The laughter startled him. It slipped out before he could stop it—short, sharp, unfamiliar. Juni covered his mouth, eyes widening.
Elian blinked, then smiled. "…Was that a laugh?"
Juni stared at him for a second—then laughed again, softer this time.
"I think it was."
The days after the announcement moved differently.
Not easier. Not harder.
Just… wider.
Juni started staying after school again—not because he had to, but because he wanted to. He returned to the art room on his own, sketchbook tucked under his arm, the familiar smell of paint and paper grounding him. He drew without an agenda.
No metaphors. No fear.
Just lines. Shapes. Motion.
For the first time in months, his hands didn't shake.
At lunch, someone new sat at their table. "Mind if I join?" a boy from their math class asked.
Juni hesitated. Then nodded. "Sure."
The conversation was clumsy at first—complaints about homework, jokes that didn't quite land—but it was normal. Painfully normal. Juni found himself smiling without checking who was watching.
On the bus ride home, Elian nudged Juni lightly with his elbow. "You're humming again," he said.
Juni frowned. "I am?"
Elian nodded. "You do it when you're relaxed."
Juni considered that. "…I didn't know that."
Elian smiled. "You're learning new things about yourself."
Juni laughed quietly. "That feels backwards."
"Maybe it's just late," Elian said.
One afternoon, Evelyn found Juni and Elian sprawled on the living room floor, surrounded by art supplies and half-finished sketches. Juni was explaining something animatedly, hands moving quickly, eyes bright.
Evelyn paused in the doorway. Then smiled—to herself.
She didn't interrupt.
That evening, as they walked home under a sky streaked with pink and gold, Juni spoke softly. "…I thought joy was something you earned after everything was over."
Elian glanced at him. "And now?"
Juni shrugged. "…I think it's something you practice."
Elian nodded. "That sounds like you."
Juni bumped his shoulder lightly. "Don't make it weird." Elian laughed.
By the end of the week, Juni's circle had grown—just a little. A classmate who asked about his drawings. A teacher who suggested an art showcase. A lunch table that felt less fragile.
Not replacements. Additions.
That night, Juni added a new page to his sketchbook.
Not a door. Not a line.
A group of figures sitting together, laughing—faces still indistinct, but bodies relaxed.
At the bottom, he wrote:
I am allowed to feel good, even now.
At the bus stop the next morning, Juni arrived smiling. Elian noticed. "You look happy," he said.
Juni shrugged, almost shy. "…I think I am."
Elian smiled back. "Good."
The bus arrived. They boarded together.
And for the first time in a long while, Juni wasn't counting exits. He was counting moments.