The sky was a deep shade of purple, streaked with the st remnants of orange as the sun dipped below the horizon. Haruki pedaled her bicycle alongside Aiko and Akihito, the cool evening air brushing against her face. The streets were quiet, save for the occasional hum of a passing car or the distant ughter of children pying in a nearby park. Their conversation drifted between idle chatter and the lingering weight of their discussion in the art room, though none of them spoke about Matsuda again.

  Eventually, they reached the point where their paths diverged. Aiko stretched her arms above her head before turning down her street. “See you tomorrow, Haruki-chan! Don’t forget to submit that paper!”

  Haruki ughed lightly. “I won’t! See you!”

  As Aiko disappeared around the corner, Haruki turned her bike toward her own street, only to hear Akihito clear his throat beside her.

  “Seriously, Haruki, you haven’t forgotten, right?” He adjusted his grip on the handlebars, casting her a skeptical gnce. “You know Mrs. Kitagawa won’t go easy on you just because you’re the Art Club’s Vice President.”

  Haruki huffed, rolling her eyes. “I know, I know. I’ll finish it when I get home.”

  “Just making sure.” Akihito smirked before pedaling ahead, calling back over his shoulder, “I better not hear you compining about an extension tomorrow!”

  Haruki waved with a small smile, watching him disappear down the street before resuming her ride home. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant food stalls.

  She continued on her way, the rhythmic sound of her bicycle wheels against the pavement filling the silence. Soon, she turned onto a tree-lined street, where the houses grew rger and more imposing. Her own home stood at the end of the road, a traditional Japanese estate that exuded both elegance and isotion. The wooden gate creaked softly as she pushed it open, and she wheeled her bicycle into the garage, the dim light casting long shadows across the empty space.

  The house itself was grand, with a sloping tiled roof and a meticulously maintained garden that seemed almost too perfect, as if it had been frozen in time. The sliding doors were made of polished wood, and the paper screens glowed faintly with the warm light from inside. Despite its beauty, the house often felt cold and empty, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

  Haruki slipped off her shoes at the entrance, pcing them neatly on the shoe rack. She gnced at the other pairs—her father’s polished leather shoes were absent, as usual, but her mother’s modest fts were there. She was home early today.

  “I’m back,” Haruki called out, her voice echoing through the spacious hallway. The house seemed to swallow her words, leaving only silence in their wake.

  Haruki stepped into the house, the polished wooden floors cool beneath her socks. She closed the door softly behind her, careful not to make too much noise. The st thing she wanted was to draw her mother’s attention. She was tired, her shoulders heavy from the day, and all she wanted was to retreat to her room and lose herself in her sketchbook.

  She tiptoed through the hallway, her footsteps barely audible. To her left was the open doorframe leading to the kitchen and dining area. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her mother sitting at the dining table, still in her tailored suit from work. Her ptop was open in front of her, its screen casting a faint glow on her face. Stacks of papers—student assignments waiting to be graded—were piled neatly beside her. Her mother’s gsses perched low on her nose as she scribbled notes in the margins of a worksheet.

  Good, Haruki thought, relief washing over her. She’s busy. Now’s my chance to slip through.

  She quickened her pace, her hand already reaching for the banister of the stairs. But just as her foot touched the first step, her mother’s voice cut through the silence.

  “Haruki?” Her tone was stern and steady, the kind of voice that brooked no argument. “Come talk with me at the dining table.”

  Haruki froze, her heart sinking. She closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady herself. “Yes, Mom,” she said, forcing her voice to sound neutral.

  She turned and walked into the dining area, her shoulders tense. Her mother didn’t look up immediately, her pen still moving across the paper. Haruki stood awkwardly by the table, her hands csped behind her back, waiting.

  Finally, her mother set down her pen and removed her gsses, setting them carefully on the table, her nametag written “Honoka Fujiyama” is still etched on her tailored suit. She looked up at Haruki, her expression unreadable. “How was school?” she asked, her voice calm but probing.

  “It was fine,” Haruki replied, her tone clipped. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, avoiding her mother’s gaze.

  There was a brief silence between the two, broken only by the occasional click-ccking of her mother’s ptop keys. The sound was sharp and deliberate, each keystroke echoing in the quiet room. Haruki stood awkwardly, her hands fidgeting behind her back, wishing she could just disappear upstairs.

  Then her mother took a quick gnce away from her ptop, her eyes narrowing as she noticed something on Haruki’s uniform and face. “What is that on your uniform and face?” she asked, her voice tinged with disapproval.

  Haruki blinked, caught off guard. She looked down at her sleeve, where streaks of red and green paint had dried into a messy sptter. Her fingers instinctively brushed her cheek, and she felt the faint crust of paint there too. “Oh,” she said, surprised. “It’s just paint…”

  Her mother sighed, setting down her pen and removing her gsses. “Have you been painting again in that club of yours?”

  “Yes, Mom,” Haruki said, her voice steady but defensive. “I’m the vice president of the club now, so I have to keep it running.”

  Her mother leaned back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest. “You know…” she began, her tone softening but still firm, “you’re in your third year now. You’re about to finish high school. You can’t keep getting lost in your head anymore. One day, you’ll need to go to university, get a job, and support yourself.”

  Haruki stayed silent, her jaw tightening. Inside, her heart was a storm of emotions. She wanted to argue, to shout that she could keep getting lost in her head, that she could make a living as an artist, that she could decide her own future. She was tired of being told what to do, tired of feeling like her dreams were nothing more than childish fantasies. But the words stuck in her throat, heavy and unspoken.

  All she could muster was another quiet, “Yes, Mom.”

  Her mother’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before she turned back to her ptop. The click-ccking of the keys resumed, filling the silence. But then her mother paused, her fingers hovering over the keyboard, and looked up again. “Have you received your Career Pn papers yet?” she asked, her tone casual but probing. “You should have gotten one by now.”

  Haruki hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, I did.” She reached into her bag and pulled out the folded sheet of paper, holding it out reluctantly.

  Her mother took it, scanning the form with a critical eye. “You should consider becoming a nurse, Haruki,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact. “The pay is good, and you said you don’t want to become a doctor. I think nursing would suit you.”

  Haruki’s stomach twisted. She clenched her hands into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. “B-but I don’t want to become a nurse either, Mom,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.

  Her mother’s eyes narrowed, and she set the paper down on the table. “Then what do you want to be?” she asked, her tone sharp.

  There was a heavy silence between them, the air thick with tension. Haruki’s heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing. She knew what she wanted to say, but the words felt like a betrayal, like they would shatter the fragile peace between them. Still, she couldn’t hold it in any longer.

  “I want to go to art school,” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. “I want to become an artist.”

  The room fell silent, the weight of her words hanging in the air. Her mother stared at her, her expression unreadable. For a moment, Haruki thought she might not have heard her. But then her mother’s lips pressed into a thin line, and her eyes hardened.

  “What?” her mother said finally, her voice low and incredulous.

  Haruki flinched but stood her ground. “I want to go to art school,” she repeated, her voice firmer this time. “I want to study art and become an artist.”

  Her mother leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed over her chest. “An artist?” she said, her tone dripping with disbelief. “Haruki, do you hear yourself? Do you have any idea how difficult it is to make a living as an artist? How unstable that kind of life is?”

  “I know it’s not easy,” Haruki said, her voice rising slightly. “But it’s what I love. It’s what I’m good at. I don’t want to spend my life doing something I hate just because it’s ‘stable.’”

  Her mother’s eyes fshed with anger, but she kept her voice calm, which somehow made it worse. “You’re being naive, Haruki. Dreams don’t pay the bills. You need to think about your future, about how you’re going to support yourself.”

  “I am thinking about my future!” Haruki shot back, her voice breaking. “I’m thinking about what makes me happy, not just what makes you happy!”

  The words hung in the air, sharp and unyielding. Haruki’s chest heaved as she stared at her mother, her eyes burning with unshed tears. Her mother’s expression softened for a moment, but then she sighed and shook her head.

  “You’ll understand one day,” she said, her voice tired. “When you’re older, you’ll see that I’m only trying to protect you.”

  Haruki didn’t respond. She couldn’t. The lump in her throat was too big, the weight of her mother’s words too heavy. She turned and walked out of the dining room, her footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. As she climbed the stairs, her vision blurred with tears, but she blinked them away, refusing to let them fall.

  When she reached her room, she closed the door behind her and leaned against it, sliding down to the floor. Her sketchbook y on her desk, its pages filled with drawings and paintings that felt like pieces of her soul. She stared at it, her heart aching.

  After a moment, she stood up and walked over to her desk, where her Career Pns paper y crumpled at the edge. She smoothed it out, her fingers trembling slightly as she picked up a pen. Her mind raced, but for the first time in a long time, it felt clear.

  She knew what she wanted. She had always known.

  With a deep breath, she wrote in neat, deliberate letters: Tokyo University Fine Arts Program.

  Her hand shook as she set the pen down, but her resolve was steady. This was her choice. Her future. And no one—not her mother, not her father, not anyone—was going to take it away from her.

  She stared at the paper for a long moment, the words staring back at her like a decration of war. It was a small act of defiance, but it felt monumental. For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt a flicker of hope.

  “I’ll show them,” she whispered to herself, her voice trembling but determined. “I’ll prove them wrong.”

  She folded the paper carefully and pced it back in her bag, ready to submit it tomorrow. As she sat down at her desk and opened her sketchbook, her heart felt lighter. The colors on the page seemed brighter, the lines sharper, as if they too were emboldened by her decision.

  For now, all she could do was keep painting, keep dreaming. But this time, it felt different. This time, it felt like the beginning of something new.