Chapter 22 – The Art of Denial

Noa Aizawa didn't ask for this level of emotional chaos when she started sketching a half-naked anime boy at 2AM with wine in one hand and self-loathing in the other. But here she was five weeks into this madness and the shirtless drawing she once called "therapeutic fanservice" was now doing push-ups on her studio desk.

"You forgot to draw my abs today," Reno said, upside down. "I'm worried about you."

Noa didn't even look up from her coffee. "It's 7AM. Nobody's abs should exist at this hour."

"I disagree," he grinned, flipping over like a gymnast and landing on her chair with a thud she couldn't actually hear because, well, he was still technically not real.

Except he *was*—kind of. Not just visible, not just audible. He had emotions now. Facial expressions. Reactions. He blushed. He sulked. He got *jealous*.

And *that* was the problem.

Because Noa Aizawa—unemployed junior production assistant and full-time mess—was starting to feel something for him too.

Which was categorically insane.

"Don't give me that look," Reno said, resting his chin on her shoulder as she scrolled through her phone pretending to work.

"What look?"

"That 'I'm emotionally constipated and ignoring my feelings' look."

"It's called surviving."

Reno laughed. "Noa, you're falling for me."

Noa choked on her coffee.

"Excuse me?"

"Come on. You like me. I mean, you created me exactly the way you wanted: half flirty, half dumbass. I'm a walking contradiction, and somehow you're into that."

"I also drew you with six fingers once. You want to analyze *that* too?"

Reno smirked. "I never said your taste was flawless."

She stood, grabbing her sketchbook and stuffing it into her bag. "I'm going to work."

"You mean that depressing studio that underpays you and thinks women can't hold a camera unless they wear heels?"

"Yes. That place."

"I'm coming with you."

"No, you're not."

"You *literally* summoned me into this world, Noa. I go where the plot demands."

"You are *not* a plot."

"I am *the* plot," Reno said, striking a dramatic pose. "And you know it."

---

The studio was already chaos when she arrived. Wires on the floor. A producer screaming into a headset. A camera assistant crying in the hallway, possibly because of the producer or maybe just capitalism.

Noa tried to blend in.

She failed.

Because Reno showed up—yes, *at the studio*—wearing a disguise that included sunglasses, a beanie, and a shirt that said "I'm Not Real."

Someone offered him a coffee.

"Stop talking to people," she whispered, dragging him behind a curtain.

"I'm blending in!"

"You're glowing."

"Oh, yeah." He looked at his arm, where faint blue sparkles shimmered under the skin like a magical rash. "I've been doing that lately. Cool, right?"

"It's horrifying. You're a sketchbook anomaly, Reno, not a Marvel character."

He paused. "But I could be... if you believe hard enough."

"I'm going to throw myself into traffic."

"Don't be dramatic."

"I'm literally having a mental breakdown in 4K."

---

Later that day, Noa sat alone in the editing room, pretending to sync audio while thinking about Reno's dumb little smirk.

He had no right being that pretty for someone born out of a ballpoint pen.

She hated that he made her laugh.

She hated that she didn't want him to leave.

She hated most of all... that she was starting to hope he *could* stay.

But then she remembered: he wasn't real.

He was a glitch. A fantasy. An escape route she designed when life felt too heavy to carry.

"Real boys don't glow," she muttered, erasing a timeline marker and sighing.

But glow or not, Reno had become part of her life. Her routines. Her safe space.

And that was dangerous.

Because Noa had always known how to survive heartbreak from real people.

But she had no defense for heartbreak from a dream.

---

When she got home that night, Reno was sitting on her couch, legs crossed, watching a YouTube tutorial on how to make garlic bread.

Without garlic.

"I figured I could help more with your world if I learned your customs," he said proudly.

"You don't even eat."

"I can pretend."

Noa sat beside him, exhausted. "Reno, why are you doing all this?"

He looked at her, uncharacteristically serious. "Because I want to matter. To you."

The silence that followed was thicker than any line she'd ever drawn.

"I don't know what to do with that," she admitted.

"You don't have to do anything. Just... don't erase me."

"I've never tried to."

"Not yet."

Noa looked at him. Really looked. The way his outline seemed more solid these days. The way his voice no longer echoed like a ghost. The way he blinked too much when he was nervous.

He was becoming something she couldn't explain.

And maybe didn't want to.

"I'm scared," she whispered.

Reno leaned his head on her shoulder. "Me too."

---

That night, she had a dream.

Not of romance. Not of kisses.

But of an empty sketchbook.

A blank page.

And a voice saying: *"If you stop drawing, I disappear."*

Noa woke up in a cold sweat.

Reno was still asleep on the couch.

His fingers shimmered with faint static.

She didn't know what he was anymore.

But she knew one thing for sure:

She didn't want to lose him.

And that terrified her more than anything.

---