Chapter 5: The Line Between Us

An Unspoken Battle

Aika's hands trembled as she placed her brush down.

The painting before her was unlike anything she had ever created. It was raw, chaotic—alive.

And it terrified her.

She could still feel Riku's gaze lingering on the canvas, the weight of his silent approval pressing down on her like an unfamiliar burden.

She wasn't supposed to paint like this.

She wasn't supposed to lose control.

"You look like you just saw a ghost," Riku mused, his voice lower than usual.

Aika forced herself to breathe. She could feel her heartbeat in her throat, a strange tightness squeezing at her chest.

"I don't know if this is me," she whispered.

Riku tilted his head, watching her carefully. "You keep saying that."

She swallowed.

"Because it's true."

Riku's gaze didn't waver. "What if it is you, and you're just scared to admit it?"

Her stomach twisted.

He wasn't supposed to understand her like this.

She wanted to argue—to tell him he was wrong. That she was fine the way she was. That she didn't need to change.

But the words never came.

Instead, the silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken things.

Then, suddenly, Aika couldn't take it anymore.

She stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the wooden floor. "I should go."

Riku didn't try to stop her.

And for some reason, that made it worse.

She grabbed her bag and hurried toward the door, barely hearing Riku's quiet, knowing voice behind her.

"Running away won't change anything, Art Girl."

But she didn't look back.

She couldn't.

---

Riku's Perspective: The Sound of Emptiness

Riku didn't show up to the music room the next day.

Or the day after that.

At first, he told himself he didn't care.

Aika had made it pretty clear—This doesn't matter.

He had been stupid to think it did.

So he buried himself in his music, fingers gliding over piano keys with mechanical precision, but the notes felt empty.

It wasn't until the third day that he realized something was off.

He had always played to fill the silence.

To give voice to things he couldn't say.

But now, even with music surrounding him, the silence felt louder than ever.

And he hated it.

His fingers hesitated over the keys. He could almost see her, the way she had stared at that painting—like she was both terrified of it and unable to look away.

Like she was staring at a version of herself she didn't recognize.

Riku exhaled sharply and slammed the piano shut.

"Idiot," he muttered under his breath.

He wasn't sure if he was talking about Aika.

Or himself.

---

Aika's Perspective: Cracks in the Canvas

Aika tried to focus.

Tried to drown herself in preparation for the upcoming competition.

But every time she sat in front of her canvas, her hands felt heavier.

She mixed her paints perfectly. Chose the right shades. Applied every stroke with careful precision.

And yet—

The piece felt dead.

Like something was missing.

Like someone was missing.

Her mind betrayed her, pulling up memories she didn't want.

The way Riku's music had filled the room, wrapping around her like a living thing.

The way his eyes had flickered with something quiet, something understanding, when he watched her paint.

The way his smirk had softened—just a little—when he said, Maybe this is more you than you think.

She clenched her fists, frustration twisting in her chest.

She didn't need Riku.

She didn't need his music or his chaotic way of thinking.

…Right?

Then why did everything feel so unbearably empty?

Aika dropped her brush, pressing her fingers against her temples.

Maybe she had made a mistake.

Maybe pushing him away had been the wrong choice.

But after what she said—

Would he even want to see her again?

Her chest tightened.

She didn't know.

And that scared her more than anything.

---

Riku's Perspective: Unfinished Melodies

Riku hadn't planned on going to the art room.

But somehow, he found himself standing in front of the door anyway.

It was stupid.

She had made it clear that this wasn't important to her. That he wasn't important to her.

But still—

Still.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

What was he even expecting? That she'd suddenly realize she missed him? That she'd actually admit she cared?

Yeah, right.

And yet…

He had never heard Aika sound so uncertain as when she said, I don't know if this is me.

Like she was afraid of her own art.

Like she was afraid of herself.

That was what made him hesitate.

Because he knew that feeling.

That fear of losing something—of changing into someone you don't recognize.

And if she was going through that…

Then maybe she wasn't as fine as she pretended to be.

Riku exhaled sharply and turned away from the door.

"Forget it," he muttered.

He wasn't going to chase after someone who didn't want him there.

If Aika wanted to talk, she'd have to be the one to come to him.

But somehow, as he walked away, the silence felt even heavier than before.

---

Aika's Perspective: A Blank Page

The next morning, Aika sat at her desk, gripping her pencil so tightly it hurt.

She had been trying to sketch for the past hour.

Nothing came out right.

Her lines were too stiff. Too controlled. Too lifeless.

She gritted her teeth, frustration bubbling to the surface.

Why did it feel like the moment she pushed Riku away, she had lost something important?

Not just inspiration.

Not just creativity.

But something deeper.

A connection.

A feeling.

She exhaled sharply and set down her pencil.

Maybe it was time to stop running.

Maybe it was time to find him.

And this time, she wouldn't let fear stop her.