The auditorium was quieter than usual, save for the occasional clatter of metal chairs and the low hum of the old overhead lights. It was late afternoon, and rays of golden sunlight angled in through the tall glass windows, casting long, theatrical shadows across the stage.
Leo stood at center stage, script in hand, staring at the marked floorboards.
The scene they were supposed to rehearse was the final one: a silent confession between the nameless boy and the girl who always watched from a distance.
Fitting, maybe. But awkward? Absolutely.
Yuki arrived last, holding a folder pressed tightly against her chest. Her twin ponytails bounced slightly with each step, but today there was no usual spring in her step.
"Sorry I'm late," she mumbled.
"No worries," Kai called from the edge of the stage where he sat dangling his legs. "Rin's still writing monologue revisions. You're technically early by Literature Club standards."
Yuki chuckled faintly. Then her eyes met Leo's.
There was a moment—brief, but unmistakable.
He gave a small nod.
She nodded back.
---
Rehearsal began with warmups led by Aira, who had a surprising amount of stage experience. She demonstrated vocal stretches, movement games, even partnered mirroring drills.
Hana grumbled but participated. Rin was surprisingly fluid. Kai turned every exercise into a gag.
"Leo," Aira said, tapping her pen against the clipboard. "You're with Yuki for this round."
"Got it."
Yuki approached, their eyes meeting again.
They stood facing each other, instructed to mirror the other's movements without speaking.
Leo raised his right hand.
Yuki copied.
He leaned slightly forward. She leaned back.
They shifted, swayed, mimicked breathing. Then eye contact held a second too long.
Their rhythm slowed.
"Time," Aira called.
But neither moved.
Until Yuki smiled and looked away.
Leo exhaled, pulse louder than before.
---
They took a break around dusk. Kai wandered off with Aira to help find props. Rin disappeared with Hana to argue about costume logistics.
Yuki sat alone on the edge of the stage.
Leo joined her.
She offered him half a cookie from her bag. "Don't say I never gave you anything."
He took it. "Thanks."
For a moment, they just ate in silence.
Then—
"You've been different lately," she said. "Quieter. Not in the 'mysterious transfer student' way. Just… more distant."
Leo hesitated. "I didn't want to assume anything."
Yuki tilted her head. "About me?"
"About us. About what you felt."
She looked down. "I'm still figuring that out."
He nodded. "That's fair."
"But," she added, voice softer, "when we're like this—just the two of us—it's easy to forget all the noise."
Leo smiled. "Then maybe we need more quiet places."
Yuki laughed. "You say that like we're not starring in a student play about emotional miscommunication."
They both laughed.
It wasn't a resolution.
But it was a start.
---
Back in the rehearsal space, Kai returned holding a ridiculous-looking prop sword.
"This," he announced, "is either a holy relic of justice or a fancy coat rack."
Hana rolled her eyes. "You're an idiot."
"You're welcome."
Aira started assigning blocking positions, Rin brought in revised lines, and rehearsal resumed with renewed energy.
But for Leo and Yuki, something had shifted.
Small, invisible, but real.
A step forward—between lines and looks.