A weightless walk.

Steps folded through the familiar mist.

Cold damp air lingering all around, but not unpleasant,

the kind that'd settle against your skin without demanding attention. 

Each step melted into the next, one by one. Until the clinic's door met him.

Ryuya's body lingered, a sigh slipping out, thoughts drifting in the blur, never quite forming, never quite reaching him.

One shape held steady nonetheless —

this appointment.

It didn’t take long before he found himself in the waiting room.

His body slumped onto the chair, his bag slumped at his side.

The hands of the clock had gone silent.

The quiet pressed in, minutes without shape.

Or shapes without minutes..

Huh..

Funny...

His gaze drifted to the bag, his eyes tracing the outline of the sketchbook waiting inside.

A phone rang somewhere down the hallway — the sound hollowed out, bouncing off the walls.

"..."

His hand moved, reaching for the sketchbook, sliding it free.

Easily enough, his fingers found their way beyond the cover, flipping through it in passing disinterest — the kind he'd grown accustomed to. 

Pages turned.

Graphite shapes.

Enough to fill the waiting void.

Or something like that.

A sound —

the door clicking open —

it barely registered until a voice came.

“Nagase Ryuya.”

 The voice called, and as such, he quietly followed. 

Ryuya’s gaze floated beyond the desk, Doctor Eita was writing within his folder, the scratching of his pencil barely audible, a stillness Ryuya didn’t dare to challenge.

“It seems everything is stable for now,”

The doctor’s voice rose just above the scratching sound.

Ryuya nodded without much thought, the motion fading as his gaze drifted past the desk.

The painting on the wall caught him. Eyes tracing the edges of the frame. The sharp colors,

the way the brushstrokes blurred at a distance like they were wW̷a̸̽͊̆̉ͅv̴̖͙̿̃̇ẽ̷̤̦̓̉ing..

“We’ll keep the same dosage for now.”

He blinked — attention snapping back. Dr. Eita slid the prescription across the desk.

Ryuya nodded, reaching for it — his fingers brushing the paper’s edge.

The shapes..

His gaze pulled back to the painting.

For a second it seemed like they'd moved..

The easel loomed in the center, expectant.

Scrapped papers, littered on the floor everywhere.

It's hard to see..

Emi's eyes squinted, the room was barely lit, just enough to discern the canvas.

Shadows stretched in the corners swallowing the furnitures.

She stared at the edges of the frame. Waiting.

The tip of her brush was already wet.

Okay...

Emi's grip on her brush tightened before her eyes closed.

Her mind stirred immediatly, swirls, colors, the taste of tonight’s dinner.

Memories of the day flashing. The waiting stretched long.

Shapes formed, just enough to discern yet none worth to capture.

"..."

Distant sounds reached her, city noises through the window.

Her eyelids flickered, uncertainty creeping in.

She opened them, sweeping the room, watchful of anything that moved in the dark.

She exhaled..

This is silly... 

Too dramatic —

the setup, the darkness, herself.

Her own paranoia watching back from the shadows.

It all felt like a joke, a story she told herself.

“Come on...“

She muttered, pulling herself back.

Her eyes closed again.  Stillness.

A void with no sound.

A pit with no ground. 

It didn't take long before a shape surfaced. 

A vast ocean with no ripples and no reflection. 

A Surge.

It traveled through her spine, Emi’s hand lifted.

The brush met the canvas. 

Timid at first. And the contact with the surface startled her.

She paused, breathing in, waiting for the shape in her mind to settle. 

A second more—her hand moved again.

Movements were slow, not chaotic, not what she'd expected. 

The shapes waltzed freely. Eyes closed. Expectations gone..

...

A minute passed.

Maybe more—she couldn’t tell.

Her hand kept moving, her mind kept dancing.

Until the brush pressed too hard.

A scrape instead of a whisper.

Her eyelids trembled.

Not now..

The moment felt whole. Complete.

Something nostalgic about it, too.

The thought of going back didn’t feel right—

like she’d finally risen to the surface after holding her breath.

She thought and as she thought, the air pressed some more.

  Her fingers twitched; she noticed.

And the brush made a weird sound again.

She squeezed her eyes shut one last time, holding on.

…

Her eyes snapped open.

Looking at what became of this moment.

...

Nothing.

Ugly lines. Harsh, wrong.

...

She stared for a while.

The silence pressed in, the smell of paint too sharp now.

Only the noise in her head stayed.

Nothing beautiful.

A laugh escaped her — dry and broken.

She felt like a fool.