Rain dotted the windows in gentle rhythms, tracing thin lines down the glass like threads unraveling from the sky.
Ryunosuke sat in the corner booth of a small café on Olympic and Grand—just a block off the main road, but quiet enough that it felt like the city had forgotten it. Warm light spilled from hanging Edison bulbs, and the scent of espresso clung to the air like second skin. A soft jazz piano drifted through the speakers—just enough to keep the silence from sinking too deep.
His tea sat untouched.
Steam curled upward, vanishing into the ceiling like a memory fading too fast.
His sketchbook lay open in front of him. The pages were already filled—waves, boats, the boardwalk at Santa Monica. The usual.
And then, without thought, his pencil moved.Delicate. Careful.
A curve of cheek. A sweep of bangs.The collar of a lavender coat.
Before he realized what he was doing, her eyes stared back at him.
Violet.
He leaned back slightly, blinking at the half-finished sketch. He hadn't meant to draw her. Not really.
It just… happened.
"The ocean lies.You made it too honest."
He remembered the way she said it—soft, like a secret passed between strangers. Like she wasn't just speaking to him, but through him.
And those eyes—he'd never seen anything like them before. Not in real life. Not even in the saturated, high-contrast glare of LA's most chaotic corners. Her presence had been like light hitting water at the perfect angle—unreal and unforgettable.
He turned to the window.A woman in a coat walked past.
Not her.Of course not.
He looked down again and added a few more strokes.Defined the lips. Tilted the jaw.Gave her a slight, knowing smile—like she held some truth he didn't yet deserve.
He didn't know why he was still drawing.
He didn't even know her name.
But the strange thing was…
The more he sketched her,the less certain he becamethat she was a stranger at all.