Chapter Text
The scent of turpentine and acrylic fumes fill the room, giving off a chemical tang that she could almost taste on her tongue. A lingering burn at the back of her throat. The ventilation whirs and drones overhead, doing its best to clean the airflow. The fluorescent lights shine so bright—bouncing off the white walls and straight to assaulting her tired eyes.
Her head is pounding.
"You’ll be given a week to work on this. Best start conceptualizing your pieces now," Yukihira-sensei writes on the board, in broad and sure strokes, the details of the assignment. "If you’re having trouble, feel free to come to me for advice. That is all. You may begin."
"Adoration…?" Her voice is weak as she stares at the word. "Adoration," she repeats. Wait, hold on. How is she supposed to paint that?
Her mind runs through her lexicon. That specific character—that word, shitau, means… adore, right? Admire? She’s seen and heard this word used in historical narratives, formal texts, and poetry to show deep emotional bonds... Something along those lines, perhaps? She doesn’t know anymore.
Her eyes glance around the rest of the class, trying to find kindred spirits. But all she can see are better artists already sketching something, or in the process of starting a sketch. While she’s here looking bug-eyed at a blank canvas.
She steals a glimpse at Futaba, who’s deep in thought, boring a hole through her own canvas. Pencil poised, and at the ready.
How can the others come up with a concept so quickly?
…She’s admired her dad back then, when she was younger. But that feels too much like a cop out. And a recycled idea from her previous work.
Adoration…
Adoration?
Nothing. Nothing is coming up.
She hasn’t even started, yet she’s already face to face with a massive hurdle. A roadblock.
What even is adoration?
She pulls out her phone, fingers gliding over the characters on the keyboard. Adoration; noun, definition. To yearn for, to long for, to pine for, to miss, to idolize—
Her eyes skim and skip across the screen. Words flying by as her thumb scrolls as fast as lightning. Admiration. Affection.
Her thumb freezes. Halts.
Love.
To love dearly.
Love?
Her brain searches for something, anything. Familial? Platonic? Self-love? What the hell is she supposed to do with this? Her mind draws a blank. The character seeming foreign in her eyes. The theme is vague and broad enough for it to be anything. And yet, she stares at it, trying and failing to discern what it means to her.
"Ena-chan?" A meek voice calls out to her, reeling her back in.
Ena blinks. "Futaba?"
Her friend looks at her with evident concern. "Are you okay? You’re sweating a lot."
"Huh?" She lifts a shaky hand to her forehead. It comes back slick. "N-no, I—"
"Shinonome-san." Another voice bellows above her, calm yet gruff.
She straightens up. "Yukihira-sensei…"
"Are you feeling under the weather?" Her teacher asks, pushing his glasses up as he inspects her obviously blank canvas. "Hm, I think it’s best if you take today off, if that is the case."
"But—"
"You cannot improve," he frowns as he scolds her, "if you, yourself, aren’t in a proper state to do so. You look pale." And with a firm hand to her shoulder, he says, "Go home."
"I'm—" Her stomach churns and lurches. Nerves welling up inside her. How can such a simple word give her so much trouble? So much anxiety? "…Yes. Understood." Defeated, she slumps forward, gathering her tools strewn on the ground. She curses at herself, mentally berating her inability to grasp at the theme.
Another failure. Another setback.
What else is new?
The train ride home was uneventful. Much to her dismay. No matter how hard she wracks her brain for an idea, she’s left with nothing but static. Of course, the word itself is easy to describe. To define. But to fully capture her audience, to connect with them through her art. She has to make it speak.
And how can she do that if her head is nothing but a humming void? Her brain’s probably rattling in there, bouncing, echoing within the walls of her skull.
The Sekai has more things in it than that of her mind, if she’s being completely honest.
"I’m home." Ena announces weakly under her breath as soon as she enters through the doors. Shoes kicked off at the entryway.
"Oh, Ena, welcome back," her mother greets her as she walks into the kitchen, trudging towards the refrigerator to quench her thirst. "You’re home early."
"Mm." She grunts, pulling a clean glass off the rack and pouring herself a full cup of cold barley tea. Specks of roasted grain float and sink in the dark colored liquid. "Yukihira-sensei told me to take a break if I’m not feeling well."
Warm feather-light touches caress her forehead, her mother placing the back of her hand against her skin. "Hmm. You don’t seem to have a fever." She takes a step back, taking Ena’s head by the chin and tilts it from side to side; her eyes laced with worry. "But your skin is looking a bit pallid… let me guess, not getting enough sleep, have you?"
Her mother pinches her cheek as a little reprimand. "Ugh."
"Just like your father."
Her groans intensify. "I’m going to my room!"
Her mother's laughter booms behind her as she hurries up the stairs, eager to retreat. Her drink in hand sloshes with every heavy stomp on the wooden floorboards.
Why does she have to compare her to him like that?
"I'm not at all like that guy…" She mutters unconvincingly as her other hand twists the doorknob, nudging the door open with her foot. "Really, if anything, I'm like, the complete opposite!" She shrugs her tote bag off, tossing it unceremoniously onto her bed. The Scottish Fold cat charm that hung on it, swings to look up at her. "Right?"
The cat says nothing in return.
"And I'm nothing like a Scottish Fold either." Ena grumbles, remembering Mizuki's words when she gave the souvenir. "What am I even saying?" She lifts the glass to her lips, sipping the dark tea and letting it coat her throat. "Stupid."
Frustration bubbles over. Her tiny sips turn into massive gulps as she chugs it down. The cool liquid hurts her chest. But still, she powers through, swallowing the dredges of roasted barley until nothing is left in the glass.
Glancing off to her bedside table, her digital clock reads 15:26. A couple of hours before her night classes start. "Hm." She places the empty glass down on the small table where her mess usually sits. "Guess I could head to school early." Got nothing to do otherwise. Staring at the same four walls of her room won't strike inspiration.
Maybe some time in the library could help.
She heads inside her closet, tugging her uniform off the hanger. Her movements are almost robotic. Sliding her arms through the sleeves, straightening her collar, clipping the ribbon into place. Her usual routine done in mere minutes. She prepares all the necessary books and worksheets she needs for tonight's batch of classes, and stuffs them inside her school bag.
Then, she drags her feet out her door, thumping down the stairs, sluggish in every way.
As she drops her loafers onto the floor with a loud thud, her mother pops her head out of the living room and calls out, "Leaving already?"
"Yeah. Might as well."
"Well," her mother leans against the wall, arms crossed, concerned yet teasing expression etched in her face, "don't work yourself to the bone, alright?"
Ena knows where this is going. So she shoots her mother an exasperated wince. "I won't."
"Good."
"Then, I'm off."
"Take care." Her mother waves goodbye, then slinks back into the living room where she can faintly hear the television blaring some kind of drama.
Ena thinks, as she closes the door behind her and pushes past the gate, that maybe she could buy a snack for herself, and her mother, to share later. She recalls the fruit jelly. Perhaps, a thing or two. Maybe three, for her brother.
…She decides she'll (begrudgingly) buy four. One for each of them.