The art room was almost empty now, the late afternoon sun casting long, soft shadows across the wooden floors. The only sound was the gentle scratch of pencil on paper—Hana, still seated at her usual spot, sketchbook open, hands smudged with graphite.
Her piece for the school competition—"What Home Feels Like"—had earned third place.
People had congratulated her. Teachers had smiled. But even now, hours later, something in her chest felt... incomplete.
She flipped to a blank page and stared at it for a moment. Then, without thinking, she started to draw. Her strokes were loose, unrefined, unsure—but they were honest.
The door creaked open, soft footsteps followed.
"I thought I'd find you here," Ren said, stepping inside.
Hana didn't look up. "Still not done running away from silence?"
Ren gave a short laugh and sat across from her. "Nope. Silence and I are old friends now."
They didn't speak for a while. The quiet between them wasn't heavy. Just there.
"I could've done better," Hana said suddenly.
Ren tilted his head. "You got third place."
"I know. But I wasn't proud of it." She paused, her pencil still moving. "I want to be better."
He studied her carefully. "You're already good, Hana."
She glanced at him. "You won first place in poetry."
"That doesn't mean I didn't mess up twenty times before that," Ren said. "I just... wrote what I felt."
"I let the pressure get to me," she admitted. "All those eyes on me—I got nervous. My hands felt like stone."
Ren leaned back, watching her sketch. "But you still put your heart into it. That's more than most people ever do."
She smiled a little. "I want to try again next year."
He grinned. "So I shouldn't enter next time? Let you have your moment?"
Hana looked up with mock seriousness. "Exactly."
They gathered their things and left together, walking side by side under the dimming winter sky. Snow had begun to fall again, soft and slow.
Not far from her house, Ren noticed her fingers were turning red from the cold. Without a word, he tugged off one of his gloves and handed it to her.
"Your fingers are more important," he said.
She took it quietly, heart skipping a beat.
At their usual parting point, Hana paused. "Thanks. For being here."
Ren looked at her. "Always."
There was a silence, then Hana added, "And... I liked your poem. Especially the end."
"I meant every word," Ren said, his voice soft.
She looked down, cheeks warming. "I know."
They didn't hug. They didn't say anything else. But their eyes held something steady. Something real.
And when Hana got home, she didn't stop drawing.
She didn't draw for a grade or a medal or praise.
She drew because her heart told her she could be better—and she believed it.