The morning of the presentation arrived laced with a subtle tension that even Alex couldn't fully dismiss. He'd slept well—discipline had its benefits—but there was a hum beneath the surface, an anticipatory charge in the air. As he buttoned his crisp white shirt and adjusted his dark trousers, he thought less about his own nerves and more about Katarina. He hoped she'd slept. He hoped her mind hadn't spun itself into knots overnight.
He spotted her the moment he stepped into homeroom. She was already seated, spine straight, hands knotted in her lap. Her silver hair was pulled back into a smooth tail, and she wore a navy blazer over a white blouse—professional, polished. But Alex had learned to read the details: the faint shadows under her eyes, the slight clench of her jaw. She was nervous—more than he'd ever seen her.
Their eyes met. He offered a small, steady smile. She gave a curt nod, then looked away, inhaling just a little too sharply."Спокойно, Катя, спокойно. Ты всё знаешь. Просто дыши."(Calm down, Katya, calm down. You know this. Just breathe.)He heard the whisper under her breath, and something in him ached with quiet empathy.
First period—English literature—crawled. Alex's eyes kept drifting from his book to her profile. She stared at the page in front of her, unmoving, unseeing. He doubted she registered a word.
At last, the bell rang. Their history presentation was next. Students rose and shuffled out. Mr. Harrison caught Alex's eye.
"Nakamura, Volkov—you can head to Room 203 to set up. We'll join you shortly."
"Yes, sir," Alex said. He glanced at Katarina. "Ready?"
She stood, movements slightly rigid. "As I'll ever be," she murmured, voice thin. Her grip on her notes was so tight he could see her knuckles blanch.
They walked in silence. The AV room had felt manageable during practice. Now, with its rows of empty chairs and faint hum of electronics, it loomed. The space felt cavernous.
Alex set up the laptop and projector with methodical calm. Every cable, every click, every motion was deliberate—measured. He hoped his steadiness might steady her too.
Katarina stood by the podium, staring at the blank screen."Дедушка, если ты меня слышишь, дай мне сил. Я не хочу тебя подвести."(Grandfather, if you can hear me, give me strength. I don't want to let you down.)The vulnerability in her voice was bare and fragile.
Alex walked to her side. "Volkov-san," he said softly.
She turned toward him, her blue eyes wide with nerves.
"You know this better than anyone. Your grandfather's photos? They speak volumes. And your passion—that's what they'll remember. Just be you." He smiled, hoping it felt real enough to reach her.
She looked at him for a long moment. Then, a slow, almost imperceptible nod."Спасибо, Алексей," she whispered, the Russian slipping from her like a secret.(Thank you, Alexey.)Hearing his name in her language sent a warm ripple through him.
The door opened. Mr. Harrison entered, followed by the class. Chairs scraped. Voices hushed. Alex and Katarina moved to the front, a silent team. He felt her tension like static in the air.
Mr. Harrison settled behind his desk. "Our first presenters: Nakamura-kun and Volkov-san, on Germany's post-war economic recovery. The floor is yours."
Alex took a breath and began. His voice was steady, setting the stage, laying down context and structure. The rhythm of delivery came naturally. He saw the class lean in.
Then he stepped aside.
Katarina approached the podium, her steps slow, precise. She scanned the room. He held his breath.
Her voice wavered at first as she spoke of Germany's devastation. Then the first photo appeared—a shattered street from her grandfather's archive—and something shifted. Her voice grew firmer, her words more sure. The facts remained, but now they carried weight, sorrow, memory.
When she described the Berlin Airlift, her tone held quiet reverence. And when she reached the Berlin Wall, the sorrow he'd glimpsed in her apartment surfaced again—not weakness, but deep, lived understanding. A few classmates leaned forward, caught in her gravity.
Alex watched, quietly awed. She wasn't just presenting—she was telling a story, breathing life into history. Her grip on the podium was still tight, but she'd transformed that fear into focus.
"Они слушают… Кажется, им интересно," she whispered while changing a slide.(They're listening… They care.)
Alex picked up his next section without pause. Their flow was seamless. He tackled the economic framework, she humanized it. They played off each other with a rhythm born of practice—and something more.
The archival photos struck a chord. Several students asked about them during Q&A, and Katarina answered with quiet pride, briefly touching on her grandfather's work. Her voice carried more now. It held confidence.
Their closing slide faded to black. Silence followed—then applause. Not the polite kind. Real, full applause. A few students even whistled.
Mr. Harrison stood, clearly pleased. "Outstanding work, both of you. That was one of the finest student presentations I've seen. Insightful. Moving. A+."
Katarina's face, once pale with nerves, lit with stunned relief and joy. Her smile—unfiltered, luminous—transformed her. For a breathless second, Alex forgot how to look away.
"Мы сделали это! Мы действительно это сделали!"(We did it! We really did!)Her voice shook, her joy bright and unguarded. She turned to him, radiant.
"We did," Alex said, smiling back. A rush of shared triumph welled up in him, deeper than he expected.
From the back, Kenji shot him a thumbs-up and mouthed, "Epic."
As they packed up, still basking in the glow, Katarina turned to him. "Nakamura-kun… Alexey," she corrected, a flush blooming on her cheeks. "Thank you. I couldn't have done that without you. Your belief in me—it mattered."
"You did the work, Katya," he replied gently, the name slipping out as naturally as breath. "You were incredible."
Her eyes widened, just slightly, at the use of her name. But she didn't pull away. Instead, her smile softened—more intimate now, full of unspoken things."Спасибо," she said again, the single word carrying everything else she hadn't said.
The rest of the school day drifted by in a golden haze. He caught her glancing at him more than once, her expression softer, her gaze open in a way it hadn't been before.
The project was done, and it had gone better than they'd hoped. But Alex felt something else settle inside him—a quiet, solid realization. The real success wasn't just academic. It was the quiet girl who'd spoken from her heart in Russian, and the boy who'd listened—and heard.