It was like a passing gaze; like when somebody is at an art museum and their gaze scans the paintings, recognizing their beauty but not fully registering it. The memory of that moment, that mere glance of half-hearted recognition, quickly faded into a forgotten memory.

Seeing her the first time was like a passing gaze. She was a scholarship student, like Haruhi, but Mori never really knew of her existence. He didn't even remember seeing her in the halls, or being in the same class as her. The first time he fully recognized her existence was an unimportant moment. She was merely there, sitting in the back of the classroom quietly doing her work. He didn't really see her until she passed him and her elbow brushed against his hair, but she didn't look over at him, and he only looked up for a moment then looked away. The only thing he saw was her back; long brown hair, plain and untamed, and cheap clothes that made it obvious she couldn't afford the uniform. Mori didn't see any use in knowing her, and the one second of recognition was gone and he had forgotten all about it.

The second time (Mori actually thought it was the first time, because the real first time shouldn't count) Mori saw her it was not like a passing gaze. A passing gaze was weak and unimportant. This time, the image of her was shocking. The image was burned into his mind, into every pore of his body, because that moment was so breathtakingly beautiful that Mori, for the first time, actually saw her.

She stood in the abandoned classroom, her back to him. She wore no apron, as if she didn't care if her clothes got ruined, which they seemed to be – paint covered her clothes and her face and her hair was pulled back into a messy bun. Her eyes were strangely dark as they peered up at the most magnificent painting Mori has seen, even if it was of a boy he had never seen before, smiling brightly as if somebody was taking a photograph of him.

But it was not this that made Mori see her.

It was the look on her face as she looked at that perfect picture. She had tears streaming down her face, but her mouth was soft, as if she did not feel any true sorrow. Even so, her eyes were full of pain, as if she were reliving a memory – her tears told him enough.

He stood there watching her, unsure of why he even stopped to get a closer look as he passed the room in the first place. He wondered why she left the door open for anybody to witness such a heartbreaking, intimate scene. If it wasn't him it could have been anybody else. But Mori did not truly worry about that. He found himself completely focused on the image of her, her face, the way she gazed at that nameless boy with a gentle, agonized look in her eyes, the way she had painted him so large that it nearly fit the wall.

Then it was gone.

Mori had walked away, and the magic – that one moment of truly seeing – had disappeared. But even so, that image had been carved into his brain and he thought of it all through the week, despite his irritation and futile attempts to erase the obsessive image from his mind.

Nothing changed. He was quiet, as always, during club hours. He took care of Honey and watched his friends bounce around and act as insane as they always did and he watched on with his own smile, a part of it even if he said nothing at all. The normalcies of his passing days were calming, yet even then he thought of her. Of that moment. And he had to allow these useless questions to pop into his head; who is that boy, why was she crying, what happened, who is she?

These questions only frustrated him, and so he found himself at that room again, and was startled to actually see her there.

This time she was not covered in paint and she wasn't crying over that picture. She was sitting on a stool painting on a normal canvas. She held a paintbrush dropping with black ink between her teeth and leaned forward with an intense look on her face, painting an unseen image on that white canvas.

She hadn't noticed him and Mori couldn't bring himself to walk away again, so he just watched her, resting his shoulder against the door frame. He didn't know why he was so fascinated with her, but he was, and he couldn't leave now that her image was once again in his sight – breathing, alive, there, happening now, not a mere memory unforgotten and engraved in his consciousness – so much so that he felt he might be driven insane.

She painted for a long time (Mori didn't know how long) and she finally saw him when she stood to wash her brushes. She didn't look startled, like he thought she might, but her eyes did flicker a little, as if she were afraid of him. She didn't say anything, though, as she walked to the sink and washed her brushes then calmly put them away. She took her painting and slid it behind the front desk, and walked towards Mori.

For a moment he thought she was angry. He thought she might stop in front of him and blow up, losing that eerie calm silence she possessed. But she didn't. She merely brushed past him, and he couldn't help but recognize her touch, and disappeared behind the first corner that she turned on.

All he could do was stand there. Eventually, the lingering scent of her cheap store-bought perfume and thick fresh paint vanished – only then did he leave, too.