It was the kind of morning that hesitated between the hush of dawn and the chatter of a lively afternoon—the sort that tiptoes around your windowsill like a secret visitor, soft and silver-edged. Arata stood in front of his bedroom mirror, a quiet kind of nervousness rippling through his slender frame like a whisper that wouldn't quite settle.
He smoothed down the fabric of his cream sweater, adjusted the collar twice even though it didn't need adjusting, and stole one last glance at his reflection. His lilac eyes were brighter than usual, touched with a sense of excitement that curled around his lips in a soft smile. Today, she was coming. Tsubame.
The text had been simple—typed with shaking fingers the night before, then deleted three times before he finally sent it.
"Would you like to visit my art room?"
She had replied just as simply.
"Yeah. I'd like that."
And now, hours later, she was here.
The doorbell rang once—clear and low.
A text popped:
"I'm here. Open the door."
He hurried down the wooden staircase, each step thudding louder than the last, his heart thudding even faster. When he opened the door, the soft breath in his lungs vanished entirely.
Tsubame stood there, framed by the warm gold of the late morning sun. Her black hair was still choppy and tousled like she'd just rolled out of bed, and instead of her usual fitted uniform or blazer, she wore a dark gray cardigan draped over a white tee, ripped black jeans, and ankle boots. A black guitar case hung from one shoulder, and a coffee in her hand.
"Good morning," she said, voice low but sincere.
Arata's fingers trembled slightly as he signed back, slow and careful.
"You look relaxed today." She tilted her head — bewildered. He, realising she's new to his language, smiled sheepishly. Yet cute and just damn cute.
She chuckled under her breath, following him into the house. "Well, you said 'come casual' in your text."
Arata grinned and motioned for her to follow, guiding her quietly through the modest, sunlit corridors of his home. The scent of old paper, cedarwood, and faint vanilla followed them as they passed bookshelves and windows blooming with jasmine.
Finally, he stopped in front of a small door tucked beneath the stairs. He opened it slowly.
The room beyond was unlike any place Tsubame had been before.
It was... quiet.
Not just because of the silence Arata lived in—but the kind of silence that cradled things. A kind that didn't demand answers, didn't expect smiles or conversation. A sacred quiet where things were allowed to feel.
The room was painted in pale moonlight shades—soft lavender walls kissed with watercolor streaks. Sketches lined the corkboards and spilled out of portfolios stacked against the corners. The floor was scattered with paintbrushes, paper, unfinished canvases, and open journals. Light pooled from a wide skylight overhead, catching the dancing dust in its golden grasp.
In the center, a large easel stood—its canvas turned away from view.
Arata stepped inside and turned to her, cheeks tinged with pink.
"This is where I live the most." He texted on phone.
Tsubame swallowed. She'd never seen him this open, this close.
She looked around slowly, respectfully, the way one might move through a museum at midnight—aware that each corner held something sacred.
Her eyes paused on a sketch taped to the wall.
It was her.
Sitting on the train. Holding her guitar. Looking out the window.
The moment they'd first met.
Her breath caught.
"Arata…" She looked into his lilac eyes that shined brighter underneath her presence and mouthed with tenderness lingering.
He stepped closer, hands fidgeting, and texted shyly.
"I didn't mean to—it just… came out. I kept remembering your eyes. Your hair. The way you looked when you watched the sky."
She stared at the paper—her face drawn with such delicate sharpness, such quiet detail. It was like seeing herself through a window she'd never opened.
"I don't know what to say," she whispered enough for him to read.
"You don't have to," he replied on his phone, the words simple and gentle.
She looked at him then—really looked. His soft posture, the way his fingers lingered near his phone like a pianist waiting for the next note, and how his eyes held something like music.
He turned toward the easel and hesitated. Then glanced back.
He signed slowly.
"I haven't shown this to anyone. Ever."
Tsubame stepped beside him.
He turned the canvas around.
And there she was again.
But different this time.
This painting wasn't a memory—it was a dream.
She stood beneath falling sakura petals, her guitar slung over her shoulder like a sword. The sky above her shimmered in violets and pale oranges. Her hair caught in the wind, and her eyes—painted in that sapphire blue—were staring directly at the viewer.
At him.
"I look like… a hero," she breathed. Lips parted gently.
Arata typed:
"You are. To me."
Silence.
The kind of silence that bloomed between hearts.
Tsubame felt her throat tighten, her eyes burn.
"I'm not… good with words," she said quietly. "I don't say the right things. People think I'm cool but I'm just… bad at being soft."
Arata stepped forward and reached up, hesitating before gently tapping her chest with the back of his hand—right over her heart.
Then he signed:
"I can hear you. Even when you're silent."
Tsubame let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.
Then, without thinking, she reached out and pulled him into a gentle hug—careful, so careful, like holding a page that might tear. He stiffened for a moment, then melted into it, his arms wrapping around her waist, his face buried softly in her shoulder.
They stood like that in the center of his world—an artist and his muse, a guitarist and her audience, two people who had never needed words to be understood.