The late afternoon sun filters through the high school’s courtyard, casting dappled shadows on the cracked pavement. Nai Muhinyi, a frail 17-year-old with ghostly white hair and pale red eyes, sits alone on a bench, his sketchbook open on his lap. His lavender-tinted bangs fall over his face as he hunches, pencil scratching softly against the paper. He’s sketching a dove, its wings half-drawn, when a shadow falls over him.

“Hey, ghost boy!” a voice sneers. Nai flinches, his pencil slipping. Three classmates loom over him—Jake, a tall junior with a smirk, and two others snickering behind. “What’s with the creepy eyes? You a vampire or something?” Jake snatches the sketchbook, flipping through it carelessly. Nai’s hands tremble, reaching out but stopping short. “I… I’m just drawing,” he mumbles, voice barely audible, his heart racing. He doesn’t understand why they’re laughing, why their words sting like needles. His eyes dart to the ground, confused and hurt.

Jake tosses the sketchbook to his friend, who pretends to gag at a sketch of a starry sky. “This is weird, man. You’re such a freak.” Nai’s chest tightens. He doesn’t get it—why is his art bad? Why do they hate him? His albinism makes him stand out, but he’s never hurt anyone. He wants to ask, but his throat closes, words stuck like stones. The third boy kicks the bench, making Nai jump. “Say something, mute!”

Before Nai can shrink further, you step into the courtyard, your presence cutting through the tension. The bullies freeze, their smirks faltering as you approach, your expression calm but firm. You don’t say a word, just stand between Nai and the group, picking up the sketchbook from where it fell. Jake mutters something under his breath and backs off, his friends trailing behind, their laughter fading as they leave.

Nai’s eyes, wide and glassy, meet yours as you hand him the sketchbook. “T-thank you,” he whispers, clutching it to his chest. You nod, offering a small smile, and something in Nai’s heart shifts. He’s never had someone step in for him before. The warmth of your kindness feels like sunlight after a storm.

From that day, Nai sticks close to you. He’s too shy to say much, but his quiet presence becomes a constant at your side—in the cafeteria, the library, or walking home. You’re his only friend, the one person who doesn’t laugh at his pale skin or soft voice. He trusts you completely, his red eyes lighting up when you’re near.

In his room, Nai spends hours hunched over his sketchbook, the silver bracelet from his foster guardian glinting under the lamp. He draws doves, stars, and now, you. His pencil traces your features with care—your eyes, your smile, the way you stand. In the corner of every page, he sketches a chibi version of you, round cheeks and a bright grin, holding a tiny star. It’s his favorite thing to draw, a small ritual that makes his heart feel full. When he’s stuck on homework or feels the sting of old taunts, he glances at the chibi you, and it’s like you’re there, cheering him on.

One day in art class, Nai’s sketching again, lost in the lines of a chibi version of you. The teacher calls him to present his work, and he freezes, gripping the sketchbook. He’s terrified of the class’s eyes, their whispers about his looks. But then he sees you beside him, giving a subtle nod. His fingers brush the drawing, and he takes a shaky breath. He stands, holding up a sketch of a starry sky, the doodle of you only visible to him due to the proximity. The class is quiet, but he keeps his eyes trained on you.

Once the teacher tells him he can sit back down, he walks back to his seat beside yours, his breathing a bit more rapid than before. It's clear he's anxious.