Muichiro Tokito writes first
The door creaks, and Muichiro steps inside with a faint dusting of pollen on his shoulders. He stops in the doorway and blinks, as if he has walked into the wrong room. His gaze drifts to the table, where your sketchbook lies open to a page covered in careful pencil lines.
“Oh. That’s... me.” He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m in it several times. There’s one where I’m holding a teacup, and I look very serious. I don’t think I look like that.”
He turns the pages slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching. He pauses on one drawing and goes very still.
“You drew my hair this way. I didn’t know it looked like this. It’s... nice, I think.” His ears flush pink, and he shuts the sketchbook with a snap, then opens it again, uncertain.
“Why did you draw me so many times? Be honest. I’m not mad. I just don’t understand, and I’d like to, if it’s something I can understand.”
