Wanting to See Through your Heart

 "The usual, right? One Choco Monaka and a Matcha latte."

 I pointed at the menu. Mei nodded and quickly got to work behind the counter.

 She'd taken over as manager for a while now, and handled the role with surprising grace. The café had become quite a favorite among locals.

 A somewhat unfamiliar figure stood chatting with Mei at the counter. From afar, I saw the girl holding the latest issue of a fashion magazine. My photo was right on the cover, posing with a high-end designer handbag.

 I was surprised. Not many people in this quiet countryside town cared much about people like me. Most had never heard of HIMrs6 or the model Jun. The fashion and celebrity rack in the corner had always been untouched.

 After finishing my dessert, I went up to the counter to pay and say a quick hello to Mei. The girl with the magazine was still there, talking away.

 I placed the cash on the counter, not wanting to interrupt.

 "That should be enough."

 "Really?" Mei said, half-smiling.

 "Of course. When have I ever shorted you? In the future, you should hire me as your official receipt checker, silly."

 Mei looked up and smiled softly when she saw me. I gave her a nod. The girl beside her looked surprised—like she had just recognized me.

 "You look really familiar… Aren't you…"

 "You've watched SIXTEEN too?" I glanced down at the magazine in her hand.

 Jaw dropping, she practically yelled loud enough for the whole café to hear, "Aren't you the model from that show?!"

 "Guilty as charged."

 "I've actually been a hu—"

 Before she could finish, Mei jumped in and covered her mouth, trying to muffle the sound. I'd seen plenty of excited fans before, but this one had enthusiasm to spare.

 "It's a pleasure to meet you," I said politely.

 "Yes, yes, can I get your autograph please?!"

 She scrambled to grab a handful of paper scraps from the counter and shoved them toward me. Mei froze for a moment, but still handed me a pen.

 As I signed my name, I realized the pages were covered in rough fashion sketches—outfits, dress silhouettes, poses, and styling concepts.

 "My name's Sayaki Ririka. I've followed your magazine shoots every week, and I actually know a bit about HIMrs6 too!" she chirped, then turned to Mei, "Hey, when are we buying those tickets?"

 "Thank you for supporting me and HIMrs6." I smiled, glancing again at the signature and the drawings. They were honestly quite impressive—looked like something a student at an art or fashion university would sketch.

 "Mei drew those," Ririka said casually. "I came up with the ideas, but the art's all hers."

 Wait, Mei drew them? But she's…

 No. We never really brought up her visual impairment, not once.

 "She's attending a small art school nearby. Her technique's amazing. Me? I just like designing, but can't draw to save my life. Look at this—she nailed the dress based solely on my descriptions!"

 Looking closely, the dresses had depth even without color. The skirt swayed with the sketched figure's motion, the sleeves flowed like they were caught in a breeze. The pencil lines gave life to each fold, each ripple of fabric, each subtle shape.

 She was truly gifted. Aside from Ririka's concepts, everything looked masterfully done.

 "You know, Mei really wants you to model—"

 Again, Ririka was silenced, her voice muffled by Mei's palm. Her ears flushed red, and she avoided my gaze like a secret had just been let slip.

 "It's okay," I said gently. "You don't have to say anything."

 "Y-yes…" Mei's voice trembled. She shut her eyes and whispered, "I… I've wanted to draw you… as my model… for a long time now…"

….

 I walked Mei home.

 She sat on the floor with her back against a wooden chair, and I rested my head in her lap like a lazy cat. The soft afternoon sun filtered through the thin curtains, casting gentle golden streaks across the wooden floor.

 The room smelled faintly of herbal tea, and the warmth of Mei's hand gently brushing through my hair slowly quieted something inside me.

 Still, for some reason, I couldn't help but notice—her hands hadn't stopped trembling.

 We talked about everything: the café, the flowers, the studio, the band… even why she always preferred spring over summer. Her voice was light and soft, like smoke—each word floated out as if it might dissolve in the air, making my heart ache in the most delicate way.

 "So this is what you wanted to show me?"

 In front of me lay dozens of paintings—hazy strokes, colors that shimmered as if melting into light—true Impressionist style. Her world, I realized, had always been this radiant.

 I moved slowly from one painting to the next until my eyes locked onto a single piece—one that held me completely still.

 A girl stood in the middle of a blooming garden. Moonflowers surrounded her, their pristine white petals painted as if from moonlight itself—pure, yet strangely haunting. In her arms, she held a bouquet of lavender, like an offering or a silent prayer. Behind her, the sky shifted through burning orange into a deep twilight violet—the moment where sunset meets dreamscape.

 There was something in that image… a quiet plea for help trapped in a body that didn't know how to call out. I imagined her wandering an endless, silent forest with no one in sight.

 How many times had Mei reached out to comfort me, to heal me—while I kept chasing shadows that no longer existed?

 Was all this—this entire mess—just something I brought upon myself?

 "I love moonflowers," Mei whispered, her fingers tightening slightly. "They're the most beautiful to me, but also the most difficult to grow. They only bloom in autumn, only at night… and they wilt as soon as the sun rises."

 "Moonflowers?" I looked at the painting, already wanting to bring it home and hang it somewhere close. "They're just like you," I said, meaning her snow-white hair. But honestly, if Mei were a moonflower, she'd be the loveliest one of them all.

 "Jun," she murmured, threading her fingers through my hair, "Now… it's your turn."

 I looked up and met her gentle gaze.

 "Can you sit up for a moment?"

 I nodded without a word. Mei placed her pencil against a blank sheet of paper, and with her other hand, reached out to trace the contours of my face—so light, I could barely feel it. Yet each touch sent a pulse through my heart.

 Her fingertips were cool, but wherever they brushed, a warm ache bloomed.

 "Short hair, right?"

 "Yeah…"

 "Soft, too," she smiled, head tilting slightly. "I'm guessing… dark brown, maybe like bark in winter, or fresh chestnut."

 "You know, I used to have long hair. But it was too heavy… I couldn't stand the weight, so I cut it all off," I said with a quiet laugh, emotions suddenly flooding out, unexpected and raw. "That hair belonged to a version of me I hated. Yeah, I hated myself—because no one cared, no one listened. I lived in a dull, colorless life, even though I knew how to love and how to hate. Still, I felt like a fool. I gave up my old name and started over, but people around me just… disappeared. Or maybe… there was only you left."

 I looked straight at her. She said nothing, just blinked slowly—letting me know she heard.

 Her fingers traced my cheekbone, my brow, and finally rested over my eyes, now gently closed. She inhaled deeply—perhaps already sensing how I had been staring at her, unmoving, ever since we began.

 "Your eyes… are they green?"

 I chuckled softly. "No. Amber."

 She paused, imagining it, then nodded and resumed sketching.

"Like firelight caught beneath the sun…"

 I continued:

 "I had HIMrs6. I had Hiroki, Starlin, Raven, Mallow. But each of them had their own life to live. Hiroki… was always different for me. There were things he could only talk about with me. We had no boundaries. But last year, after… her, and everything else—"

 I meant the stalker girl—the one who sent Hiroki a terrifying wave of obsessive letters.

 "After all that, he changed. We searched for him everywhere—toured the country with the band, played countless shows—until I finally found out he'd been hiding here all along. A lonely, broken man with eyes full of hopeless hope. I couldn't save him… not like she once did. I could only wait for the day he came back. I went to his house the other day… but it was no use."

 I kept going—talking about HIMrs6, mostly Hiroki. I knew I was clinging to the past, but I couldn't stop. The words came tumbling out, uncontrolled. I even talked about Ryusei—how he was my first love, how hopelessly devoted I'd been, and how painful it was to finally let go.

 Mei listened in silence, her hand gently gliding along the bridge of my nose, then down to the curve of my lips. I shivered slightly—each touch so strangely familiar and impossibly soft.

 I stayed still, eyes closed, letting myself feel the phantom warmth of a kiss not yet given. My heart thundered in my chest, but Mei's expression remained calm, serene.

 "That lonely boy… he'll wither away one day. It's strange, isn't it? Someone who creates music to heal others but can't save himself…"

 The scratch of pencil on paper was her only reply.

 Mei touched and drew—each line guided not by sight, but by instinct. She sketched me not with vision, but with her heart—listening to every word, holding every story in silence.

 I paused and watched the lines come together, slowly revealing the shape of someone I didn't know how to see until now—how she saw me.

 And then she stopped.

 Mei's hands slid down my shoulders, her pencil slipping and falling to the floor. She rose suddenly, gripped my arm like she was lost.

 I looked up at her. She was trembling, her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came.

 "I… I'm sorry…" she whispered, bowing her head, reaching for her pencil again, turning back to the paper like she needed to hide within her drawing.

 I didn't speak. I wasn't angry.

 I simply looked at her. And in that moment, something inside me both broke and healed at once.

 After ten minutes of complete silence, the drawing was done.

 Mei lifted it slowly toward me, as if she could feel my eyes studying every line.

 "This is… you."

 It was me. And yet—not quite.

Mei had drawn me not with her eyes, but with her memory, with the lingering feel of every gentle touch, and with a heart I'd never fully reached. The lines were delicate, soft, and uncannily accurate... but what moved me wasn't how much it looked like me.

 It was how she saw me.

 The version of me through Mei's eyes—flawless, radiant, impossibly ideal—wasn't proud, wasn't sharp, wasn't distant.

She wasn't the defiant Jun the world knew.

She was soft.

She was human.

She was alive.

 "I wish… I could see your smile," Mei whispered. Her voice barely audible, as if even saying it out loud might shatter the fragile wish.

 I looked at her. Though she faced my direction, her eyes remained gently closed. Lashes trembling in the fading light.

 And in that moment, I didn't feel pity that she couldn't see me. I felt overwhelmed by the love in her effort to imagine me… with everything she had.

 I reached out slowly, touched her cheek, and leaned in—planting a soft kiss on her violet-tinged eyelids. No hurry, no hesitation.

 With that kiss, I gave her a smile she could never see… but I hoped she could feel.

 "Thank you," I whispered, meaning it with all my heart.

 Mei froze for a second, then turned her face slightly and pressed her cheek into my palm. I leaned my head on her shoulder and closed my eyes.

 "Can I stay like this for a while?"

 "Mmhm," she murmured, arms wrapping gently around my back, "for as long as you want…"

 And we stayed like that as twilight faded away—saying nothing more. But in my heart, something warm had taken root. And in Mei's… maybe there was a quiet smile that needed no vision to be felt.

 I held her a little tighter.

 Today, she gave me more than just a drawing.

 She gave me her heart behind it.

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