The kiss lingered.Not in the cliché, wind-swept, music-swelling way.More like the warm aftertaste of late-night ramen—unexpected, intimate, and slightly salty with emotional residue.
Kaito didn't know how long it lasted. Time had politely stepped outside to give them privacy. When they pulled apart, the only sound was the ticking of the broken wall clock that Kenji claimed "measured feelings, not minutes."
Haruka didn't speak right away. Neither did he.
And then, like life always does, the moment turned awkward.
"I should… go," she said softly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
"Right. Of course. Yes. Time. Boundaries. Night."
"Okay, now you're just naming nouns."
"…Sorry. I panic in post-kiss situations."
She chuckled, grabbed her jacket—still draped on his chair—and paused by the door.
"I don't regret it," she said. "But I don't know what it means yet."
He nodded. "Me neither."
"Good." Then she added, "But if you draw me again and make me look like I'm pondering the void, I will stab you. Gently. With love."
Then she left.
Kaito stood there, blinking.
And then the rain started.
Rain in Tokyo was different. Not dramatic. Not romantic.Just there—quiet and melancholic, like the city was exhaling sadness through mist.
Kaito didn't go home. He stayed in the studio, lights low, listening to droplets tap the window. The walls felt closer than usual. The kind of closeness that made you ask questions like:
Am I falling in love?
What happens if she walks away?
Do I still have any of those spicy cup noodles?
He didn't know the answer to the first two. But the third was yes.
The next day, the mood was… weird.
Yuuto arrived first, humming nervously, cheeks pink.
Rei came second, her eyeliner winged with the aggression of a woman who's been emotionally inconvenienced by someone else's romance.
Haruka came in last.
Not late.
Not early.
Just Haruka.
Her expression unreadable. Her hair slightly damp. Brenda nowhere in sight.
Kaito tried to be normal. His voice cracked. Twice. Yuuto asked if he was sick. Rei just stared like she knew.
They began a warm-up sketch.
Haruka wasn't modeling today—just watching, arms folded.
She said nothing. He said less.
And somehow, everyone felt it.
It was Rei who broke the tension.
"I liked it better when we were just sad and horny," she said loudly.
Yuuto choked on his tea. Haruka laughed. Kaito blinked.
"Now it's all… emotional. Ugh."
Kaito sighed. "Sorry. We'll go back to pretending feelings don't exist."
"Good," Rei said. "I prefer denial. It goes well with charcoal."
Haruka finally spoke. "How about we do something different?"
"Like what?" Kaito asked.
"Sketch someone you love," she said. "But don't draw their face. Just the parts you remember when you miss them."
The room went quiet.
Yuuto blinked. Rei's pencil stopped.
Kaito swallowed.
They started to draw.
Thirty minutes later.
Rei's sketch: a pair of strong, wrinkled hands. Her grandmother's, maybe. Ink-stained. Calloused. Resting on a tatami mat.
Yuuto's: a woman's back. Curved, delicate. A braid draped down her spine. Gentle, like memory.
Kaito's: a knee, partially drawn. A loose strand of hair. A thumb pressed against a teacup. Small pieces of someone. Someone who'd kissed him and walked out into the rain.
He looked up.
Haruka was watching him.
Neither of them smiled.
But something passed between them—an unspoken sketch made of glances and second chances.
Later, after class, Kaito found Haruka by the window again. Her usual spot. The view of Shimokitazawa glowing with soft neon and cloudy halos.
"I'm sorry," he said, approaching.
"For what?"
"For not knowing what this is."
She turned. Her eyes, dark and sharp, looked softer tonight.
"Neither do I," she replied. "But… I want to find out."
"Even if it gets messy?"
She smirked. "Especially if it does."
He smiled. "That's the most romantic threat I've ever heard."
They didn't kiss. Not this time.
But they stood close.
Close enough.
A Few Days LaterOpen Studio Day.
The studio opened its doors again—inviting the public, the curious, the confused.
New visitors arrived:
A shy couple who sketched each other's feet while blushing.
A teenage girl who refused to draw but sat quietly in the corner, watching, healing.
A man in a business suit who said he "used to paint before capitalism swallowed him whole."
Even Kenji returned. Sunburned. Radiating wisdom and aloe vera.
Kaito stood by the door, greeting each person.
Haruka handled the model schedule.
Rei taught shading to a punk rock girl with silver eyebrows.
Yuuto handed out tea and apologized for things no one complained about.
It felt right.
It felt… like home.
As the sun set, Haruka passed Kaito a note.
In her messy handwriting, it read:
"Let's take it slow. But don't stop drawing me.Not the strong me. Not the sexy me.Just me.The parts that tremble."
Kaito folded the note and placed it in his sketchpad.
He looked at her.
She didn't say anything.
But she reached out. Took his hand.
And squeezed.
[End of Chapter 22]