-THEATRE ARTS CLUB ROOM, AURORA ACADEMY OF EXCELLENCE, SAPPORO, HOKKAIDO, JAPAN-
-4:12 PM, NOVEMBER 15, 2016-
The theatre arts club room was unusually quiet.
Dust floated lazily in the warm glow of the stage lights, the wooden floor faintly creaking as students settled into their places. Scripts lay neatly stacked on a table near the front, their pages marked with pencil notes and folded corners.
Ichika Komori stepped inside, closing the door softly behind her.
Her eyes instinctively searched the room.
And found him.
Rikuu Arakawa stood near the edge of the stage, one hand holding a script, the other tucked casually into his pocket. His posture was relaxed, but his attention was sharp—focused entirely on the pages in front of him.
He didn't look at her.
Yet, somehow, Ichika felt certain he knew she was there.
"All right," the club advisor said, clapping once. "Today we'll be doing paired readings. I want to see how well you listen to each other. Acting isn't about speaking—it's about responding."
A low murmur spread across the room.
Names were called one by one.
When "Komori Ichika" was followed immediately by "Arakawa Rikuu," the chatter paused for half a beat.
Rikuu finally looked up.
Their eyes met.
Neither of them spoke.
"Stage," the advisor instructed. "Page three."
They walked forward together, stopping beneath the lights. The script felt heavier in Ichika's hands than it should have.
Rikuu glanced at the page. "I'll start."
"O–okay," Ichika replied quietly.
The room faded as Rikuu lifted his head—not as himself, but as the character.
"You came," he said evenly. "I didn't think you would."
Ichika drew in a steady breath.
"I wasn't sure either," she answered. "But some places don't let you forget."
Rikuu's gaze sharpened—not surprised, but attentive.
They continued, their voices steady, the rhythm natural. Ichika's words carried softness, hesitation woven into intention. Rikuu's tone grounded the scene, firm but restrained, giving her space rather than overtaking it.
When the script called for silence, neither rushed it.
They let it linger.
"Good," the advisor said calmly. "But don't perform at each other. Listen."
They adjusted instinctively—both of them.
"Again," the advisor added. "Closer."
They stepped nearer.
Not touching.
Not retreating.
Just close enough for Ichika to feel the warmth beneath the cold air.
Rikuu lowered his voice.
"Why did you come back?" he asked, as the character.
Ichika hesitated—then spoke, her voice quieter than before.
"…Because leaving didn't change anything."
For a brief moment, Rikuu forgot the script.
His breath stilled.
"Cut," the advisor said gently. "That's enough."
They stepped apart.
As they returned the scripts to the table, Rikuu spoke under his breath, low enough for only her to hear.
"That line wasn't written."
Ichika met his gaze. "I know."
There was a pause.
"…It worked," he admitted.
Her lips curved slightly. "Thank you."
Rehearsal continued, but Ichika felt it—the way Rikuu occasionally glanced her way, thoughtful, unreadable. Not distant. Not open.
But less guarded than before.
When the club session ended, chairs scraped softly against the floor as students packed up.
Rikuu slung his bag over his shoulder. "You read lines like you're afraid to waste them."
Ichika blinked. "Is that bad?"
"No," he replied. "It means you care."
She smiled—small, sincere. "So do you."
He didn't deny it.
And in that quiet moment, beneath fading stage lights and empty seats, Ichika realized something had shifted.
Not suddenly.
Not dramatically.
But enough for the distance between them to melt—just a little.