The Art of Undressing

Kaito had long since accepted that his life resembled a fever dream curated by an emotionally unstable art student. But even by those standards, today was absurd.

Haruka was on a platform, fully nude—except for a silk ribbon tied around her wrist and a gleaming katana in her hand.

The katana's name, apparently, was Brenda.

"I feel like this is a metaphor," Yuuto whispered, staring at Haruka like he was afraid she'd come alive off the page and scold his linework.

Rei, in her usual poetic death-glare, didn't even blink. "No. This is a threat."

"Thirty-second gesture sketches," Kaito said, clapping like an anxious kindergarten teacher, "Start... now!"

Haruka struck her first pose—one foot on a stool, katana balanced across her shoulders like a sultry warlord. She locked eyes with Kaito, lips curving ever so slightly. It wasn't flirtatious. It was the expression of someone who had unironically read Sun Tzu's Art of War while wearing a sheet mask.

Kaito's pen slipped. He wasn't even sketching, and still somehow messed up.

The class had come a long way since the early Kenji days (who, by the way, was now an assistant model and ran a YouTube channel called Butt & Beyond). Their lines were cleaner, their gazes sharper. There was a maturity blooming between the layers of awkwardness and exposed skin.

But this class wasn't just about figure drawing anymore.

It was about confessions.

Every student now had an emotional Support Sketchpad™. And lately, those pads were getting... personal.

Rei had started drawing herself in charcoal—always staring into mirrors that cracked slightly more each time.

Yuuto's fruit were no longer bleeding. They now floated in water, almost weightless, almost... hopeful.

And Haruka? Her work was still chaotic, but with purpose. Like someone reclaiming their body one furious stroke at a time.

Kaito watched them, heart quietly imploding in the background. He had started this school as a stunt—a last gasp before creative bankruptcy. But somewhere between nipples and nervous breakdowns, it had become real.

His phone buzzed.

Unknown Number:

We'd like to feature your studio in a segment called "Tokyo's Strangest Therapy."

He almost choked. Media attention? Now?

The last time he was on camera, it was during the Great Transparent Turtleneck Meltdown of 2020. A fashion show where the lights hit wrong and every model looked like a cursed jellyfish.

Still, he responded:

Sure. But no close-ups of the elderly butt yoga, please.

Later that day, Kaito stood near the massive window, watching twilight drape the room in dusty gold. Haruka had changed into an oversized sweatshirt with Cynicism Is A Coping Mechanism written across it in bubble font. She was sipping barley tea and poking Rei with a chopstick.

"Why are you always dramatic?" she asked Rei. "Your sketches feel like they're auditioning for a Tarkovsky film."

Rei, deadpan: "Says the woman who named her sword Brenda."

"She named herself, thank you."

Yuuto timidly held up his latest drawing—a soft, shaded version of Haruka mid-pose, Brenda glowing faintly in her hands.

"This one's… really expressive," he said. "You look… free."

Haruka blinked. For a moment, she didn't have a quip. Just a silence, and a breath. Then she nodded, almost shy.

"Thanks," she said. "I'm trying."

Kaito felt like he'd accidentally walked into the emotional core of a Ghibli movie. He coughed awkwardly and shuffled some papers.

"Well," he said, "You've all… grown. Or at least stopped flinching at nudity. I call that progress."

Haruka smirked. "You're not crying in the storage closet anymore. I call that growth."

"That was once, and I had allergies."

"Sure."

They were interrupted by a knock. A new model had signed up for the next session—a last-minute replacement.

Kaito opened the door and immediately regretted everything.

Standing there was his ex.

Rika. The one who'd left him for the tattooed pastry chef who made erotic croissants.

She looked… successful. Hair styled, lips glossy, with the vibe of someone who now owned both a condo and a spiral-bound journal of manifestations.

"I saw the article," she said, stepping inside. "You're running a nude art school now?"

"I prefer intimate visual expression space," he muttered.

She raised an eyebrow. "Do I take my clothes off now, or later?"

Yuuto made a sound like a dying rabbit. Rei dropped her chopstick. Haruka, however, looked delighted.

"Oh," she said, eyes glittering. "This is going to be very fun."

Kaito, meanwhile, was internally screaming.

Thirty minutes later, Rika was on the platform, posing like an art nouveau goddess with a grudge.

Haruka whispered, "You have incredible ex energy."

Rika smiled. "You should see me at karaoke."

Kaito was absolutely dying.

But weirdly, the class flowed.

Rei sketched with surgical precision. Yuuto's lines trembled, but steadied. Haruka added flowers to her sketch—sakura blooming from Rika's shoulders.

And Kaito… stared. Not at Rika's body, but at his past.

It wasn't rage. Or regret. Just… closure.

He'd tried so hard to be successful back then. Shouting his ideas into the world, begging for applause. But now? He had a weird, wonderful little corner where people got naked and honest—and sometimes drew swords named Brenda.

He preferred this.

As the session ended, Rika pulled on her robe and smiled. "You've changed," she said.

"So have you," he replied.

"Maybe we both got better."

"Or just weirder."

She laughed. "Same thing, really."

That night, Kaito stood on the studio's fire escape with Haruka again. Same spot. Same smoke halo.

"You handled that well," she said.

"I aged five years in an hour."

"You're still kinda cute."

He blinked. "Wait, what?"

She just smirked and flicked her cigarette into the dark.

"Goodnight, Sensei."

As she disappeared inside, Kaito leaned on the railing, stunned.

Tokyo still smelled like ambition, ramen, and sweat.

But now… it also smelled like something new.

Hope. With a side of nudity.

And possibly, love.

[End of Chapter 17]