Chapter 2
1760words
My destination has always been only one place—the library. Not for acquiring knowledge, but for seeking refuge. For the first hour after school, the school library is the place with the lowest population density in the entire campus, especially deep among those bookshelves filled with obscure old social science books, where light and sound can hardly reach this sacred domain. I navigate through rows of towering bookshelves with familiarity, like a fish swimming back to its nest, finally finding my exclusive seat in the innermost corner. This is a perfect blind spot, with solid walls at my back, bookshelves that block the sky and sun in front of me, and only a narrow passage to my left, where anyone attempting to approach would be exposed in my line of sight in advance. Here, I can temporarily let down all my defenses.
I take out my sketchbook from my backpack. Unlike Alicia Hayes' brand-new sketchbook that serves as a communication tool, my sketchbook has frayed edges on its cover, and its pages appear somewhat worn from being flipped through repeatedly. It's not a shield, but rather my junkyard, my execution ground, my excretory organ. I take a deep breath and begin today's work. On the first page, I drew Vanessa Mitchell. In class, when Simon helped Alicia Hayes pick up her pen, the whole class smiled at that heartwarming moment, and Vanessa's smile was the most perfect, flawless like a textbook example.
But in that instant, I caught it. Deep in her meticulously painted eyes, in the slight upward curve of her lips covered with nude lipstick, there hid a fleeting, lightning-quick gaze of superiority. It wasn't an appreciation of "cuteness," but rather a marking of "otherness." She was like a queen surveying her domain who had discovered an interesting pet that couldn't sing. With my pencil, I infinitely magnified that scrutinizing gaze, drawing lines that were sharp and cutting, transforming Takatsuki's beautiful face under my strokes into an arrogant and hollow mask.
Next came Simon's "well-meaning" face. I drew his fleeting smug smile that appeared after I turned him around, emphasizing that subtle upward curve of his lips where self-satisfaction and pity for the weak mingled—I exaggerated it into an almost sickeningly smug expression. Each stroke was a judgment, an exile. I nailed these ugly, genuine expressions hidden beneath the mask of kindness onto paper, just like creating insect specimens, piercing through their disguises with lines of graphite, rendering them immobile forever. With each completed drawing, I felt a bit of the toxic resentment in my chest being released.
This is a dirty ritual, a form of self-healing. Page by page, I flip through, executing all the "visual noise" I've collected today—the annoyance of passengers on the morning train, the boasting of classmates from the neighboring class during lunch break, the impatience of the teacher during PE class—all dispatched in the same manner. My sketchbook is a paper courtroom, and I am the sole judge, jury, and executioner. Wrapped in white noise, I am completely immersed in this world with only me and these "criminals," where time loses all meaning.
I don't know how much time had passed until a flat and emotionless female voice penetrated the barrier of my headphones. "Attention all students, the library will close in ten minutes for book organization. Please complete your check-out procedures and exit promptly." It was the administrator's voice, forcing its way into my sanctuary through the broadcast system. I awoke as if from a dream and glanced outside the window; the sky had already begun to darken. With some irritation, I closed my sketchbook and stuffed it into my backpack. That sense of melancholy that I had just managed to dispel seemed to show signs of returning due to this sudden eviction.
Just as I stood up preparing to leave, I finally noticed that in the diagonal corner across from me, in another dead end formed by bookshelves, a figure also stood up. It was Alicia Hayes. When did she arrive? I hadn't noticed at all. She was like a ghost blending into the background, silently existing in my blind spot. Her movements mirrored mine, quietly and swiftly gathering her things, with her signature sketchbook carefully cradled in her arms. She too seemed to only want to quickly leave this place that was about to become "unsafe."
I shouldered my backpack and walked into that only narrow passage. She emerged from behind a bookshelf on the other side, and our paths would converge at the corner ahead. My heartbeat inexplicably quickened for an instant, and my brain began rapidly calculating how to avoid any form of contact with her—should I speed up to get ahead of her, or slow down to let her go first? My hesitation lasted only a tenth of a second, but my body's reaction seemed to lag for a century. Just as I stepped around the corner, she also happened to come out from the other side.
"Bang!"
A dull thud. My shoulder collided solidly with hers. The feeling was strange; her body was more slender and soft than I had imagined, and the sensation transmitted through the fabric of our school uniforms caused me to lose focus for a moment. Both of us stumbled from this sudden impact, and then disaster struck. Her sketchbook that she was holding in her arms, and my sketchbook that I had carelessly stuffed into my backpack without zipping it up, both slipped from our grasp. They traced two awkward parabolas in the air before landing heavily on the floor with a crisp "plop." Pages scattered everywhere, white sheets covered with lines like a flock of startled butterflies, spreading across the floor in complete disarray.
My mind instantly went blank. Panic, like an icy flood, immediately submerged my rationality. Exposed! My secret, my garbage dump, those malicious drawings of mine that couldn't bear the light of day, were now laid bare before someone else—and of all people, Alicia Hayes! Almost reflexively, I crouched down, my hands like rakes, frantically trying to gather back those pages that belonged to me. My heart pounded wildly in my chest, blood rushing to my head, making my ears buzz so loudly that even the white noise in my headphones couldn't suppress this intense roaring.
Just like me, she crouched down in a state of panic, silently picking up her drawings with an almost desperate speed. Our fingers occasionally touched in the chaos, and that slight, cool sensation made me quickly pull back my hand as if I'd been electrocuted. In the midst of this frantic disorder, my fingertip pressed down on one of her drawings. It was a very clean illustration. It only depicted a back view, a boy wearing headphones, sitting alone by the window, his face not visible. That back view... was me. And beside that silhouette, written in very delicate handwriting that seemed like it could disappear at any moment, was a small line of text.
"Is what you're listening to sad?"
My movements completely froze. Time seemed to pause at this moment. My finger still pressed on that line of text, that silent question, like a scalding needle, penetrating through the paper, deeply piercing my fingertip, then burning along my nerves all the way to my heart. Sadness? No, that wasn't sadness. It was noise, isolation, defense, it was... punishment. I didn't know how to answer, and I was even more clueless as to why she would ask this. Was she also... observing me?
Just as I was frozen by this question, I felt a gaze fall upon my sketchbook. I stiffly turned my head, following her line of sight. Her eyes were fixed firmly on one page of my drawings. That page was precisely the "execution" of Vanessa Mitchell's perfect smile that I had just completed. The expression I had deliberately exaggerated and distorted, full of condescending scrutiny, was presented completely and maliciously before her eyes. It was the most subtle malice she had personally experienced today, wrapped in a sugary coating of kindness.
I saw Alicia Hayes' pupils contract sharply in that moment, like a balloon pierced by a needle. Her lips, which always carried a faint smile, were now tightly pressed into a pale, straight line. The color drained from her face, revealing a mixture of shock, fear, and... some kind of terrible realization that had just been confirmed. She saw it. She saw what I had seen. That ugly truth hiding beneath the glossy surface, the one everyone else overlooked, the one only I knew about.
We both recoiled as if burned by each other's secrets. Almost simultaneously, we snatched back our own notebooks with an almost violent force. I hurriedly stuffed those scattered pages back into my schoolbag, not even bothering to check which ones were mine and which were hers. She did the same, clutching that sketchbook as if it had received a fatal wound, and abruptly stood up.
Neither of us looked at each other, nor did we say a word. The only sound in the air was our heavy and suppressed breathing. Then, like two accomplices exposed at a crime scene, we simultaneously turned around and fled in opposite directions as quickly as possible. I practically ran out of the library doors. The cold night wind rushed into my collar but couldn't cool my burning cheeks at all. I don't know how I made it home. My mind was in chaos, repeatedly replaying two scenes.
A lonely figure wearing headphones, and a silent question: Is what you're listening to sad?
A drawing filled with a vicious anatomical diagram of disguised kindness, and a pair of pupils that suddenly constricted in terror.
Those two heavy boulders, each from the other's world, had crashed mercilessly into the depths of our respective heart-lakes, creating ripples that could not be calmed for a long time.
