Chapter 19
No. It had to be a misunderstanding.
It was nothing more than a drawing made up of a few lines. No matter how many lines were drawn on a cold, inorganic canvas, it couldn’t possibly hold any warmth.
That was what Anita told herself. But somewhere in the corner of her heart, an absurd hypothesis was taking root.
“Could it be that Rutger likes me…”
Impossible.
It was an old, worn-out trick. He would show interest in her, but the moment she mustered up the courage to take a step forward, he’d retreat with a mocking smile. Anita had been hurt countless times walking into that obvious trap.
If she were to be fooled again, she’d be more clueless than a chicken.
Ridiculous as it was, Anita had still believed over the past ten years that there might have been some kind of progress between them.
Because love—feelings—could ignite in an instant. But now, it had been ten years.
In all that time, if nothing had happened, then that was it. Their relationship ended there. All along, Anita had been trying to reconnect a thread that had long since snapped—one that might never have been connected in the first place.
She’d placed her faith in a tiny link: their parents’ relationship, the fact they were neighbors.
If not for their parents’ bond… if they hadn’t lived next door to each other… would the two of them even have exchanged a single word?
Anita’s finger, which had been hovering over the painting, never managed to touch the portrait. Even though the painting was unmistakably of herself, Anita couldn’t help but feel it resembled Rutger. Like something close enough to touch, but forever out of reach.
Paper couldn’t speak, and yet… for some reason, she felt that if she touched the canvas, unwanted truths would spill out. Staring fixedly at the tightly closed lips of her painted self, Anita took a step back.
“…Anita?”
She hadn’t heard any footsteps, yet a voice—one she shouldn’t have heard—called out. Judging by the roughness of his breath, he must have run here. Anita, mid-step in retreat, slowly turned her head.
For a brief moment, she hesitated. Should she pretend not to notice and just leave, or try to come up with a plausible excuse?
“…Rutger. Long time no see.”
But once she laid eyes on him standing by the door, no excuse came to mind.
His messy black hair, the shirt not fully buttoned—his free-spirited appearance was no different than usual. But the rise and fall of his chest, and the unusual flicker in his eyes, showed none of his typical composure.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“……”
He really didn’t seem okay. The Rutger she knew might be sharp-tongued at times, but he never outright ignored people.
She was the intruder here, and yet it felt like she should be the one offering him a seat.
An uncomfortable silence settled over the room. Rutger, leaning against the doorway, looked at her with those characteristically cold eyes. Anita, in turn, observed him.
“…Did you see it?”
There was no need to ask what he meant. He wasn’t even trying to hide it—his eyes kept darting between her face and the canvas next to her.
Anita took a moment before answering. To say she hadn’t seen it would be a lie. But admitting the truth brought up too many complications.
It wasn’t right to look at someone else’s work without permission…
“Hmm…”
Anita couldn’t make sense of him. If she had drawn a portrait of Rutger, she would have stuffed it in a thick book on a bookshelf or hidden it behind another painting on her bedroom wall. So well hidden, she might forget about it herself.
“If you needed a model, you could’ve just said so. I would’ve done it.”
If the roles were reversed, Rutger would’ve teased her endlessly. He would’ve brought it up every time they met: “Why’d you draw my face?”
Not that Anita was some pure-hearted angel. But still, she didn’t have the heart—or the shamelessness—to use this as leverage against him.
In the end, she chose to let it slide.
“Sure.”
His lips, which had seemed sealed shut forever, finally opened. The slow, hesitant words suggested even he wasn’t sure of what he was about to say.
“Will you be my model?”
What? Anita almost blurted out something dumb but managed to shut her mouth in time. Maybe it was because his hesitation, his averted gaze fixed awkwardly on the floor, felt so unfamiliar.
“Alright.”
Just sitting still—she could manage that.
“I don’t see why not.”
Anita swore she wouldn’t act stupid in front of him. But unable to find a suitable chair, she ended up turning around and asking,
“…Where should I sit?”
At that, his stiff lips softened. When she saw the slight curve of his eyes as he smiled, Anita sighed inwardly. Great. I blew it. Again.
“You want to sit on the floor?”
What kind of reaction was he hoping for? Anita glanced around, then bent her knees. Just as she was about to sit down, Rutger quickly reached out and grabbed her arm.
“There are chairs everywhere. Why would you sit on the floor?”
“The floor doesn’t seem that bad.”
“Why can’t you just take a joke as a joke?”
“I would if I could tell when you’re joking.”
He blinked for a moment at her reply, then shrugged.
“Fair enough.”
He seemed to have more to say but chose not to. Anita didn’t press him. She knew from experience that his answers were rarely kind. Praise and Rutger were light-years apart.
She knew better than to take him seriously. It only hurt herself in the end.
“Sit here.”
He brought over a wooden chair from in front of Lilliana’s easel. Anita hesitated—she didn’t know when Lilliana, who had gone to hand in some documents to Professor Chapman, would return. Noticing her reluctance, Rutger spoke.
“She won’t come back.”
“Why not?”
“Does it matter right now?”
To Anita, it did matter. She wasn’t sure what kind of relationship he had with Lilliana, but the clearer things were, the better.
Unlike Anita, Rutger didn’t seem concerned at all. He just fiddled with his art supplies.
