-THEATRE ARTS CLUB ROOM, AURORA ACADEMY OF EXCELLENCE, SAPPORO, HOKKAIDO, JAPAN-
-4:09 PM, NOVEMBER 21, 2016-
Monday brought a different kind of stillness.
The theatre arts club room felt quieter than it had on Friday, as if the weekend had given the walls time to breathe. The wooden floor was cool beneath their shoes, the stage lights dimmed to a soft amber glow.
Ichika Komori stood near the edge of the stage, script in hand.
She had spent the weekend reading her lines—not obsessively, not nervously—but carefully. As if the words themselves might reveal something she hadn't yet named.
"Let's run the scene from the middle," the advisor said. "Same pairs."
Ichika looked up at the same time Rikuu Arakawa did.
Their eyes met.
Neither reacted.
They stepped onto the stage together.
"Positions," the advisor added.
Rikuu took his place first, posture relaxed but alert. Ichika followed, standing a careful distance away—close enough to share the scene, far enough not to intrude.
"Begin."
Rikuu spoke first, his voice steady.
"You came back again."
Ichika lifted her gaze. "I said I would."
"You don't owe me that."
"No," she replied softly. "But I chose it."
Something shifted.
Rikuu's next line came slower, less rehearsed. "You're making this difficult."
Ichika didn't rush her response. "Then stop pretending it doesn't matter."
The silence between them stretched—not empty, but full.
The advisor didn't interrupt.
Rikuu took a step closer—unplanned, instinctive.
"And if I don't know how?" he asked.
Ichika's breath caught, just barely. "Then learn."
The words weren't written.
But neither of them corrected it.
"Cut," the advisor finally said, thoughtful. "That's enough."
The room stirred again as other members shifted, whispered, adjusted scripts. But Ichika and Rikuu remained still for a moment longer, as if stepping out of something fragile.
When they finally moved offstage, Rikuu spoke quietly.
"You changed your delivery."
Ichika nodded. "You did too."
"…Yeah."
They sat side by side during the break, not touching, not retreating.
"You weren't forcing it," Rikuu added after a moment. "It felt… real."
Ichika smiled faintly. "That's because I listened."
He glanced at her. "You always do."
Rehearsal continued, but something had settled between them—a rhythm neither questioned.
When the session ended, they packed up in comfortable silence.
At the door, Rikuu paused.
"Komori."
"Yes?"
"…I'm glad it's Monday," he said.
She blinked, surprised. "Why?"
"Because," he replied after a brief pause, "I didn't want to wait another week."
Ichika's smile was small—but unmistakably warm.
"So am I," she said.
They stepped into the hallway together, the stage lights dimming behind them.
And for the first time, the stage didn't just echo their voices—
It reflected them.