, unblinking. A quiet voice whispered in her chest, small and unfamiliar.

I'm scared…

But she didn't know what she was scared of. The monsters didn't attack. The music didn't swell into chaos. There was no threat. And yet her breath grew shallow with every note.

Is this… what art is supposed to feel like…?

The thought floated across her mind, light as breath. She didn't chase it away.

The Pixel boy stopped walking at the end of the hall. The final chord faded into silence, leaving only the faint hum of laptop fans in the quiet room. Mashiro's fingers slipped from the keyboard. Her shoulders felt stiff, her skin too tight. She swallowed once, tasting the dryness in her throat.

She wanted Sorata's warmth. She wanted the simple sweetness of his voice calling her name.

Because for the first time she could remember,

her own heart felt louder than her mind's silent, empty walls.