Unknown Variables

Chapter 7: Eyes in the Library

The library had always been my place. Rows of silence. Shadows between shelves. A quiet so thick you could wrap yourself in it and forget the world.

But now it was our place.

Sora started joining me there after class—no formal invitation, no announcement. She'd just appear, carrying her sketchy notebook and that same oversized sweater she always wore.

She didn't say much, and neither did I.
It was the kind of silence that didn't feel empty.

One afternoon, I glanced over at her notebook, expecting to see formulas or notes. But instead...

She was drawing.

Lines and curves. Delicate strokes.
And at the center—me.

"Well that's... creepy," I said, trying to joke.

She slammed the book shut so fast her pen flew off the table.

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean—It's not like that—I—!"

I reached out instinctively. "Hey, hey—Sora. It's okay."

She didn't look up. Just muttered, "I wasn't going to show you. I just... draw things that calm me down."

I stared at the closed notebook.

"You draw me to calm down?"

She nodded, still hiding behind her hair.

I sat back, trying not to smile. "I'm flattered."

She peeked up. "Really?"

"Yeah. I mean, if you drew me with, like, six chins and a unibrow, I'd be less flattered. But otherwise..."

Her laugh came out before she could stop it. And just like that, the tension dissolved.

As we studied that evening, her phone buzzed. She looked at it, frowned, and sighed.

"Everything okay?"

She hesitated. Then turned the phone so I could see.
A message. From someone labeled Mom.

You're wasting time on useless things again. Focus. No distractions.

I didn't know what to say.

Sora smiled, brittle. "She wants me to get into Kyoto U. Or Todai. As if I'm not trying."

"You're doing great," I said. "Anyone who can sketch me without making me look like a troll deserves extra credit."

She smiled again—barely. "You're easy to draw."

"Why?"

She glanced at me. Eyes serious now. "Because you don't wear masks."

I froze.

For a moment, I felt like she could see everything:
The boy who didn't think he was smart.
The boy who hid his gold medal in a drawer.
The boy who couldn't stop reading letters from a stranger while slowly falling for someone sitting right in front of him.

Later that night, after we parted ways, I found another letter in my locker.

"You're closer to her now. I see that. It hurts more than I expected."

There was no name, no clue—but a faint scent lingered. Not perfume. Something natural. Like wildflowers and laundry.

My hand trembled.

I wasn't sure who I was hurting anymore.

Or who was hurting me.