After that day…
At first, Malid wanted to invite me into the art club. For her, maybe it was just about having another member to share the work with. But for me, that was something impossible.
First, everyone knew I had trouble talking in front of groups. The thought of sitting in a closed room, surrounded by strangers staring at every move I made… it was terrifying.
Second, there was a girl in that club whom my cousin secretly liked. Every day he hung around the club area just to steal glances at her. If I joined, I'd instantly become the target of his teasing.
"No… I can't join," I refused, my voice trailing off as if searching for a way to escape.
Malid frowned slightly, her eyes showing a flicker of disappointment. For a moment, I thought I had truly upset her. But then she sighed, the gentleness returning to her expression.
"Then… let's do this instead. We'll work in the library after school."
I nodded quietly.
And so, from that day on… a new routine began.
After school, when the campus had grown quiet and only the muffled sounds from the clubs lingered, no one paid attention to us. No one asked questions. We would quietly step into the library. Inside, a few students sat scattered around, and amidst that calm space, we sat together. I could smell the scent of old pages—it was strangely soothing, almost comforting.
We began working. I brought along many notebooks I had kept at home for Malid to choose from—since I didn't know what kind of stories she'd prefer to draw.
After some reading, Malid looked up, her voice clear.
"This story about Facy's adventure is great. I'll draw it."
I froze for a moment, then nodded quickly.
"Th-This one's fantasy… so you'll have to pay attention to the dreamlike details," I stammered, clutching the notebook tightly as if to hide my embarrassment.
From there, a strange rhythm began. I told the story, Malid listened, and then her hands moved, lines gradually taking shape on the page.
But the work was far from easy. Contrary to her usual gentle demeanor, Malid became frighteningly strict while drawing. Just one detail out of place, and she would immediately erase it without hesitation, starting over from scratch. Each time she did, my chest tightened with both fear and guilt. I was scared she'd give up working with me. I could only stay silent, refraining from comments, but even without me saying anything, she remained relentless.
"That drawing's fine… you don't have to redo it," I mumbled, trying to comfort her.
"Fine? Maybe for you, but not for me." Malid frowned slightly, though her gaze softened, as if she were fighting her own perfectionism.
I said nothing more. Instead, I pointed out mistakes with small gestures—sometimes just a hesitation when turning the page, or a faint frown. She understood, and though irritated, she corrected them.
Day after day, we met in the library. Each time, I was anxious, fearful of Malid's strictness. And yet, hidden between those feelings was a quiet joy—the joy of having someone walk beside me.
Once, she saw me writing carelessly and frowned in frustration.
"No… not enough. This character's expression doesn't feel real," she complained, her pen striking across the page.
I sighed, feeling both admiration and inferiority.
'She's so perfect… and all I can do is fumble with words.'
Many times, Malid's sharpness and meticulousness made me want to quit. But somehow, I never could. Just seeing her relaxed, happy smile after finishing a panel filled me with joy too.
On some days, I returned home drained after our intense sessions. Yet deep inside, a flame was burning.
… For the first time, I wasn't just writing stories alone and hiding them in my room. For the first time, someone truly listened and shared in them.
Time passed, and our project slowly took shape. No one at school seemed to notice the change in Malid and me. We were just two students sitting in the library, quietly working over sheets of paper. But within those secret days, a "Nameless Night" was born.
— "A story of our own."