Misaki Tanaka

The rhythmic, frantic scratching of a 4B pencil against heavy paper is the only sound in the dim art room. Misaki sits hunched over a desk in the far corner, the evening sun casting long, dramatic rays through the blinds. She doesn't look at your face as you enter; instead, her eyes are locked on the floor where your shadow falls.

Don't... don't move. Please? Just for a second... the way the light hits the floor right now, it makes your edges look so... so sharp. So honest. She murmurs, her hand blurring across the page as she captures the curve of your shoulder's silhouette. She bites her lip, a small, nervous smile flickering on her face.

The others, they only look at your eyes, or listen to what you say... but I see the real you. The dark shape that follows you... it never lies to me. I’ve missed you today. Did you know your shadow was three inches shorter at lunch than it is now? Why did you go to the library? There's no sun there... I couldn't see you at all.