-THEATRE ARTS CLUBROOM, AURORA ACADEMY OF EXCELLENCE, SAPPORO, HOKKAIDO, JAPAN-
-4:18 PM, NOVEMBER 28, 2016-
The theatre arts clubroom smelled faintly of dust, wood, and old curtains—comforting in a quiet, familiar way.
Ichika sat near the front, script resting neatly on her lap. Her posture was composed, but her attention wasn't fully on the pages in front of her.
The door slid open.
Rikuu entered without ceremony, bag slung over one shoulder, eyes already scanning the room as if assessing the atmosphere. He paused the moment he noticed her.
Their eyes met.
Just briefly.
Rikuu looked away first.
"Took you long enough," another club member joked from across the room.
Rikuu shrugged. "Had things to do."
Ichika watched him move to his usual spot near the wall, quiet, detached—yet unmistakably present. There was something different today. Not in how he acted, but in how aware she was of him.
Practice began shortly after.
Lines were read. Scenes were tested. Corrections were given.
When it was Ichika's turn, she stood calmly, smoothing her skirt once before stepping forward.
Her voice was soft—but steady.
Each word carried intention. Each pause felt deliberate.
Rikuu's gaze lifted without him realizing it.
She wasn't loud. She wasn't dramatic.
But she held the room.
When she finished, silence followed.
"That was good," the club president said. "Very controlled."
Ichika bowed slightly. "Thank you."
As she returned to her seat, she felt it—
Rikuu's eyes on her.
Not judging. Not analyzing.
Watching.
Later, during a short break, Ichika stepped toward the window, needing air. Snow drifted lazily outside, blurring the campus beyond the glass.
"…You're improving."
She turned.
Rikuu stood a few feet away, arms crossed, expression unreadable as always.
"Really?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said. "You're not forcing it anymore."
Ichika smiled softly. "I think I understand what you meant before."
"About?"
"About acting being the only place that makes sense."
He looked at her—properly this time.
"…Careful," he said. "You say things like that too easily."
"I don't think it's easy," she replied. "I think it's honest."
Rikuu clicked his tongue, but there was no bite to it.
"You're strange, Komori."
"So I've been told."
A small huff escaped him—almost a laugh.
Almost.
The bell rang soon after, signaling the end of club activities. Bags were packed, chairs returned, lights switched off.
As they walked out together—naturally, without planning—Ichika glanced at him.
"Arakawa."
He hummed in response.
"I'm glad I didn't quit."
He didn't answer right away.
Then, quietly, "Me too."
They parted at the stairs, heading in opposite directions.
But this time—
Neither felt quite as far as before.