The week after Ren's visit to Hana's home began with a kind of cautious calm. For a few days, life seemed almost ordinary. Hana still felt the warmth of her parents' hesitant acceptance, the fragile but undeniable step forward in trust. Ren continued to walk her to class, their conversations soft and private, stolen moments where the rest of the world seemed to fade.
But like petals scattered on the wind, peace never lingered for long.
The whispers returned, sharper than before.
It started with glances—sideways looks in the hallways, hushed conversations that stopped when Hana entered the room. Then came the murmurs she could actually catch.
"She's only with him for money."
"Didn't you hear? His family doesn't even approve of her."
"She's pretending to be modest, but she's climbing."
Each word dug under her skin, lodging like thorns she couldn't pull out.
Ren heard them too, though he pretended not to. His hand would tighten around hers when they passed by a group whispering too loudly to be subtle, his jaw set, his gaze fixed ahead. But Hana could see it—each rumor chipped at him, even if he refused to show it.
---
One afternoon, Hana lingered in the campus library, sketchbook open before her but lines unfinished. She had come here seeking silence, but even here, the weight of whispers followed.
At the next table, two girls exchanged looks, their voices just loud enough.
"Poor thing. Doesn't even know she's being used."
"Or maybe she's the one using him. Artists like him get bored fast."
Hana's hand froze, pencil trembling against the page. She wanted to stand, to shout that they were wrong, but the words stuck. If she defended herself, would that not give the rumors more life?
Ren appeared suddenly, sliding into the seat across from her, a quiet storm in his expression.
"You heard them, didn't you?" he asked softly.
Hana tried to smile, but her lips wouldn't move right. "It doesn't matter."
"It does." His voice was low, intense. "Because they think they know us. And they don't."
He leaned forward, his hand brushing over hers. "Hana, do you believe them?"
Her eyes widened. "Of course not."
"Then that's what matters."
His certainty warmed her, but it couldn't fully drown the ache. Belief between them was one thing; belief against the world was another.
---
The whispers grew into something heavier when posters appeared on the student bulletin boards. At first, Hana thought they were just ordinary event flyers. But then she saw it—her own sketch, copied from a project she had submitted weeks ago, pasted next to a photograph of her and Ren sitting together under the cherry blossoms.
Above it, written in thick black marker:
**"Every muse has a price."**
Her chest tightened. Who had done this? Who had taken something private, something hers, and twisted it into a mockery?
Students gathered around, whispering, laughing, pointing. Hana wanted to tear the poster down, to shred it until nothing remained, but before she could move, Ren stepped forward.
He ripped the paper from the board, crumpled it in his fist, and tossed it into the nearest bin without a word.
The crowd hushed, watching him, waiting for an outburst. But Ren only turned to Hana, his voice steady.
"Come on. Let's go."
---
They ended up on the rooftop of the art building, the city spread out beneath them, the air heavy with twilight. Ren's hands gripped the railing, knuckles white.
"They're trying to define you," he said, voice hard. "Trying to reduce you to something you're not. And I hate it."
Hana moved closer, touching his arm. "It hurts me too. But fighting back… it feels like feeding them."
Ren turned, his gaze fierce. "So what then? We just let them? Let them write the story for us?"
Hana hesitated. "Maybe… maybe silence is stronger. If we keep living, keep being ourselves, the truth will show."
Ren searched her eyes, the anger in his softening. "You're braver than I am, Hana. Because I want to shout. I want to tell them that you're not here for money, not here for status, not here for anything but… but us."
Her chest swelled at his words, tears pricking her eyes. "And I want to tell them that you're more than your family's name, more than the boy with a camera. But if we shout, they'll only twist it."
For a moment, silence settled, heavy but not hopeless.
Ren finally exhaled, his shoulders slumping. "Then let's promise something."
"What?"
"That no matter what they say, no matter what they write, we won't let it come between us. We hold on. Always."
Hana nodded, her throat tight. "Always."
---
But promises, no matter how strong, could not stop the tide.
The very next day, Ren's photography club held its annual showcase—a moment he had been preparing for all semester. Photographs lined the gallery walls, students and professors alike moving through the displays with murmurs of appreciation. Ren's work stood out: portraits suffused with light, landscapes that seemed alive, moments captured with raw, aching beauty.
Hana felt proud, standing quietly at his side, watching people marvel at his art. For once, the whispers fell away, replaced by admiration.
Until she saw it.
At the far end of the gallery, someone had slipped in an unapproved piece—a photograph of Hana. It wasn't one of Ren's, though it had clearly been stolen from his private collection. She was seated beneath the cherry blossoms, her expression soft, unguarded, almost vulnerable.
Beneath it, a handwritten note had been taped:
**"Is she the art, or the artist's downfall?"**
The room buzzed as people noticed. Some frowned, some smirked, others whispered. Hana's skin burned as if the walls themselves were closing in.
Ren stormed toward the piece, tearing it down with a ferocity that silenced the room. He crumpled it in his hands, his jaw tight, his breath sharp.
"This isn't art," he said coldly. "It's cruelty."
The crowd shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether to agree or avoid his anger.
Hana wanted to disappear, but Ren turned, his eyes finding hers with a fierceness that anchored her in place. "Don't let them steal this from you. From us."
His words carried, echoing in the quiet gallery. For the first time, Hana saw not just whispers but doubt flickering in the faces around them—perhaps, just perhaps, the beginning of cracks in the rumor's hold.
---
That night, as they walked home, Hana clutched his hand tightly, the city lights blurring in her vision.
"They won't stop," she whispered. "Not yet."
"I know," Ren said, voice steady. "But neither will we."
And though shadows still loomed, though whispers still weighed heavy, Hana felt something shift inside her. She was no longer just enduring. She was choosing—choosing to stand, to hold, to believe.
Because beneath the blooming sky, even whispers could not drown the truth forever.