Chapter 8
1939words
Those sounds pouring into my ears became increasingly sharp and piercing. They were like countless invisible vultures, circling above my head, emitting nauseating, greedy calls. They were anticipating, waiting for both of us to embarrass ourselves and break down. I could feel my defense mechanism screaming frantically, every cell urging me to run away, urging me to put back on those headphones that could block out everything, to retreat back into that cocoon that was safe but also empty.
But, I couldn't.
I gazed directly into Alicia Hayes' eyes. To be precise, at her tightly closed eyelids that refused to open even the slightest crack to the world. I forced myself to concentrate all my attention on her, using my gaze to construct an invisible barrier around her. I imagined my line of sight becoming an enormous, fine-meshed filter, screening out all those malicious, burning, gloating stares from behind me, blocking them outside, leaving only the purest, untainted, quiet observation gently enveloping her.
She seemed to sense something. Her violently trembling body began to slow down by an almost imperceptible degree. Her tightly shut eyelids also started to quiver slightly, as if struggling to wake from a nightmare.
In the midst of clamorous silence, I mouthed those words to her soundlessly.
"It's okay."
I spoke very slowly, ensuring that every change in my lip movements was perfectly clear. Then, at the moment when her eyelashes finally trembled and opened a tiny gap, I raised my right hand and gently, with my index finger, tapped twice on my left wrist.
This gesture was a signal that belonged only to the two of us.
In that art classroom filled with the smell of turpentine, we had made this agreement. This gesture meant: "It's your turn, I believe in you."
Qinyin's eyes finally opened completely. They were eyes soaked in tears, full of anxiety, like those of a lost fawn pursued by hunters throughout the night. But behind that misty layer, I saw my own reflection. A me who had removed his headphones, with a pale face but an unusually determined gaze, standing there awkwardly, using my entire back to shield her from the whole world.
Then, from the depths of her pupils, I saw another scene.
It was not those faces in the audience whispering to each other with various expressions, nor the blinding spotlight on the stage. In her eyes, I saw the painting we had created together. I saw that darkness composed of countless distorted eyes symbolizing my despair, and also that sunlight filled with sunflowers and dandelions symbolizing her hope. I saw the boundary that brutally divided our two worlds, and most crucially, that faint yet incredibly warm pale yellow color that had accidentally "splashed" from her world into mine.
She also saw in my eyes her own part of that "Landscape."
Qin Yin took a deep breath, a breath so faint it was almost inaudible, yet it exploded like a thunderclap in the chaotic world of my hearing. I saw her hand, which had been tightly gripping the hem of her clothes with whitened knuckles, finally release its grip, and then, with a slow but incredibly determined gesture, reach for the cold microphone in front of her.
Her hand was still trembling, but she grasped it nonetheless.
The entire noisy auditorium, at this moment, fell eerily silent. Everyone held their breath, all eyes focused on her trembling hand that was holding the microphone. Time seemed to stretch into an infinitely extended, taut string.
Then, a voice rang out.
That voice was extremely faint, carrying a hoarseness and trembling like bubbles bursting, as if it were the first scoop of water laboriously retrieved from a well that had been dry for a long time. However, amplified by the microphone's current, this voice clearly and undeniably reached every corner of the venue.
"...This painting's... name, is called 'Landscape'..."
It was Qinyin. It was Alicia Hayes's voice.
In that instant, my heart seemed to be tightly gripped by an invisible hand, then suddenly released. An indescribable torrent of emotions, mixing shock and wild joy, washed through every fiber of my being. I even forgot about the jarring noise around me, forgot about my own anxiety that was almost tearing me apart. My entire world was left with only her intermittent, yet unmistakably clear voice.
She paused, as if gathering all the courage needed for her next words. Below the stage, there was still complete silence, no one made any sound, as if even breathing might disturb this hard-won miracle.
"...It is the world through my eyes..." she said, while pointing with her other hand to the bright, vibrant right half of the painting.
"...And also... the world through his eyes." Her finger moved slowly and without hesitation to the dark left half of the painting, filled with prying gazes.
After saying these words, she seemed to have exhausted all her strength, her shoulders slumping slightly. But she wasn't finished. She turned around, and under everyone's gaze, lifted her head, and for the first time, truly and completely, looked at me.
Her eyes were still filled with tears, but they were no longer from fear, but a crystalline radiance born of having survived a catastrophe. She looked at me, using her last, and most determined bit of strength, to speak once more.
"...Thank you, Tōya-kun."
Her voice was still small, so small that without the microphone, perhaps only I would have heard it. But that determination which pierced through all noise and obstacles, transmitted directly to the depths of my heart, was more earth-shattering than any grand oath.
Below the stage, there was first a suffocating silence that lasted a full three seconds.
Then, the applause began.
It wasn't just a polite, scattered applause, but rather like a sudden downpour that started from one corner of the auditorium and quickly spread, eventually converging into a thunderous, deafening ocean of sound. That applause contained no pity, no curiosity, no schadenfreude—only the purest, most heartfelt admiration and blessing for courage and sincerity. I saw those girls who had been whispering earlier now clapping vigorously, their eyes slightly reddened. I saw that senior student who had analyzed our paintings, his face showing a gratified, knowing smile.
Then, my gaze, cutting through the bustling crowd, landed precisely on Vanessa Mitchell's face.
She didn't applaud. She just stood there in a daze, her expression revealing a pure, unfiltered shock that she had no time to disguise. Those beautiful eyes of hers, which always carried a hint of composure and superiority, were now filled with disbelief. She didn't understand, she completely failed to comprehend why these two "monsters" who, in her view, were destined to fail, had won everyone's respect in a way she couldn't possibly understand.
In that moment, amidst the applause that nearly brought down the roof, I felt for the first time that this world full of noise might not be so unbearable after all.
The clamor of the school festival eventually receded like an ebbing tide, slowly and reluctantly withdrawing from every corner of the campus. As the last rays of sunset painted the sky a gentle orange-red, Kotone and I walked side by side on our way home.
This road, we have walked together many times. But today, everything seems so different.
The most noticeable change is that my head is bare. Those black headphones, which were once like a part of my body, are now lying quietly in the side pocket of my backpack. And Qin Yin's hands are also empty. That sketchbook which she always clutched tightly to her chest, her only medium of communication with the world, has also been tucked away deep inside her backpack.
We walk slowly, the distance between us slightly closer than usual. The sunset stretches our shadows very long, intertwining on the asphalt road behind us, then separating, like we're dancing an awkward yet quiet dance.
The surroundings were not completely silent. The distant sound of baseball club practice, the welcome chime at the convenience store entrance, the laughter of middle school students quickly passing by on bicycles... These fragments of everyday noise that once made me feel irritated now seemed like a gentle background melody, flowing softly through the air.
Then, I heard a voice. A very soft voice, with a hint of hesitation and unfamiliarity, but a real voice nonetheless.
"...Today's clouds... look like cotton candy."
I turned my head to see Kotone looking up, gazing at the brilliantly sunset-painted sky. Her profile was outlined with a soft golden contour in the evening glow. She wasn't looking at me, just focusing intently on the clouds above, as if talking to herself.
I didn't answer right away. I just quietly stopped in my tracks and followed her gaze toward the sky. The clouds there had indeed been sculpted by wind and light into fluffy, soft shapes, emitting a sweet halo under the orange-red sky.
After a few seconds, she seemed to notice my silence and anxiously withdrew her gaze, her eyes falling on the tips of her shoes.
"...Sorry, I..." she seemed to want to say something but didn't know how to express it.
"Hmm," I responded softly, interrupting what was about to become her self-negation, "it's strawberry flavor."
Qinyin suddenly looked up, staring at me in surprise. In her clear eyes, I could see my own reflection—my expression must have looked somewhat awkward at that moment.
Then, she smiled.
That wasn't the polite yet distant slight smile she usually wore on her face. It was a genuine smile that came from the heart, with corners of her mouth and eyes relaxed, so radiant that it seemed to light up the entire dusk.
The world didn't undergo any earth-shattering changes because of one small miracle. Tomorrow, I might still feel anxious because of people's gazes; tomorrow, she might still be unable to make sounds smoothly in certain situations. Those "flaws" and "scars" we carry won't disappear overnight.
But somehow, that doesn't seem so important anymore.
We were like two radios tuned to the wrong frequencies, each broadcasting lonely, static-filled noise on our own channels for sixteen years. And today, after countless attempts and misses, we finally found a frequency—small yet incredibly clear—where we could receive each other's signals.
She continued to describe the changes in the sky to me in a soft, halting voice. She said the clouds over there looked like a sleeping cat, while the clouds here resembled a half-melted ice cream. Her voice remained gentle, with a slight uncertain tremor, but every word fell distinctly into my ears.
I listened quietly, occasionally responding to her imagination with a simple word.
We no longer needed that painting, nor did we need that agreed-upon gesture. Because from now on, we could use our voices, our language, to describe to each other the unique scenery that we each saw through our own eyes.
