Kanta leaned back against the window frame, his eyes narrowing playfully at Lada. "So, what's with all the Russian names in our class? You, Tanya, Anna—did I miss a trend?"
Lada shrugged. "Beats me. Mom said 'Lada' was a goddess of love in some fairytale. Nothing Russian about it."
“So you’re not Russian?”
“Do I look Russian to you?”
Kanta gave her an exaggerated once-over. "Yeah, you don't really look Russian." He paused, then smirked. "But with those 'Ukraine-war-was-the-U.S.'s-fault' comments, you could very well be Russian."
Lada laughed. "That was all you! Now my dad thinks I'm a communist. Thanks for that."
She paused, her expression softening. “Though, if I remember right, Tanya’s grandmother was Russian. I think that’s who she’s named after.”
“Tanya’s actually Russian?” Kanta said, nodding knowingly. "That explains how she’s always serious and doesn’t talk much. Oh, and how she never wears a jacket, even when it’s freezing."
"How do you know she never wears a jacket? What are you, stalking her?”Lada looked at him with a smirk. "You creep." She said. Kanta smirked back, unfazed.
The door slid open, interrupting them. Tanya walked in, her gaze serious as always, but her hair—dyed black, sleek, and glossy—caught Kanta's attention immediately. He blinked, momentarily at a loss for words. It looked good, no—amazing on her, but he couldn’t shake the thought: Did I say something about her gray hair that made her want to change it? Was this my fault?
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Tanya moved to her seat quietly, oblivious to the attention. Kanta shot Lada a glance, but she only shrugged.
The morning dragged on with introductions and syllabus reviews, Tanya's silence lingering. When the bell for art class rang, Kim went off to calligraphy while Kanta, Lada, and Tanya made their way to the music room.
Kanta slumped into a seat in the front row, Lada beside him. His eyes found Tanya at the grand piano, her focus already on adjusting the bench with precision.
"Remind me why I'm here again?" Kanta muttered.
Lada smirked. "You can't draw, and calligraphy would bore you to death."
Kanta shook his head, eyes still on Tanya, a smile forming. "Wrong."
Before Lada could respond, Kanta's gaze softened, his voice dropping. "It's 'cause I want to see her play."
Tanya's fingers hovered above the keys for a moment before pressing down, her black hair falling slightly forward as she played, a melody drifting through the room. The notes were soft, melancholic. Kanta watched her, captivated. Her eyes, usually so guarded, seemed to shine with an inner light. The corners of her lips curved slightly. There was something in the way her shoulders relaxed, the fluidity of her movements, that spoke of contentment—a quiet happiness that hid beneath the sadness of the notes.
Lada was silent, her gaze softening as she watched Tanya. Her smirk was replaced by something gentler, a quiet appreciation.
Kanta felt his chest tighten, a warmth spreading through him. The music seemed to wrap around her, and for once, she looked at peace. The way her fingers danced over the keys, the way her body swayed slightly with the rhythm—it made him believe, if only for a moment, that she was happy.
The music flowed, and for that moment, the rest of the world ceased to exist. Kanta leaned back, his eyes fixed on Tanya. He knew, without words, that this was a side of her she rarely showed—a side he always wanted to see.
When the final note lingered in the air, Tanya looked up, her gaze meeting his. Kanta gave her a small nod. She blinked, a tiny smile still playing on her lips.
Kanta felt his own smile grow, the world outside the room fading into irrelevance. For now, there was just Tanya, him, and the music. Everything else could wait.