-AURORA ACADEMY OF EXCELLENCE, SAPPORO, HOKKAIDO, JAPAN-
-4:17 PM, NOVEMBER 25, 2016-
The theatre hallway was quieter than usual.
Most clubs had already finished for the day, voices fading into distant echoes as students left the building. The late-afternoon light slanted through the tall windows, casting long, pale streaks across the polished floor.
Ichika hadn't planned on being here.
She had only meant to return a borrowed script to the clubroom—nothing more. A quick in-and-out. No lingering.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
"Komori."
She stopped mid-step.
Rikuu stood a few meters away, a folded chair tucked under one arm, his jacket slung loosely over his shoulder. He looked just as he always did—calm, unreadable—but his eyes sharpened slightly when he realized there was no one else around.
"…Arakawa," Ichika replied, her voice soft but steady.
Silence settled between them.
Not awkward.
Not comfortable.
Just unavoidable.
"I thought you went home already," Ichika said.
"I did," Rikuu replied. "Got called back. Director forgot something."
"Oh." She nodded, then gestured weakly with the script. "I was just returning this."
He glanced at the cover. "You didn't have to rush."
"I know. I just… didn't want to forget."
Another pause.
Somewhere down the hall, a door clicked shut. Footsteps faded. The building seemed to exhale—leaving only the two of them behind.
Rikuu shifted the chair in his grip. "You're staying late more often."
Ichika blinked. "You noticed?"
"…It's hard not to."
Her fingers tightened around the script's edge. "I like it here."
He studied her for a moment. "The club?"
"The stage," she corrected. "The way it feels when people stop pretending."
Rikuu let out a quiet breath. "Funny. Most people come here to pretend better."
She smiled faintly. "Maybe. But when you act… it doesn't look like pretending."
His gaze snapped to her.
"That's not something you say lightly," he replied.
"I'm not," Ichika said. "I mean it."
For a second, he looked like he might brush it off. He always did.
But the hallway had narrowed. There was nowhere to retreat without turning his back.
"…You shouldn't watch people like that," Rikuu muttered. "You'll see things you can't unsee."
Ichika met his eyes. "Maybe that's why I keep watching."
He scoffed softly. "Stubborn."
"Careful," she said. "You're starting to sound like you know me."
"Don't get ahead of yourself."
Yet he didn't walk away.
A bell rang somewhere in the distance—faint, irrelevant.
Ichika took a small breath. "People are talking."
"I know."
"Does it bother you?"
He thought about it. About the looks. The whispers. The way his name had started being said alongside hers.
"…No," he answered. "But it will bother you."
She shook her head. "I don't mind."
Rikuu frowned. "You should."
"Why?"
"Because you have things to lose."
Her expression softened, but her voice didn't waver. "So do you."
That stopped him.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Rikuu turned toward the clubroom door and nudged it open with his shoulder. "You coming in or not?"
Ichika hesitated. "I don't want to get in the way."
"You won't," he said. "You're already here."
She stepped inside.
The door closed behind them with a quiet click.
And for the first time, there was truly no space left to step away from each other.
Only forward.
Only closer.