Chapter Six : The World Is Louder Than We Are
Kira didn't know how to carry it.
The softness.
The closeness.
The way Mina had leaned into her shoulder like she belonged there, like Kira wasn't some shadow flickering at the edge of everyone else's story. She walked home with the drawing tucked safely into the back of her sketchbook, her hand resting over it like a secret.
Mina liked her.
Not just in the vague, dreamy way Kira had imagined late at night, staring up at her ceiling as stars wheeled overhead.
But in the real way. The terrifying way.
The kind that left fingerprints.
She didn't draw that night.
Not right away.
Instead, she sat on her bed with the page from Mina's journal in her lap and reread the words until they felt worn in, like favorite shoes.
I see you.
I want you near.
I like your hands.
I wish I could draw the way you look at light.
I don't know what I'm doing either.
But I want to keep doing it with you.
Each line opened something small and aching in her chest.
But also: each line stitched something back together.
The next day felt like it didn't quite belong to anyone else.
Classes came and went in a haze of voices and whiteboards and pencil scratches. But Kira wasn't in them. Not really.
She kept catching herself smiling.
Not big smiles. Not anything loud.
Just those soft ones. The kind that curled the corner of her mouth when she thought about Mina's hand in hers, or the way Mina had whispered, "I still do," like it wasn't even a question.
People noticed.
They always noticed when she changed.
A few girls whispered as she passed in the hallway. A boy in her science class asked if she was "the dyke who kissed Mina Park." He didn't say it with cruelty—just boredom. Like he was asking if she'd dropped a pencil.
She didn't answer.
She just walked past.
But later, in the bathroom stall, she clenched her fists so hard her nails left little crescent moons in her palms.
Mina found her after school.
She was leaning against the side wall near the bike racks, her hair pulled up in a loose bun, earbuds in one ear and her phone held like a shield. But her eyes lit up when she saw Kira.
And just like that, the ache eased.
"Hey," Mina said.
"Hi."
"You wanna walk home with me?"
Kira blinked. "To… your place?"
Mina's smile faltered for just a second. "Is that okay?"
Kira nodded. "Yeah. I just didn't think—"
"You're allowed to come over," Mina said, and nudged her gently. "I even cleaned. A little."
Mina's house was brighter than Kira expected.
Lots of glass. Sunlight spilling across polished floors. Books stacked on tables. Big plants by the window. It smelled like rosemary and something citrusy and sweet.
Mina tossed her bag on the floor by the couch and kicked off her shoes.
Kira hovered by the doorway.
"You can sit, you know," Mina said, flopping down and stretching like a cat across the cushions.
Kira sat.
Carefully.
The couch was too soft. Too clean. She kept her hands in her lap.
Mina turned on music—quiet, lo-fi beats—and handed her a cold can of sparkling juice from the kitchen. "It's what we have. Sorry."
"I like it," Kira said, even though she wasn't sure yet.
They sat in a silence that felt less heavy this time.
More like the kind you don't want to break.
Then Mina turned, folding her legs beneath her. "Do you think about it a lot?"
Kira looked over. "Think about what?"
"The kiss."
Kira flushed. "Yeah."
Mina reached over and traced a line along Kira's forearm, so lightly it felt like a memory. "Me too."
They spent the next hour listening to music and talking about nothing—movies they hadn't seen, teachers they hated, dreams they didn't want to admit out loud.
Mina talked more than Kira did.
But Kira watched her like she was drawing her in her mind.
She memorized the shape of her laughter. The way her lips tugged sideways when she was trying not to smile. The little frown she got when she talked about her dad, who was "mostly not around" and "definitely not helpful."
Eventually, Mina asked, "Can I see your sketchbook?"
Kira froze.
For a second, she almost said no.
But then she reached into her backpack, pulled it out, and handed it over with careful fingers.
Mina took it like it was sacred.
She flipped slowly.
Past the faceless girls. The shaded rooftops. The spirals of ink that looked more like stormclouds than thoughts.
Then: the newer pages.
Drawings of a girl with a high ponytail and a defiant smile.
A girl leaning out a window, face half-lit.
A girl dancing on the edge of a school desk, bare feet and crooked grin.
Mina stared for a long time at a sketch where the girl was asleep, curled in the crook of someone else's arm, the outlines faint and whisper-soft.
"I look safe," Mina said.
"You are," Kira whispered.
They didn't kiss that day.
Not really.
But Mina leaned in close, her forehead resting against Kira's, and they sat there with their breaths mingling in the space between them. The air smelled like rosemary and pencil lead.
And for a little while, it was enough.
But the world didn't stay quiet for long.
The next day, the whispers got louder.
Someone had taken a picture. Not of the kiss—but of Mina and Kira walking side by side, arms brushing, faces too close.
It showed up on a story.
Then a comment thread.
Then a meme.
Someone tagged Mina.
Someone else called Kira "her weird art girl phase."
Mina didn't say anything at first.
She just slammed her locker shut harder than necessary and walked out of math with red in her cheeks.
Kira saw it happen from across the hall and felt her throat close.
She didn't know what to do.
Didn't know if she should walk toward her.
Or away.
Mina looked over once.
Their eyes met.
And Kira knew—without being told—that something had shifted.
Not broken.
But wobbled.
Unsteady.
That night, she drew again.
She drew two girls in a crowded hallway, noise bleeding from every direction.
One girl was facing forward, chin high, but her eyes were wide.
The other stood behind her, hand outstretched, trying to reach her through the blur.
She titled it: What We Don't Say Out Loud.
Then she tore the page out and left it in Mina's locker the next morning.
No note.
No signature.
Just silence again.
But this time, it wasn't retreat.
It was a quiet that waited.