The cafeteria at lunch was louder than usual. Trays clattered, voices overlapped, and somewhere near the drink fountain a group of second-years were reenacting a viral dance challenge. Akira normally ate at his desk in the student council room—quieter, more efficient—but today the advisor had locked it for a staff meeting. So here he was, tray in hand, scanning for an empty table far from the noise.
He spotted one near the windows. Took three steps.
"Takahashi!"
Sora's voice cut through the din like a thrown knife.
She was already at a table with three other girls—track team members by the look of their jackets. One had pink streaks in her hair; another was waving a phone like evidence.
Sora beckoned him over with a lazy flick of her wrist.
He considered ignoring her.
Then he noticed the way the entire table—and half the surrounding ones—were staring.
He walked over.
Sora pushed a chair out with her foot. "Sit. We have a problem."
Akira set his tray down but remained standing. "What kind of problem?"
The pink-haired girl—Mai, he remembered—leaned forward. "The kind where everyone thinks you two are secretly dating."
Akira's chopsticks paused halfway to his rice.
Sora snorted into her miso soup. "Not secretly. Loudly. Apparently someone filmed our rehearsal yesterday—the tie-pull moment—and now it's circulating in the group chats."
The third girl, quiet with glasses, held up her phone. The video was grainy but unmistakable: Sora yanking Akira's tie, his eyes widening, the frozen beat before she let go. Someone had added dramatic music and heart emojis.
Akira's expression didn't change, but his knuckles whitened around the chopsticks.
"How many views?" he asked.
Mai winced. "Enough that the literature club president asked me if we're doing a romance subplot for the festival."
Sora rubbed her temple. "I told them it's just acting. They don't believe me."
Akira finally sat. "We ignore it. Rumors die when ignored."
The quiet girl shook her head. "Not this one. Someone added captions: 'Ice Prince finally melts?' and 'Chaos Queen claims her throne.' It's trending in the senior year chat."
Akira stared at his untouched meal.
Sora leaned back. "We could lean into it. Make the performance more romantic. Turn the narrative into a enemies-to-lovers story. Kill two birds with one stone—shut them up and make the show better."
Akira's gaze snapped to her. "No."
"Why not? It fits the theme. Harmony from chaos. Hate turning into—"
"We are not turning our project into a self-insert fantasy."
Sora's eyes narrowed. "It's not fantasy. It's good storytelling."
"It's dishonest."
"It's theater."
The table went quiet.
Mai cleared her throat. "Um… maybe just add a little tension? Like, more eye contact? People already think it, so why not use it?"
Akira stood abruptly. Tray still full.
"I need to review the lighting cues. Excuse me."
He left without another word.
Sora watched him go, expression unreadable.
Mai nudged her. "You okay?"
"Yeah. He's just being Takahashi."
But her fingers drummed restlessly on the table.
Later that afternoon in the auditorium, Akira was already working when Sora arrived. He had the lights dimmed to rehearsal levels and was testing a spotlight from the booth.
She climbed the steps slowly.
"You left pretty fast at lunch."
"I had work to do."
Sora stopped a few paces away. "You mad at me?"
"No."
"Liar."
Akira adjusted the spotlight angle. "I don't appreciate being turned into a spectacle."
"Neither do I. But ignoring it won't make it stop."
He finally looked at her. "Then what do you suggest?"
"Act normal. Keep rehearsing. Let them talk. Eventually they'll get bored."
Akira considered it. "Fine."
They started the scene.
But something was off.
Akira's delivery was tighter. Sora's energy felt forced.
Halfway through the tie-pull moment—now scripted with a warning cue—she hesitated.
Akira noticed. "Continue."
She did. But when she yanked the tie, her fingers lingered a second too long.
Akira stepped back faster than necessary.
Sora let go immediately.
Silence.
She exhaled. "This is weird now."
Akira straightened his tie. "Because of the video."
"Because everyone's watching us like we're going to confess any second."
Akira looked out at the empty seats. "Then we stop giving them material."
"No more improv?"
"No more unnecessary proximity."
Sora crossed her arms. "That's half the blocking."
"Then we adjust."
They spent the next hour re-blocking every close moment—adding space, turning away, using props instead of touch.
It worked.
It also felt wrong.
When they finished, Sora grabbed her bag. "Tomorrow we run the full first act. No audience allowed."
Akira nodded. "Agreed."
She paused at the top of the steps.
"Takahashi?"
He looked up.
"If the rumors bother you that much… we can tell people we hate each other. Publicly. Clear the air."
Akira's answer was quiet.
"I don't hate you."
Sora blinked.
He looked away. "Not anymore. Not entirely."
She stared at him for a long beat.
Then she turned and left without another word.
Akira stood alone under the spotlight.
He hadn't meant to say it out loud.
But once spoken, it refused to be taken back.