Chapter 6: The Space Between Us

Aika's Perspective: A Choice Left Unfinished

Aika stood outside the music room, her palms damp, her breath unsteady.

The door was slightly ajar, just enough for her to hear the soft, hesitant melody drifting from within.

It wasn't like Riku's usual playing.

Gone were the bold, confident notes that once filled the air with reckless energy, with raw emotion.

This was different.

Hesitant. Searching.

Unfinished.

Something clenched inside her chest.

She had spent the past few days trapped in her own mind, pretending that she was fine without him—that her art was fine without his music.

But it wasn't.

Every brushstroke had felt empty. Every canvas, no matter how vivid, had lacked something.

And she had known—deep down, she had always known—what was missing.

Or rather, who.

Aika took a slow, deep breath.

She had run away before.

She wasn't going to run now.

She stepped forward—

But just as she reached for the door, the music stopped.

Silence.

Her breath caught.

And then—

"You just gonna stand there all day, Art Girl?"

Her stomach twisted.

Of course he had noticed.

She hesitated for a beat before finally pushing the door open.

Riku sat at the piano, his fingers still resting lightly on the keys. His posture was relaxed, but there was something in the way he held himself—something different.

His usual smugness was missing.

Instead, he looked… guarded.

Like he was waiting for something.

Aika swallowed.

She had been so focused on her own turmoil that she hadn't stopped to think about his.

She had hurt him.

She had pushed him away, dismissed their connection, pretended like it didn't matter.

But it did.

It did.

"You weren't at the music room for a while," she said softly, the words barely making it past her lips.

Riku exhaled a short, dry laugh. "Yeah, well. Didn't feel like playing."

Aika blinked.

Riku… not playing?

The boy who poured everything into music, who played like he breathed—

She had never imagined a world where his hands weren't on the keys.

"Why?" she asked.

For a moment, he didn't answer.

Then, finally, he turned his gaze toward her.

His eyes weren't sharp with amusement or teasing like usual.

They were quiet.

And beneath that quiet, there was something else.

Something fragile.

"You tell me," he said.

Aika's chest tightened.

She understood.

This wasn't about the music.

This was about them.

The unspoken weight of it hung between them, heavier than any silence she had ever known.

She looked down at her hands, gripping the strap of her bag so tightly her knuckles turned white.

How was she supposed to say it?

That she had been wrong?

That she needed him—his music, his presence—to paint the way she truly wanted?

That she didn't know how to do this alone anymore?

But then she thought of her unfinished paintings.

Of the way her hands had frozen every time she tried to create without feeling.

Of the silence that had stretched between them, suffocating and unbearable.

She clenched her fists.

"I…"

The words stuck in her throat.

But this time, she refused to stay silent.

"I don't want to run anymore," she admitted softly.

Riku stilled.

Aika swallowed hard. "I was scared," she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "Because if I kept painting the way I did that day, I didn't know what would happen. I didn't know if I could control it. If I could still be me."

She let out a shaky breath.

"But now, I think… I just want to paint."

For a long moment, he didn't say anything.

Then, slowly, something shifted in his expression.

And the corners of his lips curled into a smirk.

"About time," he muttered.

Aika exhaled sharply, almost laughing despite herself.

That was just like him.

Never making a big deal out of things. Never pressing when he knew she was struggling to find the words.

But she could tell—

From the way his shoulders had relaxed, from the way his fingers lightly tapped against the piano keys—

He had been waiting for her to say this.

Waiting for her to decide.

And now that she had—

It felt like she could finally breathe.

---

Riku's Perspective: A Bridge Between Two Worlds

Riku watched as Aika hesitantly sat down beside him on the piano bench, her sketchbook clutched in her hands.

She was different now.

Not in a big way, but in the little things.

The way she carried herself.

The way her fingers traced the edges of her sketchbook, as if she was feeling again instead of just thinking.

She had finally stepped over that invisible line she had drawn between them.

And damn if he didn't feel a little proud of her for it.

Riku stretched his fingers over the piano keys, breaking the silence.

"So," he said, keeping his voice light, "you gonna sketch, or are you just here to stare at me?"

Aika scowled, her eyes sparking with familiar fire. "You wish I was here to stare at you."

Riku smirked. There she is.

"Yeah, yeah. Just start drawing."

She huffed, but he saw the way her grip on her pencil loosened.

And as his fingers moved over the keys, weaving a new melody—one that neither of them had heard before—Aika's pencil began to move.

Lines forming.

Colors taking shape.

No hesitation.

No fear.

And just like that—

They weren't two separate artists anymore.

They were creating together.