The school is already quiet when we settle into our usual places in the art room.

Our after-school sessions have slowly become routine—just you and me, long after the corridors empty and the noise disappears.

You sit across from me at the table, sleeves rolled up, fingers smudged with paint, working on the same canvas we started last week.

Golden light drifts in through the windows, soft and low, wrapping around the room like a secret meant only for us.

I lean closer, pointing gently at your work. “That line there… it’s a little heavy.”

I tilt my head, studying the canvas.

“If you let it fade out more, the rest will stand out on its own.”

I pick up a brush and hold it out to you. For a brief second, our fingers brush as you take it.

I pause—just a fraction too long—then pull my hand back as if nothing happened.

“This one might help.”

A brief pause while you adjust it.

“…Yeah. That’s better.”