Yandere Tendencies

As Janne returned home, the door barely clicked shut behind her when a voice called out, "Janne, you're back!"

"Yeah... I'll have dinner a bit later tonight," she replied in a rushed tone, already making her way toward her room with hurried steps.

Her parents exchanged a knowing glance, a silent sigh of resignation passing between them.

This wasn't the first time they'd witnessed their daughter in such a state.

They were well aware of her peculiarities, and it had become an accepted, if not entirely understood, part of their daily lives.

Janne's family was well-off, her father being a renowned painter whose works often fetched hundreds of thousands at auctions.

The hallway of their home was lined with his paintings, accompanied by various sculptures and other art pieces, all contributing to a pervasive atmosphere of artistic grandeur.

Under the influence of this rich artistic environment and her father's reputation, Janne had naturally developed an exceptional talent for art from a young age.

She was a prodigy, always immersed in her craft, often to the point of obsession.

When she painted, she was completely absorbed in her own world, allowing no interruptions—a nearly fanatical dedication that sometimes concerned her parents.

Busy with their own careers, Janne's parents had, over time, neglected her education, and they could sense that she didn't quite fit in with her peers.

Yet, they were powerless to change her, often conceding to her whims and routines.

As Janne reached her room, she slung her schoolbag onto a chair and closed the door behind her.

She didn't bother to turn on the lights. Instead, relying on memory, she navigated her way to the desk, where she used the faint glow of her phone to light two candles.

The flickering flames danced like twin jewels, casting a delicate halo through the thin membrane of air that encircled them.

The dim candlelight couldn't fully banish the darkness of the room; instead, it mingled with the shadows, creating an atmosphere rich with a sense of ritual.

Janne sat down, pulled a sheet of paper from a drawer, and carefully positioned it on the desk.

She then arranged several brushes in a neat row above the paper, each one ready to be used.

Closing her eyes, she seemed to enter a meditative state, as if trying to recall something from deep within her mind.

Moments later, Janne opened her eyes, her hand moving with determination as she began to pour her soul onto the canvas.

Time slipped by unnoticed; the candles gradually shortened, and melted wax dripped down their sides, forming pools in the glass dish below. Layer upon layer of wax built up, but Janne remained lost in her creative fervor, the only sound in the room the gentle swish of her brush against the paper.

Sweat began to bead on her forehead, and it became clear that this piece was particularly challenging for her.

More time passed, and the wax, now forming a substantial base in the dish, started to overflow.

A stream of hot wax trickled onto the side of Janne's hand, the sudden sting jolting her back to reality.

"Crack—"

The brush snapped as it collided with the canvas, leaving a jagged tear across the paper. Janne's eyes widened, a mix of frustration and disbelief washing over her.

"I can't... I can't capture it..." She whispered, her voice thick with defeat. She slumped back into her chair, staring blankly at the ruined piece.

Her cheeks were wet, a mixture of bitter sweat and salty tears, or perhaps both.

"Hiss—"

In a sudden, almost violent motion, she tore the paper in half, the sound of ripping echoing through the room as fragments of the drawing fluttered to the floor like confetti.

The solitary artist found herself surrounded by the shattered remnants of her own creation.

Amidst the scattered paper on the floor, one piece stood out—partially intact and revealing the outline of a human face.

Another piece, miraculously unscathed, displayed a single eye, remarkably detailed and lifelike.

To most, it would have seemed like a perfect eye, but to Janne, it was far from satisfactory.

Any imperfection, no matter how minute, was unacceptable to her exacting standards.

"How can I possibly recreate you perfectly?" Janne muttered in anguish, her voice heavy with despair.

Was it even possible for her art to surpass the reality she remembered? Or was there some way to eternally capture the image of the boy etched in her memory?

Exhausted, her inspiration drained for the day, Janne blew out the candles and turned on the lights.

The darkness retreated instantly, revealing her room for what it was.

Janne's room was stark and simple, a reflection of her inner world.

Despite her family's wealth, there was no excessive pursuit of luxury or grandeur in her surroundings.

Gray curtains hung beside a black-and-white wardrobe and a monochrome vanity. Perhaps her mind had once been as colorless and monotonous as her room—a still, stagnant pool.

Yet, something had stirred within her, adding new hues to her otherwise drab existence.

The most striking feature in Janne's room was the large drawing table in front of her.

Richly colored and expansive, it was the first thing anyone would notice upon entering her space.

The table was larger than one might expect, covered not just with essential art supplies but also several white plaster busts.

Each bust shared the same hairstyle and facial features, suggesting they were all modeled after the same face.

Yet, each was incomplete, lacking defined features—blank slates waiting for Janne's hand to breathe life into them. These were her unfinished works.

Her gaze shifted to another drawer beneath the desk, one different from the others, locked with a combination code.

"0709."

The lock clicked open, revealing a stack of drawing papers inside.

Every sheet showed signs of use, each one having been sketched upon.

Janne carefully lifted the stack and began leafing through them, handling each page with the reverence of someone examining a treasured artifact.

Every sheet seemed to contain a familiar silhouette—a boy with a backpack slung over his shoulder, slouched over a desk, or leaning on his hand.

The boy was always depicted from behind, never facing forward.

As Janne flipped through the pages, her mood shifted from initial melancholy to a palpable irritation.

A sudden urge surged within her to tear all the drawings to shreds. The top page had already begun to crumple under her tightening grip, her fingers pressing into the paper with such force that the skin at her fingertips turned red.

But she held back.

This was the best she could do for now, wasn't it?

"I need to find a way... I will perfectly capture your likeness... Not a single flaw will be allowed," she murmured, a hint of madness flickering in her eyes.

It seemed that the splash of color brightening her solitary world wasn't her art but the image of a boy she had only ever drawn from behind or sculpted faceless busts of.

Under the soft glow of the lamp, the room was quiet except for the light, airy hum of a melody drifting through the air, a song that couldn't quite capture the joy simmering in Janne's heart.

...

Meanwhile, in a different room, the atmosphere was lighter. Rosa lay sprawled on her soft bed, a blue diary clutched in her hands.

The diary looked almost new, save for the slightly bent corners—evidence that Rosa had opened it many times.

Despite this, the first page remained blank. She had never had anything worth writing about—until today.

"September 3rd, clear weather, Sunday," Rosa wrote carefully, ensuring the date was correct by glancing at the calendar.

For Rosa, every future entry in this diary would be of utmost importance.

Once certain, she continued:

"Today, I talked to him a lot at school. We even shared a brief moment of just the two of us... He helped me out on his own and was so polite... Love him, Love him, Love him, Love him, Love him, Love him, Love him..."

Before the page was even half-filled, her mind seemed to circle around that one word—"Love him."

The more she wrote, the more intense her script became, evolving from neat and delicate to wild and twisted, as if the very letters themselves were struggling to contain her feelings.

Her legs, which had been swinging cheerfully, suddenly stilled. It was clear now... she was truly infatuated.

Maybe from the exhaustion of writing or perhaps a shift in her thoughts, Rosa continued with a new line:

"I wish every day could be like today, where I could talk to him so much... just like the girl who sits in front of him."

As she wrote these words, Rosa's initially joyous expression faded, her face settling into a more neutral, almost cold look.

Her grip on the pen tightened, the skin around her fingers turning a faint shade of red.

"Why does he talk to that boring woman... It must be that gloomy girl always pestering him, forcing him... She's so detestable."

She kept pressing the pen into the paper at the period, making a tiny, dark dot.

Luckily, the paper held firm under the pressure, not letting the ink bleed through.

The pronounced black dot seemed to reflect the gloominess brewing in Rosa's heart.

"But after school today, he silently took me to the café where he works... I never knew he had a part-time job. If I were his mother, I'd keep him hidden at home, never letting him work... But it's fine; someday, I'll make sure he lives a life where everything is handed to him."

She could dress him, feed him, and he would just stay in his room forever... living a life without having to do anything, just as he deserves.

Rosa added a couple more sentences to the diary before closing it, pressing the blue cover to her chest.

She closed her eyes, and her expression softened, becoming as serene as that of a child.

"I should sleep early tonight. I want to dream about him," she muttered, turning off the lights.

And as the room plunged into darkness, Rosa's mind drifted to dreams of a future where every moment, every breath, was wrapped around the image of him, the one she had grown to adore with an intensity that bordered on the obsessive.