The weekend sun glowed over the school courtyard, washing everything in a soft warmth that made even the old walls seem alive. The air smelled faintly of grass and chalk, the kind of scent that made you feel like time had slowed down just enough to breathe.
Haruto stood by the art room door, watching Aoi unpack a small box of paints. She'd invited him — well, more like convinced him — to join her and a few first-year members for an "outdoor sketching day."
Most of the first-years were already scattered around the courtyard, laughing and trying to capture the sunlight on paper. Aoi stood in the middle of it all, smiling as she guided them through.
> "Try not to think too hard about making it perfect," she said, crouching next to a student's easel. "Just draw what feels alive."
Haruto watched her as he sat beneath a tree, a sketchbook balanced on his knees. He'd agreed to "try drawing" mostly because she'd asked, but the truth was he liked seeing her in her element — patient, bright, and effortlessly kind.
He glanced down at his paper. The lines were uneven, and the shading was a mess, but somehow, he didn't mind.
Aoi walked over, wiping her hands on a cloth. "You're really doing it," she said, a little surprised.
"I said I would," Haruto replied, not looking up. "Even if I'm terrible."
Aoi peeked at his sketch and smiled. "You're not terrible. You're just… honest."
He raised an eyebrow. "That's one way to say it."
She laughed, sitting beside him under the tree. "Drawing's like that. It shows more about what you notice than what you know."
He looked at her — the sunlight caught in her hair, the corners of her mouth curving just enough to make him forget what he was about to say.
> "You really like teaching, don't you?" he said instead.
Aoi paused. "Hmm… maybe not teaching, exactly. I just like seeing people find something that makes them smile."
Her tone softened at the end, almost wistful.
> She always finds happiness in small things, he thought. Like she's painting her life one gentle color at a time.
Aoi turned the question back to him. "What about you? Found anything that makes you smile lately?"
He looked down at his sketch again — and this time, he didn't need to think too hard.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "A few things."
Aoi looked at him, curious, but before she could ask, one of the first-years called for her help. She stood, brushing the grass off her skirt.
"Hold that thought," she said, smiling as she jogged away.
Haruto watched her go — the sunlight trailing behind her like a halo — and felt that strange, weightless calm again.
---
Later that Afternoon
The activity ended just before sunset. The courtyard was quieter now, the air softer. The other students had left, leaving only the two of them to pack up the supplies.
Aoi carried the last box toward the door, then stopped when she saw Haruto sitting on the steps, flipping through his sketchbook.
"Hey," she said, sitting beside him. "You didn't give up halfway. I'm impressed."
He turned the sketchbook toward her. The last page wasn't a building or tree — it was a rough, simple sketch of her under the sunlight.
Aoi blinked, her expression softening. "That's… me?"
He nodded, suddenly feeling his ears burn. "I didn't plan to. It just… kind of happened."
She smiled — small, genuine, the kind that made the world feel lighter.
"You drew the light really well," she said after a moment.
"I wasn't trying to draw the light."
Aoi looked at him, a little caught off guard by how steady his tone was. Then she laughed softly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
> He doesn't say much, she thought. But when he does, it always lands right in the heart.
"Thanks," she whispered.
---
Evening Walk Home — Haruto's Thought
The path home was quiet, lined with blooming hydrangeas swaying in the breeze. Haruto walked slowly, the sketchbook tucked under his arm.
He thought about Aoi's smile when she saw the drawing — not loud or surprised, but gentle, almost grateful.
> Maybe that's what I wanted to capture, he thought. Not her face. Just… how she makes things feel lighter.
He glanced up at the sky, a soft blush of orange fading into blue.
> I used to think quiet days were empty. Now, I think they're the ones I'll remember most.