-AURORA ACADEMY OF EXCELLENCE, SAPPORO, HOKKAIDO, JAPAN-
-3:12 PM, DECEMBER 7, 2016-
The final bell rang through the halls of Aurora Academy, crisp and clear.
Students spilled into the corridors, their voices overlapping in a familiar symphony of footsteps, laughter, and hurried plans. Winter coats were shrugged on, scarves adjusted, gloves pulled tight.
Ichika Komori packed her notebook carefully, slower than usual.
Her eyes drifted toward the classroom door.
Theatre club, she thought.
She stood, smoothing her skirt out of habit, then made her way through the hallway. The path toward the club room had become familiar—too familiar for someone who once passed it without a second glance.
-THEATRE ARTS CLUB ROOM, AURORA ACADEMY-
-3:24 PM-
The door was slightly ajar.
Voices filtered out—laughter, teasing, then silence as someone began reading.
Ichika paused.
She peeked inside.
Rikuu Arakawa stood near the center of the room, script in hand. His posture was relaxed, almost careless, yet when he spoke, the room shifted.
"—If you're going to leave," he said calmly, "then don't look back. I won't."
His voice wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
The words landed heavy, deliberate—carried by something deeper than practice.
Ichika's breath caught.
He's different here, she realized.
Onstage, Rikuu didn't look tired.
Didn't look guarded.
Didn't look like someone carrying the weight of too many nights.
He looked… honest.
The director clapped. "Good. Again—but this time, don't hold back."
Rikuu nodded once.
When he repeated the line, there was a crack in his voice this time. Controlled. Intentional.
Ichika felt it in her chest.
-HALLWAY OUTSIDE THE CLUB ROOM-
-4:02 PM-
Rehearsal ended with scattered applause and groans of exhaustion.
Ichika stepped back just as the door opened.
Students filed out, chatting loudly.
Then—
Rikuu.
He walked out last, tugging his jacket on, gaze distant.
Ichika hesitated.
"Arakawa," she called softly.
He stopped.
Turned.
"…Komori."
She approached, hands clasped in front of her. "You were… amazing."
He blinked, clearly unprepared for the compliment. "You were watching?"
"I didn't mean to spy," she said quickly. "I just—heard your voice."
A brief silence.
"…It's just practice," he replied.
Ichika shook her head. "No. It wasn't."
Rikuu looked away.
The late afternoon light caught the faint discoloration beneath his sleeve. Ichika noticed it—not sharply, not accusingly—but with quiet concern.
"You look tired," she said.
"I'm fine."
"You say that a lot."
He glanced at her then, eyes unreadable. "And you ask a lot."
She smiled faintly. "Maybe."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Snow drifted past the windows at the end of the hall.
"…Why do you keep coming to the club?" Rikuu asked suddenly.
Ichika answered honestly. "Because when you act… you don't look cold."
That made him still.
"I didn't mean temperature," she added softly.
"I know."
Their eyes met—just for a second longer than usual.
Then Rikuu stepped aside. "It's late. You should go."
She nodded. "You too."
As they walked in opposite directions, Ichika realized something new.
The stage wasn't the only place Rikuu revealed himself.
And Rikuu, watching her disappear down the hall, wondered—
When did her warmth start following him offstage?
The snow outside kept falling.
But neither of them felt it as cold as before.