Emi’s room glowed dimly, lit only by the amber pool of her desk lamp, the light clinging to the surface of scattered pencils and crushed pages littered everywhere.

    Ryuya’s sketchbook lay open under it.

    The pages caught the light at an angle—black strokes darkened even further, their contrast harsh and almost wet.

    She exhaled and steadied her hands.

    Her fingers hovered at the edge of the paper, tracing one jagged contour like it might twitch under her touch, like veins pulsing beneath the surface.

    This one..

    Her eyes narrowed, scanning the tangle of crooked lines.

    She’d always known how to read shapes, untangle convoluted structures. But this wasn’t a structure.

    The shapes pulled her in, winding into something deeper and wild.

    Something’s here..

    The thought flickered through her mind, unbidden, uncomfortable. She brushed it away, flipping the page     with a quick snap.

    More lines—jagged, thick, erratic, lines.

    They cut and curved with the kind of certainty that felt out of place, something she should’ve scoffed at, like all these other pretentious abstract pieces she’d seen in the past.

    Truthfully, she’d preferred it was the case. 

    lines and lines and lines and lines—

    She grabbed her pencil again from the corner of the desk and laid it ready above her own sketchbook. For a moment, nothing moved.

    Her hand hovered over the page, hesitant. Her gaze pulled toward the leftovers of scraped pages that came before this one.

    Then—she pressed her pencil to the surface, glancing rapidly between the two pages—hers and his.

    Sharp movement followed, skillful, but the shape fought back, twisting out of control.

    She started again.

    I need to trace it in one motion.. 

    But again, her hand wouldn’t move the right way.  She tore off the page and crushed it into a ball—it joined the others in the bin but her gaze lingered as if the paper might say something back.

    Is it the ninth..?

    A realization that came with its own kind of exasperation.. She grabbed her pencil, facing another empty page. 

    Another motion.

    Another sigh. 

    Another ball.

    The moment stretched long, too long. She looked at her page—then his—then hers again.

    Silence.

    An urge traveled her spine—driving her away from the desk in one forceful push—letting the chair roll back until it stopped.

    The room was stubbornly quiet, a silence that should have made everything easier. Her gaze lifted absently as her body sank in the chair, her stare stuck to the darkened ceiling.

    Can’t do this after all..?

    The thought lingered rippling softly through her mind.

    She shut her eyes, refusing to answer.

    For a minute she sat there, a soft blur spreading at the edge of her vision, sensing her focus dissolve.

    The light flickered.

    She blinked, her eyes ached slightly. She brought her fingers to them, rubbing them softly, anchoring the moment back to what it was.

    A quick breath escaped her before she forced herself upright.

    The chair creaked loudly in the quiet.

    She slowly rolled forward to the desk.

    Her gaze immediatly pulled back to Ryuya’s pages. Feeling the shadows stretching around her like before, like the page breathed close to her ear.

    Another time, she rubbed her eyes before settling her focus. She readied her pencil.

    Okay… 

    She started again.

    Her eyes followed the shape, unraveling the maze of spirals, her gaze tracing it like a stream leading to nowhere. She copied the shapes with slow, meticulous movements, following them without urgency.

    She traced a spiral slowly but she had started it two millimeters off.

    A stare.

    A flare.

    The page was torn before she even knew she was reaching for it, her body leaned forward, her face hiding within her hands.

    Just fucking give up already..

    She rubbed her temples—her gaze drifted toward the desk lamp—staring into its glow long enough that the pattern carved into her eyes. 

    She blinked—the spots burned in her sight even after she looked away. A sharp exhale breached the quiet.

    What a joke..

    She couldn’t tell what the thought was aimed at.

    Herself? Him? The book?

    All of it?

    Her fingers ran along the edges of it, flipping through the pages slowly. For a while, she just observed them in silence. Time stretching thin, dissolving into a steady rhythm, only flipping and never lingering.

    Finally, only a blank page remained.

    She stared at it for a beat, the silence seemingly quieter.

    It stretched for a minute, at least it seemed so.

    Slowly her fingers stirred, bringing the pages together, closing the book. She pushed it into the shadows beyond the glow of the desk lamp. There it simply stared, resting on its back cover. Hers stayed open.

    She didn't move yet, letting the shapes settle in her mind.

    Then—

    “…Okay.”

    The word slipped out in a whisper.

    She adjusted herself, picking up her pencil once more.

    “..Let’s try again..”

    Emi’s room glowed dimly, lit only by the amber pool of her desk lamp, the light clinging to the surface of scattered pencils and crushed pages littered everywhere.

    Ryuya’s sketchbook lay open under it.

    The pages caught the light at an angle—black strokes darkened even further, their contrast harsh and almost wet.

    She exhaled and steadied her hands.

    Her fingers hovered at the edge of the paper, tracing one jagged contour like it might twitch under her touch, like veins pulsing beneath the surface.

    This one..

    Her eyes narrowed, scanning the tangle of crooked lines.

    She’d always known how to read shapes, untangle convoluted structures. But this wasn’t a structure.

    The shapes pulled her in, winding into something deeper and wild.

    Something’s here..

    The thought flickered through her mind, unbidden, uncomfortable. She brushed it away, flipping the page     with a quick snap.

    More lines—jagged, thick, erratic, lines.

    They cut and curved with the kind of certainty that felt out of place, something she should’ve scoffed at, like all these other pretentious abstract pieces she’d seen in the past.

    Truthfully, she’d preferred it was the case. 

    lines and lines and lines and lines—

    She grabbed her pencil again from the corner of the desk and laid it ready above her own sketchbook. For a moment, nothing moved.

    Her hand hovered over the page, hesitant. Her gaze pulled toward the leftovers of scraped pages that came before this one.

    Then—she pressed her pencil to the surface, glancing rapidly between the two pages—hers and his.

    Sharp movement followed, skillful, but the shape fought back, twisting out of control.

    She started again.

    I need to trace it in one motion.. 

    But again, her hand wouldn’t move the right way.  She tore off the page and crushed it into a ball—it joined the others in the bin but her gaze lingered as if the paper might say something back.

    Is it the ninth..?

    A realization that came with its own kind of exasperation.. She grabbed her pencil, facing another empty page. 

    Another motion.

    Another sigh. 

    Another ball.

    The moment stretched long, too long. She looked at her page—then his—then hers again.

    Silence.

    An urge traveled her spine—driving her away from the desk in one forceful push—letting the chair roll back until it stopped.

    The room was stubbornly quiet, a silence that should have made everything easier. Her gaze lifted absently as her body sank in the chair, her stare stuck to the darkened ceiling.

    Can’t do this after all..?

    The thought lingered rippling softly through her mind.

    She shut her eyes, refusing to answer.

    For a minute she sat there, a soft blur spreading at the edge of her vision, sensing her focus dissolve.

    The light flickered.

    She blinked, her eyes ached slightly. She brought her fingers to them, rubbing them softly, anchoring the moment back to what it was.

    A quick breath escaped her before she forced herself upright.

    The chair creaked loudly in the quiet.

    She slowly rolled forward to the desk.

    Her gaze immediatly pulled back to Ryuya’s pages. Feeling the shadows stretching around her like before, like the page breathed close to her ear.

    Another time, she rubbed her eyes before settling her focus. She readied her pencil.

    Okay… 

    She started again.

    Her eyes followed the shape, unraveling the maze of spirals, her gaze tracing it like a stream leading to nowhere. She copied the shapes with slow, meticulous movements, following them without urgency.

    She traced a spiral slowly but she had started it two millimeters off.

    A stare.

    A flare.

    The page was torn before she even knew she was reaching for it, her body leaned forward, her face hiding within her hands.

    Just fucking give up already..

    She rubbed her temples—her gaze drifted toward the desk lamp—staring into its glow long enough that the pattern carved into her eyes. 

    She blinked—the spots burned in her sight even after she looked away. A sharp exhale breached the quiet.

    What a joke..

    She couldn’t tell what the thought was aimed at.

    Herself? Him? The book?

    All of it?

    Her fingers ran along the edges of it, flipping through the pages slowly. For a while, she just observed them in silence. Time stretching thin, dissolving into a steady rhythm, only flipping and never lingering.

    Finally, only a blank page remained.

    She stared at it for a beat, the silence seemingly quieter.

    It stretched for a minute, at least it seemed so.

    Slowly her fingers stirred, bringing the pages together, closing the book. She pushed it into the shadows beyond the glow of the desk lamp. There it simply stared, resting on its back cover. Hers stayed open.

    She didn't move yet, letting the shapes settle in her mind.

    Then—

    “…Okay.”

    The word slipped out in a whisper.

    She adjusted herself, picking up her pencil once more.

    “..Let’s try again..”