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The city is already dark by the time Ena stares out the windows of her empty room. She doesn’t remember when the others left the call—maybe an hour ago, maybe two. The silence settles around her like smoke, thick and unmoving, broken only by the faint hum of her computer and the muted rush of traffic below.
Her sketchbook is heavier than it should be. It presses against her spine through the canvas of her bag, almost pulsing with weight. She hadn’t meant to bring it today. She hadn’t meant to draw. And yet—
She walks. The route home is slow and meandering, taking her past closed food stalls and flickering street lamps, until she reaches the path by the river. The breeze smells like metal and mold. It reminds her of the time Mizuki bought her that awful jelly drink from the convenience store and said, “It’s like drinking your aesthetic, Ena-chan!”
She’d rolled her eyes and taken the photo anyway.
Now she doesn’t take photos. She only draws. She thinks Airi noticed, but she couldn't be sure.
Her fingers ache to move before she even unlocks the door. Inside, the house is quiet—her mother asleep on the couch, her father nowhere to be seen. She moves silently through the dark, bypassing the kitchen and climbing the stairs two at a time.
When her bedroom door clicks shut behind her, the quiet shifts. The air is thicker in here. She turns on her desk lamp. The yellow light spills across her desk in a weak halo, revealing scattered pencils, ink-stained tissues, and that sketchbook. The one she hadn’t brought—but is here anyway.
She stares at it.
It stares back.
Her hand reaches out on its own. Fingers brush over the frayed corners, the slightly warped cover. It’s warm. Her stomach turns. She opens it.
The page is already there. The one she tried not to finish. The one she swore she wouldn’t touch again.
Her dear Mizuki.
Drawn in charcoal, with streaks of blue pastel that make their hair shimmer like electricity, the portrait captures them in a pose that never existed—eyes wide, lips parted like they’ve been caught mid-laugh or mid-scream. The background is pure black. It swallows the room behind them. Swallows her.
Her throat tightens. Her fingers twitch. It's just art, she reminds herself. Just harmless art.
She adds another line before she realizes she’s moved.
A message flashes in her mind. Not from today. Not even recent. Two days ago, maybe? From Mizuki.
> “Ena-chan. Hey, uh… weird question. Did you… draw something of me recently?”
>
> “I had a really strange dream. I think I saw it in the background?? There was a version of me in it and—”
>
> “Actually, never mind. I’m probably just tired. Haha. Sleep is for the weak, right~?”
She never replied.
And since then—nothing. Mizuki hasn’t posted. No messages. No replies. Just absence. Like someone stepped out of the world and forgot to close the door behind them. Heck, she hasn't even joined their calls!
She looks down at the page again.
Mizuki’s smile has changed.
It wasn’t like that earlier. Was it? No—no, she drew it neutral. No teeth. But now there’s a curl to the lips. Sharp. Like it knows something she doesn’t.
She slams the book shut. The sound echoes too loud in the room.
The mirror above her dresser fogs slightly.
Her desk. Her chair. Her bag.
And the sketchbook— still open in the reflection.
She turns slowly, heart pounding in her chest, cold and sharp like a needle being dragged between ribs.
The sketchbook is shut. But in the mirror, it isn’t. Mizuki’s face grins up at her from the page.
Ena screams and throws the book into her closet. It hits the back wall with a heavy thud, papers fluttering like wings.
Her fingers are shaking. Her breath comes in short, shallow gasps. But she doesn’t open the closet again. Not tonight.
She sleeps with the lamp on. And still, she dreams of eyes wandering all around her.
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Ena stands before the closet the next night, fingers trembling around a lighter. The sketchbook is inside. She hasn't touched it since the scream—but its presence looms through the wood, humming like a television left on in another room. She keeps hearing the static even when she’s at school. Even when she’s out with Airi. Even when Akito tries to pick another fight just to get her to react. She can’t hear him. Only the sketchbook.
She’s exhausted. From the dreams. From the silence. From the feeling that something is crawling up her spine every time she tries to forget the way Mizuki’s smile sharpened.
She kneels, pulls open the closet door.
The sketchbook is exactly where she left it.
She opens it. The page is the same. Mizuki, with eyes too bright and a smile that splits just a fraction too wide. The background looks deeper than it should—like she could fall into it. Like she already has.
She flicks the lighter. A weak flame dances. The warmth is real. So is the burn. She’s ready.
But the moment the heat kisses the corner of the page, her phone vibrates violently on the desk.
The screen lights up with a video call. From Mizuki.
Her hands freeze.
The call connects before she can press decline.
The screen goes black.
And then a scream rips through the speakers.
Not hers.
Mizuki’s.
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They wake in darkness, chest heaving.
The scream is still echoing in their ears, but their mouth is shut, their hands clamped over their face. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong.
They know it before they look in the mirror.
When they do, the breath leaves them.
It’s their face.
But it’s not. Their skin is too smooth, plastic-like. Stretched taut, with a smooth porcelain finish. Their eyes are wide, lifeless, like they’ve been painted on. And their smile—oh god, their smile—is wrong.
It wasn’t just a normal smile, instead it was the smile of someone desperately trying to imitate a smiling face full of warmth on an alien face, one that doesn’t know of those feelings. A soul screaming silently behind a meticulously crafted, yet utterly wrong exterior.
They back away, gasping, heart pounding as dysphoria crashes into them like a tidal wave. It feels like drowning in their own body. Like someone else is wearing their skin and pretending to be them. It’s the same body—but it's all wrong .
This isn’t them. This isn’t their face. This isn’t their body. This isn't them.
Their reflection tilts its head and whispers something they can’t hear. Its mouth moves, silent, rhythmic, as if mimicking speech—but the voice that echoes in their mind is Ena’s.
They want to scream but their throat won’t open.
They stumble back onto the bed, fingers curling in the sheets, whispering Ena’s name, Kanade’s name, anyone . But their voices won't reach. The room is dark. The world is quiet. It’s like someone unplugged the sky.
They remember the dream. The painting. The black background. The way their own eyes looked back at them, mocking.
They curl in on themselves, nails digging into their arms. Pain is the only thing that reminds them they’re still in this body.
“It’s just a drawing,” they whisper. “It’s just a drawing. Ena didn’t mean to. Ena didn’t—”
But their reflection starts to smile. And the smile doesn’t stop, only expanding until they shut their eyes in fear.
They find peace in hiding from the mirror. Hiding from the mirror in a place with no purple and vibrant eyes directed at them. There isn't anything to fear, since there's nothing there!
Yes... They don't have to be afraid.
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Ena doesn’t sleep that night.
She tries. She lies in bed with the covers pulled over her head, heart hammering every time the closet creaks. The shadows on her ceiling crawl when she blinks too long, and even with her sketchbook hidden, she can still feel its presence—like something waiting just beyond her line of sight.
The air in her room feels thicker. Heavier.
She doesn’t know what time it is when she finally stands up, but the sky outside her window has turned a pale, early gray. Her breath fogs up the glass as she leans forward, pressing her forehead against the cold.
She’s tired. Not just physically, but also the part of her that used to feel sharp, sarcastic, grounded. It’s been chipped away by the last few days—by the fear, the dreams, the silence.
And worst of all, by the thought of Mizuki.
Their face flashes in her mind. Not the version in her sketchbook—the real Mizuki. Vibrant. A little mysterious. Always toeing the line between playful and sincere. Someone who held themselves like they were constantly performing, yet somehow always more honest than anyone else.
They were the first person in Nightcord who made her truly feel seen.
And now…
“I drew them into something they’re not,” Ena says aloud. Her voice sounds cracked. Distant.
She walks over to her desk, pulling the sketchbook from the closet with shaking hands. It feels heavier than ever—more like stone than paper. She opens it slowly.
There Mizuki is.
Still.
Their face hasn’t changed, not exactly. But there’s something in the expression now that unnerves her more than anything else.
The drawing doesn’t look evil.
It looks like it’s suffering.
She brushes her fingers across the page and whispers, “I’m sorry.”
The words break something in her chest. Tears she’s been holding back finally fall, hot and sharp down her face. She slams the book shut, holds it to her chest, and crumples to the floor.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she whispers, again and again. “I didn’t know it would… I didn’t know it could do this. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…”
Her apology echoes into the silence. And though she knows it won’t fix anything, it feels like the only thing she has left to give.
She wants to fix this. She needs to. But she doesn't know how.
And she’s scared she’s already too late.
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Mizuki wakes up curled on the floor of their bedroom, fingers tangled in a discarded hoodie, chest tight with breath that won’t quite settle.
Their phone lies silent beside them.
Still no messages from Ena.
But last night’s dream had been different. Softer, in a way that made it hurt more. Ena had been crying in it—real, heavy sobs—and her voice had cracked with the weight of something Mizuki couldn’t name. And the drawing…
The drawing had been burning.
The flames hadn’t felt violent. They’d felt like grief. Like a funeral.
Mizuki sits up slowly. Their reflection is still covered by a towel. The lights are still off. But the weight pressing on their shoulders has changed. It’s no longer just fear.
It’s urgency.
Because now they know: Ena’s suffering too.
Whatever is happening, it’s not just happening to Mizuki. This whole time, they’d been drowning in their own dread—at the disconnection from their body, the reflection that betrayed them, the dreams that twisted them into something grotesque—but they hadn’t stopped to think…
Ena didn’t want this either.
Ena had always been intense. Distant sometimes, prickly always. But underneath, there was honesty. Passion. A desire to be understood, even if she didn’t know how to show it.
Mizuki had recognized that kind of hurt. It was the same ache they felt, trapped between who the world expected them to be and who they were.
That’s why they joined Nightcord. Why they stayed.
They take a deep breath. Their hands are still shaking, but they reach for a notepad anyway.
They don’t try to draw—not yet.
Instead, they begin to write.
> “Enanan. I don’t know what’s happening to us. But I know you didn’t mean to do this. I know you didn’t want to hurt me.
>
> “I saw the pain in your dream. I saw how afraid you were.
>
> “But I also saw the fire. I think it means something’s still left. Something human. Something real.
>
> “Please don’t let the art be the only thing that speaks.
>
> “I’m still here.
>
> “And I want to help you come back.”
They stare at the words. They’re messy. A little overdramatic. But they feel right.
They grab their phone and say it out loud properly, recording it. Hesitate a second. Then hit send.
The voice message shows as delivered.
They don’t know if Ena will see it. But for the first time in days, they feel a flicker of control.
A way forward.
A way out.
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Ena’s phone buzzes against her bedsheet.
She doesn’t react at first. Her eyes are swollen. Her sketchbook lies in front of her, a candle burning beside it on the floor. She’s been staring at it for nearly an hour, trying to gather the courage to strike a match.
Then she sees the screen light up.
**Mizuki Akiyama: 1 new message**
Her breath catches.
She opens it slowly, afraid to hope—but as she listens to the words, her heart breaks all over again.
Mizuki’s voice comes through so clearly. Not twisted. Not haunted.
Just… Mizuki.
Ena wipes her face.
She sets the sketchbook aside—not into the fire. Not yet.
She picks up her phone and types something for the first time in days.
> “I’m sorry. I want to fix it too.”
She doesn’t send it yet. Not until she knows how.
But for the first time, her hands don’t shake when she holds the pencil.
She flips open to a blank page.
Not to draw Mizuki.
To draw something else. Mizuki wasn't the only interesting thing in the world after all.
(She knows Mizuki was her favourite muse. She doesn't think about the Mizuki in her sketchbook, because she can never eclipse the joy Mizuki provides with a terror of her own making.)
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The station is quieter than usual. A thin morning fog curls around the lampposts, and the vending machines hum with soft electricity. Ena waits with her hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets, shoulders tight, sketchbook left purposefully at home. She told herself she wouldn't bring it. Wouldn’t tempt it. Not today.
Today is about something else.
Her phone buzzes.
>Mizuki: I see you. :)
Ena looks up and there they are. Not in a dream, not behind a screen or inside a page. Mizuki Akiyama, real and breathing, walking toward her in an oversized sweater and striped tights that don’t match but somehow still work. Their hair is messier than usual, and there’s a band-aid across one finger.
They smile, but it’s not their usual stage-performer grin. It’s small. Honest.
"You waited."
Ena nods. "You came."
They don’t say anything else for a moment. Just stand in the fog and let the quiet hang between them like a thread that hasn’t broken, even if it frayed.
Finally, Mizuki jerks their head toward the street. "There’s a park nearby. It’s dumb and old and the vending machines are always out of melon soda. Wanna go?"
Ena shrugs, already walking. "Fine. If it sucks, I’ll blame you."
"As usual," Mizuki laughs softly, and they fall into step beside her.
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The park is mostly empty. Just an old man feeding birds and a couple of kids with a crumpled kite. Ena watches the kite spiral and crash, then watches the kids cheer anyway. She sits on a bench near the edge of the path, knees drawn up, hands folded over them.
Mizuki takes the seat beside her.
For a while, neither speaks.
Ena breaks the silence first. "I wanted to burn it."
Mizuki looks at her. "I know."
"I couldn’t. I thought it’d end everything, but it felt like it would just make it worse. Like it wasn’t just paper anymore, it really did feel like you."
Mizuki picks at the edge of their sleeve. "It wasn’t just paper, yeah."
Their voice is soft, nearly a whisper. "I saw it. Not just the drawing. I saw myself—wrong. Frozen. Stuck in something I didn’t choose. It felt like being trapped in my own skin."
Ena stares at the ground. "I didn’t mean to draw you that way. I don’t even remember doing it. My hands moved without me. The more I looked at it, the more it looked back."
Mizuki is quiet.
Then: "That’s how dysphoria feels sometimes. Like someone else drew you first, and you don’t get to fix it."
Ena blinks.
"You remember that sketch you showed me, months ago? The one of the sidewalk at night? You said you didn’t like it, but I loved it. Because it looked like the space between versions of me."
Ena nods, barely.
"This thing—whatever it is—it tried to take that space. Turn it into something final. But it didn’t finish. You stopped it."
Ena shakes her head. "I don’t know if I stopped anything."
"You didn’t finish the drawing. That’s enough."
They sit again in silence. A breeze drifts past, stirring the leaves. Ena shivers. Mizuki scoots closer—not out of flirtation, but instinct. To be near someone real.
"I was scared of you," Mizuki admits. "After the dreams started. After the mirror. I thought maybe you’d turned me into something… else."
Ena swallows. "I was scared of me ."
Mizuki grimaces at her. "We’re not monsters. We’re just haunted."
Ena snorts, weakly. "That’s so dramatic."
"I’m literally in Nightcord. I get a free pass."
They both laugh—a soft, relieved kind of laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because it feels safe to.
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Later, Mizuki pulls out their phone. "Wanna go somewhere weird?"
"Define weird."
"An abandoned gallery. Near the underpass. They closed it down years ago, but the front lights still flicker sometimes. People leave things there. Like it’s a graveyard for forgotten art."
Ena raises an eyebrow. "You want to go into a haunted gallery? After everything ?"
Mizuki shrugs. "We got to get rid of this stuff, right?"
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The gallery is half-gone. Cracked windows. Rusted signage. Inside, it smells like dust and rain-soaked wood. Ena steps in first, Mizuki close behind.
The silence here feels different. Still, but not empty. It listens.
On the far wall, other things hang—postcards, charcoal scribbles, torn photographs, pinned with clothespins or taped like offerings. Ena and Mizuki move carefully, reverently, like they’re in a church.
Mizuki pulls something from their bag: a faded Polaroid. Blurry light through trees. Taken before everything. Before the drawing. Before the mirror.
They pin it up.
Ena hesitates. Then pulls out a folded page from her pocket. It’s part of the sketch—Mizuki’s eyes, sharp and wide, ringed in ink like smoke. She meant to destroy it.
Instead, she tears the page in half.
One half she pins beside Mizuki’s photo.
The other, she folds again, slips into her coat, and says nothing.
Mizuki watches her but doesn’t question it.
"It doesn’t feel like it’s gone," Ena says. "But it feels… lighter."
Mizuki nods. "Sometimes closure isn’t erasing something. It’s just letting it stay where it can’t hurt you anymore."
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Outside, the sky is clearing.
They find a bench beside a vending machine. No melon soda, of course, but strawberry works.
They sit, cans in hand, watching the sky shift from grey to pale blue.
Ena glances at Mizuki. "This kinda counts as a date, right?"
Mizuki smirks. "A trauma-processing, haunted-gallery, lukewarm-vending-machine kind of date? Sure."
They clink cans.
And for the first time in weeks, when Ena laughs, it’s real.
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They don’t know how long they’ve been sitting there, on that curb outside the vending machine, sharing warmth and cheap soda. Mizuki’s head is still on Ena’s shoulder. Ena’s hand is still in Mizuki’s. For the first time in weeks, maybe longer, there’s no static pressing behind Ena’s eyes. No twitch in her hand, no voice whispering in the graphite.
But peace is never perfect.
Ena feels it before she sees it. A weight behind her ribcage. A pressure, like something inside her sketchbook wants to be known. She didn’t bring it. She’s sure. And yet, there it is—that familiar ache in her fingertips, like they want to move on their own.
She tenses. Mizuki lifts their head.
“It’s not over, is it?” they ask quietly.
Ena swallows. “No.”
Mizuki nods, as if they expected this. “Then let’s finish it. Together.”
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Back at Ena’s apartment, the lights are dim. Her mother isn’t home. The hallway is silent. It’s as if the world is waiting for something to happen.
They enter her room. Ena flips on the desk lamp. The yellow glow spills across scattered pencils, eraser dust, paper. Her closet door is shut. She hasn’t opened it since.
Mizuki moves first. They kneel and gently pull the door open.
The sketchbook is inside.
Ena picks it up. It’s heavier than before. She places it on her desk and opens it.
She tries to move her hands away from the sketchbook, but turns it to the last page, regardless of her personal wishes.
The drawing is unfinished.
It isn’t just Mizuki now. It’s Ena, too. Their figures, mirrored. One looking forward. One looking away. Mizuki’s smile is frozen. Ena’s face is blank.
The space between them is black, charcoal smeared like a void.
Mizuki leans in, voice steady. “This is what it wanted. To finish the story. To trap us in it.”
“I didn’t draw this part,” Ena whispers.
“But you can finish it. On your terms.”
Her hand hovers over the pencil. It trembles.
Mizuki reaches out and places their hand over Ena’s.
“Draw us the way you see us. Not the way your fear does.”
So Ena draws.
Slowly. Carefully.
She softens the curve of Mizuki’s face. Adds light in the space between them. Her own eyes, she redraws—tired, but open. She shades in their hands, touching, pinkies linked.
The black fades. Line by line, it becomes sky. Not empty. Not silent. But full of space. A dawn rather than a void.
She signs the corner: E.S.
The page stays still.
Nothing crawls out. No mirror cracks. No whispers.
It’s done.
They stare at it together.
Mizuki exhales, shaky. Then smiles.
“It’s beautiful.”
Ena smiles back, tired but genuine. “It’s real.”
A silence falls over them—but it’s no longer heavy. It’s the kind of silence that holds something gentle inside it.
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Later, on the balcony, they watch the sky turn navy.
Mizuki leans against the railing. “Do you think it’s really over?”
Ena shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe it never will be. But we’re not alone. That matters.”
Mizuki nods. “Then let’s keep drawing, designing, maybe even. Let’s keep choosing who we are.”
Ena takes their hand again.
And this time, she doesn’t let go.
They sit together as the lights of the city blink on, one window at a time. Mizuki’s head drifts to Ena’s shoulder again, and Ena lets her cheek rest on top of their shoulder. The breeze brushes past them like a sigh.
“Do you ever wonder what would’ve happened if you hadn’t shown me that first sketch?” Mizuki murmurs.
Ena chuckles under her breath. “You mean the one I was going to tear out?”
“I liked it. Even though you didn’t.”
“You always see things I don’t,” Ena says.
Mizuki lifts their head a little. “That’s kind of the point, isn’t it? You draw what others don’t say. I see what others don’t show. Together, we made something dangerous. But maybe we can make something good, too.”
Ena looks at her hands. “I don’t want to stop drawing. I just want it to be mine again.”
“It already is,” Mizuki says, and gently taps the sketchbook beside them. “You proved it.”
They look out over the skyline. Ena realizes how close they’ve leaned in again. Her fingers tangle with Mizuki’s and stay there.
“Thank you,” Ena says. “For coming back. For trusting me.”
“I was scared,” Mizuki admits. “Still am. But I trust you more than I fear whatever this thing was.”
Ena leans in. They’re only inches apart.
And then the kiss happens. It’s not planned. It’s not perfect.
But it’s soft and clumsy and entirely theirs. Mizuki tastes like strawberry soda and the kind of adrenaline that lingers after fear has been faced, however that tastes like. Ena’s hands shake a little, but Mizuki cups her cheek and steadies her.
When they pull apart, neither speaks. They don’t have to.
The silence says it all.
They sit like that for a while—holding hands, shoulders touching, breath slow.
Later, Ena sketches a new page. It’s rough. It’s honest. It’s them.
And this time, there’s no darkness behind them. Only morning light.
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The gallery is small and tucked away in the kind of side street most people walk past without looking. It's not much—just a rented room above a flower shop, with a narrow staircase and scuffed wood floors—but it's Ena’s. It smells like paint, paper, and sunlight through dust.
There are seven pieces on the walls, each lit by an old lamp Mizuki helped her install. They’re the kind of drawings Ena used to keep hidden: quiet, personal, raw. Not perfect. Some of them are even unfinished, edges soft and sketchy like they're still figuring out what they want to be. Ena left them that way on purpose.
And people are coming.
Not in droves. Not for fanfare. But slowly—classmates, neighbors, strangers who happened upon the flyer Mizuki posted at a local café. Some linger. Some leave quickly. One girl cries and thanks Ena without explaining why. Ena just nods and offers her a small, folded zine from the table.
It's not loud. It's not dazzling.
But it’s real.
Mizuki arrives just before sunset, wearing a layered skirt with uneven hems, patterned tights, and a jacket painted with graffiti roses. They turn in a slow circle when they enter the gallery.
“Okay, I know I helped set up the lighting, but this is making me feel like I’ve walked into an actual soulless land,” they say.
Ena, perched on the edge of the supply table with a drawing tablet in her lap, laughs. “You’re dramatic.”
“Yeah,” Mizuki grins. “But I’m not wrong.”
They pause in front of one piece—a wide graphite rendering of a mirror, cracked in two, but instead of reflection, it shows a garden through the split.
Mizuki runs a finger just beside the frame. “You didn’t destroy it. You transformed it.”
“It deserved to end differently,” Ena says. “We both did.”
Mizuki turns back, expression softer. “People are noticing. You know that, right?”
Ena shrugs, but she’s smiling. “I think I’m okay with being seen.”
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They walk home slowly, shoes scuffing through the last of spring’s cherry blossoms.
“I saw you posted another outfit design last night,” Ena says, bumping Mizuki’s shoulder.
“Oh! You noticed?” Mizuki’s eyes light up. “Yeah, I’m working on a series based on seasons but with the vibe of old fairy tales. Like, messy and kind of haunted but still pretty.”
“You mean like the kind of stuff you wear every day?”
Mizuki laughs. “Exactly! It’s like… reclaiming softness. Taking the creepy and turning it into something expressive instead of something that controls you.”
“I get that,” Ena says, ignoring the 'of course you do!' thrown at her. “You should show your designs somewhere. Maybe even in a space like today’s.”
Mizuki twirls a little, skirt fluttering. “You mean a dual show? Ena Shinonome and Mizuki Akiyama’s joint trauma exhibit?”
Ena snorts. “I’d make the title more poetic. But maybe.”
They stop at a bench near the river. The sky is bleeding gold into violet, and the water reflects it like melted glass.
For a long while, neither speaks. They just sit, legs swinging, watching the sky.
Then Mizuki turns toward her.
“Do you ever still hear it?” they ask.
Ena knows what they mean.
“Sometimes. When I’m tired. Or when I’m doubting myself.” She turns the page in her sketchbook, revealing a half-finished drawing of a hand reaching upward through black ink. “But it doesn’t tell me what to draw anymore.”
Mizuki nods. “It’s quieter for me, too. My dreams are still weird. But not in a scary way. Just... vivid.”
They lean against each other, shoulders brushing.
“I think it left something behind in us,” Mizuki says. “Not like a curse. More like… a mark. But we filled it.”
Ena closes her sketchbook and rests it in her lap. “With each other's help.”
Mizuki’s hand slips into hers, lacing their fingers together.
“You’re the first person who ever really saw me,” Mizuki says. “Not just the version I wanted people to see. The real me. Even when it snuck up on you.”
Ena squeezes their hand. “And you’re the first person I wanted to keep seeing me. Even when it scared me.”
They laugh softly together.
The breeze rustles Mizuki’s skirt. Ena reaches out and gently tucks a strand of hair behind Mizuki’s ear.
“I’m thinking of drawing you again,” she says.
Mizuki’s grin widens. “No haunted mirror this time?”
“No,” Ena says. “Just you. As you are.”
🙐🙑🙒🙓🙐🙑🙒🙓🙐🙑🙒🙓🙐🙑🙒🙓
Back at Ena’s apartment, Mizuki sprawls across the floor with a handful of fabric swatches and a sketchpad of their own. They’re muttering something about silks and mushroom cap silhouettes.
Ena sits at her desk, pencil moving steadily over the paper. This new piece is different. It’s Mizuki sitting on a throne made of tangled lace and ribbon, wearing a crown of pins and flowers, smiling—not with performance, but with peace.
It’s beautiful.
And for the first time, Ena doesn’t question whether she’s allowed to make it.
Mizuki hums a melody under their breath as they scribble notes beside a sleeve design. Their feet are bare, their nail polish chipped, and their expression is focused.
“I think I want to learn to sew properly,” they say. “Like, actually make the stuff I design, and nicely.”
“You’ll be good at it,” Ena replies without hesitation.
Mizuki looks up, eyes shining. “You really think so?”
“I know so.”
‘Ah, the drawing looked a bit off here, I need to fix the anatomy. Oh the eye doesn’t really look much like Mizuki, does it?’
Peering up at the fashionista, she quickly gets distracted by the sparkling smile they adorn whilst sketching out designs Ena had helped them with, around a few hours ago.
Mizuki catches her stare and slowly walks towards Ena and their phones, swiping through notifications and alerts.
“Oh, we should probably respond to Yuki and K soon..”
“They’ll understand, make sure you feel okay before jumping into our projects, alright?...” Here's hoping they don’t make fun of her for this.“..Mizu-chan.”
“...”
“...”
“... That sounds really weird coming out of your mouth—”
“I KNEW YOU WOULD SAY THAT!” Despite her mock-offense, her grin widens as Mizuki tries running away, “Oi! Come back here!”
There’s a long moment of quiet. Not because either of them ran out of things to say. Just because they don’t need to fill the space anymore.
The past still lingers in certain shadows. But the future is something they’re building—stitch by stitch, line by line.
Together.
—
Ena drew Mizuki for the first time one rainy evening, weeks before the worst of it began. They had just finished a Nightcord call where Mizuki had gone unusually quiet, their voice softer than usual, their words almost hesitant. After the call, Ena hadn’t known what to say—not in the chat, not in a voice message—but her hands moved anyway.
She didn’t mean to draw Mizuki. She’d just been sketching shapes—an old habit. But before she knew it, their eyes had appeared on the page. Not the bright, winking ones Mizuki wore in public, but tired, guarded ones. The kind that saw too much.
It was the first time Ena had really seen them. And it scared her.
She never intended for Mizuki to see the drawing. But they did—accidentally, or maybe not, one afternoon when they visited her apartment to drop off a book. It was sitting in the open sketchbook on her desk, half-buried under pencil shavings.
Mizuki froze when they saw it. Then, without a word, they picked it up and stared.
“This is how you see me?” they asked, voice so low it barely carried.
Ena panicked. “It’s not— It wasn’t meant to be—”
“No. It’s... it’s right,” Mizuki said, and sat down hard on her bed. Their fingers trembled around the edge of the paper. “That’s me.”
Something changed between them after that. Not all at once. But there was a weight lifted, even as another settled.
Because that was when the drawings started whispering.
At first, it was subtle. Ena would sketch something—Mizuki’s hands, their back turned to a window, the way their hair curled—and it would feel fine. Normal. Honest. But later, when she looked back, the lines would be different. Sharper. Crueler. The shadows heavier than she remembered.
She thought she was just tired. Stressed. So she stopped drawing Mizuki. She drew herself instead. She drew dreams she didn’t remember having. And every time, the art pushed back.
It was like something inside her pencil had started to speak in its own voice. Not words, not exactly, but impressions: dread, isolation, guilt. It made her believe the things she saw on the page. Made her believe she was hurting people just by looking at them too closely.
Mizuki felt it too—but differently.
For them, it wasn’t sketches. It was dreams. At first, they were just disorienting. They’d wake up unsure if they were still themselves. But over time, the dreams took shape. They would find themselves walking through halls filled with cracked mirrors, or wearing clothes that didn’t fit, or standing on a stage where every member of the audience wore Ena’s mauled face.
They started avoiding sleep.
It wasn’t until much later—after the confrontation, after the burning, after the quiet—that they both realized it had never been about the art or the dreams specifically. The curse hadn’t been summoned. It had formed—slowly, like rot beneath a floorboard.
It came from repression. From fear. From the loneliness of being seen too clearly and not knowing if that sight would destroy everything.
For Ena, it had been a whisper that turned into a storm: a creative impulse tainted by shame and doubt. For Mizuki, it had been a slow unmooring, a fear that being known would shatter them into pieces too strange for most to understand.
But in seeing each other—and in choosing to stay anyway—they unraveled it. Not completely. Not cleanly. But enough.
🙐🙑🙒🙓🙐🙑🙒🙓🙐🙑🙒🙓🙐🙑🙒🙓
“That's everything that happened, I- I just thought both of you deserved an explanation after all of this , K, Yuki.”
Kanade leaned forward towards her screen, her fingers still interlocked on her lap. “So… it really started with that drawing?”
Ena gave a small, reluctant nod. “I didn’t even think it was important at the time. But looking back… that was the moment everything shifted.”
Mafuyu tilted her head. “And the curse… it wasn’t something outside of you. It was something you made?” Her voice was slightly sympathetic for once, seemingly understanding of their issues.
Mizuki exhaled slowly. “It made itself. I don't really know how but, I think it was from everything we never said out loud. It gathered power just because we were afraid of being seen.”
The room fell quiet. Not heavy, not oppressive. Just thoughtful.
“Thank you for telling us,” Kanade said softly. “Both of you.”
Mizuki gave a lopsided smile. “Sometimes it still feels unreal. But it happened. And we’re still here.”
Ena glanced towards her screen and, instead of speaking, she smiled.