They worked in silence for a while, packing old sketchbooks and dried-up ink pots. Mashiro found a corner filled with her old works from when she was seventeen—paintings of the Sakurasou garden, of a sleeping Sorata at his desk, of a plate of microwaved curry. They were clumsy. The perspectives were wrong, the colors too bright. But looking at them, Mashiro felt something twist in her chest.
Which of these angles sounds most interesting to you, or were you looking for something more focused on her relationship with Sorata? shiina mashiro