My Romance Life System

The next few days settled into a routine that was both fragile and surprisingly resilient. At school, Kofi's small, eclectic group became a fixture, their corner table in the cafeteria a quiet island in the sea of high school chaos. Jake and Ruby's study sessions had evolved into a daily ritual, their conversations a comfortable blend of historical analysis and shared nerdy enthusiasm. Nina, in her self-appointed role as commander, kept the mood light, her sharp, teasing banter a constant buffer against the lingering awkwardness that still sometimes settled over them.

At home, the silence between Kofi and Thea was slowly being filled with small, mundane moments of a shared life. He would come home to find a plate of food left for him on the counter, a silent offering of curry or a simple stir-fry. She had started using the art supplies he had bought her, her sketchbook now a constant companion, its pages slowly filling with detailed, lifelike drawings of birds. She still did not talk much, but her presence in the apartment was no longer that of a ghost, but of a quiet, watchful roommate.

It was a Tuesday afternoon, a week after the school trip, when things shifted again. Kofi was walking home from school alone, Nina having been conscripted into some mandatory student council meeting about the upcoming school festival. He was thinking about the history paper he had to write, a ten-page monstrosity on the decline of the Byzantine Empire, a topic that felt appropriately grim for his current mood.

He was so lost in thought that he almost did not see her.

Thea was sitting on their usual bench in the park, the one where he and Nina had their first real conversation. She was not drawing. She was just sitting there, her hands clenched in her lap, her gaze fixed on a small, brown bird that was hopping around on the grass a few feet away.

He stopped, a feeling of unease settling in his stomach. She was never just sitting. She was always doing something, drawing, cleaning, some quiet activity to keep her hands and her mind busy.

He walked over slowly, not wanting to startle her. "Hey."

She jumped, her head snapping up. The look on her face was one of raw, unguarded despair. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, and he realized with a jolt that she had been crying.

"What's wrong?" he asked, sitting down on the bench next to her, leaving a careful space between them.

She just shook her head, quickly wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. "Nothing. I'm fine."

"You're a terrible liar, Thea."

The words were gentle, not an accusation. She let out a small, shaky breath, a sound that was half a sob.

"I saw her," she whispered, her gaze dropping to her hands. "My aunt. She was at the convenience store. She saw me. She just… looked right through me. Like I was a stranger."

Kofi's hands clenched into fists in his pockets. The cold, familiar anger started to build in his chest.

"She's not your family," he said, his voice low and tight. "She's just the woman who was supposed to be."

"I know," she whispered. "But it still… it still hurts."

They sat in silence for a long moment, the only sound the chirping of the small bird on the grass.

"You know," he started, his voice quiet. "My parents… they're not here, either. They're on the other side of the world. They send money, they call sometimes, but they're not… here. I know it's not the same. But I get it. The being alone part."

She finally looked at him, her eyes wide with a surprise that cut through her sadness. "You do?"

"Yeah," he said with a small, self-deprecating shrug. "I'm kind of an expert at it."

A tiny, watery smile touched her lips. It was a fragile, broken thing, but it was there.

She looked down at her sketchbook, which was sitting on the bench between them. "I was trying to draw this one," she said, gesturing with her head toward the small brown bird. "It's a house sparrow. They're really common. But they're also really… resilient. They can live anywhere. In the city, in the country. They just… survive."

He looked at the bird, then back at her. He saw the unspoken connection, the quiet kinship she felt with this small, ordinary creature that just kept going, no matter what.

"Can I see?" he asked gently.

She hesitated for a long moment, then slowly, she picked up the sketchbook and handed it to him.

He opened it. The first few pages were the drawings he had seen before, the hawk from the mountain, the sparrow from her memory. But then the pages started to fill with more. A detailed study of a blue jay's wing. A quick, energetic sketch of a robin pulling a worm from the ground. A series of drawings of the same house sparrow, captured in a dozen different poses.

They were more than just drawings. They were observations. They were a way of seeing the world, of finding beauty in the small, overlooked details.

He flipped to the last page she had been working on. It was a drawing of a single, outstretched wing, each feather rendered with an almost impossible level of detail. It was unfinished, but it was beautiful.

"Thea," he said, his voice quiet with a genuine awe. "These are incredible. You're a real artist."

She just shook her head, a blush on her cheeks. "They're just sketches."

"No," he said, looking her straight in the eye. "They're not. This is a talent. A real one."

He handed the sketchbook back to her. "You know, the school festival is in a few weeks. They have an art exhibition. You should enter something."

The suggestion hung in the air between them. He saw the immediate flash of fear in her eyes, the instinctive retreat.

"I can't," she whispered. "People would… look at it. They would look at me."

"Let them," he said, his voice firm. "Let them see this. Let them see you. Not the sad story. Not the cursed girl. The artist."

He stood up, looking down at her. "It's just a thought. But I think you're strong enough."

He did not wait for an answer. He just gave her a small nod and started walking home, leaving her alone on the bench with her sketchbook and a new, terrifying possibility.

A possibility that she was more than just a survivor. That she might actually have something worth showing the world. And that maybe, just maybe, she was brave enough to do it.