Chapter One – The Quiet Before Him
1666 Words
Ren Takahiro’s fingers trembled as he adjusted the strap of his bag over his shoulder, the soft hum of late summer cicadas fading behind him. The hallway smelled of freshly waxed floors and anxiety. Room 305—his new start. His final year. His final chance to stay invisible.
The dorm door creaked slightly when he pushed it open. He hoped the room would be empty. Quiet.
It wasn’t.
There was someone already there.
A shirtless guy lay sprawled on the lower bunk, one arm tucked behind his head, the other lazily flipping through something on his phone. Headphones rested around his neck, leaking faint music—metal or punk, Ren couldn’t tell.
Tattoos trailed down the guy’s toned chest like art made to provoke.
And provoke it did.
Ren froze at the entrance. “Oh. I… didn’t think anyone was here.”
The guy looked up slowly, eyes the color of storm clouds—gray and unreadable. “You’re late.”
Ren blinked. “Late?”
“I moved in yesterday,” the guy said, sitting up, stretching, yawning like a lion just waking from a nap. “The name’s Aiden. Don’t touch my stuff, and we’ll get along just fine.”
He didn’t offer a handshake.
Ren bowed slightly instead. “I’m Ren. I—uh—I’m Fine Arts. Third year.”
Aiden raised an eyebrow. “Figures.”
Ren flushed. “What does that mean?”
Aiden smirked, eyes drifting to Ren’s oversized tote bag stuffed with sketchbooks. “Just... artsy vibe. Sensitive aura. Probably allergic to confrontation.”
Ren stepped fully into the room and closed the door behind him. “I’m not allergic.”
“Sure.”
Aiden turned away, putting his headphones back on like Ren had already become background noise.
Ren unpacked in silence. He took the top bunk. He always preferred heights—it made it easier to disappear. Aiden’s stuff was everywhere: his guitar case leaned against the wall, cables like vines across the floor, a half-drunk bottle of Coke perched precariously on the edge of the desk.
“Is this your third year too?” Ren asked quietly.
No answer.
He tried again. “What’s your major?”
Still nothing.
Ren sighed and climbed up to his bunk.
That night, he dreamed of soft voices and hard truths. Of his father’s silence at the dinner table and the time he confessed—at fifteen—that he liked a boy in his math class. He remembered the slap. Not the words. Just the sting.
The next morning, Aiden was gone. Ren’s sketchpad lay open on the desk, flipped to a half-drawn portrait of someone asleep, one arm above his head, tattoos in ink. Ren gasped and shut the book.
He must’ve drawn Aiden without realizing.
They didn’t speak for days, except in grunts and glances. Aiden came and went like a ghost with headphones, smelling faintly of smoke and rain. Ren tiptoed around him. He told himself he preferred it this way.
But one evening, the silence shattered.
---
Ren had returned late from the studio, fingers stained with charcoal. Aiden sat at the edge of his bed, frowning at a tangle of wires connected to his guitar.
“Need help?” Ren asked.
Aiden looked up, surprised. “You know amps?”
“No,” Ren admitted. “But I know knots.”
Aiden grinned. “Alright, art boy. Be my roadie.”
---
Ren sat on the floor, carefully untangling cables while Aiden tuned his guitar. The strings hummed—low, warm, haunting.
“You play beautifully,” Ren murmured.
Aiden didn’t respond right away. Then he said, almost too softly, “Not anymore.”
Ren looked up. “Why not?”
“Some things sound better in silence.”
---
That night, Ren dreamed of music and thunderstorms. Of eyes that looked right through him, and hands that didn’t push him away.---
The next few days passed in fragments.
Ren wasn’t sure if they were becoming friends or just growing used to each other’s presence. Aiden had a way of filling a room without speaking—he didn’t demand attention, but somehow, Ren couldn’t ignore him. Even when they weren’t talking, Aiden’s presence hummed like background music. Low. Constant. A little dangerous.
---
One night, the rain wouldn’t stop.
It drummed against the dorm windows like impatient fingers. Ren sat cross-legged on his bed, sketchbook open in his lap. He told himself he wasn’t listening to Aiden’s guitar again, but that was a lie. Every soft strum, every pause, every breath Aiden took between notes pulled at something in him.
“You always draw in silence?” Aiden asked suddenly.
Ren looked up, surprised. “Yes.”
“No music?”
Ren shook his head. “Too distracting.”
Aiden raised an eyebrow. “You ever drawn to live music?”
Ren paused. “No.”
Aiden leaned back against the wall. “Try it.”
Ren hesitated.
“Come on,” Aiden smirked. “Draw whatever the music makes you feel.”
The challenge in his voice sparked something in Ren. He dipped his pencil to the page just as Aiden began to play.
It wasn’t a song with lyrics. Just raw chords, mellow and echoing like rain on glass. Not perfect—there were slips, uneven notes—but they bled emotion.
Ren’s pencil moved on instinct.
Lines turned into shadows. Shadows turned into eyes.
---
“Let me see.”
Aiden’s voice broke the trance.
Ren blinked. He hadn’t realized he’d finished. The drawing was of a boy—no, a man—leaning into the darkness, half-lit, eyes hollow but burning. It wasn’t a perfect portrait, but Aiden would recognize himself instantly.
“No,” Ren said, flipping the page.
Aiden frowned. “Why not?”
Ren’s voice came out quieter than he expected. “Because it feels like too much.”
Aiden stared at him for a moment. “You’re weird, Ren.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
Aiden’s eyes softened. “No. Kinda refreshing.”
A few days later, Ren woke in the middle of the night, heart pounding. A scream had startled him. Muffled, but real.
He sat up and looked down.
Aiden was thrashing in his bed, face twisted, chest heaving.
“Aiden?” Ren whispered.
No response.
Then Aiden jerked upright—eyes wide, breathing like he’d run miles. Sweat drenched his collarbone. He looked around wildly before locking eyes with Ren.
For a moment, Ren saw something raw. Fragile.
Then it vanished.
“I’m fine,” Aiden muttered, wiping his face.
“You were dreaming.”
Aiden didn’t answer. He got up, pulled on a hoodie, and grabbed his pack of cigarettes from the drawer.
“You shouldn’t go out—it’s raining,” Ren said softly.
“Exactly why I’m going.”
The door shut behind him.
Ren didn’t sleep after that.
The next morning, Aiden looked like hell. Dark circles under his eyes. Fingers twitching like they’d seen ghosts.
Ren wanted to ask what he’d dreamed about.
But Aiden beat him to it.
“Do you believe dreams mean anything?”
Ren blinked. “Sometimes.”
“Like… signs or warnings?”
Ren looked down. “Or maybe just buried things we don’t want to feel when we’re awake.”
Aiden was silent. Then: “I hate sleeping. Feels like drowning in memories.”
Ren stared at him.
Aiden met his gaze. “You ever feel like something broke in you a long time ago, and you’ve been pretending it’s fine ever since?”
Ren’s throat tightened.
“Yes.”
They didn’t speak after that.
But that night, Aiden didn’t scream.
Three weeks passed.
The walls between them stayed, but thinned.
Ren learned that Aiden had dropped out the previous year and re-enrolled under probation. That he used to sing with a band—until something happened at one of their gigs. He didn’t say what.
Ren didn’t press.
In return, Aiden didn’t ask why Ren flinched at loud voices or always carried two anxiety pills in his wallet.
One Saturday night, the university was buzzing with a rooftop party, but Room 305 was dimly lit, the soft sound of Aiden’s guitar filling the air.
Ren sketched by the window, the glow from outside casting gold across his page. Aiden watched him, really watched him, from across the room.
“You never go out,” Aiden said.
Ren shrugged. “I’m not good with crowds.”
“You’re not good with people.”
Ren smiled faintly. “I’m okay with one.”
Aiden paused. “You ever had a boyfriend?”
The question struck like lightning.
Ren’s pencil froze mid-sketch.
“…No.”
Aiden nodded. “Me neither.”
Silence.
Then Ren asked, “But you’re not—”
“Straight?” Aiden finished. “I don’t know what the hell I am. I’ve liked girls. I’ve looked at guys. Then hated myself afterward.”
Ren looked up. “Why?”
Aiden’s voice turned bitter. “Because I was raised to believe it’s wrong.”
Ren closed his sketchbook. “Me too.”
The distance between their beds felt thinner than ever.
Aiden stood up, walked to the window where Ren sat.
“Let me see,” he said.
Ren hesitated, then handed over the sketch.
It was a portrait of Aiden—not just his face, but something deeper. A look of longing, of conflict. Of softness he never let show.
Aiden stared at it for a long time.
Then he whispered, “You see too much.”
“I can’t help it,” Ren said quietly. “You wear your pain like skin.”
Aiden laughed once, bitterly. “Then I must be naked.”
He handed the sketch back.
“Don’t draw me like that again,” he said.
Ren nodded. “Okay.”
But when Aiden turned away, Ren swore he saw him smile.
- Writer
