The train ride home was quiet. 

Streaks of orange and blue passing through the window, the city smearing past her.

Sanae watched it all disappear, shoulder resting against the glass.

"..."

Her reflection floated, cut through by passing lights.

For a while that was enough. A quiet resting place to gather her thoughts.

...

“Next stop, Asahine Station...” — the rest of the announcement blurred beneath the noise of the rails. The train rumbled softly before it slowed — brakes hissing, the sound pulling her back. She blinked.

"Don't forget any belongings..."

A sigh left her as she rose, picking up her bag as the door opened.

...

The platform was empty—mostly.

Sanae sat on a bench. Waiting. Neon lights buzzing overhead. Thoughts drifting back to the place she'd just left.

She’d moved slowly, absorbed everything. Some pieces had held her gaze.

Some she even liked — or thought she did.

Did I really not draw anything?

The thought slipped in uninvited, quiet and stubborn. Her brow knitted.

She glanced up at the station screen. Squinting, trying to catch the numbers, as if meaning might appear if she stared long enough. Her foot started tapping before she noticed.

Five minutes, huh?

Something about it pushed more than it should have.

A sigh escaped her, her body tilting forward.

A thought.

That large abstract piece again —

She’d thought it moved her.

Maybe it didn’t.

The thought stayed there, thin and dry. An uncertainty that wouldn’t settle —

her thoughts hanging like dust caught in daylight.

"Asahine - Direction, Otohama"

The station voice crackled through the air.

Finally..

Her forehead found the window again, gaze drifting, half-asleep.

"..."

Her fingers traced absent shapes on the glass.

"..."

"...His stuff is real..." 

The words arrived without weight, without effort.

They rippled softly.

Lines that didn't explain.

Feeling that came through.

And that was enough.

"..."

“Don’t wait too long.”

The words recalled, pulling at her.

Maybe because it came from Hana.

It hadn’t been a push, but still felt like it...

Her gaze lingered, staring at the city beyond the glass,

Her reflection wavered there — faint, distant until her eyes closed.

That was so lame.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Seriously—

Her bag hit the desk with a dull thud.

How can people put that stuff up and smile like they’ve done something.

Emi tossed her sketchbook onto the bed and exhaled — long and drained.

Her body collapsed right after it.

Huhh..

A sigh slipped out. Nothing moved for a few breaths.

What now..

A light thought. The quiet pressing in, ever so slightly.

Her gaze wandered. Past the walls, the ceiling, the paintings hung everywhere.

Past the awards, the trophies. The entire room stared back.

A torn-up canvas glanced at her. Beneath the desk, half-tucked out of sight.

"..."

Breath caught. Something flickered. Somewhere in her chest.

She moved, reaching for the sketchbook, flipping it open without getting up.

Her breath rose through the quiet. Light and steady.

Nothing.

No sketches whatsoever.

Of course not. She hadn’t really expected otherwise.

She’d walked every room, seen every painting — yet nothing. No inspiration, no pulse.

Just ghosts. Polished and curated.

Each silence would weigh a little more, its own kind of exasperation she thought — or despair, maybe. At this point, it was easier not to care at all.

Guess I wasn’t in the mood.

The thought didn't taste quite right, even as she tried to believe it.

Restlessness pulled her upright. She got up.

She crossed to the chair, setting the sketchbook under the lamp.

A pause — she stared at it a moment too long before her gaze drifted.

She sank further into the chair, eyes lifting to the muted ceiling.

...

Silence.

...

...

Maybe I keep the other one after all…?

Flawless. At least on paper. But the thought came wrapped in something heavier.

...

The image carved itself in her mind — sudden heat climbing to her face.

She hid it in her hands, rubbed her temples, trying to scrape it out.

“You’re so good, Emi.” “So talented.”

“Everything you make is so pretty.”

The words lingered — sharp, fleeting, like mint on the tongue.

Vivid images followed them.

All those years.

All that praise.

What fucking garbage.

The train ride home was quiet. 

Streaks of orange and blue passing through the window, the city smearing past her.

Sanae watched it all disappear, shoulder resting against the glass.

"..."

Her reflection floated, cut through by passing lights.

For a while that was enough. A quiet resting place to gather her thoughts.

...

“Next stop, Asahine Station...” — the rest of the announcement blurred beneath the noise of the rails. The train rumbled softly before it slowed — brakes hissing, the sound pulling her back. She blinked.

"Don't forget any belongings..."

A sigh left her as she rose, picking up her bag as the door opened.

...

The platform was empty—mostly.

Sanae sat on a bench. Waiting. Neon lights buzzing overhead. Thoughts drifting back to the place she'd just left.

She’d moved slowly, absorbed everything. Some pieces had held her gaze.

Some she even liked — or thought she did.

Did I really not draw anything?

The thought slipped in uninvited, quiet and stubborn. Her brow knitted.

She glanced up at the station screen. Squinting, trying to catch the numbers, as if meaning might appear if she stared long enough. Her foot started tapping before she noticed.

Five minutes, huh?

Something about it pushed more than it should have.

A sigh escaped her, her body tilting forward.

A thought.

That large abstract piece again —

She’d thought it moved her.

Maybe it didn’t.

The thought stayed there, thin and dry. An uncertainty that wouldn’t settle —

her thoughts hanging like dust caught in daylight.

"Asahine - Direction, Otohama"

The station voice crackled through the air.

Finally..

Her forehead found the window again, gaze drifting, half-asleep.

"..."

Her fingers traced absent shapes on the glass.

"..."

"...His stuff is real..." 

The words arrived without weight, without effort.

They rippled softly.

Lines that didn't explain.

Feeling that came through.

And that was enough.

"..."

“Don’t wait too long.”

The words recalled, pulling at her.

Maybe because it came from Hana.

It hadn’t been a push, but still felt like it...

Her gaze lingered, staring at the city beyond the glass,

Her reflection wavered there — faint, distant until her eyes closed.

That was so lame.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Seriously—

Her bag hit the desk with a dull thud.

How can people put that stuff up and smile like they’ve done something.

Emi tossed her sketchbook onto the bed and exhaled — long and drained.

Her body collapsed right after it.

Huhh..

A sigh slipped out. Nothing moved for a few breaths.

What now..

A light thought. The quiet pressing in, ever so slightly.

Her gaze wandered. Past the walls, the ceiling, the paintings hung everywhere.

Past the awards, the trophies. The entire room stared back.

A torn-up canvas glanced at her. Beneath the desk, half-tucked out of sight.

"..."

Breath caught. Something flickered. Somewhere in her chest.

She moved, reaching for the sketchbook, flipping it open without getting up.

Her breath rose through the quiet. Light and steady.

Nothing.

No sketches whatsoever.

Of course not. She hadn’t really expected otherwise.

She’d walked every room, seen every painting — yet nothing. No inspiration, no pulse.

Just ghosts. Polished and curated.

Each silence would weigh a little more, its own kind of exasperation she thought — or despair, maybe. At this point, it was easier not to care at all.

Guess I wasn’t in the mood.

The thought didn't taste quite right, even as she tried to believe it.

Restlessness pulled her upright. She got up.

She crossed to the chair, setting the sketchbook under the lamp.

A pause — she stared at it a moment too long before her gaze drifted.

She sank further into the chair, eyes lifting to the muted ceiling.

...

Silence.

...

...

Maybe I keep the other one after all…?

Flawless. At least on paper. But the thought came wrapped in something heavier.

...

The image carved itself in her mind — sudden heat climbing to her face.

She hid it in her hands, rubbed her temples, trying to scrape it out.

“You’re so good, Emi.” “So talented.”

“Everything you make is so pretty.”

The words lingered — sharp, fleeting, like mint on the tongue.

Vivid images followed them.

All those years.

All that praise.

What fucking garbage.