The loft was quiet, save for the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional rustle of the city outside. Saori sat cross-legged on the floor, a canvas propped against the coffee table. Her brush moved in steady strokes, filling the blank space with bursts of vibrant yellows and oranges, colors that seemed to radiate the warmth of her world.

Ryuji watched her from the couch, his hands clasped around a mug of tea that had long gone cold. She was lost in her work, the tip of her tongue peeking out in concentration. He wanted to join her, to share in the brightness she exuded so effortlessly, but every time he tried, it felt like reaching for sunlight through water—distorted, just out of grasp.

"Why do you always paint with such bright colors?" he asked, breaking the silence.

Saori glanced up, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know," he said, setting his mug down. "It's like... you're afraid of the darker ones. Like you don't want them on the canvas."

She tilted her head, studying him as if he were the puzzle. "I'm not afraid of them. I just don't feel the need to use them."

Ryuji nodded slowly, his gaze dropping to his hands. "But they're part of the picture too, aren't they? The shadows, the muted tones. They make the brighter ones stand out."

Saori's smile faltered, just for a moment, and she turned back to her painting. "Maybe. But I like things to feel alive. Shadows are too heavy. They weigh things down."

He watched her brush dip into the palette, swirling in a pool of gold. "But life isn't all light. Don't you think there's something beautiful in the weight, too? In the quiet and the stillness?"

She didn't answer right away, her movements slower now, more deliberate. "I guess. But it's just not how I see things."

The conversation lingered between them in the days that followed.

Ryuji began leaving subtle traces of his world in hers. He replaced her usual morning playlist with his—slower, moodier tracks that made her wrinkle her nose in confusion. He suggested they skip the park one afternoon and spend it in the dimly lit bookstore down the street instead.

Pearl, ever accommodating, went along with it at first. She curled up next to him on the couch as he read her a passage from one of his favorite books, even though her fingers twitched with the need to pick up her brush. She let him play his records on her turntable, nodding along to the somber melodies even as they filled the room with a heaviness that didn't quite belong.

But the more Ryuji tried to share his world, the more she seemed to retreat into hers.

One evening, he found her painting alone in the corner of the loft, headphones on and music blasting loud enough that he could hear the faint beat from across the room. Her canvas was a riot of pinks and purples, a stark contrast to the subdued tones he'd been nudging her toward.

He approached her cautiously, tapping her shoulder. She jumped, pulling the headphones off with an apologetic smile. "Sorry, I got carried away."

"What are you working on?" he asked, glancing at the painting.

She hesitated, her smile faltering. "Just... something for me."

"Can I see?"

Saori shifted, blocking his view with her body. "It's not finished."

Ryuji frowned but didn't push. "You don't have to hide it, you know. I just want to understand what makes you tick."

She sighed, setting her brush down. "I don't think you do. Understand, I mean."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Saori turned to face him, her eyes searching his. "It means that you keep trying to pull me into this... heaviness. Like you want me to feel things the way you do. But that's not who I am, Ryuji. I don't want to live in the shadows."

That night, the distance between them felt tangible.

Ryuji lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her words replaying in his mind. He hadn't meant to change her. He just wanted to be closer to her, to share something deeper, something real. But maybe his real was too much for her, too different from the light she lived in.

Saori stirred beside him, her breathing soft and steady. He turned to look at her, the moonlight catching on her hair, and he felt a pang of something he couldn't name—longing, regret, fear.

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. She stirred but didn't wake, and for a moment, he wondered if he was already losing her.

Losing the light.