Chapter Text
The canvas was lightly covered with various layers of paint that gradually began to achieve the shade the artist needed. Every brushstroke, every fragment of the painting, serves a purpose in the overall composition. In this case, it was a basket full of fruit, with different colors that complemented one another or created a contrast that added depth to the work. One could say that art is like architecture: everything must be in a certain order, have a certain meaning, or else the whole thing will collapse.
Kyomoto had to learn several of these principles during her years at the academy. She was a pale girl with short, tangled hair, and a huge fringe across her forehead that separated her eyes. She wore a white smock covered in paint splatters from previous works. Her gaze was always bright yet lost, as if she were trapped, staring into her own world. She had never been good at socializing, and it’s true she didn’t talk much with her classmates; but the fact that she was now venturing out to speak even briefly with others was already a step forward, since as a child she used to suffer from severe social anxiety that kept her from leaving the house. Since she didn’t have many people to talk to, she used to lose herself in art, painting and drawing on all kinds of canvases, just like the one she was working on right now.
She had spent a couple of hours on that painting; she was almost done with it, just needing to add the finishing touches. A big smile of satisfaction spread across her face as she looked at the final result—she had certainly improved over the years.
“It turned out amazing!” one of her classmates had said as she walked past.
“I love what you did with the colors,” another had said.
Those compliments always made Kyomoto blush. But, though she would never admit it out loud, those were her favorite parts of finishing a painting. Getting attention was a feeling she didn’t experience very often, but every time she did, she felt so good about herself, as if she could do anything she wanted. She felt loved. Unfortunately, that feeling vanished completely when, after those compliments, her classmates simply walked away indifferently to hand in their own work to the teacher. Kyomoto just sighed, grabbed her canvas, and headed over to the teacher as well.
Kyomoto was one of the best in her class; her talent with backgrounds and colors was something all the students envied. But her social life wasn’t really all that great. She had never gone beyond simple conversations; sometimes they were just a quick hello, other times they were much longer, but she never really reached a deeper level of connection with anyone she knew. No one treated her badly—in fact, some treated her very well—but she always felt like she lived in a different world from theirs, and no matter how hard she tried, she simply couldn’t get on the same wavelength as them. Talking about topics she simply didn’t know anything about, or going out with their groups of friends while Kyomoto just watched from afar. It was like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit.
Kyomoto only realized she was drifting off into her thoughts again when she found herself standing in front of the teacher, who was currently grading other students’ assignments. He turned to her, and it took him just a few seconds to look her over before breaking into a big smile.
“Excellent, Kyomoto,” he said enthusiastically. “Just like always. Take a break—see you tomorrow.”
Kyomoto checked the time. It was four in the afternoon; she was done with classes for the day, so she had no choice but to head home. On her way out of the academy, Kyomoto noticed several students laughing and chatting together, paying her almost no attention as she passed by. Sometimes, she wanted to go over, try to join the conversation, or maybe just say she had plans for this afternoon and wanted them to come along. But the same fear always stopped her—the fear that they’d give her an awkward look, that they’d make up excuses not to go with her; or worse, that they’d agree, but the outing would be a disaster because she didn’t know how to socialize. Kyomoto was afraid that her worst fear would be confirmed—that she was just the “weird but nice classmate.” So she just lowered her gaze and headed for the exit.
Her trip home wasn’t much to write home about either; it was simply a matter of catching the bus, riding in silence the whole way, and arriving home. It was boring and a little lonely, but that was just how it was. Besides, she had grown accustomed to that feeling from an early age, to the point where the blank stares everyone gave her no longer hurt.
However, the best part of Kyomoto’s day is undoubtedly when she finally gets home. It was her secret, hidden space, where she could be completely herself without being judged for it. She had a shelf in the corner, filled with stacks of manga she’d obviously read more than five times. There were sketchbooks scattered all over the floor, each filled with various sketches, doodles, concept art, and more. In front, right under the window, there was a small desk with several manga volumes on top of it, and a simple red cushion to sit on.
Kyomoto used to spend the rest of the day within those four walls. He’d sketch in the notebooks that still had blank pages or read the same manga on his bookshelf, even though he practically knew the dialogue by heart. He only left his room for two things: to eat, and to watch TV in the living room. Otherwise, she stayed in that personal sanctuary, which she didn’t share with anyone. Or well, not anymore.
This had been her routine for a long time now, a routine she didn’t complain about, but which, deep down, left her a little unsatisfied. A dissatisfaction she quenched that day with a stack of volumes of her favorite manga, “Shark Kick.” Specifically, volume 12, which had just come out.
It was a complete delight to read the beginning of this new arc. She was a little skeptical about the change in tone and the new characters, but she trusted her friend, and knew she knew what she was doing—yes, friend. Because before reading each volume, Kyomoto would pause to look at the cover, and more than anything, at the author’s name. Kyo Fujino—she had kept the alias despite their separation, and Kyomoto didn’t know what to think about it.
Three years had passed since Kyomoto and Fujino had gone their separate ways. She still remembered the last conversation they had, on that dark afternoon when Kyomoto finally let go of her friend’s hand, knowing it was time to forge her own path at art school—even if that meant she wouldn’t be accompanying Fujino on her journey as a mangaka. She still remembered how Fujino had desperately tried to make her stay, shouting that Kyomoto wouldn’t survive without her, since she wasn’t even capable of talking to the cashier. At that moment, Kyomoto thought she was right, but still, she wanted to try; she no longer wanted to remain in her friend’s shadow; she wanted to build her own identity and worth. She wanted to know who she really was.
Even so, she hoped Fujino would at least give her a call. But since that conversation, they hadn’t spoken again. As the months passed, Kyomoto began to wonder just how hurt she had really left Fujino. Could it be that she hates her? She didn’t want to believe that; they had been through so much together that it simply couldn’t be that Fujino had started to hate her just because she’d distanced herself. But maybe… maybe she had simply forgotten her; perhaps Fujino had found new friends to hang out with and no longer had time to talk to a friend who lived several miles from home. Those thoughts irritated Kyomoto, but she tried to ignore them, believing that, out there in the suburbs of Tokyo, she might still have a place in Fujino’s cherished memories. There was a way to find out; Kyomoto still had her contact information. She just had to call her and make sure she was okay. But every time she tried, something stopped her. She didn’t know what that “something” was, but she would just stare at the number for hours before finally turning off her phone.
So the only way Kyomoto could still connect with her friend was through the manga series she had published. The series was surprisingly good; Kyomoto had laughed and cried with every issue, eagerly awaiting the next one. She’d heard the manga was a huge success, and she was proud that Fujino had managed to fulfill her dream. But she didn’t realize just how far it had come until she finished reading volume 12 and noticed something on the cover as she closed it.
SHARK KICK CELEBRATES. ANIME ADAPTATION CONFIRMED
“Oh, Fujino,” Kyomoto whispered to herself before letting out a squeal of excitement. “I can’t wait!”
She put the volume away on her already overflowing bookshelf. Then she put on her pajamas with a huge, excited smile. She was already imagining what the opening might look like; a couple of ideas were popping into her head, like some lyrics for possible songs, entire sequences based on movies she’d watched with Fujino, and much more. She couldn’t wait to see it.
She wanted to see how Fujino would do it; she wanted to see Kyo Fujino’s work broadcast on TV, even if it was by a former friend. As Kyomoto lay down, she recalled the beautiful moment of the two of them running through the city, holding hands; how time seemed to slow down as her hand was met by the warmth of Fujino’s; the feeling was still vivid in her mind—the feeling that the two of them would be together forever. Too bad that feeling never came true.
Even so, Kyomoto doesn’t regret leaving. Yes, she might not have had friends as close as Fujino yet, but just being able to live in the same environment with so many people was already a huge accomplishment for her. She had learned to stand on her own two feet; she could even look the cashier in the eye without trembling or hiding! Plus, her skills had improved a lot since she entered the academy. She had painted canvases as large as 2 meters, and she could now draw the human body perfectly without getting confused by the anatomical proportions. Things she would never have been able to achieve if she hadn’t enrolled to the art school.
Kyomoto’s thoughts came to an abrupt halt as she felt her head sink beneath the pillow. Since she loved sleeping so much, it transported her to her own little imaginary world, where she reigned supreme and could do whatever she wanted. Slowly, she began to close her eyelids, and felt her body grow light just before she drifted off to sleep. She looked forward to tomorrow, when she could repeat her entire routine all over again.
However, she had only been asleep for an hour when something woke her up. Was it her cell phone ringing? “But who would be calling at this hour?” she thought. She opened her eyes heavily and reluctantly, and without getting out of bed, reached out to grab her phone (not without first accidentally grabbing a lamp and a volume of a manga). She rubbed her eyes in a desperate attempt to keep them open and saw who was calling. Just reading the first word was enough to make Kyomoto open her eyes wide and jump out of bed immediately. She almost dropped her phone because she started shaking so hard. She read and reread the name over and over on the bright white screen, as if to make sure she wasn’t imagining it, that she wasn’t dreaming. It couldn’t be true; the phone displayed the words “Ayumu Fujino” while prompting her to answer.
Kyomoto froze completely, as if her blood had turned to solid ice. It really was her—the girl she hadn’t seen in three years, the one who had shared her life with Kyomoto for practically her entire adolescence. She was there, calling her. What should she do? Should she call her back? Should she hang up? Should she not answer? Each option filled her with dread for different reasons.
She only had thirty seconds left before the message would be marked as a missed call; she had to think fast. She wondered why her former friend was calling her at this hour. Twenty-five seconds. Maybe she wanted to reconnect. Twenty seconds. But why now? Fifteen seconds. She wasn’t sure what to say to her; the last time they spoke, it went terribly. Ten seconds. Could this be a once-in-a-lifetime chance to talk to her again? Five seconds.
At that moment, Kyomoto remembered Fujino, sitting with her back to him as she drew at that desk while the sunlight hit her face, and how she would sometimes complain whenever a drawing didn’t turn out the way she wanted; how they would laugh at the comic strips, until they ended up lying on the futon, gasping for air; the smile Kyomoto would flash every time she showed a new manga panel, which made even Fujino’s coldest gaze soften to the point of blushing. All those memories were beautiful, nostalgic, and highly tempting. But Kyomoto also thought of their final goodbye, the one on the dark street, where she told her she was leaving to study. “Depending on you…” she thought; part of her didn’t want to answer that call. Perhaps, if she spoke to Fujino again, she would end up living in her shadow once more.
But the memory of the two of them running through those streets erased any previous doubts. She would like to hear Fujino’s voice again; she would like to see her again. They had grown up; they had gone their separate ways. Perhaps Fujino had changed and wanted to talk to Kyomoto again—not to control her, but so they could both forgive each other for what had happened. The friendship they shared was one of the most precious anyone could ever have in life; it had reached a point where it almost felt as if one was the other’s other half. So much time had passed since she’d experienced that, and despite everything, Kyomoto, deep down, still held onto the faint hope that things could go back to the way they were—or maybe even be a little better.
That alone was enough to convince Kyomoto; she picked up her phone, and with great determination, placed her finger on the button and… she had been lost in thought for so long that the call had already been marked as missed.
“Oh no, oh no, oh no! OH NO!” Kyomoto managed to say in a complete panic.
She unlocked her phone in a flash, went straight to her call history, and tapped the first missed call she saw. She held the phone to her ear and began pacing around the room, waiting for an answer. It was an agonizing ten seconds before they finally picked up. Hearing the dial tone stop, Kyomoto took a deep breath, puffing out her cheeks until she looked like a very cute chubby girl, then exhaled and prepared to start the conversation.
“H-Hello?” she began, not noticing that her legs were shaking.
A few seconds of complete silence passed. Then she heard a gasp that seemed to be one of surprise, followed by some unintelligible stuttering that sounded like Fujino talking to herself. After a solid two minutes, a voice finally came through that left Kyomoto frozen.
“H-hello, Kyomoto.” The voice was the same one Kyomoto remembered from so many years ago. But it sounded broken, and she stuttered, as if she were about to burst into tears.
The initial greeting was over. The truth was, neither of them knew how to continue the conversation. Wasn’t that ironic? As girls, they used to spend hours on end talking about a single topic as if it were the most natural thing in the world, but now it seemed as though a metal ball had lodged in the middle of both their throats, preventing them from speaking.
“I-I… I’m sorry to bother you at this hour,” Fujino continued. “I just… couldn’t find another time and…”
“Why did you call me?” Kyomoto said impulsively before immediately realizing she sounded a little too cold. She could hear some nervous stammering coming from the other end of the phone. “I mean, I mean…” It’s been a long time since, well… It’s strange that you’re calling me now after all this time.
“Oh. Yeah, you’re right, and—” Fujino let out a heavy sigh. “Look, the thing is… well… I’ve been given two weeks off from work, and I’d like to spend them going back to Yamagata. And… I was wondering… if—if we could meet up one of these days.”
Kyomoto felt her heart stop right then and there. It couldn’t be true. Or could it? Her best friend, whom she hadn’t seen in years, had suddenly appeared to tell her she was coming to visit. The situation was so surreal it resembled those romance manga she used to read with Fujino—the ones that were so bad they were good. Kyomoto felt her mind go completely blank; every word she could think of to say either seemed too cold, too cheesy, or too strange.
“Kyomoto?” Fujino asked weakly from the other end of the phone.
“Yes! I… uh—” The lump Kyomoto had in his throat spread down to his stomach. He let out a nervous laugh that sounded more unsettling than anything else. “The truth is… I… I don’t know what to say.”
“D-did I say s-something w-wrong?”
“No, not at all!” Kyomoto tried to clarify. “It’s just that it was so… sudden. I mean, we haven’t talked in, I don’t know how long, and then you… well—Kyomoto was desperately trying to find the right words. He felt like he was walking on thin ice; one false step and everything would shatter. One false step, and they’d be back to that fateful dark day—You just called me in the middle of the night."
Kyomoto heard a heavy sigh from Fujino. He couldn’t tell if it was a sigh of frustration or an attempt to calm down.
“It’s… true,” she said, her voice sounding even more fragile, no matter how hard she tried to hide it. “Three years, right? That… that’s a long time.” There was another awkward pause.
Why was it so hard to communicate? Kyomoto just wanted to go back to the days when they both expressed themselves so naturally that they seemed like birds singing. Instead of this cruel parody where they could barely exchange a few words before falling back into complete silence.
“It’s just—” Fujino’s voice spoke again, “I’d like to see you again, and find out what… what became of you.” Kyomoto held her breath. “B-but it’s okay if you don’t want to. Maybe you’re too busy at the art academy, or—”
“No, no, no. It’s okay,” Kyomoto replied quickly. All her unease began to turn into excitement. Fujino still mattered to her; she wanted to see her. Despite everything, she still remembered her. “Actually, I like the idea!”
“Really?” Fujino said. A hint of surprise could be detected in her voice, and it no longer sounded as broken as before.
“Yes! The truth is, I’ve been thinking about getting together one of these days, too. A lot has happened over the last three years that I’d like to tell you about, and I think you have plenty to share as well.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” Kyomoto glanced at her manga shelf and smiled slightly, “I mean your manga.”
Kyomoto heard a faint gasp of surprise from Fujino, which made her smile even more.
“Did you read my manga?”
“I have all the physical volumes; I read them, and I have to admit they’re really good works. Like, for example, volume six of Shark Kick. I almost started crying when Raisel said she hadn’t gone to school either."
Fujino let out a soft chuckle of satisfaction, which contrasted with the distressed look she’d had just a moment ago.
“What can I say,” she replied, her voice sounding a little more confident than before. “I wanted her to stick in my readers’ minds like a ‘curse.’”
“And girl, did you succeed. I didn’t stop drawing fan art of her for weeks after reading the volume.” Fujino let out another gasp of surprise, but didn’t say anything about it. “But it doesn’t compare to volume nine—that snowball fight, ugh, I cried like a baby over that manga. I think some of the pages still have tear stains on them.”
“Oh”—Fujino’s voice sounded a little somber. As if she’d just been reminded of something horrible. But before Kyomoto could ask, she corrected herself—“I mean. I’m glad you enjoyed that volume! Honestly, even I felt a little sad drawing that scene. But I felt it was time to wrap up Akira’s story.”
“You didn’t have to make it so tragic. I almost shouted the now-typical ‘You’re going down, Fujino’ when I saw his body lying there with the shotgun sticking out of her mouth.”
“In my defense, I warned them,” Fujino said defiantly. “You’re going to die in the worst possible way.”
“Oops, good point,” Kyomoto then began frantically flipping through the covers of her manga, looking for something to talk about. I was succeeding! I was reconnecting with her; I couldn’t miss this opportunity. “But my favorite part is definitely in volume seven.” I felt the arrival of the demon of the void in my soul; the way its arms rose into the air as the demon began to slit everyone’s throats gave me goosebumps.
“Honestly, it was hell to draw.”
“Really?”
—Well, I had to redraw it several times. No matter how hard I tried, I could never capture the feeling of despair and terror I wanted to convey. I always thought they were either too bloody or too strange. And the worst part is that every time I redrew the panels, my editors got more and more furious about the deadlines.
“I didn’t know that, that must have been tough,” Kyomoto replied in a slightly more concerned tone.
“Being a mangaka is generally a tough job. Full of wrist pain, deadlines, screams from abusive editors, having to strike ‘ergonomic’ poses to avoid screwing up your back. But at the end of the day, those are just part of the job. I love this work, and all the stories I’ve created through it.
Now it was Kyomoto’s turn to laugh.
“Is something wrong?”
“No, it’s nothing. It’s just… I’m glad you managed to become a mangaka, despite everything.”
Kyomoto didn’t realize what she’d said until it was too late. That “despite everything” could be interpreted in various ways depending on the situation. But in this particular context, it could only mean one thing: that painful memory they both shared in the snow, which affected each of them for different reasons. Kyomoto clutched her chest, thinking about what might happen next. Maybe Fujino would start criticizing her again, complaining that she hadn’t been there for her these past three years. Or maybe she’d just hang up and cancel the trip. Damn it, she was overthinking things again. Fujino would never do that, right? She was doing so well! Why did she have to mess it up like this? But the answer she received was unexpected.
“Yes…” Fujino said, not in an apathetic voice, but one heavy with emotion. “And to think that not many years ago, I was limited to drawing comic strips in the school newspaper.” Fujino fell silent for a moment, as if gathering the courage to say something. “Kyomoto, you’re right. There are too many things I need to tell you, too many. So many that we’d probably be on the phone for hours, and they surely wouldn’t carry the same weight if I said them in person. That’s why I want to see you again, maybe… maybe you still haven’t forgiven me for what happened. And that’s okay, I’m not asking for us to be friends again, but… but…"
Fujino’s voice sounded broken again. There was something inside her that was burning her up, something to do with Kyomoto. She knew her friend well, and she had rarely heard her in such a vulnerable state; she always put up a front and acted strong, even in the most difficult situations. So hearing her like this wasn’t normal.
“Is something wrong?” Kyomoto asked, concerned.
“N-no, it’s nothing. I just got a little nostalgic,” Fujino replied, trying to hide her quiet sobs.
“I don’t know. You sound like you’re about to cry.”
“It’s nothing! Really!” Her defensive attitude returned. But she was like an animal that, no matter how much it roared, couldn’t hide its wound. “Look, I’ll arrive at the station tomorrow afternoon, maybe around four. Maybe we can meet there?”
“Of course…” Kyomoto replied weakly. Seriously, Fujino—Ayumu Fujino herself—was she crying over her? “I’ll see you there. If you want, I can help you with your luggage.”
“Thanks.”
“You know? It wasn’t your fault. What happened that afternoon, I mean.”
There was one last awkward silence. There had been plenty of those during this call.
“See you there,” was all Fujino said before hanging up.
What was that? The whole conversation had felt like a roller coaster. At first they could barely speak, then they started talking like they used to, only for the call to end abruptly with Fujino on the verge of tears. Kyomoto was tempted to call Fujino back and ask her seriously about what she’d just said, but she felt it was best to let her friend rest for now. Besides, Kyomoto would see her in person tomorrow afternoon.
She would see her in person.
It’s funny how a person’s life can do a complete 180 in just a few minutes. If you had asked Kyomoto just a couple of hours ago about her friendship with Fujino, she would surely have said that they probably wouldn’t see each other in person again for a very long time. That call had come out of nowhere; she hadn’t expected to hear Fujino’s voice again in a million years. And yet there she stood, holding the phone from which, just moments ago, had come the voice of the girl with whom she had shared so much.
Kyomoto sat down on her bed. Thinking about everything this reunion could mean for her life—maybe their friendship would blossom again. In her mind, the idea of spending afternoons together playing video games like Sonic the Hedgehog, endlessly drawing the thousand and one stories they had in mind, or simply talking while munching on snacks they’d pulled from the pantry prevailed. It was beautiful, but she couldn’t deny that a small part of her felt afraid—perhaps afraid that the reunion would be a disaster and their friendship would die forever. Or perhaps it was fear of going back to being just the “side character” in Fujino’s life; she wanted to believe that Fujino had changed after their last conversation, that she wouldn’t be so desperate to have Kyomoto by her side anymore. That belief had grown stronger after what Fujino had said in their last call. Kyomoto didn’t want to admit it, but knowing that Fujino might truly regret it had brought her great relief.
But what she said was true—it wasn’t her fault. It was Kyomoto who decided to distance herself, to live her own path and her own truth. She’d like things to be as they were before, yes, but only as long as she could experience things on her own.
Whatever the case, nothing would be decided until tomorrow afternoon at the train station. Besides, she had classes in the morning, so it would be better to get some sleep now and think things through more calmly tomorrow. So Kyomoto pulled the covers back over herself and buried her head in the pillow. It didn’t take long for her to fall asleep.
The hallway was completely dark. The windows were closed, so no natural light could enter the room. A heavy silence hung in the air—not a silence of politeness or order, but a silence of death. The only thing that could be heard in the distance was the soft ticking of a mechanical clock in the living room. Kyomoto stood in that hallway, confused by what she saw; it was the hallway leading to her own room, the one where she was supposed to be inside, sleeping.
She looked around; there was no one there—or so it seemed. There were several pairs of shoes at the entrance, yet the only presence in her own home was the heavy silence that pressed down on her chest unbearably, and the soft ticking of the clock, which did nothing to improve the feeling. The soft hissing of the windows, combined with the darkness of the room, created a gloomy, funereal atmosphere. It felt as though a tragedy had just occurred.
Then, Kyomoto turned toward the door to his own room. There he saw her. A young woman, who didn’t look to be more than twenty years old, lay in front of his door, surrounded by the stacks of sketchbooks Kyomoto had accumulated over the years. She was dressed in an all-black outfit, which matched the already dark atmosphere of the room. Her hair was short, reaching only to her neck, and the ends were held back by a simple rubber band. She didn’t speak at all; she just stayed there, while the entire surroundings enveloped her in despair.
“Hello?” Kyomoto said weakly, hoping the stranger standing in front of her room would reveal herself.
But the girl didn’t respond; she just stared at the corner of the hallway. There, one of the weekly JUMP issues of Shark Kick lay on top of the stack of notebooks. Kyomoto couldn’t tell which volume it was, but she saw the girl simply pick up the manga, and judging by the soft rustling of the pages—a sound Kyomoto knew all too well—the stranger began reading it.
“Are you lost?” Kyomoto said nervously. She didn’t know what to do; She’d never seen any of those security videos that told you what to do if your house was broken into. She thought about calling the police, but She’d already revealed her presence to the possible burglar, so it wouldn’t do any good. “This… this isn’t your house, you know.”
But the girl still didn’t respond; she just stood there, like a statue whose decay was already beginning to show. Kyomoto, trembling, took a step forward, then another. Kyomoto began to cautiously approach the intruder, hoping to surprise her from behind, though she wasn’t sure if she’d have to subdue her. Kyomoto knew nothing about self-defense.
But then, the girl dropped the JUMP on the floor. Kyomoto cast all her nervousness aside, replaced by contained indignation. Seeing someone mistreat her own manga was like getting kicked right in the stomach.
“HEY!” she shouted in a voice that was supposed to sound angry, but sounded more desperate than anything else. “IT TOOK ME FOREVER TO SAVE UP FOR THAT VOLUME! If you know my friend is—”
“It’s my fault,” stammered the supposed stranger. But her voice… Kyomoto could recognize that voice anywhere. All her indignation vanished completely.
“Fujino?” Kyomoto stammered slightly. “But didn’t you say you were coming tomorrow?”
“Because i drew this...i drew this manga that day...” Fujino’s voice sounded like it was about to burst with utter sadness. It sounded somehow even more broken than when they spoke on the phone.
Kyomoto tried to figure out what was going on. She saw the JUMP manga lying on the floor, and she saw that her friend seemed to regret having drawn it.
“Well, I don’t think it’s that bad. That’s where you drew the pool scene, and I don’t know about you, but to me it was beautiful.” Fujino still didn’t respond; she didn’t even turn around. Kyomoto grew very serious, due to her friend’s strange behavior and the whole atmosphere. “Fujino, this isn’t funny anymore. Stop ignoring me—is this one of your mean pranks?”
But then, Fujino fell to her knees, as if she were carrying thousands of tons on her shoulders. The thud left Kyomoto petrified. What was happening to her friend? It was then that she noticed a small four-panel strip sticking out of one of her hands. The same one Kyomoto had received the day she met Fujino in person, back when she still put her on a pedestal, considering her the greatest artist in history. Could it be that she didn’t regret drawing that JUMP, but rather but rather drawing that little comic strip? But that couldn’t be—if it weren’t for that strip, their paths would never have crossed. And Kyomoto would still be trapped in that tiny room.
“Fujino, please,” Kyomoto said hesitantly. “Enough with the secrets. What’s going on? What are you not telling me?”
“She is death, because of me...” Fujino looked up, beginning to tremble. Those words left Kyomoto frozen in place; in her mind, she seemed to have understood everything.
“Fujino… I… Why didn’t you tell me?” Kyomoto tried to move closer to her friend. “Who was it?” But she still didn’t answer. “Is that why you were so distraught during that call? If you’d told me, I could have helped you. Fujino, I know we haven’t seen each other in years, but—”
“If I… hadn’t gotten her out of her room, she wouldn’t have died.”
“Please, Fujino, let me help you. What happened that afternoon wasn’t your fault; I already told you that. Let me help you just like you helped me get out of… out of my room.” Kyomoto felt as if the air were being squeezed out of her lungs; her chest tightened so much that she felt she might have a heart attack at any moment.
“Why? Why?” Why did I draw this?
“Fujino, what’s going on?” Kyomoto’s panic was growing. Something was very wrong, but she didn’t know what. “Fujino, PLEASE!”
“Drawing it´s just a waste of time. It doesn´t save anyone"
“But what are you saying?!”
Fujino began sobbing violently, while the sound of paper tearing filled the entire room. The only thing she had in her hands was—no, she couldn’t, she couldn’t just tear that strip like that for no reason. Kyomoto lunged forward, trying to stop Fujino. But she didn’t touch her, as the room stretched out exaggeratedly, while darkness began to consume everything around them, as if it were a parasite assimilating its food. Kyomoto could only helplessly reach out her hand as Fujino vanished into that darkness, leaving behind only her sobs. Kyomoto felt alone, vulnerable, and just wanted the nightmare to end. What was happening? Why did she have this sharp pain in her chest? She just wanted it to stop, for all this pain to leave her body. But she felt submerged in a sea of strangely familiar suffering.
The suffering continued like this for what felt like an eternity, during which Kyomoto could barely think. Kyomoto heard the soft ticking of the clock, echoing slowly throughout the strange place, counting every second in that horrible void. Kyomoto felt cold, lifeless, in a limbo from which she could not escape
“Help,” Kyomoto said weakly. Then she saw a faint glow of light in the distance. The glow slowly grew brighter; meanwhile, for some reason, the ticking of the clock sounded faster and faster, as if someone were frantically moving the hands of the clock in the room.
A strange voice spoke. It didn’t sound like anything Kyomoto had ever heard before; it was mechanical and artificial, as if coming from an old machine trying to imitate a human voice. It spoke only one word before the light blinded Kyomoto.
“Wake up.”
Kyomoto sat up, hyperventilating uncontrollably, her face covered in sweat. She clutched her chest as she began to steady her breathing and looked around. Her room was illuminated by the first rays of morning light, giving a feeling of warmth that contrasted with the gloomy, twisted aesthetic she had seen just moments ago.
“Calm down,” she told herself. “It was just a nightmare.”
However, it was the most realistic nightmare she had ever experienced in her entire life. She almost felt as if she were really there at that moment, standing in that hostile, gloomy, and depressing environment. As she began to recover from what she had experienced, a question began to linger in Kyomoto’s mind: What did everything she saw mean?