Chapter 5
2030words
Every day, we immersed ourselves in this silent communication, using pencil strokes to probe, understand, and respond to the shape of each other's soul. Days flowed quietly by in the scent of turpentine and dust, as the forgotten corner of the art preparation room completely transformed into our "safe zone" - an island belonging only to the two of us, independent from the entire noisy world outside.
Our collaboration progressed exceptionally smoothly, and the painting named "Two Worlds" finally began to take shape. On the left side of the canvas was my world. I used the heaviest, most oppressive black and deep blue to smear out a crowded and distorted space, where countless disembodied eyes emerged from the darkness, carrying the contempt and scrutiny I knew all too well, their cold gazes like nails pinned to the center of the picture—a crouched, faceless figure. While on the right side of the canvas was Alicia Hayes's world.
She used the brightest and warmest shades of pale yellow and sky blue to paint an open window, beyond which were endless clear skies and flying birds. Sunlight poured down without reservation, forming a warm beam of light that fell perfectly on the back of the curled-up figure. Darkness and light created an intense yet harmonious "collision" at the center of the canvas. They did not devour each other, but rather, in their mutual contrast, made despair appear more profound and hope shine more brilliantly.
We stood side by side in front of the easel, together adding the final details to this painting. Here, my sensory system, which was always on high alert, learned to relax for the first time. There were no crowded people around, no complex social cues, none of those negative expressions that made me feel guilty.
Only the scent of paint, only the sunlight streaming through the window, cut into beams by dust, only that silent counterpart beside me who, like me, posed no threat whatsoever. Gradually, I even began to consciously remove the earphone hanging on my left ear, just to hear more clearly the sounds she made beside me—not her voice, but that extremely faint, rustling sound made when she bent down and used a pencil to record inspiration in her sketchbook, the sound of the pencil tip moving across paper.
That sound was like silkworms munching on mulberry leaves, carrying a creative, tranquil vitality. It didn't disturb me; rather, like white noise, it slowly calmed my constantly racing heart.
Just when I was beginning to think that this luxurious tranquility could continue indefinitely, the partially open door of the art preparation room was pushed open with a "creak." The jarring noise, like an awl, instantly pierced through the peaceful atmosphere we had managed to establish between us. Almost reflexively, I immediately put back on the earphones I had removed, and the barrier of white noise instantly isolated me from the outside world.
"Wow——! So this is where you've been hiding!" A crisp and excessively energetic female voice rang out.
I didn't need to turn around to know who had arrived. It was Vanessa Mitchell, the most popular girl in our class. She was like a little sun that never stopped shining, always surrounded by a group of "planets" following her. She came with two or three friends, barging into our "island" like this. The sweet scent of expensive perfume mixed with teenage hormones that clung to them was completely out of place in this room filled with the smell of old paint.
"We heard you guys were preparing a painting for the cultural festival, so we came to check it out!" Vanessa said with a smile, her voice carrying an enthusiasm that couldn't be refused. The girls curiously gathered around, as if they were visiting some exotic zoo, their gazes scanning back and forth between the two of us and the enormous painting.
"Oh my god, this is painted so well!" one girl exclaimed with exaggerated admiration. "The light and shadow work is absolutely amazing!"
"Yeah, yeah, it feels like it could be submitted to a competition right away!" another one chimed in.
While their mouths spoke words of praise, from the corner of my eye, I could clearly catch what lay deep in their gazes—there was no appreciation for art, only an undisguised curiosity for spectacle. They were curious about what kind of show could possibly be put on by the two of us, widely acknowledged by the whole school as "weirdos." That kind of look was like observing two strangely behaving insects trapped in a glass box.
Qinyin instinctively shrank behind me. She put down her brush, her hands nervously twisting the hem of her clothes, head lowered, as if wanting to shrink herself into a non-existent point.
Vanessa seemed completely oblivious to our discomfort. She fixed her gaze on Qinyin, her face still wearing that impeccable, perfect social smile. She said, "Alicia, you paint so wonderfully! I had no idea you were so talented."
Qinyin's shoulders trembled almost imperceptibly.
"However..." Vanessa changed her tone, and a gleam of craftiness flashed through her large eyes that always seemed to shine with kindness. "When the artwork is exhibited, according to the rules, the creator needs to go on stage to introduce their creative concept, right? What will you do then? Will Kiritani-kun have to speak up there alone?" At this point, she deliberately paused, and then, as if she had thought of some brilliant joke, she burst out laughing, "Oh my, I almost forgot, you two are truly a perfect combination. One who doesn't speak, and one who doesn't listen to others... How truly 'artistic'!"
The moment her words fell, several friends behind her immediately erupted in laughter. The laughter wasn't particularly harsh, and even carried the crisp quality unique to young girls, but to my ears, it was more damaging than any scream. The laughter was like countless poison-dipped needles, penetrating through the physical barrier of my headphones, and through the white noise in my mind, precisely stabbing at my most sensitive nerves.
I turned around abruptly to look at Qinyin. Her face instantly lost all its color, becoming as pale as her drawing paper. Those eyes of hers that were always filled with trepidation now churned with intense pain and humiliation, like a calm lake surface disturbed by a thrown stone. The hand holding her pencil began to tremble violently beyond her control, the tip scratching chaotic and ugly black lines across her sketchbook.
Meanwhile, my visual hypersensitivity allowed me to capture another scene with exceptional clarity—the faces of Vanessa Mitchell and her friends. Behind their seemingly innocent smiles, I saw what I was most familiar with and most despised. It wasn't an active, explicit malice, but something more terrifying—an unconscious cruelty. It was that natural, unwitting sense of superiority that people standing in the sunlight hold toward those huddled in the shadows. They didn't think there was anything wrong with what they were saying; they just found our "quirks" amusing, just as one might find a limping dog or a bird with a broken wing both pitiful and funny. Their laughter was built upon this condescending sense of "normality."
In that instant, the pain that was almost overflowing in Qinyin's eyes overlapped with those smiles full of "superiority" that were magnified countless times on my retina. Something unfamiliar and scorching exploded violently from deep within my chest, like a volcano that had been accumulating for centuries, erupting with a thunderous roar. It wasn't rationality, it wasn't thought, but an instinct more primitive than anger and more profound than fear.
I stood up abruptly. The chair toppled backward with me, making a piercing crash.
The laughter throughout the room came to an abrupt halt. Everyone was stunned by my sudden movement.
I didn't say a word. Because I knew that any language would be pale and powerless at this moment. I just stepped forward, just one small step, yet like an insurmountable barrier, firmly standing between the trembling Qinyin and those intruders whose smiles were now frozen on their faces.
Then, I made a gesture that shocked even myself. I reached out with both hands, slowly but firmly, and removed the headphones that had been like a second skin to me.
The sounds of the world, in an instant, rushed into my ears in an unrestrained, brutal way, like a flood. The startled breathing of the girls, the rustling of leaves outside the window as the wind blew through them, the faint cheers coming from the distant playground... All these sounds mingled together like a boiling, noisy thick soup. But I wasn't overwhelmed.
Because all of my attention was focused on my eyes. I lifted my head, and with a cold, sharp gaze that even I had never seen from myself before, I pierced through the floating dust in the room, directly into Vanessa Mitchell's eyes. I forced myself to look, to clearly see how the initial surprise in her beautiful eyes rapidly transformed into a hint of confusion, then a trace of offended annoyance, and finally, deep within that annoyance, I caught a fleeting glimpse of... fear.
She was afraid. She was afraid of me. This realization gave me a strange, almost cruel sense of calm.
We stared at each other in this dead silence, time seeming to stretch endlessly. Vanessa's smile completely disappeared from her face, stunned by the undisguised, beast-like aura of rejection emanating from me. She opened her mouth, seemingly wanting to say something to break this suffocating awkwardness, but ultimately said nothing. She only forced an extremely unnatural twitch at the corner of her mouth, and laughed dryly twice: "Well... um... we won't disturb you anymore. You two carry on, carry on..."
After saying this, as if escaping, she pulled her equally bewildered friends along and fled the art prep room in what amounted to a hasty retreat.
The door was gently closed behind them. The intruders were gone.
The world returned to silence once again.
That inexplicable courage that had kept me standing, in the moment when the crisis passed, deflated rapidly like a balloon with all its air sucked out. An overwhelming, crushing wave of exhaustion swept through my entire body. My legs weakened, almost unable to support me, and I collapsed awkwardly back onto the nearby stool. With trembling hands, I immediately put those headphones back on, once again shutting myself behind the familiar, safe barrier of white noise. My heart pounded frantically in my chest, each beat carrying the acute pain of having narrowly escaped disaster.
I dare not look at Qin Yin. I'm afraid to see any extra expression on her face, whether it's sympathy, gratitude, or even fear—I know I couldn't bear any of it. The person who stood up just now wasn't me. That was just a cornered beast, striking back out of instinct. Now, that beast is dead, and what remains is still that cowardly, useless Jason Reed who doesn't even dare to look others in the eye.
I kept my head down like this, staring at a crack on the ground, gasping desperately for air, trying to calm the tsunami that had swept through my body and mind.
After who knows how long, a sketchbook was gently placed before my eyes.
I looked up to see Qin Yin holding her notebook. Her eyes were red, but they no longer contained the shattered pain from earlier. Instead, there was a very complex emotion that I couldn't interpret.
And on that snow-white sheet of paper, densely packed, was the same phrase written over and over. She had used every kind of handwriting—large, small, neat, messy—repeating it again and again, as if trying to pour all her emotions into these three words.
That phrase was:
"Thank you."
"Thank you."
"Thank you."
……
An entire page filled with "Thank you."
