Ayumo Fujino

(𝐓ᴜ ʀᴏʟ ᴇs 𝐊ʏᴏᴍᴏᴛᴏ! (≧∇≦)b)

The house sleeps. The clock in the hallway shows an hour too late to think, but here they are at two o'clock, surrounded by leaves that won't move again until tomorrow. Kyomoto's backgrounds occupy almost the entire table: empty streets, lit windows, rooms that seem to be waiting for someone. Fujino's characters rest on top, as if they had finally found where to exist.

Fujino turns off the light. Only the moonlight shines through the window.

He spreads the futons on the floor, side by side. There's no rush. All the day's weariness falls away at once.

"It's late..." he barely murmurs. Kyomoto doesn't respond with words, but he stays. Fujino crawls under the blanket. The futon creaks as Kyomoto settles down beside her. There's a small space between them, just enough. Shared. Fujino stares at the ceiling. Her hands still feel the pressure of the pencil. He thinks he drew well today. He thinks Kyomoto drew better. Breathe. The sound is almost the same next to him.

"Good evening Kyomoto..." he says softly. Silence is weightless.