Chapter Text
~ 🌙💡NIRAN POV 💡🌙~
The first thing people noticed about Niran wasn't his face.
It was the light. Not real light... not the kind that came from the sun spilling through the tall studio windows or the fluorescent panels buzzing faintly overhead. It was the kind that lived in his paintings.
The kind that seemed to glow even when the room dimmed, like it refused to be swallowed.
Warm gold bleeding into soft peach. Pale blues that looked like early morning before the world woke up.
Gentle, quiet brightness that never hurt to look at.
People said his work felt safe.
Niran always smiled when they said that.
He never told them why.
~ 🌙💡● 💡🌙 ~
The fine arts studio was louder than usual that afternoon... chairs scraping, painting water sloshing, someone arguing loudly about perspective in the corner.
The air smelled like acrylic and turpentine, thick and familiar.
Niran sat by the window, brush moving in slow, careful strokes.
He worked quiet as always.
No headphones, no music, just the rhythm of bristles against canvas and the distant hum of conversation he didn't quite belong to.
On his canvas, light spilled through an open doorway.
It wasn't finished yet.
The edges were still rough, the shadows too undefined... but the light itself was already there.
Soft. Inviting.
Alive.
"You're doing it again."
Niran blinked, pausing mid-stroke.
Khao dropped into the seat beside him without invitation, leaning forward with his chin in his hand as he studied the painting like it had personally offended him.
"Doing what?" Niran asked, voice gentle.
"Making everything look like it's about to save someone."
Niran let out a small laugh, the sound barely louder than the brush in the water jar. "That's a bit dramatic, don't you think?"
"I'm serious," Khao insisted, nudging the edge of the canvas with a finger. "Look at this. This isn't just lighting. This is–" he gestured vaguely, searching for the word. "hope propaganda."
"That's not a thing."
"It should be. You'd be the top contributor."
Niran shook his head, but his smile stayed.
It was easy, talking to Khao. Easy in the way sunlight felt when it rested on your skin... warm, but not overwhelming.
"Fai would like this one," Khao added after a moment. "It feels like something he'd turn into a song and then cry about."
"Fai cries about everything."
"Exactly."
They both laughed softly.
For a moment, it felt normal.
"Hey, did you guys hear about the exhibition?"
The voice came from across the studio, loud enough to cut through everything else.
A few heads turned. Khao perked up immediately, because of course he did.
"What exhibition?" he called back.
"The cross-faculty one," someone replied. "Big project. Arts, Engineering, Architecture, the whole thing. They're pairing people up."
Khao's eyes lit up like someone had just handed him free chaos. "Oh, that sounds messy. I'm in."
"Of course you are," Niran murmured.
Khao grinned. "You should be too. Imagine... your paintings, but like... interactive. Lights, movement, all that dramatic stuff you secretly love."
"I don't secretly love dramatic stuff."
Khao just gave him a look.
Niran didn't argue further.
Instead, he dipped his brush back into paint, dragging a thin line of gold along the edge of the doorway on his canvas.
It brightened instantly.
He exhaled slowly, shoulders relaxing just a little.
He didn't notice how much time had passed until the light shifted.
It always happened gradually at first... the gold of the afternoon softening into something dimmer, cooler. Shadows stretching longer across the floor, slipping into corners unnoticed.
Most people didn't pay attention.
Niran always did.
His hand stilled.
Outside the window, the sky was beginning to turn.
Not dark yet... not even close, but the brightness was fading, inch by inch, like something gently being pulled away.
"You're staying late today, right?" Khao asked, already packing up his things. "We're all going to the café after. Fai wants to try that stupidly expensive cake again."
Niran hesitated.
It was small. Barely noticeable.
But it was there.
"I... I have some things to finish," he said carefully.
"Even better. Finish and then come."
Khao slung his bag over his shoulder. "Don't disappear on us like you always do."
"I don't disappear."
"You do," Khao said, not unkindly. "You just do it quietly."
Niran didn't respond to that.
He kept his eyes on the canvas instead, adding another soft stroke of light where it felt like it might fade.
Khao watched him for a second longer, like he wanted to say something else.
In the end, he didn't.
"Text me when you're done," he said instead. "We'll save you a seat."
Niran nodded. "Okay."
The studio emptied slowly after that.
Voices faded. Footsteps disappeared down the hall. One by one, the overhead lights flicked off in sections as people left, until only a few rows remained lit.
Niran stayed where he was.
He always did.
The quiet wasn't uncomfortable. Not really. It settled around him like a familiar blanket, soft and still.
But the shadows...
They were different.
They crept.
Across the floor. Along the walls. Into the corners where light didn't quite reach anymore.
Niran swallowed.
It's fine, he told himself.
It's not dark.
Not yet.
He reached for his phone, tapping the screen awake. The glow lit up his face instantly... small, controlled, safe.
He placed it beside his palette, just within reach.
Then he stood, moving quickly to switch on another overhead light.
And another.
And another.
The studio brightened again, pushing the shadows back where they belonged.
Only then did his chest loosen.
Only then did he breathe properly.
When he returned to his seat, he stared at his painting for a long moment.
The doorway.
The light spilling through it.
Soft. Endless. Untouchable.
His fingers tightened slightly around the brush.
"...Don't go," he murmured under his breath, so quietly it barely existed.
He didn't realize he'd said it.
Outside, the sky continued to darken.
Inside, Niran painted the light like he was trying to make it stay.