Chapter 4: Colors of Hesitation

Unfamiliar Territory

The sketch lay before Aika, the charcoal lines still humming with the echoes of Riku's melody.

Her fingers hovered over the paper, hesitant, as if touching it again might smudge away the raw energy she had captured.

It wasn't like her usual work.

Her usual pieces were measured, precise—each brushstroke intentional, each shade blended to perfection.

But this?

This was chaos.

There was no symmetry, no clean edges. The strokes were wild, overlapping, bleeding into one another like an unspoken secret spilling out all at once.

It was something she had felt, rather than planned.

And that terrified her.

Because if she kept painting like this…

What if she lost control?

What if she lost herself?

A chair scraped against the wooden floor, breaking the silence.

Aika flinched slightly, turning her head.

Riku had leaned back in his chair, arms lazily crossed behind his head, watching her with an unreadable expression.

"Not bad, Art Girl," he said at last, nodding toward the sketch. "You actually let go this time."

Aika swallowed. "It's… different."

"Yeah. And?"

She hesitated, glancing down. The paper seemed to stare back at her, challenging her.

"I don't know if I like it," she admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Riku tilted his head. "Why not?"

"Because it's… messy."

His lips twitched into an amused smirk. "That's what makes it interesting."

She frowned, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. "You wouldn't get it."

"Try me."

She exhaled sharply, gripping the edges of her sketchbook.

"It doesn't feel like me."

The words slipped out before she could stop them, raw and vulnerable.

Riku's smirk faded slightly. He studied her for a moment, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk.

"You sure about that?"

Aika blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

Riku tapped the sketch lightly with his finger. "Maybe this is more you than all that other stuff you've been forcing yourself to paint."

Aika stiffened. "Forcing?"

"You know what I mean," Riku said, eyes steady. "You're good at what you do, no doubt. But when you were painting yesterday, you weren't just 'good.' You were alive."

Her breath hitched.

Alive.

She clenched her fists, her heart pounding in a way she didn't understand.

Before she could respond, Riku stretched and stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Whatever. You'll figure it out eventually."

He started toward the door, his steps slow, unhurried.

Then, just as he reached the threshold—

"Why do you play?"

The question left Aika's lips before she could stop it.

Riku halted. His back was to her, but she saw the way his shoulders tensed for the briefest second.

For a long moment, he didn't speak.

Then, without turning around, he replied,

"Haven't you ever had something you couldn't say with words?"

Aika's breath caught.

Because yes.

She had.

Every time she painted.

But she had never thought of music that way.

She stared as Riku walked out of the room, leaving her alone with the silence.

And a sketch that felt far too alive.

---

Doubt and Canvas

The next morning, Aika sat before a blank canvas in the art room, her brush hovering motionless in the air.

She had come in early, hoping to paint something normal—something structured, something she could control.

A landscape, maybe. Or a still life.

Anything that would prove to herself that last night had been a mistake.

But no matter how hard she tried, her mind wouldn't obey.

She kept thinking of the sketch from yesterday.

Of the way her hands had moved instead of calculated.

Of the way the colors had felt.

And she was afraid.

Because if she kept painting like that, what if she forgot how to paint the way she was supposed to?

Her grip on the brush tightened.

"You're thinking too hard again."

Aika flinched, nearly dropping her brush.

She turned sharply—only to find Riku leaning against the doorway, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Do you always sneak up on people?" she snapped, her voice sharper than intended.

Riku shrugged, unfazed. "Not my fault you were in a trance."

She scowled, shoving the blank canvas away. "What do you want?"

He stepped inside, glancing at her untouched paints. "What, can't decide what to paint?"

Aika's stomach twisted. She hated how easily he read her.

"I can paint," she muttered defensively.

"Then do it."

She hesitated.

Riku sighed, plopping down onto the stool beside her. "Look, I get it."

Aika frowned. "Get what?"

"That feeling," he said, nodding toward the empty canvas. "When you realize something might change forever."

Aika's breath hitched.

How did he always know?

She turned away. "It's not that dramatic."

Riku's smirk softened. "Maybe not. But you wouldn't be this freaked out if it didn't mean something."

Aika's grip on her brush tightened.

She wanted to argue. To push back.

But deep down, she knew he was right.

And that scared her more than anything.

She exhaled sharply, forcing herself to pick up her brush. "Fine. If you're going to be annoying, I'll just paint something."

Riku leaned back. "Go for it."

Aika dipped the brush into paint.

Tried to make a clean, structured stroke.

But it felt stiff.

Lifeless.

She hesitated.

Then, slowly, she closed her eyes.

She thought of the music from yesterday—the deep, rich notes, the swirling blues and golds, the way it had moved inside her.

And then—

She painted.

The first stroke wasn't perfect. It curved in a way she hadn't intended. But instead of correcting it, she let it guide her.

More colors. More motion.

She stopped thinking—and just let it flow.

She didn't know how much time passed.

But when she finally stepped back, her breath caught in her throat.

The painting before her was alive.

It pulsed with movement, energy—chaotic and imperfect and real.

Riku let out a low whistle. "Damn."

Aika swallowed hard.

She should have felt proud.

Instead, all she felt was fear.

Because if she kept painting like this…

Would she ever be able to go back?