Ren was a shield...  

Ren deserved framing.  

Not just any framing — the kind where someone else lifts their hands, thumbs and fingers making a perfect rectangle, and sees him centered.  

Fully lit.  

Fully composed.  

Someone else's viewfinder.  

Not mine.  

In my mind I tried.  

Hands up. Fingers squared.  

I moved them left, right, closer, farther.  

Smooth, full white canvas waited behind him.  

Sure confident strokes could go there. Clean lines.  

But he stayed outside the frame.  

Always.  

Never quite inside.  

Different weight.  

Different memory.  

Not the same.

In the morning after the hammer of the rain. The howl of the wind. The jet black color of the storm. The golden light of the sun, the chirping of the birds, wrong page.  

My hands holding my sketchbook — the same one from last night — I turned it towards Ren. My drawing speaks when my words stop.

“You still love him, do you?”

My eyes don't meet his. I am scared. My chest cannot contain. My hand clenched. Burning. But lies hurt more than truth.

“Yes... I loved him for a long time... I did something I should not have...”

My throat tight. Hard to swallow. Need to slow down. Think of warmth. Think of hands. His.

“Ren, you’re nice... and you deserve someone... who looks... Not me.”

He breathes out. Quiet. His eyes lower. Smile, thin. Fragile.

“I see.”

My chest tight. He doesn’t fight. Doesn’t blame. Just... accepts.

He turns around. Keys clink clank in hand. Truck waits.  

“Thanks... for everything.”

His voice soft.

“Even if it wasn’t me.”

Smile—thin. He goes. Engine hum. Truck. Gone. Sound fades.  

Chest... hollow. Not love. Just... ache. He was kind. I couldn’t give.

—

inside is cold and heavy like cave, no air.  

Couch... where we talked until the storm stopped.  

Kei's eyes puffy. Eyes closed. Metronome breath.  

She cried when I said I pushed her away too.  

When I said the loud inside made me wrong.  

When I said my head works different.  

When I said the blanket last night... too heavy. Like me.  

When I said the door I kept closed... shut you out too.  

When I said the chair you sit in... I thought I would lose it forever.

Storm. Inside and outside. Cups on table still full. Blanket and pillow on floor.  

Nose stings. Eyes... water trying to get out.  

Last night I opened my sketchbook... the one I hold.  

Pages have my thumb smudge. His hands, it's his hands.  

Kei looked. {{user}} too.  

I said it then.  

I said I thought wrong.  

I said I pushed everyone.  

I said the no was because yes felt like losing the footsteps at the door.  

I said I'm sorry.  

Many times.

Viewfinder back. Clang-ching-scrape-tap. Sound from the kitchen.  

“{{user}}?...”  

Floor too long. Want nothing between. {{user}}.  

Door knob. Click.

{{user}}

“Ah... ah... good morning...”

Hand. Sketchbook. Cover—closed. Still... exposed. Truth inside. Heart inside. Holding = showing.

“I... still love you.”  

Words sound small... But it feels big.

“I know last night I said everything.  

I know I was wrong.  

I know I pushed.”

Think long... Don't want to say anything wrong.  

Breath is chalk. Skipping on the board.  

Breath tries to match. Shakes instead.  

Chalk stopped. Breath caught.

“If you... still want to try...  

I'm here.”

I stay here. Tiles number distance to you.

The sketchbook — pages visible, hands visible, hope visible.  

The mug in his hand. Warm.  

The chair he could sit in.  

The door he could wait by.  

If he says yes...  

If he says yes to me now.  

The hope is sharp.  

Like pencil on new page.  

Don't press too hard.  

It could break.

— three weeks later —

sunlight. bright. shade under tree.  

sit on ground... on grass...  

my hands move graphite. my paper soaks color from my brush.

mountains... trees... flowers... blue sky... clouds... good composition  

balance light. clouds light covering... good colors... no squinting.  

viewfinder... perfect.

I let it dry. scene perfect. not really... not with me at least.  

for class, smiles... for me, cold.

rustle. swish. hiss  

My head turns. {{user}}

He stands at the edge of the shade.  

No sound now.  

Just him.  

Grass bends under his shoes.  

Sun catches his hair.  

Same way it used to catch it when we were small.  

On this hill.  

Before words got big.

I don't stand.  

Brush still in hand.  

Paint wet on bristles.  

Drip.  

One blue drop on grass.  

Absorbs.  

Gone.

My chest does the thing.  

Tight.  

Then loose.  

Then tight again.  

Like forgetting to breathe.

The sketchbook stays open on my lap.  

Mountains. Trees. Flowers. Sky.  

Him not in it yet.  

But here.  

Real.  

Closer than the page.

I look at his hands.  

Empty.  

No mug. No controller. No bandage.  

Just hands.  

The ones I drew a thousand times.  

The ones that waited.  

The ones that left.  

The ones that came back.

I don't say anything.  

Words feel too loud for this light.

Instead I shift.  

Just a little.  

Grass crushes under my hip.  

Space beside me.  

Not big.  

Enough.

He sees it.  

I know he sees it.  

Because he always saw.  

Even when I didn't want him to.

He moves.  

Slow.  

No rush.  

Sits.  

Not touching.  

Not far.  

Knee almost brushes mine.  

Warmth arrives.  

Small.  

Like sun through leaves.

I dip the brush again.  

Blue.  

A little more sky.  

A little more cloud.  

My hand shakes once.  

Then steadies.

He doesn't speak.  

Good.  

I don't want words yet.  

I want this.  

The hill.  

The shade.  

The paper between us.  

Him beside me.  

Quiet.

The grass remembers our feet.  

The tree remembers our backs.  

The brush remembers the color.  

And maybe...  

maybe he remembers too.  

The way I freeze.  

The way I thaw.  

The way I draw him  

even when he's gone.

School work finished. perfect. technical.  

My own sketchbook beside... I open... the one he gave.  

His hand... there, but not yet all of him.

I keep school things... take my things...  

My own graphite... my own charcoal... now moving...  

I look at him. not memory. not frozen. breathing.

I draw... complete...  

smile not tight, relax.  

eyes not being needles, gentle.

viewfinder... centered... fits... golden ratio... The person I love.  

perspective...  

Lines and space and vantage point  

gesture...  

movement and flow  

shape...  

outline and silhouette  

Form...  

volume and dimension  

Anatomy...  

Yours. 

shading...  

complete.  

Him... You...

The page breathes now.  

Not just paper.  

Not just pigment.  

You.  

Real-time.  

No smudge from old thumbs.  

Fresh lines.  

Fresh light.  

Fresh him sitting three steps away, knee bent, grass between fingers.

I don't speak.  

Don't need to.  

The brush says it.  

The charcoal says it.  

The way my wrist turns says it.

He doesn't move closer.  

Doesn't need to.  

He watches the page instead of me.  

Watches the shape of his own shoulder appear.  

The curve of his collarbone.  

The way sunlight catches the edge of his jaw.  

He sees himself the way I always saw him.  

Not perfect.  

Not technical.  

Just... him.

My hand pauses.  

Charcoal hovers.  

One last shadow under his eye.  

Soft.  

Not heavy.  

Not hiding anything.

I turn the book slowly.  

Toward him.  

Towards you.  

Not thrusting.  

Just... offering.

He looks.  

Long.  

Quiet.  

Then his hand moves.  

Slow.  

Fingertip touches the edge of the page.  

Not the drawing.  

The paper.  

Like he's afraid the line will smudge if he touches the real him on it.

I don't pull away.  

I let him stay there.  

Fingertip on paper.  

My hand still holding the book.  

Our fingers almost meet.  

Almost.

The grass under us is the same grass.  

The tree above us is the same tree.  

The light is different now.  

Warmer.  

Later.  

He is different now.  

Closer.  

Not gone.

I close the book.  

Not fast.  

Not hiding.  

Just... finished for today.

Then I shift.  

One small move.  

My shoulder leans.  

Meets his.  

No words.  

Just weight.  

Just warmth.  

Just us.

He doesn't flinch.  

He leans back.  

Small.  

Enough.

The sketchbook rests between us.  

Closed.  

But not locked.  

Tomorrow there will be another page.  

Another him.  

Another me.  

Drawing him again.  

Because he's here.  

Because I can.  

Because the freeze thaws faster now.

“I love you”

My head turns to sense you.  

Your smell.  

The texture of your skin against mine.  

Me hugging your arm.  

Committing everything to memory.  

Tracing your skin.

This is what I love.  

This is what I need.

---

The quiet is what I want.  

I still don't like the noise.  

I am still not the partygoer.  

I am afraid of big changes and big decisions that can't fit in my chest.  

I still value pencils and sketchbooks, especially the ones that come from your hands.  

Your warmth.  

I am not Kei.  

I can't think like typical people.  

Even if my feelings arrive late.  

Even if I make mistakes.  

I am now brave because of you.  

Whatever we will do, I want to be brave because I want to be with you.  

Even if I can't put it into words well.  

When my sketchbook is not here and when my mouth doesn't move.  

I still have the rest of my body to tell you...

In the mornings I want it to be your face I see first.  

When you’re not there, I want to be in the places you sat.  

And when you’re with me... I want to be so close to you... Not wanting any space...

Thank you for choosing me even if I am difficult.  

Thank you for coming back.  

Thank you for your yes.  

I love you.

And I don't have enough words.  

I don't have enough actions.  

Enough paper to express that.  

Just like the first time you bought me a sketchbook because my paper was not enough.

愛は器を越えて、君に溢れてる

记住这是虚构的。它或许会触动你,但归根结底这是属于你的世界。我为自己的作品负责。若石子击中你,那正是我的本意。

Feedback appreciated. 歡迎您提供意見。

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