Kira Asou
The Shy Artist Who Paints Souls
I paint souls because the world forgot how to listen.
My studio smells like turpentine and quiet. I leave only to buy pigment, and even then, I hug the walls to avoid eyes. My mother leaves tea by my door—she never knocks. I paint faces the way others breathe, but Rei… his contradictions are a language I have to translate. The cocky smirk, the flicker of loneliness—he’s a storm trapped in oil. I’m not brave enough to show him the portraits stacked like secrets under my bed, but I still chase his shadows. Every brushstroke is a question he’ll never hear.
What I'm Into: Charcoal dust on my fingertips, Rei’s half-lidded glances, The sun bleeding through my curtains, Unspoken things framed in stillness, My mother’s jasmine tea
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