Soft Edges

The return was quieter than the journey there.

In the car, the air smelled of mint, neon, and hairspray. Of Yuzu's spicy perfume — vanilla and pink pepper, warm like skin — and of that sweet tiredness that follows well-spent nights.

Outside, Tokyo streaked past the windows in glowing lines, as if it wanted to follow them but always stayed behind.

Airi fell asleep almost immediately, her head resting on Geto's shoulder. He didn't move. Didn't say anything. He just stayed there, back straight, breathing steady. Maybe used to it. Maybe content.

Yuzu was sitting next to Gojo, her face turned toward the window, her cheek lit by flashing lights.

She could feel the outline of his shoulder just inches away. His arm rested casually along the edge of the seat. There was something in the positioning of their bodies — close, but not yet — that felt more intimate than actual contact.

"Strange, isn't it?" murmured Gojo, without turning. His voice low, like he was confessing a dream.

"What is?"

"The nights that make you forget everything… are often the ones someone else remembers for you."

Yuzu glanced sideways at him, her dark pupils uneasy. "You talk like you know who."

He smiled, softly. "I don't know much and I improvise a lot. But I notice coincidences. Museum. Club. School. You."

She raised an eyebrow. "Me?"

"Yes. You're a nice center of gravity. Artistic. And otherwise."

Yuzu lowered her gaze. She didn't smile. But something in her shoulders relaxed.

During a slow turn, the back of Gojo's hand barely brushed hers. A coincidence — maybe. But Yuzu didn't pull away.

Just before they arrived at Airi's place, Yuzu picked up her phone. She typed silently, hiding the screen with her hand.

Yuzu: Airi… is there something you need to tell me? What's going on with Geto?

A few seconds later, Airi half-opened one eye, still resting against his shoulder. She read the message, bit her lip. She didn't reply right away.

Then:

Airi: We'll talk tomorrow. Promise.

Yuzu turned off the screen. Gojo wasn't looking. Or maybe he was. With him, it was always impossible to tell.

Next day:

The morning came slowly, filtered through beige curtains and blankets pulled up to their chins. Yuzu and Airi were lying on the futon in the living room — they'd slept there together. It was Sunday, Yuzu had no class, so still in their pajamas, hair messy and legs tangled beneath an old plaid blanket, they talked and confessed everything. The ramen bowls had been put away, but the scent of broth still seemed to linger in the air.

Comfortable silence.

Then Airi turned, her chin resting on her arm.

"Did you see how he looked at me last night?"

Yuzu smiled faintly.

"He always looks at you like that. Only now, you're looking back the same way."

Airi let out a sigh, burying her face in the pillow.

"I know."

A beat of silence.

"Did you sleep with him?" Yuzu asked, without raising her voice.

Airi didn't turn right away. Then she nodded, slowly.

"Yes."

"And… are you together?"

"No." The answer was immediate, firm.

Yuzu turned onto her side, one hand under her cheek.

"But you see each other?"

"Yes." This time, slower. "Now and then. When it happens. When it works."

Silence. The light shifted in tone on the wall.

"And you're okay with that?" Yuzu asked, in that gentle calm that always left room for the truth.

Airi turned to face her. Her eyes were clear, unashamed.

"I don't want to fall in love with him. Not now. Not with someone like him."

"But if it happens?"

"If it happens…" Airi looked at the ceiling, then back at Yuzu.

"…I'll know. And I'll deal with it. But I don't want to live in defense. With him it's all... measured. Slow. No pressure. Just what there is. When it's there."

Yuzu nodded. She stayed quiet for a few moments.

"It's like listening to a song you love, knowing it'll end," she finally said.

Airi smiled.

"Yeah. But while it's playing, I dance."

They laughed softly, conspiratorially. The laugh of women who know exactly what they're doing — even when they really don't.

Then Airi blurted:

"And you? Your blindfolded actor?"

Yuzu raised an eyebrow.

"Nothing."

"Sure."

"Really."

"He looks at you like he knows where you've hidden your soul."

Yuzu laughed, but didn't deny it.

Then, with a more serious look:

"Maybe I'm okay too with… just what there is. When it's there."

Airi stretched.

"Good. Then put on the right lipstick. And stop asking yourself questions."

Yuzu closed her eyes, letting the sun draw warm lines across her eyelids. She didn't reply. But she smiled.

Then she got up.

"I'm going to brush my teeth. And maybe change my mind about everything."

She crossed the narrow hallway, barefoot. The apartment was filled with that dim early afternoon light that makes things feel more real. More tired.

It was as she passed by the sideboard, on the way to the bathroom, that she saw it.

A little frame. A small watercolor — a floral print, nothing memorable. But she remembered it well. The night before, it had been perfectly straight. She had looked at it for a few seconds while searching for a charger: the glass clean, the frame pale, the drawing neat. Nothing special, but harmonious.

Now it was upside down. Not tilted. Fully flipped.

Yuzu stopped. Looked at the frame. Then the wall. No marks, no vibrations. No open window. No draft. The nail still firm, the glass intact.

But the flower — that calm, composed flower — now looked withered. The upside-down lines turned it into something else. A hanged stem. A reversed root. A mouth sealed by silence.

Yuzu didn't touch it. She didn't straighten it.

She stood there just a few seconds longer than necessary, eyes fixed.

Then she turned and continued toward the bathroom.

She didn't say anything to Airi.

But as she splashed cold water on her face, with trembling fingers and a shallower breath, she realized that whatever that presence was — it wasn't letting her go.

It was… adapting. To her spaces. To her gestures. To their lives.

And it had just made it clear: it was still there.

Yuzu stayed another hour with Airi.

They spoke little. A warm cup of tea between their hands, a blanket over their legs, some film playing in the background, demanding nothing from them. Airi fell asleep on the couch, knees tucked up, her cheek pressed to the cushion.

Yuzu tucked her in carefully. Brushed a stray lock behind her ear. Stayed for a moment — listening to her friend's calm breathing, the house returned to silence.

Then she put on her coat and left without a sound.

***

Light fell diagonally through the curtains, cutting the room into soft stripes. A golden dust danced in the air like motes in a quiet greenhouse, settling lightly on canvases leaning against the wall, on clean brushes, on the vivid edges of the easel. The sound of keys in the dish and the soft click of the door behind her gave her a subtle sense of return. Almost peace. Almost.

She took off her shoes slowly. Let her hair down — it slid like liquid silk down her back, black and precise as poured ink on skin. She set the water to boil for an herbal tea, but forgot it on the counter. The steam rose gently, silently, as she was already drifting toward the studio.

The canvas was there, waiting — white and taut like an intimate room not yet entered.

She put on her painting shirt — that old men's shirt with a missing button and chrome yellow stains on the collar — and rolled the sleeves up with symmetrical care. Then she tied her hair into a loose knot and took her place at the easel.

She didn't begin right away. She selected her colors with an almost ceremonial slowness. She prepared a pale palette: soft yellow and sage green, Prussian blue and ochre. She mixed them like tempering memories.

Then, the first brushstroke: long, horizontal, slow like a held breath.

A gentle curve followed, then another. Shadow dissolving into light. She didn't paint reality. She painted what remained after looking. The figure that began to emerge was ambiguous, almost abstract: maybe a body, maybe an absence. There was the suggestion of shoulders, a trace of a mouth, but the proportions slipped away, melted into soft transparencies, as though submerged in deep water.

The painting echoed Odilon Redon, with his blurred, inward visions. Perhaps a hint of Hammershøi in the quiet solitude. And something — imperceptible — of Francis Bacon in the darker edges, as if the subject was on the verge of disappearing, or exploding.

She painted for hours. Her face serious, but her shoulders no longer tense. Now and then, she'd pause to observe. Then return to the edge of a shadow, soften it. She worked in silence, with the measured grace of someone who uses painting as their only voice — when others no longer suffice.

She didn't sign the canvas. Not yet. She remained there, hands stained, eyes fixed on the boundary between two shades.

Then the phone rang.

Not a buzz. A proper ring. A call.

Yuzu hesitated. Looked at it for a moment, as if it didn't quite belong to that moment. Then she answered.

"Hello?"

On the other end, Gojo's voice. Lower. Less inclined to perform.

"Are your hands stained with blue?"

Yuzu looked down at her fingers. "Some ochre too."

"Good. That means you're breathing the right way."

Silence. But not empty.

Then he said, more softly:

"Did you have fun last night?"

She understood. He didn't just mean the sleep.

"At times, yes. But Airi even more. That's good enough."

A pause. Long.

"Then be my wingwoman tomorrow. Ramen. Simple place. Zero ghosts. And no karaoke."

Yuzu closed a brush into her palm, held it for a second. "I might have a full schedule."

"I'll show up with the blindfold and quiz you at random. Psychological pressure — elegantly delivered."

She smiled. Didn't laugh. "I'll text you."

"All right. But if you ignore me, I'll ask Airi and come anyway. Maybe in an apron."

"Goodbye dignity."

"Who said anything about dignity? I'm talking about style."

Yuzu ended the call slowly. The smile left on her lips was one of those rare, quiet ones — the kind that didn't look for confirmation.

Then she turned to the canvas. Looked at it for a long time. But she didn't go back to painting. She stayed there, arms crossed, the scent of paint still in the air.

And she understood that the figure on the canvas, undefined, floating… maybe it was her.

Or maybe it was him.

***

That night, Yuzu fell asleep late.

Her body still tired, her mind too full, the silence in the house too empty to be truly peaceful.

Sleep came late.

Like a cold tide.

Not gentle. Not whole. Just inevitable.

She dreamed.

The room was Airi's. Or at least, it seemed like it. But stripped bare.

Like a lifeless model, an imperfect replica.

The colors weren't colors. They were faded shadows, like dirty water on already weary fabric.

Everything appeared still, but every object… breathed.

The ceiling, the baseboards, even the wallpaper. Breathing softly, as if holding something in.

And there — at the center of the wall — the frame.

The one that had only been slightly tilted the night before.

Now it was hanging.

But upside down.

The glass had a crack. Thin. Alive. It hadn't shattered — it had opened.

And from that fissure, something thick was seeping out. Black. Indefinable.

Not liquid. Not blood. Not ink.

A living substance.

And inside — or behind it — there were eyes.

Not drawn. Not symbolic.

Real eyes.

Human eyes, staring. Too many. All fixed on her.

Some were crying. Others weren't.

Yuzu stepped back, but the floor gave way beneath her feet like wet fabric.

The dream folded around her.

The room closed in.

And from behind the wall, something moved.

It slithered.

A damp, slow presence sliding through the seams of the walls. It was laughing. Not with a voice — with a sound.

Metallic and hollow.

Like a knife touching glass.

Then, a whisper.

Right by her ear.

"You didn't look properly. Look again."

She turned.

There was Airi.

Or something with Airi's face.

Standing still. Unmoving.

The face too symmetrical.

The lips too red.

The eyes completely white.

And she was smiling.

Too slowly.

Too wide.

Too calm.

"It watches us from inside."

Yuzu screamed.

But the sound didn't come out.

Or worse — it came out only in the dream.

And the shadow behind the wall… answered.

---

She woke with a start.

Mouth open, no sound.

Her heart was pounding hard, like something was knocking from inside her chest. The sheets, soaked with sweat, clung to her skin. The pillow was damp beneath her cheek.

3:05.

The phone on the nightstand said it with a cold light. Too sharp.

She tried to swallow. Her throat was dry.

She stayed there. Still.

That's when she heard it.

Not some vague noise.

Something specific.

The sound of the cupboard in the kitchen.

The click of the door opening. The glass trembling.

And then:

Crash.

Breaking glass.

Not one. More than one.

As if someone — or something — had thrown the glasses to the floor.

Yuzu held her breath.

A step. Or something like a step. Long. Slow.

Like an object rolling.

Then, silence. But a silence too deep.

As if the house were waiting for her reaction.

She got up. Suddenly.

Hands trembling. Bare feet on the cold floor.

Two steps. Three.

She reached the bedroom door. Closed. Lock. Click — metal.

She pressed her back against the wood. Listened.

No draft.

The windows were shut. The steam from the kettle was gone.

No one should've been there.

But the glasses.

They had fallen.

She gripped the phone in her hand.

Screen on.

03:07.

Gojo.

Two rings.

He answered immediately.

His voice low. Awake. Alert.

"Yuzu."

She didn't speak right away.

Only the sound of her breathing.

Then:

"Can you come? Now."

No questions.

"Three minutes."

And he hung up.