Chapter Two: That Kind of Quiet
After the library session, Kira didn't go straight home.
She didn't want to. She wasn't ready to return to the dim apartment and the sound of the television bleeding through the walls. She wasn't ready to sit across from her father's silence or pretend she didn't hear her mother crying in the bathroom again.
So she wandered.
The sky was shifting. The sun dipped behind buildings, and the clouds stretched themselves thin like old fabric. Shadows lengthened across sidewalks, brushing against her sneakers as she moved down narrow streets she didn't usually take. The air smelled like warm pavement and wilted jasmine, and somewhere, someone was playing soft jazz from an open window.
Her sketchbook was heavy in her bag, like it carried more than paper now.
It carried her heartbeat. It carried her questions. And somewhere between the pages, it carried Mina.
Kira hadn't expected her to be like that—curious without being cruel, soft without being fragile. When she'd first heard her name paired with Mina's, she'd thought: She's going to hate this. Girls like Mina didn't work with girls like Kira. They didn't sit in quiet libraries and lean in and say things like "Sad things are honest."
But she had.
And that meant something. It had to.
At home, the apartment was dim and half-lit as always. Her father sat in the living room, feet up on the coffee table, eyes glazed over as the news anchor spoke about numbers and politics and disasters. He didn't say hello. Kira didn't expect him to.
She microwaved something frozen and pushed it around her plate for ten minutes, then slipped away into her room.
Her sanctuary.
The walls were covered in sketches—faces with eyes too wide, mouths stitched or blurred, arms that stretched too far or didn't exist at all. Shadows melted from corners, half-formed monsters sat curled in the spines of books. Her desk was a hurricane of pencils, torn pages, ink pots. On her shelf sat a lone photo of her as a child. In it, she was smiling.
She hadn't drawn smiles in years.
Kira pulled her sketchbook into her lap, the soft hum of traffic outside her window filling the silence.
She flipped to the page she'd started in the library and stared at it. The unfinished girl on the paper had Mina's softness in her jawline, but her expression was Kira's—guarded, unsure. Behind her, Kira had started another figure. Its eyes were closed. Its arms outstretched. A shadow girl with light spilling from her chest like it was trying to escape.
Kira traced the outline of her face with the side of her pencil.
Then she turned to a blank page and wrote something she hadn't let herself think too clearly until now:
"She looked at me like I was more than background noise."
The next morning was a return to noise.
The hallways pulsed with a rhythm all their own—footsteps slapping, locker doors slamming like cymbals, a hundred conversations crashing against each other. Someone dropped a textbook, and it landed like thunder. Someone else shouted about their math quiz. Two freshmen ran past her giggling, trailing the scent of strawberry body spray.
Kira kept her eyes down.
Routine was safe. Routine meant invisibility.
Until it didn't.
"Hey."
She turned.
Mina stood a few feet away from her locker, smiling like it was something she did for real. Not for show. Not for an audience. Just... for Kira.
"Still want to work on the project today?" she asked.
Kira nodded, tucking her hair behind one ear.
"Library again?"
Mina shrugged. "I was thinking something different."
Kira hesitated.
"I mean, I like the library," Mina added quickly, sensing her discomfort. "But maybe somewhere... less sterile? You know, a place that doesn't smell like printer ink and broken dreams?"
Kira almost laughed. It came out more like a breath, but Mina noticed.
"There's this café not far. Juniper & Steam. You know it?"
Kira shook her head.
Mina smiled. "You'll like it. I promise. It's cozy. Lots of plants. Mismatched chairs. And zero people from school."
Kira nodded slowly. "Okay."
"Cool. Meet me out front after last period?"
Another nod. That was all Kira could offer.
Mina didn't seem to mind.
She lingered just a second longer than necessary. Then she walked away, backpack slung casually over one shoulder, hair catching the light like wildfire.
And Kira—who never counted the minutes between things—started counting.
Juniper & Steam looked like it belonged in a storybook.
Nestled between a record shop and a dusty antique store, the café had vines growing up its brick facade, a navy awning faded by sun and time, and an old bicycle leaning against a railing out front, its basket overflowing with dried lavender.
Kira stood outside for a full minute before pushing the door open.
The smell hit her first—coffee, yes, but also cinnamon and rosemary and something like woodsmoke. Inside, everything was soft and golden. Lamps hung low over small wooden tables, worn rugs covered the floor, and chalkboard signs offered drink specials in curly cursive. The barista had a silver ring through their eyebrow and smiled without looking up.
Mina was already there.
She sat at a two-seater by the back window, curled up in the chair like it belonged to her. Her hair was in a messy bun today, strands falling around her face. A mug steamed between her hands. She looked up and smiled when she saw Kira.
"You came."
Kira nodded, sliding into the seat across from her. "It's nice here."
"I knew you'd like it."
They sat in silence for a few moments. Kira's hands rested on the table. Her fingers twitched slightly, wanting to draw, but she didn't pull out her sketchbook yet. There was something about the light—about Mina sitting there, framed in it—that made her feel like she'd already stepped into a dream she didn't want to wake from.
Mina broke the silence first.
"Do you ever feel like you're too much and not enough at the same time?"
Kira blinked.
Mina didn't look at her when she said it. She was staring into her drink like it held answers.
"I used to think I had to fill every space. Be the loudest. The prettiest. The brightest. You know?"
Kira nodded slowly.
"I used to smile so hard my face hurt. I'd go home and just... fall apart. Like I'd spent everything I had just existing."
Kira's voice was quiet, unsure. "Why are you telling me this?"
Mina finally looked at her. "Because you don't do that. You don't pretend."
Kira swallowed. "I do. Just... differently."
Mina smiled faintly. "You pretend you don't care. But you do. I see it."
Kira looked away. Her throat felt tight.
Mina leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "You ever feel like there's too much inside you and nowhere to put it?"
Kira whispered, "All the time."
They sat like that for a long moment. Two girls who didn't know each other well enough to say what they were saying, but somehow—exactly enough to understand it.
Finally, Kira pulled out her sketchbook and turned it to a page.
She slid it across the table.
It was the girl from the night before. The one with the storm in her hair and threads stitched through her lips. The one with light behind her, reaching. Kira didn't say anything.
Mina stared at it for a long time.
Then, softly: "That's how you see yourself?"
Kira shook her head. "That's how I feel."
"And the girl behind her?"
Kira hesitated. "I don't know."
Mina touched the edge of the paper with her fingertips. "She's beautiful."
Kira looked up. Their eyes met.
For a moment, everything else faded. The café. The noise outside. Even the ache in her chest that never left.
There was only this.
Mina. A sketch. A shared silence that meant something bigger than either of them could say.
They didn't finish the assignment.
They didn't even try.
But by the time they left, Kira's heart felt different—like it had shifted in her chest. Like maybe it wasn't just a thing that held pain. Maybe it could hold wanting too. And softness. And hope.