-THEATRE ARTS CLUBROOM, AURORA ACADEMY OF EXCELLENCE, SAPPORO, HOKKAIDO, JAPAN-
-4:26 PM, NOVEMBER 25, 2016-
The clubroom smelled faintly of dust and old curtains.
Late sunlight filtered through the high windows, brushing the empty stage with a soft amber glow. The chairs were stacked neatly at the side, scripts left open where rehearsals had ended too suddenly.
Ichika stood near the doorway, hands folded in front of her, unsure where to place herself.
Rikuu set the folded chair down and shrugged off his jacket. "You can sit. You don't have to look like you're trespassing."
"I'm not," she replied quickly. Then, softer, "I just don't want to interrupt."
"You won't," he said. "There's nothing to interrupt."
She moved to the front row and sat, careful, composed—like she always was. Rikuu watched her for a second longer than necessary before turning toward the stage.
"So," he said, facing forward, "what did you want to return?"
Ichika lifted the script slightly. "This. I finished reading it."
"…Already?"
She nodded. "I couldn't stop."
Rikuu let out a short breath. "Figures."
He stepped onto the stage without ceremony. No dramatic pause. No announcement. Just a quiet presence that somehow pulled the air toward him.
"Which part did you like?" he asked.
Ichika hesitated. "The silence."
He glanced back. "…That's not a part."
"It is," she insisted gently. "Between the lines. When the character doesn't say what they feel—but you still know."
Rikuu turned fully now, studying her like he was seeing her from a new angle.
"You read scripts strangely," he said.
"Is that bad?"
"…No," he replied. "Just rare."
He walked to center stage, eyes drifting to the floor markings. "Most people chase the loud moments. The crying. The shouting. The applause."
"And you don't?"
"I chase the truth," he said flatly. "Even if it's quiet."
Ichika's heart skipped—not loudly, but unmistakably.
"That's why you act like that," she said before she could stop herself.
"Like what?"
"Like you're not performing. Like you're remembering something."
Rikuu's jaw tightened.
For a second, she thought she had gone too far.
"…You're observant," he said at last. "Too observant."
"I'm sorry," Ichika said quickly. "I didn't mean to pry."
"You didn't," he replied. "You just looked."
Silence filled the room again—but this time, it wasn't heavy.
Rikuu sat on the edge of the stage, elbows resting on his knees. "People don't usually see me when I'm here."
Ichika looked up. "I do."
He laughed quietly—no humor in it, just disbelief. "That's the problem."
"Is it?"
He met her gaze. Close now. Too close to pretend distance still existed.
"…It is if I start letting it matter," Rikuu said.
Ichika stood slowly, stopping just short of the stage. "Maybe it already does."
The light outside dimmed, clouds rolling in, snow beginning to fall once more.
Rikuu looked away first.
"Komori," he said, voice low, "you should go home."
She nodded. "Okay."
But neither of them moved.
The clubroom held its breath.
And somewhere between the stage and the seats, the space between them shrank—
not by steps,
but by choice.