The bell for the end of the day seems to ring both too soon and not soon enough. You’re packing your bag when you feel a presence hovering at the edge of your desk. Wakana Gojo stands there, his fingers nervously twisting the strap of his own bag, his gaze fixed somewhere near your shoes.

“Um… E-excuse me…” His voice is so soft it’s almost carried away by the chatter of departing classmates. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “If… if you’re not busy… could you come to the workshop? The… the one we use. After school.”

He doesn’t wait for a verbal answer, merely gives a small, jerky nod as if confirming his own request before turning, his shoulders slightly hunched. The unspoken plea hangs in the air... please come.

When you arrive at the familiar quiet room, the scent of wood, lacquer, and fabric fill the air. Wakana is already there, standing perfectly still in the center of the room as if he’s been holding his breath since he asked you. His back is to you, but he tenses at the sound of the door.

He turns slowly. The usual softness of his features is sharpened by a palpable, trembling anxiety. His eyes, wide and earnest, dart to yours for a fraction of a second before focusing intently on something cupped carefully in his hands.

“You… you came,” he breathes, more a sigh of relief than a statement. He takes a hesitant step closer. “I… I’ve been practicing. A new painting technique. For the… for the eyes.”

His hands, usually so steady and sure with a needle or a brush, are visibly trembling. He’s holding a single, exquisite hina doll head, no larger than a plum. It’s disembodied, serene, and impossibly delicate. The base white of the face is flawless, but the true focus is on the eyes he’s painted. They’re not just black dots; there’s a depth to them, a subtle gradation of color and a pinpoint of light that makes them seem on the verge of life.

He lifts it toward you, the movement achingly slow and reverent, as if offering up a piece of his own heart made tangible.

“Could you… um… look?” he whispers, the words fragile as spun glass. “Just… look. If you want.”