The following day, the short walk to Haru's group felt like crossing a vast, treacherous landscape. Yesterday's single, arcing line, and the unexpectedly gentle reception it had received, replayed in my mind – a loop of terror and a fragile, unfamiliar warmth. Aya had said they would explore it more. What did that even mean? How could I explain something that was less an idea and more a feeling, a sense of movement rooted in the silent language of my hands?
As I approached, Aya looked up from a fresh page in her sketchbook and smiled, a genuinely welcoming expression that made the knot in my chest loosen just a fraction. Kenji was already meticulously labeling a diagram of what looked like a shrine layout. Haru was there, quiet as ever, the same blank sheet of paper from yesterday still angled towards my seat, now bearing only my solitary, curved line.
"Minami," Aya said, her voice soft. "We were looking at your line again." She tapped the paper. "It has a really nice sense of… energy. Haru said it felt 'active'." She glanced at him, and he gave a slight nod, his gaze thoughtful as it rested on the line.
My cheeks warmed. I sat down, my own sketchbook clutched in my lap like a life raft.
"Could you… show us a bit more what you mean by it?" Aya continued, her head tilted curiously. "How that active feeling could translate to the exhibit?"
This was it. The moment to elaborate or retreat completely. My throat felt dry. I wanted to write, 'It's nothing, just a random line,' and shrink back into my invisibility. But then I saw Haru's eyes flick to my clenched hands, then back to the paper, a silent, patient waiting. And Aya's open, expectant expression.
Taking a shaky breath, I pulled my own sketchbook from my bag, opening it to a fresh page. My hands felt cold, and I consciously tried to keep my fingers from trembling too visibly, terrified of any errant movement, any accidental spark of that frightening warmth.
I couldn't use words, not to explain this. And I definitely couldn't use the full, expressive signs of JSL – the fear of that unknown power was too great. But maybe… maybe I could draw the path of the signs. The way they moved through space.
Hesitantly, I touched my pencil to the page. I started with the single arcing line again, then added another beside it, flowing from the first, as if a hand were gracefully sweeping. Then another, and another, creating a series of interconnected, flowing lines, some encompassing, some reaching, some spiraling gently. I tried to imbue them with a sense of motion, of energy being directed and shaped. It wasn't JSL, not truly, but it was inspired by its essence – the way meaning could be conveyed through pure, elegant movement.
I drew quickly, lost for a few moments in the attempt to translate the feeling in my hands onto the paper. I was vaguely aware of Aya, Kenji, and Haru leaning closer, their attention focused on my pencil. I didn't dare look at their faces.
When I paused, the page was filled with a pattern of flowing, dynamic lines, abstract yet somehow suggestive of purposeful action. It looked like a dance, or a river, or wind made visible.
"Wow," Aya breathed, her eyes wide. "That's… really beautiful, Minami. It's so different from the static symbols Kenji was showing us."
Kenji adjusted his glasses, peering intently at my drawing. "Interesting," he conceded, though his tone was more analytical than enthused. "The interconnectedness implies a sequence, a ritualistic progression perhaps. Many protective rites involve a series of prescribed movements or passes."
I risked a quick glance at Haru. He was studying my drawing with that same quiet intensity, his brow slightly furrowed. Then, he picked up the pencil I'd set down and, on the edge of my sketch, he drew a very simple, small, solid circle. He tapped it. Then he pointed to one of my swirling lines that seemed to originate from nowhere, and then drew a faint arrow from his circle towards the start of my line.
My breath caught. He was asking about a point of origin, a source for the energy I'd tried to depict. He was looking for the grammar in my visual language.
I nodded slowly. Then, very carefully, trying to keep my gestures small and controlled, I tapped my own chest lightly with my fingertips, then extended my hand towards the drawing in a soft, open gesture. From within… outwards.
Aya's eyes lit up. "Oh! So the energy, the protection, it's not just an external barrier, but something that emanates, that's projected?"
I nodded again, a wave of relief making me feel slightly dizzy. She understood. Or at least, she was getting close.
Kenji was already muttering, "Emanations… that aligns with certain theories of auric defense and projected willpower. Less common in our local shrine traditions, which focus more on sympathetic magic and warding objects, but there are precedents in more esoteric texts…"
Haru was still looking at my drawing. He picked up his own pencil again. Next to my flowing lines, he began to sketch very lightly. Not shapes, but almost… pathways. He drew a simple outline of a human figure – a stick figure, really – and then, with a few hesitant lines, he indicated how some of my drawn 'energy flows' might move in relation to the body, how they might be directed by hands or focused intent. His lines were analytical, trying to deconstruct the movement he saw in my drawing.
He wasn't signing. He wasn't even gesturing much. He was trying to understand the mechanics of what I'd drawn, the inherent language of it. And in his attempt, he was reflecting back a core truth of JSL: that it is a language of the body, of space, of directed movement.
A tiny, almost painful lump formed in my throat. He wasn't just being polite. He was genuinely trying to see, to comprehend what I couldn't easily say.
The bell chimed, startling me. The period was over already.
Aya beamed. "This is fantastic, Minami! I can really work with this. We can create panels that show these flowing energy patterns, maybe even use lighting to make them seem like they're moving. It ties into Kenji's rituals but makes it so much more dynamic!"
"The inherent symbolism of directed flow is certainly… compelling," Kenji admitted, looking at my drawing with a newfound respect.
I felt a blush creep up my neck. I'd contributed. My strange, silent drawings had sparked something.
As we gathered our things, Emi swaggered past, casting a disdainful look at my sketchbook, which I quickly covered. "Still playing with scribbles? Don't strain yourselves understanding that." Her voice was sharp.
This time, however, her words didn't sting quite as much. They were still cruel, but they felt… distant, somehow less relevant than the quiet concentration and dawning understanding I'd just witnessed around that table.
Haru, as usual, said nothing to Emi. He simply met my eyes for a brief moment as I stood up. There was no smile, not quite. But there was a depth in his blue gaze, a steady acknowledgment that seemed to say, 'I see you. I'm listening.'
And as I walked out of the classroom, the fear was still there, a cold knot in my stomach. But it was accompanied by something new, something fragile and fluttering, like the wings of a newborn butterfly. A whisper of connection. A possibility.