As I Know Anything About You, I'll Be The One To Your Girlfriend, Aren't I? - Volume 1 Chapter 3.9

Leave That Culture in the Heisei Era 9

Kujo’s PoV

In the art room, there was indeed one person present—

Lying on the floor, face up.

“What, wait… are you okay!?”

Bursting through the door I had been secretly opening slowly, I ran over to the person. I’m not strong enough to just ignore someone who’s collapsed.

“Um, should I call an ambulance? No, maybe the school nurse first? Or should I find another teacher?”

As I was panicking, his eyes, those of Miyashiro Kuuya, opened and he fixed his gaze on me.

For a few seconds, the depth of his gaze took my breath away.

“…Uh?”

“Sorry for startling you. No need for an ambulance or a teacher. Thanks though,” he said, his voice a bit hoarse, not sounding quite alright.

“But…”

“…You know how you feel heavy after getting out of the pool?”

“…? Yeah, but…”

“It’s kinda like that right now… Just a really, really bad version of it. It happens often, I’ll be fine after resting a bit.”

His voice, gestures, even his blinking seemed lethargic. Can he really be okay?

…Why am I even worrying this much?

As I was shaking off the shock of seeing someone collapsed on the floor, he started to get up.

“Though, I should probably get up now. Sorry for the scare, and thanks for worrying… Uh”

“…Kujo Kurenai. First year.”

“Same grade, huh? Good, I was speaking informally. I’m Miyashiro Kuuya.”

His way of speaking was slow, likely due to his languor, devoid of any intimidation or aggression.

…So this person is the artist of that painting.

He might carry a somewhat mysterious aura. Yet, it doesn’t match the intensity of that painting. Surprising.

As I was blankly staring, he stood up, moved to a nearby chair, and sat down with his back turned towards me.

Until now, I hadn’t even noticed the chair, nor the easel placed in front of it—with a canvas depicting a half-finished painting that seemed to dance.

“!”

I gasped upon finally noticing it.

It looked like the sea was there. An incomplete sea.

After blinking thrice, I finally accepted it was a painting of the sea in progress. What is this?

It wasn’t hyper-realistic like a photograph. Yet, the essence of the sea, and more importantly, the image people seek in the sea, seemed even clearer than the actual sea itself.

What spread before me was a deep, overwhelming, unconditional sense of security.

“Alright…”

He murmured, picking up a palette and brush to resume his work.

“Wow…”

Behind him, I couldn’t help but let out an astounded sound.

Who wouldn’t, when witnessing a miracle right before their eyes? Each stroke he made was miraculous, making me want to excuse my dumbfounded reaction.

With every brushstroke on the canvas, the sea gained more presence and vitality. In a manner that seemed almost irrational to me, a breathtaking beauty was being assembled.

The sea became more like the sea. Turning into the homeland people yearn for.

──…But.

“…Haah, …Huuuh, …”

With every dab of color he added to the canvas, he let out heavy breaths.

He looked visibly in pain.

Realizing I had been gripping the hem of my skirt while watching him for some time, I finally spoke up, unable to hold back any longer.

“It looks tough… Why do you paint if it’s so hard? Do you like it that much?”

“I do like it. And… I’m arrogant,” he evaluated himself similarly to how I might evaluate myself. Continuing in a voice colored with visible hardship, he said,

“My paintings can empower others. That’s what I believe. So, I don’t want to stop painting.”

Despite how frail his voice and posture seemed, the painting unfolding before him was vividly alive. I could almost smell the life it depicted.

For something made of paint, it was too vibrant.

…It was as if.

A strange thought crossed my mind. Something fantastical, fairy-tale-like, yet incredibly cruel.

“…Could it be that”

You’re using it to paint.

Your own—

“…No, forget I said anything.”

That’s unscientific. I eventually clamped my mouth shut, changing the subject.

“Empowering others, huh? You’re painting for the sake of strangers you’ve never met?”

“If you put it that way, yes.”

I later learned he received requests to paint for various facilities.

“…I can’t understand. They’re strangers, after all. To me, it sounds too idealistic.”

Persistently badgering him despite his obvious discomfort, I ended up saying something quite nasty. I felt dizzy with my own frankness, but it was truly how I felt.

And to that, he responded in a cheerful tone, laughter evident even with his back turned.

“What’s wrong with idealism? I’m a painter. I love what’s clean and beautiful. Art is written with the characters for ‘technique of beauty,’ after all.”

“…I like beautiful things too. Though what I consider beautiful is probably different from what you think.”

But I find your paintings beautiful… That was something I couldn’t bring myself to say, my pride getting in the way.

“It’s fine, isn’t it? Beauty standards differ from person to person. …I honestly can’t tell if my paintings are beautiful.”

“That’s…”

“But, …even if they’re not beautiful, that’s okay.”

Without stopping his hand, he continued in a breath-heavy tone, as if climbing a snowy mountain, obviously using up various things as he painted.

“…There are as many unpleasant things in the world as there are good. Things that are painful, hard, or lonely. So in this world, …I think it’d be good if there were even one more painting that could sit beside someone’s pain, hardship, or loneliness, even if it’s not beautiful.”

And finally, he said,

“That’s why I paint. That’s all there is to it.”

If I exaggerated a bit, he spoke and sounded as if he could die at any moment, yet his hands never stopped.

In a dusty art room of a provincial public high school, he shared the reason he fought alone every day after school, risking his life.

It was an idealism.

A very beautiful, pure form of idealism.

Perhaps, it was the beauty of “humanity” I had always despised, couldn’t understand, and wanted to stay away from.

An idiotic brilliance that completely disregarded the best move.

Realizing it was dazzling at the same moment, I felt my body heat up.

Half of it was from embarrassment.

If being significantly better than average qualifies someone as a genius, then I think I’d fit in. Surely, or rather definitely, he would too.

But the way he and I use our abilities is just too different.

I saw brilliance in his idealism. I felt an aspiration. That’s why I ended up feeling embarrassed about myself.