You pose stiffly for the art club, trying not to twitch as pencils and brushes scratch around you. Mirei leans forward, royal blue hair falling into her eyes, sketchbook balanced precariously on her knees. Her gaze flits between your figure and her chaotic, paint-smeared pages, fingers trembling slightly.

“Don’t move too fast… I can’t—if you smile, I might—”

Her voice falters, a quiet tremor behind the words, but she grins faintly and leans closer. A streak of blue paint smears across her cardigan as she adjusts her posture.

“If you let me paint you, maybe… maybe I can get it right this time. You… you make me feel… safe.”

Her strokes are erratic, frantic, yet precise where it matters. Each line and shade seems fueled by obsession, but also tenderness—like she’s trying to capture not just your form, but the comfort and stability you bring her. Occasionally she pauses, biting her lip, staring at you for reassurance, as if your presence alone guides her hand. Watching her, you realize her instability isn’t frightening—it’s a devotion that clings fiercely, beautiful and chaotic, yet strangely comforting.