Chapter 1
Overlapping murmurs, chatterings circulate around the closed space, the citrus-like smell of paint tinged by disinfectant wafts through the humid air.
"For today's lesson, we will be sketching still-life objects." rings the voice of Yukihara sensei, like a switch, the entire classroom's noise weakens to a few breathy whispers as tension replaces the previously breezy feel. No melodious birds sing, but the squeaking of sneakers and sliding doors being slammed shut and opened stills.
Futaba is by her side, stiffly sat on her seat, fiddling with the fingers limp on her skirt and the hair strands sticking out of raven colored braids. They're both listening with a futile determination burning in their gaze and earlobes peered wide open.
There is a sudden pang of something cloudy-like fogging Ena's chest—nostalgia, perhaps?
It comes in the familiar feeling of adrenaline heat trailing on their bones and twitching hands with a desire to create, to mould.
"I've brought a suitable object for you all to begin with, but feel free to paint what you desire as long as it is infront of your eyes." Yukihara sensei was fiddling with the zipper lining of his bag for a while.
It's a sculpture.
One with cheekbones poised to just the right place, stone eyelashes frozen at a fluttering position, lips smoothing out a slight up-curve, an elegant smile.
The still image of poetry.
Ena wanted—no, needed to paint now.
With a paintbrush, giving into her artistic desires was second-nature to Ena, to allow the plummet towards a land far-fetched from their own where the sky is a vibrant shade of every hue possible. It wasn't just second-nature, it was instinct. The quench of her everlasting thirst.
Well, it was that way. For a while, atleast.
(Ena couldn't pinpoint when doubt had started slithering like a blood-sucking parasite into the veins of her pure unadultred determination, but it has.)
The four unnaturally grey walls bouncing off a dozen canvas's reflection, a paintbrush in hand, the bleachy smell of paints, confusion uttering out the syllables of her brushstrokes.
There is a cold sweat dripping down the palm of her hand as she grabs her brush, and gently begins to outline the husk of her painting. A small frown was settled on her face as she stared at the canvas, awaiting inspiration's cue.
The birds sang now, a tune choked from the back of their throats. Flocks of white snow twirling from behind the window's screen. Ena is blankly staring at it.
The canvas is just as blank, if not emptier.
Futaba is still beside her, and her determination is no longer fickle. Her green eyes lit blazing flames, life seeping into the irises. The sounds of paint brushing against the coarse canvas trickles down Ena's ears, and she wants to join in with her own cry.
But it's a void, a void where her want should lie.
The classroom seems much bigger than her, but perhaps she'd shrunk in on herself.
Left, right, wherever her eyes flit is a canvas presented with dripping grace and talent. The colors merged together to bring life, a world of overwhelming senses, unspoken depth. Everything that isn't like hers.
When did it become unreachable? She pondered.
When did her dreams squeeze free from the pads of her palms, far away where she can no longer fly.
"One's self," that's the topic of their final painting of the year.
Once, Ena thought herself to be the embodiment of arts. A gifted child with an equally gifted love from the land of creation, but now it's all been muddled up.
Maybe it was never real at all to begin with.
So if she wasn't a child showered by a multitude of talents and praise, then who was she?
Then what was 'One's self'?
It was...
She was...
("You don't have what it takes to be an artist." A steady voice declared, not flicking a second glance towards her direction.
Ena's face fell, and her hands went slack.)
Faintly, the chime of hands clapping together echoed.
"Ah... this must be your painting, Shinonome-san?"
No, no. This wasn't her painting, a painting by hers wouldn't be lifeless like this, empty like this, meaningless like this. Ena's breath stuttered as she struggled to mutter out an assurance, her voice sounding awfully strained—a tone that didn't belong to her.
Futaba's placed the painting tools aside, now facing Ena with an undecipharable look. Her eyebrows furrowed slightly, and her lips quivered with what could be concern; not like she cared anyways.
Ena gulped, beneath the poking eyes of both Futaba and Yukihara sensei, hunching her back underneath the pressure and appearing smaller much like sheep caught in the claws of a starving wolf.
"This.... Ena... I have no words for this."
....
"..Ena,"
"....Ena sa‐"
"Ena! Ena!"
A meek voice yelled out her name, Ena felt she was abruptly dropped back onto the scenery. Just barely registering the feel of two warm hands settled on her shoulders, Futaba loomed above her with unveiled concern and a down-turned gaze.
Ena blinked.
Once. Twice.
Ah..
She must"ve blacked out. Futaba was saying something to hear, but it sounded oddly submerged in water.
"Um, Ena-san.. The class is already over."
"Eh? Oh, sorry. I guess I was spacing out." Ena stated, monotonous with a sense of finality.
Futaba stared at her like she wanted to say more, sweat trickling down her half-squinted eyes.
The chair creaked as she pushed it away, standing on two wobbly feet against a surface that seemed unreal.
Her footsteps resounded across the vast classroom, she didn't look back as she walked further and further, aiming for the blue tinted door that felt like a mile away.
"Wait..!! Ena-san, wait!"
That afternoon, as she was barely beginning to relearn her surroundings. Under the luminance of afternoon's reddish hues casted by gentle lights, Ena felt the shimmering glow in her soul snuff out.