Chapter Text
Shuhua’s studio at the moment is a graveyard of discarded sparks. Crumpled sketches lying on the floor like fallen leaves. The air reeks of turpentine oil, stale coffee, and the suffocating scent of failure. However, a subtle constrast lingered: a slightly earthy scent of sunflower pot Miyeon had bought for Shuhua a week ago.
Shuhua sat hunched over her stool, her back aching, her hair tied in a messy, aggressive bun, and her fingers stained a permanent, ghostly shade of graphite. Staring at the white void of the easel, for Yeh Shuhua, a blank canvas isn’t a “fresh start”, it was a taunt.
It had been two weeks. Two weeks of sketching lines only to erase them until the paper tore. Two weeks of looking at the world and seeing nothing but flat, uninspired shapes. The silence of the room is heavy, pressing against her ears until it thrummed. When she looked at her own hands, they felt like stones.
Then, the door creaked.
“Shu~hua~!”
Miyeon didn’t just walk into the room, she drifted into it, a breeze of silk and soft laughter. She was wearing a cream-colored dress that looked too soft for this world, her hair cascading over her shoulders in waves that caught the dim light.
“I told you not to come today”, Shuhua snapped, though her voice lacked its usual bite. She didn’t look up from the canvas that had mocked her for days. “I’m in a bad mood, go bother Minnie unnie.”
“Minnie is busy. And besides,” Miyeon’s voice dropped into that sweet, melodic tone that usually preceded a hug Shuhua would inevitably reject, “I miss my favorite grump. Look, I brought chocolate. They’re sweet, just like-“
“If you say just like me, I’m throwing those out the window.” Shuhua interrupted, finally turning her head. Her eyes were dark with exhaustion, her pale skin looking almost translucent under the flickering fluorescent light.
Miyeon didn’t flinch. Instead, she stepped closer, her soft perfume invading Shuhua’s personal space. The distance between them shrinking until Shuhua could feel the warmth radiating from her. Miyeon reached out, her fingers hovering near Shuhua’s temple to tuck back a stray lock of hair.
“You’re working too hard for someone who says she has nothing to paint.” Miyeon murmured, her expression shifting from playful to something achingly tender. “Let me stay. I’ll be quiet. I’ll just be a ghost in the corner.”
You’re too loud to be a ghost,” Shuhua grumbled, shoving Miyeon’s hand away. “Your very existence is a noise complaint. Just… back off, unnie. You’re suffocating me.”
She has feelings for Miyeon for a long time, longer than she cared to admit. It started as a slow burn, a quiet realization during late-night studies and shared meals. But Shuhua was terrified of that love. Miyeon was loud, bright, and wore her heart on her sleeve like a badge of honor. To Shuhua, that kind of vulnerability was dangerous. So, she developed defense mechanism. She became the “mean” one. She pushed Miyeon away, snapped at her clinginess, and used sarcasm as armor to keep the older girl at arm’s length. If she didn’t let Miyeon close, she couldn’t see how much Shuhua’s hands shook when they touched.
The silence that followed was heavy. Shuhua expected a pout or a playful retort, but when she finally glanced up, Miyeon just standing there, silhouetted against the glass, looking out at the drab, colorless world Shuhua had grown to hate.
Then, the world shifted.
A gap opened in the heavy afternoon clouds, and a singular, piercing beam of sunlight sliced through the studio window. It didn’t just illuminate the room, it redefined it. In an instant, the sensory overload of Shuhua’s repressed feelings finally broke something inside her. Her vision flickered. The world drained into a thousand shades of ash and slate, a silent, monochrome film.
Except for Miyeon.
The sunlight caught Miyeon in a halo of divine, impossible light. She was the only thing left in technicolor. Her skin was a radiant, living peach. Her eyes were deep, swirling pools of honey and amber.
Shuhua’s breath hitched, caught in a throat that had suddenly gone dry. The denial she had lived in for years disintegrated. She realized then that the reason she couldn’t paint anything else was because she had been trying to ignore the only thing worth paiting. Her “block” wasn’t a lack of inspiration, it was a refusal to acknowledge her source.
“Shuhua? Why are you looking at me like that?” Miyeon asked, her voice trembling slightly.
Shuhua didn’t answer with words. She couldn’t. She stood up, her legs feeling like lead, and walked across the grey floor until she was standing directly in the light with Miyeon. The warmth of the sun, and the warmth of Miyeon washed over her.
She reached out, her fingers trembling as she finally, finally, touched Miyeon’s cheeks. For once, she didn’t pull away. She didn’t make a joke. She let her thumb trace the line of Miyeon’s jaw, her eyes fixed on the only color in her universe.
“I’ve been so, so stupid” Shuhua whispered, her voice breaking.
Miyeon froze, “What?”
“I kept trying to find something beautiful to capture” Shuhua said, her gaze intense, ‘while I was busy pushing the most beautiful thing away.”
The “mean” mask didn’t just slip, it shattered. Shuhua leaned forward, resting her forehead against Miyeon’s, closing her eyes.
“Fate is a cruel artist, Miyeon” Shuhua murmured, a small, genuine smile finally touching her lips. “It made the whole world turn grey just so I’d have to look at you. You’re my muse. You’re always been my muse.”
Miyeon didn’t waste a second. She wrapped her arms around Shuhua’s waist, pulling her close with the clinginess Shuhua used to pretend to hate, “Does this mean I’m allowed to stay and annoy you again?”
Shuhua let out a laugh, burying her face in Miyeon’s neck, breathing in the jasmine and the warmth. “Only if you stay exactly where the light hits you.”
In the silent, grey studio, Shuhua finally picked up her brush. But this time, she wasn’t paiting a picture. She was painting a confession.