The school called it the Literature & Culture Festival.
I called it a battlefield of narcissism.
Every club, every ego with a keyboard, every student who thought they were the reincarnation of Murakami lined up to submit short stories. The prize? A featured spot in a national youth anthology. Immortality by way of ink.
Naturally, the Literature Club was expected to participate. And by some cruel twist of fate—and co-writer blackmail—I was entered as a contestant.
Under a pseudonym, of course. I refused to be publicly associated with anything that might spark social interaction.
Koharu, of course, beamed. "We're officially authors, Senpai!"
"We used fake names. We're officially ghosts."
She ignored me and returned to decorating the submission booth with sparkles, flyers, and enthusiasm I suspected was illegal in three prefectures.
Our story was simple. Two characters trapped in an endless school day, forced to relive the same period until they confessed the truth to each other. Meta, dramatic, and filled with way too much self-loathing to not be autobiographical.
Yuki submitted a story too. Her entry, titled Delusion.exe, was a surgical takedown of romantic fantasy tropes. The protagonist systematically dismantled every confession, every flower field kiss, every anime ending with cold, hard realism.
"It's fiction," she said, handing me the manuscript, "for people who mistake hormones for fate."
"So, me."
"Exactly."
Then came Noa.
Her submission? A handwritten love letter. One page. Titled: My Senpai Has No Clue.
It opened with:
"He wears cynicism like armor, but I see the cracks where sincerity leaks out."
It was terrifying. And also slightly poetic.
Koharu read it. Stared at it. And muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "I will burn this girl's diary."
The day of the festival was chaos. Booths decorated with literary quotes. Students dressed as Shakespeare, Austen, and a questionable interpretation of Kafka as a cockroach.
Makki hosted a dramatic reading of his own fanfiction crossover titled: Detective Conan vs. The Sailor Scouts: Crime and Cosplay.
It was... something.
Tsubaki-sensei served tea and offered literary fortunes. Mine read: "You will be seen, whether you want to be or not."
A threat. Clearly.
When the results were announced, a silence fell over the courtyard.
Third Place: Delusion.exe by Yuki Shirakawa.
She raised an eyebrow. "People really do love bitterness."
Second Place: My Senpai Has No Clue by Noa Hoshizuki.
She squealed. Loudly. Somewhere in the distance, glass shattered.
First Place: Eternal Monday by... pseudonym redacted.
Koharu looked at me. I looked at the ground.
Tsubaki-sensei read the final note aloud.
"The judges were moved by the emotional sincerity and introspective narrative. The writer refused to be named publicly, but has asked that their co-writer be recognized."
All eyes turned to Koharu.
She blinked.
I stepped forward just long enough to hand her the paper. And then stepped back.
Let her take it. Let them cheer her name. Let her shine. I didn't need the spotlight. I never had.
But watching her hold the certificate, grinning like the world had just handed her its final piece?
That felt better than any applause.
Later that evening, we stood under the lights of the school rooftop, our story clutched between us like a secret.
"You idiot," she whispered. "Why didn't you take the credit?"
"Because it wasn't about credit. It was about writing something true. And you made it true."
She didn't say anything. Just looked at me like I was both the dumbest and kindest person alive.
"You're seriously hard to understand sometimes."
"Good," I said. "That means I still have plot left."
She leaned her head on my shoulder.
"Then let's write the next chapter. Together."
In the background, fireworks popped, and somewhere, Makki shouted something about alternate endings.
But for now, I was content.
Not as the protagonist.
Just as the boy who finally told his story.