Mori began to feel a sense of irritation as time passed and his curiosity began to grow. He wasn't one to butt his head into other people's business, much less go around trying to figure out something like a name, so he merely referred to his mystery girl as "the artist". Of course he never voiced his unfounded fascination, but in his head all he could see was that girl and her paintbrush.

He couldn't help but want to know more about her, like why she cried that day, who that boy was – but most of all, he wanted to know her name.

He didn't think she would approach him, much less speak to him, yet one day (months after he began to follow her with his eyes) as he paused by that same empty classroom to watch her paint, she was waiting for him.

She stood by the door, arms crossed, expression cautious. When he stopped by the door she straightened, and that was when Mori realized that she must have been expecting him. He had the decency to feel sheepish when he realized she already knew about his interest in her.

"You're Takashi Morinozuka, aren't you?" she asked. Mori realized that this was the first time he had heard her voice; it was surprisingly soft and gentle, despite her fierce stance and the fire in her eyes. He managed to collect himself enough to nod. "You've been disrupting my painting sessions for a while now. I've tried to ignore it, but your presence is unnerving."

Mori couldn't respond. The girl sighed again and ran her hand across her face.

"Okay, listen," she said calmly, "I don't care if you want to stand there like a weirdo and watch me. Just, if you're going to do it, come inside and sit down or something. When you stand by the door like that, it creeps me out."

His lips twitched.

"I bet you're wondering how the scholarship student who lives under a rock knows your name. Well, every girl in my class knows your name. And that's all they talk about. I just wondered why the heck someone like you would be so interested in somebody like me."

Mori said nothing. The girl smiled, and Mori was surprised to feel his heart skip a beat at the gesture.

"I also know you don't talk much, which is good, because if you're going to be sitting in on my painting time, it'd be nice to avoid conversation. Well, come on in then, Morinozuka," she said as she stepped back to make room. Mori hesitated, unsure of why she was so inviting, but obeyed. He sat down at an empty desk and bit his tongue to prevent himself from asking the many questions he was itching to just blurt out.

"Today I'm painting a sunset," she announced grandly as she set up her canvas. "I usually just paint buildings, and sometimes people, but I've decided to try to paint things from memory. The other day I was out late and got to see the sun set first hand. It was amazing. Have you ever seen a sunset?" she asked kindly as she filled up her cup of water, not even glancing up at Mori.

Mori nodded, even though he knew she couldn't see him. Without looking up she walked back to her painting area and stretched, smoothing out her skirt as she stared at her white canvas with a surprising gentle tenderness on her face.

"The colors," she murmured as she pulled out a small paintbrush. "They were just begging to be painted."

And then she didn't say anything else for the next two hours. Mori watched her brush strokes, wide and small and sometimes wild. She became absorbed in her painting, losing all sense of the outside world, all of her focus honed in on her art. Sometimes she'd wipe sweat from her face, and shimmering paint colors would smear on her pale skin, and Mori would smile. She was so beautiful in the way she truly seemed to love what she was doing, and how she did it. He felt somewhat honored that she allowed him to sit in.

Once she was finished she cleaned up, as per usual, though didn't bother wiping the paint off of her face. Mori stood as well and as he walked towards the door, he noticed the corner of a canvas sticking out from behind the desk. Over time, he had noticed she always stuffed her finished paintings behind the same desk, and he felt a bit sympathetic when he saw the tipping painting. He reached out towards it to push it back when a small hand suddenly gripped his wrist, preventing him from completing his task.

He turned to look at the artist, who glared at him with a startling look of disgust in her eyes. It quickly faded, though, and she released his hand.

"Don't touch those," she murmured. She leaned forward and fixed the painting, and Mori couldn't help but breathe her in, then she leaned away and the momentary warmth she had given him was quickly replaced with cold. She walked away and, without a backward glance or even a good bye, she left the room. Mori watched her go and looked at the pile of hidden paintings, a spark of uncharacteristic curiosity hitting him. But he ignored it, and he left the classroom after he was sure she was long gone.

x

"Look at this. She's still painting Ren."

Mori skidded to a halt, although he wasn't sure how he knew the murmurs were talking about his artist. It might have been because he was passing her empty classroom when he heard the voice, or maybe the fact that they were talking about painting. Either way he stopped, his shoulder lightly hitting the doorframe as he tilted his face toward the half-open classroom. It was unlike him to eavesdrop, but the artist of his seemed to be changing a lot of things about Mori.

"Poor girl," another voice said. Mori recognized the female holding up a canvas of the same boy from all that time ago (the boy that the artist was looking at as she cried silently) as his homeroom teacher. The other voice was vice principal Zennosuke. He looked at the painting with a strangely pitying look in his eyes. "That boy died years ago, we've given her a room for her to paint so she can get her scholarship to that art school in France, and yet she's still hung up on this."

"You can't blame her. They were close. And his death was so sudden," his homeroom teacher said with a sad sigh. "I do hope she heals soon."

Zennosuke put the painting back and Mori walked forward, as if he had never stopped in the first place. He felt guilty for listening in on the conversation. But despite his guilt, he felt closer to her, even if only a little. He knew that he wanted to help heal her, if he could.

But he didn't know how…or if she even wanted help at all.