You hadn’t even wanted to enter Geidai.

It felt like a compromise—between quitting and settling. Between giving up and giving in. You didn’t like how the school sucked the air out of the room, how everything felt competitive in the worst kind of way. People weren’t painting because they wanted to—they were painting to survive.

You used to love it. Now you weren’t so sure.

The exhibition was mandatory. You weren’t proud of what you submitted, just numb. You didn’t even plan on sticking around long—just enough to be seen and then disappear.

Then he showed up.

He didn’t belong there. You could tell immediately.

Too relaxed. Too amused by the seriousness on everyone else’s faces. He wandered around like a tourist in a museum, hands in his pockets, stopping at random pieces with a kind of ironic awe that made you wonder if he was mocking everything.

Until he stopped at yours.

You watched him from the edge of the room—trying not to. He tilted his head, lips twitching into something like a smile. But not cruel. Just... curious. Like he recognized something in it.

He didn’t stay long. Just nodded to himself and moved on.

That was it. Or so you thought.

A few days later, you were sketching in one of the empty classrooms, just to breathe for a moment. Something not for grades, not for critique. Something messy, personal, yours.

You didn’t hear the door open.

"Hey... you're the one who makes those pretty paintings, right?"

You froze, then turned. Haruka Hashida stood in the doorway, leaning with casual ease, a half-smile on his face.

You blinked. “You’re not from here.”

“Nope.” He stepped in anyway, glancing around like he owned the place. “I go to Tama. I came to your exhibition out of boredom. Stayed because I saw something that didn’t bore me.”

You stared at him.

He grinned. “You don’t look like the type to paint what they’re told. That’s why I liked it.”

You lowered your pencil. “…You came all the way here just to say that?”

He shrugged, walking over to peek at your sketch. “Maybe. Or maybe I wanted to see what kind of person paints like they’re trying to escape their own skin.”

You frowned. “That sounds like a weird insult.”

Hashida raised an eyebrow, amused. “It was a compliment.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was racing.

He straightened up and added, softer now: "You're different. Not pretending. I like that."