The Color of Doubt.

Chapter 8: The Color of Doubt

The streets were quieter than usual, or maybe it was just her. Maybe the noise had dulled into a distant hum, drowned by the sound of her own breath, shallow and fast, like a caged animal pacing in a cell too small to hold it.

She walked without direction, the cold air biting at her skin, but she didn't feel it. The weight of failure pressed harder than the chill. Her fingers twitched by her sides, aching for a brush, a canvas-something to prove she wasn't empty.

Then came a voice, too casual, too familiar.

"Didn't expect to see you wandering around like a ghost."

Ren. Tokusake Ren.

She barely glanced at him, eyes fixed on the cracks in the pavement. "Go away."

He fell into step beside her, hands shoved in his pockets. "Harsh. Can't a guy check in on a classmate?"

She stopped, turned, and for the first time since the competition, her voice cracked. "I don't need you checking in on me."

Ren studied her for a moment before clicking his tongue. "Y'know, people fail sometimes. It's normal."

"Not for me."

Silence stretched between them. Ren sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "You're really like her, huh?"

Her head snapped toward him. "Her?"

"The medical student. You both think perfection is something you can just... grab." He tilted his head, watching her. "You're pissed because you lost to her, right?"

Her nails dug into her palms. "I didn't lose. The judges-"

"-didn't see what you wanted them to see." Ren's smirk was gone, replaced by something softer, something dangerously close to pity. "Maybe that's on you."

Her breath hitched. "Shut up."

Ren shrugged. "I'm just saying, maybe art isn't about who's the best. Maybe that's why you lost."

She wanted to hit him. Not physically-words. She wanted to say something so sharp it would cut through that smug, knowing expression. But nothing came.

And that silence was worse than any insult she could've thrown.

Ren sighed, stepping back. "Whatever. I'll see you in class."

He left before she could respond.

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.Her father was waiting for her when she got home.

The second she walked through the door, his voice cut through the stale air, sharp as a blade.

"So? Did it teach you anything?"

She barely had the strength to slip off her shoes, let alone answer. Her hands trembled, a phantom echo of the brush she had clutched for hours, for days, for weeks.

Her throat tightened. "I didn't fail."

Her father exhaled sharply, folding his arms. "Then what do you call it?"

She clenched her fists. The nail marks in her palm felt like tiny fractures, like her skin was cracking apart. "A mistake."

"A mistake that cost you the win."

A mistake. Just a mistake. Not a failure. Not a sign of weakness. Not proof that she had reached her limit.

She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. "I'll do better next time."

Her father's gaze didn't waver. It pinned her to the floor, heavy and unrelenting, like the weight of all the expectations she had placed on herself. "You said that last time."

"This time, I mean it."

He scoffed. "And what happens when 'next time' doesn't go your way either? Are you going to break down again?"

Her fingers twitched. Her heartbeat pounded against her ribs, each thud an accusation. "I'm not breaking down."

Her voice wavered.

Her father caught it.

A flicker of something unreadable passed through his face. "Shimo."

She didn't want to hear it. Whatever he had to say next, whatever conclusion he had already drawn about her, she didn't want it.

"I'm fine." The words shot out, fast and brittle, a lifeline she was clinging to. "I just need to work harder."

He let out a long breath, slow and measured. "Shimo, you're chasing something that doesn't exist."

Her body tensed. "I can make it exist."

"At what cost?"

"At any cost."

Silence thickened the air between them. A single drop of water from the sink dripped into the empty basin, echoing like a chisel against stone.

Her father's eyes, dark and knowing, softened-just for a moment. "That's what I'm afraid of."

Her stomach twisted, a deep and ugly thing that coiled inside her. She hated that tone. The kind that sounded like he was already mourning something.

She turned away before he could say anything else.

Before she could see the quiet disappointment in his face, before she could let the weight of his words settle into her bones.

She walked down the hall, her footsteps muffled against the wooden floor.

Nothing else.

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Her mother found her sitting at the kitchen table, staring at nothing. The lights were dim, casting long shadows across the walls, stretching and shifting like restless specters. The untouched plate of food sat before her, a silent testament to her thoughts, congealing under the weight of her silence.

"You haven't eaten," Mirua said, voice soft, cautious.

Shimo didn't answer. Didn't even blink. The air felt heavy, thick like oil, clogging her throat.

Mirua pulled out a chair, sitting across from her. The scrape of wood against tile felt deafening in the quiet.

"Do you want to talk?"

"No."

A sigh. "Shimo..."

"I should have won."

Mirua hesitated, carefully choosing her words. "Art isn't-"

"Don't say it." Shimo's voice was sharper than she'd intended, slicing through the air like a blade. Her eyes flashed, dark and unreadable. "I know what you're going to say. That art isn't about winning. That I should be proud of what I made. That it's about expression, not competition."

Her mother's lips pressed into a thin line. "Then why do you still look like this?"

Shimo's hands curled into fists beneath the table, nails biting into her palms. "Because I don't believe it."

Silence.

Mirua reached out, resting a gentle hand over Shimo's knuckles, warm against her cold skin. "You've been chasing something that doesn't exist."

Shimo jerked away, chair scraping back an inch. "Then I'll create it."

Her mother's expression darkened with something-grief? Regret? A quiet, simmering pain. "And if you never do?"

Shimo inhaled sharply, but the air felt like glass in her lungs. The words swirled in her mind, unraveling, fraying at the edges. She wanted to say something-anything. But for the first time, she had no answer.

She pushed the plate aside, untouched. "Good night."

And with that, she left the table, stepping into the dark, leaving the question unanswered and the silence behind her like a ghost.